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A moment later, another notification pops up and a new burst of giddiness grows in my stomach.
Mr. Jarvis clears his throat. “I expect you to catch yourself up, Ms. Collins.”
The authoritative bass in his voice makes my back straighten, and the words, “Yes, sir,” tumble from my mouth before I’m fully aware it’s happening.
A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and I will my fingers not to shake as I bury my gaze in the lecture notes that just pinged on my screen.
That subtle change in the teacher’s tone transports me back in time and space to my father’s war room as easily as the Flames might have. Cowering behind his desk, hot, silent tears burning my eyes as he orders my mother…
I can’t let that memory take root in me.
Instead, I force myself to read Jarvis’s lecture notes.
Again, the material is rudimentary. Herbalism I learned in primary grades. The plant names are different, but I connected the mortal realm names and leaf shapes to ones I’ve already memorized. By the time the rest of the students file in and settle, I’ve committed all the alternative names and attributes, both magical and medicinal, to memory. I just have to work on the plants endemic to this plane specifically.
"Today, I want everyone to partner up and decide what your new herbal decoction will be for next week."
New potion? I’d read the syllabus and saw nothing about weekly potion requirements. I thought the second-year herbalism class mostly focused on rote memorization. Something I was already well acquainted with and adept at.
Father started drilling me on Celestine law and history at a very young age. I know all seventeen laws of Celestus, along with every addendum and auxiliary bill and proposal, and the host commanders for every host going back a thousand generations.
History is very important to my father. Something about wanting to do better than those who had come before. Not for the greater good, obviously. But for his own self-serving egoistic needs.
So, yes, memorization I can handle, but I wasn’t expecting a group project.
"Dibs on the new chick."
A chill runs down my spine as Enzo’s voice rings in the classroom.
“You would,” a sweet saccharine voice I know all too well scoffs from a few rows behind me.
Olivia.
Figures.
Why the Flames gave me classes with all the people I’m trying my best not to let too close or to piss off, I'll never know.What I wouldn’t give for a class with Stevie or Jess or Austin right about now.
“Don’t worry, teach. I’ll get her up to speed,” Enzo says as the rest of the class switches seats to accommodate their chosen partners.
Enzo does no such thing, instead opting to grab the back of my chair and pull me next to him.
The class, apparently used to his antics, ignores the screeching metal dragging over the concrete floor.
Thankfully.
Enzo leans in close, eyes a bit too wide, pupils a little too small. “You smell like fucking heaven, new girl. What are you wearing?”
“Your mom’s vag juice. Now, back the fuck off, creeper.”
Enzo’s regards me, stare neutral and steady, unmoving. “You don’t scare easy, do you?”
It’s coming out before I can stop it. “When your father’s an egomaniacal dictator, you learn not to flinch.”
His leg bobs up and down as if in time to some unheard beat, and he holds my stare. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” It’s a whisper, and I trounce all over the hope twisting in each syllable.
“I amnothinglike you, asshole.”
He shrugs, unaffected, and scrolls on his tablet. “You can’t possibly know that, pretty bird. But I do. And I know you most definitely are.”
