Bonded by Fae's Magic Read online

  He turned and walked away, toward the brunch in the dining hall.

  I couldn’t eat now; my nerves were still in firm residence in my stomach.

  I looked out over the hall to see that the only person, besides me, not moving toward the dining hall was Iris.

  “Where’s my money?” I barked.

  She snapped out of her seeming trance and looked at me.

  “About that,” she chuckled, although she still looked as gobsmacked and shaken as I did, “How would you like that fifty?”

  “Um, in cash,” I answered, my tone suggesting that my answer was obvious.

  “So, not in gourmet spreadable cheese, then?” she asked.

  We both broke into laughter, as we headed out of the hall toward our rooms, and away from the boisterous brunch.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “How long ago did you conjure it?”

  She threw her arm around my shoulders. “You know I can’t conjure anything but coffee,” she said. “I went to Paris and went invisible shopping.”

  “You stole it?!” I gasped, spinning to face her.

  “No, I paid, I just didn’t want to talk to anyone,” she explained. “My French is worse than my conjuring.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  We made it to Iris’s room and I conjured us some iced lattes just in time for two enchanted scrolls to pop up out of thin air in front of our faces. They unrolled themselves and we both read the flowing script inscribed on them.

  “Headmaster Forrest Greymore cordially invites you to a staff dinner to welcome our guests of honor: new staff members, Master Wrathshore and Mistress Black. Cocktails at five p.m., dinner at six sharp. Formal attire,” Iris read aloud.

  “That reminds me,” I said, turning to her, as the scrolls disappeared in a similar manner to how they had arrived. She tucked the straw of her drink in between her lips and raised her eyebrows expectedly.

  “Who the heck is this Crew Whatever guy and why does everybody already know him?”

  Iris choked on her drink, coughing and swallowing hard, her eyes wide.

  Are—are you serious?” she sputtered once she could speak.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “I have no flipping clue who he is. Never seen him before in my life.”

  My sister shook her head at me as a chorus of hoarse giggles toppled from her throat. “You need to get out more, Sis.”

  I rebutted her statement. “I have a job! One that takes up almost all my time and—I don’t have to defend how I spend my time to my little sister. Who is he?”

  Crossing her room, she opened the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out a stack of magazines. She tossed them down on her bed. They slid out of their stack, splaying like a glossy fan atop her black satin bedspread. Every single cover featured a picture of the man I had seen in the assembly, with his name in large, bold fonts: Crew Wrathshore.

  ‘Warlock Weekly’. ‘Sentry Force Bulletin’. ‘Craft and Combat’. ‘The Arena Witch’.

  “He’s like a god, Mari,” Iris said, sitting down next to the spread of magazines. “He’s broken every single Arena record. He was the youngest captain of Sentry Force in history. Practically everyone, except you apparently, watched the broadcast last summer, where he took down six Sentries in five minutes in the Defense League Annual Trials. I’m almost jealous of you for getting to work with him.”

  “Almost? Why just almost?”

  She chuckled. “Because he will make whomever he works with look like an amateur. I have a good reputation for combat here, but if I had to teach alongside him—well, that would certainly change.”

  “Good thing I have a crap reputation for combat then, huh?” I retorted, and then took a long, refreshing pull of my latte.

  “Good point,” she said with a shrug. “Now, what the hell are we going to wear? I need to look hot.” She got up from her bed and walked to her closet, flinging the doors open and flipping through her skirts.

  “Dad said formal,” I pointed out.

  “Formal can be hot,” she said with her back to me.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to go after this Crew guy,” I groaned.

  “I don’t go after anyone.” She looked over her shoulder at me and smirked. “I make sure they come after me.”

  “I bet he has a girlfriend, if he’s so famous,” I muttered, checking my curly strawberry blonde mop in her mirror and trying to plan what to do with it for the dinner.

  “Nope,” Iris nearly shouted in glee. “Totally single! According to his recent interview in last month’s Arena Witch.”

  She pulled out a sequined, emerald dress—an exact match to her sparkling green eyes—with a deep, plunging neckline and long, sheer, silk sleeves. I had seen it on her before. Everyone would be looking at her if she wore that dress. As usual . . .

  “See? Formal and hot,” she said with a grin, holding it up against herself.

  “Perfect,” I said. “I had forgotten about that one.”

  “What are you going to wear?” she asked. “Ooh! Wear the grey one from Cousin Kathryn’s graduation!”

  “No, that one ended up being way too tight,” I argued.

  “Yeah, and it was hot.”

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate for a formal work function,” I said.

  Iris threw her head back and made an aggravated sound that resembled a leopard barking. “You just said three of my least favorite words. I’m trying my hardest to not think of this as a work function. Can you just have fun tonight and maybe not be a stuffy teacher?”

  I rolled my eyes at her and sighed. “You don’t get it—”

  “No, I totally get that you used to be fun and then mom left and dad gave you a job and ever since then you’ve acted like a fifty-year-old spinster,” she said. “When was the last time we went dancing in the city? When was the last time you dated anyone?”

  “I—” I started, but I honestly couldn’t remember. It had been at least a year . . . maybe two.

  “You can’t let your whole life be this job,” Iris muttered softly. “It won’t be here forever and it won’t make you happy.”

  Her words settled into my bones and made me shiver. I had buried myself in work; trying so hard to get better at the things I knew were needed of me, and piling research and extra-curricular subjects into my schedule, so I didn’t have any down time. I knew what I was doing—I was making myself unavailable, so that I could maintain focus on my responsibilities.

  And maybe a little bit because I had trust issues . . .

  “Do you want to do a cat’s eye on me then?” I finally asked after a moment of silence between us. Her face turned from serious to bright and bubbly.

  “Uh, duh,” she replied. “Do witches dance naked in the woods?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I walked into the dining hall at quarter ‘til five, and scanned the long candlelit room to see if anyone else had arrived early. Tristan sat at a tall table sipping from a whiskey glass. He was always early, like me.

  Squinting further into the dim flickering glow, I tried to make out who occupied the seat next to him. Tristan gestured for me to come and sit with him, jumping—as much as a man of seventy could jump—down from his seat and jubilantly calling out my name.

  “Marigold! Come, come! Sit with us!”

  As I neared, the shadow over the face next to him lifted and I knew exactly who it was.

  Crew Wrathshore.

  He stared at me with his round, ice-blue eyes and I immediately felt self-conscious. Tugging at my skin-tight grey dress, I cursed Iris under my breath. My footing faltered in the four-inch, studded black stilettos she had lent me.

  I cursed again under my breath, as I looked down in embarrassment. I was sure he would be chuckling at me when I looked back up, but he wasn’t—just a steady, intent gaze on my face.

  Probably wondering who the hell did this ridiculous makeup, I thought, remembering that Iris had ‘contoured’ my cheeks and insisted I wear a dark-plum lipstick.

&nbs
p; I reached the table and Crew suddenly swooped out of his chair and around to the chair nearest to me, pulling it out and standing next to it until I was seated, and then he gently pushed the chair in before retaking his own. I couldn’t remember the last time a man, especially a man who appeared to be about my age, had pulled out a chair for me—let alone stood when I approached a table.

  “Mistress Greymore,” Crew said, his voice deep and husky, “what do you drink?” He held up his hand and a server came over.

  “Please, just Marigold,” I said to Crew, and then I turned toward the server, who was dressed in all black with a long black apron. “I’ll have a white wine, please.”

  “Yes, miss.” The server nodded and looked at the men. “Another round for the gentlemen?”

  Crew nodded and Tristan squeaked an enthusiastic “Of course!”

  More of the staff slowly poured into the dining hall. The background noise changed from the gentle shush of server activity to a droning thrum of mid-volume conversation.

  “I didn’t see you at the brunch,” Crew said.

  “Oh, I—I don’t usually do crowds,” I stated. “The mandatory meeting was enough for me,” I added with a laugh.

  “You’re here now,” he said, a hint of question in his tone. His thick eyebrows arched, almost playfully, but no other aspect of his facial expression changed.

  “Well, this is mandatory.”

  The server returned with our drinks and I grabbed my glass of white wine as soon as he had placed it on the black satin tablecloth. I took a swig.

  Tristan took his drink—a fruit-covered frozen cocktail—and slid out of his chair. “That’s Miss Priscilla. I’ll be back.” he said, before he scurried off.

  “It didn’t say mandatory on the invitation,” Crew started back in as soon as Tristan had left.

  “Formal dinners and staff dinners are mandatory for the Greymore daughters,” I explained. “Always . . .”

  “Well, I feel you on the crowds thing,” he stated. “I think this is mandatory for me as well, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” He swirled his whiskey glass and watched the large ice sphere in it as it rolled around the outer walls.

  “That is a strange thing for a person who is regularly surrounded by crowds to say,” I said softly.

  “Yes,” he said with a solemn nod, not taking his eyes from his glass. “My life is fairly strange.”

  I studied his face, while he wasn’t watching me. Everything about it seemed sharp: sharp lines and intense, alert eyes that looked as if they never missed a thing. He had strong bones over his eyes and cheeks, although the places beneath them seemed to hollow out just a bit, the way they tended to do on people who were constantly active and often exhausted.

  A pang of sympathy flitted through my chest for the man. I hadn’t considered what a life filled with constantly battling and fighting in front of thousands of fans could do to a person.

  “So what would you be doing—” I asked. “if you weren’t the guest of honor whose attendance is heavily implied as mandatory?”

  He chuckled and finally looked up at me. “If I weren’t the guest of honor or if I weren’t Crew Wrathshore?”

  I shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

  “Well,” he let out a heavy sigh, “Crew Wrathshore is always thinking about Sentries. Whenever I’m not hunting them down or fighting them off, I’m thinking about hunting them and fighting them. I feel guilty every minute that I’m not doing that.”

  “However, if I weren’t that Crew Wrathshore,” he continued, “I think I’d probably find a really quiet restaurant.”

  “What kind of restaurant?” I asked with a grin, thinking about how long it had been since I had gone into Manhattan for a nice dinner out.

  “Something spicy, such as Mexican—no, Cuban,” he answered. “A tiny little Cuban place with mojitos and Cubanos. In a basement in Manhattan. A cilantro plant on each table. The servers wear fedoras and there’s live salsa music.”

  “This sounds quite specific,” I remarked. “I take it this restaurant exists?”

  Crew nodded. “I went one time, before all of . . . before everything,” he muttered. “All the fighting; all the fame.”

  He took another swig of his whiskey and clicked his tongue, then let out a sigh. “I keep thinking I’ll just be able, once, to take a night off, when I can go back there. I keep getting proven wrong. There’s no such thing as a night off. Not for me.”

  My lips curved down in concern. I didn’t know what to say to him as my sympathy turned from a fizzle to a swell. I opened my mouth to try some words of condolence, but before I could speak, a booming and familiar voice interrupted us.

  “Crew! The man of the hour!” Forrest Greymore bellowed, coming up behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. “You look quite sophisticated tonight, Goldilocks,” he said to me.

  “Dad . . .” I groaned. I didn’t mind his nickname for me, except for when he used it in front of my colleagues.

  “I’m glad you and Master Wrathshore are hitting it off,” he stated with a smirk, “but you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, once he starts teaching with you on Monday. I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal him for now, so I can introduce him to a few important alumni!”

  I could tell exactly what Crew thought about being shown off like a prize purebred, by his tight lips and tense shoulders. He rose slowly from his seat and my father clapped his hands excitedly, spinning on the spot and heading toward a huddled group of at least a dozen alumni in velvet cloaks.

  Crew followed and I turned back to my wine, letting out a sigh. For once I was actually enjoying a conversation with a new person. I had felt comfortable—certainly not how I usually felt in conversations or at events. Something about him, how open he was, his words and his face . . . had put me at ease for some reason. That at least made me feel a tiny bit better about teaching with him, though for the most part I still felt completely inadequate to be instructing a class next to a Sentry destroying ‘god’.

  “Marigold,” came his deep voice behind me. I jumped and spun in my chair, sure that my cheeks had turned flame red.

  “Crew,” I sighed, placing a hand to my chest. “You scared me.”

  “My apologies, I just—”

  He cut his sentence off abruptly and the lines of his face hardened. His broad torso cast a shadow over me as he placed himself practically right up against my knees, tucked to the side of my chair. His hand jutted out and grabbed my shoulder.

  Every inch of my skin came alive. Every hair stood on end. Every nerve prickled.

  I took a sharp breath in.

  “Don’t leave,” he said; his tone serious, his eyes boring into mine.

  “What?” I breathed.

  “After the dinner, I—if I don’t get a chance to speak to you again tonight— please don’t leave,” he said. “I have something I want to discuss.”

  “Alright,” I murmured with a nod, still very aware of his fingers wrapped around my bare arm. “I won’t leave.”

  He nodded slowly. “Pleasure to meet you, Marigold. I enjoyed our chat.”

  Releasing his grip on my shoulder, he backed away several steps, before turning and making his way back to the cluster of alumni that my father had wanted him to meet.

  I spun back toward the table in my chair and sipped my wine, as I replayed the interaction with him in my mind. I found myself wanting to look over my shoulder to see what he was doing—to watch his face and see how he handled the forced introductions, the crowds we’d both rather avoid. But, to keep from staring at him, I angled my head down to stare at the little centerpiece of black orchids and dahlias on the table.

  A string quartet started up and Tristan came back to the table with Priscilla. I wondered what it was that Crew wanted to talk about, after the dinner.

  Suddenly all I wanted was for the dinner to be over.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After the dinner had been eaten, dancing c
ommenced, as it usually did at these events. I looked around for Crew. He had just been in his seat next to my father at the head of the table, but had gotten up quickly and vanished.

  I sighed to myself, figuring he had forgotten about talking to me after dinner and had wanted to get out of the dining hall as quickly as possible. If he doesn’t like crowds, he probably doesn’t like dancing, I thought.

  I was wrong.

  I found him on my last sweeping glance across the dance floor; his hulking frame whirling a much tinier person around with a smile on his face.

  Iris. Of course.

  I didn’t even let myself entertain the thought of jealousy. No. You have more important things to worry about, I told myself. And it was silly—ridiculous, even—of me to assume that since I had seemed to hit it off with him in one conversation that he would ever be interested in me over my sister.

  I left without telling anyone goodbye or goodnight and went back to my room. A stack of books on Sentries and combat sat on my desk, as they had for months. So much of my research had been focused on these subjects this year, and yet, until now that’s all it had been—research.

  I knew so much about it, but I couldn’t do it myself.

  I unfastened my dress and slipped out of it, tossing it onto the floor of my closet, and put on my black silk robe. Conjuring a glass of white wine, I grabbed the top book, Holy Light: History, Prevention and Effects, and flopped down on to my bed. I rested my back on a large, velvet, tufted pillow that I placed against the headboard, specifically to cushion and prop me up for late-night reading sessions.

  No sooner had I cracked the book open to the sticky-note marked page from the previous night, than a knock sounded at my door. A frustrated sigh escaped my lips and I tossed the book down and slid off the bed. I pulled the door open.

  My face twisted in confusion when I saw Crew standing in the hall. Then, I suddenly remembered I was in my skimpy silk robe. I felt my cheeks go red as I situated as much of my body as I could behind the door.