The Opal Witch: Prophecy (Book Two)

Chapter Four

Declan

 A deluge of ice water pouring down his face and onto his bed dragged Declan out of a sound sleep. One that had been filled with a dream of Lux sitting on the shores of Willoughby's pond, her long limbs kissed gold by the summer sun. Her thick, auburn hair was piled on top of her head, and when she smiled at him, the smattering of freckles on her nose bunched together.

Shivering, he clamped his eyes shut, desperate to hold onto that image. It was the only thing that got him through the day. She wavered in his mind, eyes turning sad as she faded.

"Out of bed lazy ass."

Snickering filled the room, and Declan sat up to find his bed surrounded by boys between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. Most looked nervous- they'd never quite figured out what to think about him, but the one standing at the foot of his bed holding a bucket had made his feelings known on day one.

Tugging on the power in the stone around his neck, he dried his sheets and clothes, holding eye contact with Nigel Price the entire time. The youngest boy in the room, Opie, gasped when he saw what Declan was doing. He paled and nudged his friend who just shook his head.

Nigel grunted. "Think you're something special because of that, huh?"

He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, pushing his hands against his lower back to work out the soreness caused by sleeping on the thin cots. The bit of material covering the wire springs barely qualified as a blanket, much less a mattress, but Declan knew better than to complain. From the day he was forced back to the Institute of Sorcery, they'd tested him, pushing him to his limits.

"I think the woman who gifted me this is something special," Declan retorted, his hand going to the bit of quartz at his throat. It was a piece of Lux's channeling stone, infused with her power. Because of their soul bond, he was able to harness the magic inside of himself the way a witch could, and his peers could not.

Just another detail to drive a wedge between himself and this generation of sorcerers. Because being a twenty-one year old from the early twentieth century wasn't bad enough.

"Ah, yes. Funny, I seem to remember it being a stone-able offense to screw a witch."

Declan stormed over to Nigel, his fists clenched at his side. At six foot three inches, Declan towered over the boy but being forced to look up to meet Declan's gaze didn't put a dent in Nigel's cockiness. A hundred different replies bubbled on his tongue, each one more vile and crude than the last, but he was not a man of this time. He would not lower his personal standards. Even if the words tasted sour when he swallowed them down.

"Is there a problem here?"

Nigel jumped away and straightened as the Institute's Sorcerer Supreme, Damien, entered the room. Everyone else followed suit- Declan included.

"No sir. Just getting ready for the day."

Damien arched a brow. "And why is that taking place around Declan's bed? Everyone should be dressed and in the mess hall in fifteen minutes. If you miss breakfast, I don't want to hear any whining later. Declan, stay behind. I want to speak to you."

"Am I allowed to complain later?" Declan asked before he thought better of it. Thankfully, no one but Damien was within earshot.

"I never said you were going to miss breakfast," the older man said, pulling a sausage biscuit wrapped in a paper towel from his pocket. "It never gets any less strange, you know."

Declan chewed slowly, savoring the hints of rosemary in the sausage. He nodded. Looking at Damien was like looking at himself in the mirror- only thirty years in the future. Had Daphne not betrayed them all, Declan would have been the older man. But then, he wouldn't have Lux.