Spellbound

The Ranking

Two weeks since my first Defensive Magic Lesson, which just so happened to be my last—at least for now, according to Theresa. It seems my powers are stronger than anyone anticipated, and my current lack of control is a problem.

With Darcy now threatening to spill my secret, I've given up any chance at a social life, and have begun trading my free time for tutoring.

Most nights Donovan helps me revise chapters from Defensive Magic textbooks, while most mornings Avery hurls fireballs at me—which according to her is for my own good—my faded scars would suggest otherwise.

Giselle smirks sinisterly when she enters the Pyro Commons, where I've been drinking tea and re-reading the same page of a book for twenty minutes. Within her pale hands, she clutches a thin piece of parchment, which she tosses at me.

It floats in front of me, and I almost give myself a paper cut trying to grab it—

Datura Class Rankings:

1. Avery Spencer

2. Giselle McKenzie

3. Lincoln Waylon

4. Lucie Peppercorn

5. Theodore Reyes

My heart sinks deep into the bottom of my stomach when my eyes finally come across my name—beside a measly number 12. Barely higher than Reid Gilbert, who according to Avery, actually did manage to singe his eyebrows off in one of their classes.

"Oh please," Avery's voice travels, as she makes her way from the dorms, "you're still flashing that around? Guess it's easy to be proud when one of your biggest threats isn't attending class."

Giselle's smirk instantly falls from her face, and hatred pierces her eyes, "Better watch your mouth Spencer, I'm coming for your rank next."

"Well," Avery says, holding up her cup of tea, "give my regards to your dreams."

The words in the room begin to buzz in my ear and the noise becomes too loud, so I stand. I must stand too quickly, and I fumble, before managing to catch myself on the corner of the table. Both girls watch me curiously, but my head begins to throb and I have to leave—now.

Without a word, I escape as quickly as I can into the hallway outside the commons. The air is cold and breathable and I sink beneath my weight and crumble onto the floor. A warm hand reaches towards me, but my vision blurs and nothing makes sense. Nothing. Makes. Sense.

Time moves slowly as my eyes strain to focus on the shadows around me—I don't know how long it takes before I finally come to.

"Welcome back," it takes me a second to place his voice—and then his dark, empty eyes come into focus, and I see my teacher. Datura.

I sit up from the desk in Datura's office, where I've been placed and rub my throbbing temple, "What happened?"

"You passed out," he says nonchalant, holding up a rather large syringe containing a shimmery gold substance, "possible symptom of over-exerting yourself, but this should help—"

I swing my legs from the table faster than I thought possible, and back away, "no way."

"It's just a mild relaxant, you seemed pretty shaken up when I found you—"

"Then give me some camomile tea—I don't need that monstrosity poking into my arm."

Vivid flashbacks of doctors visits run through my mind—my fathers promises of taking me out for ice-cream or to a museum, only to wind up in a doctors office with a grumpy old nurse stabbing my arm with a pointy object—no.