~ Sylas ~

The polished carnelian rests in my palm, bright red as fresh blood. Cut in a faceted teardrop shape, it catches the light and scatters it, seeming to glow from within.

I shut my eyes and call on the magic at my core, as crimson as the carnelian. It rises from my heart and flows down my arm to my hand.

Taking a breath, I release it and visualize the energy transferring to the gem.

The carnelian accepts it readily, drinking it up like a sponge until it pulses like a small heart in my hand, replete with power.

My own heart stumbles a beat, then races to catch up, and my breath snags at the back of my throat. Carefully, I set the stone down, breaking contact.

For a moment, the gem shines in my vision, an object of pure magical potency; then—as it has every time so far—the magic drains away, dissipating like mist in the sun, until the carnelian is nothing but an ordinary stone again.

Sighing, I shut my eyes, lean my elbows on the desk and rest my head on my hands. I'm about halfway through Professor Edwards's little rock collection, I've been at this for nearly three hours, and I'm exhausted. To my right, piled on the desk, are all the stones that wouldn't take my magic at all. A much smaller pile to my left represents those that—like the carnelian—showed at least the potential to receive power, even if they failed to store it once the supply cut off.

As for that supply, it's running low. I've been careful, using only the minimum amount of energy for each test, but it still feels like I'm being bled dry. I'm not sure how much more I can do, and yet I don't want to disappoint Edwards this early in our 'relationship,' for fear he'll change his mind about helping me.

I reach and pick up a piece of obsidian next. It's a little sphere the size of a golf ball, polished to a mirror-like sheen. It feels heavy and solid in my hand, and its coolness contrasts with the warm stuffiness of Edwards's office. Even with the windows open, the air hardly moves, and the heat isn't helping my headache.

As if to emphasize this point, the ache behind my eyes intensifies into a brief stab of pain, and I gasp and drop the obsidian, pressing my fingers to my brow. The little sphere rolls across the desk and drops off the far side, landing on the antique rug below with a solid thunk.

Edwards looks up at the sound. He's been sitting beneath the windows, grading a stack of papers while I work, and his green eyes catch the slanting afternoon light.

"Sylas? Is everything all right?"

I rub my temples as the pain slowly fades. "Yes, sorry. Just a headache."

Edwards's pale brows cinch. He returns his attention to the paper in his hand, writes something that looks suspiciously like an 'F' on the front, sets it in the stack of those he's finished grading, and gets to his feet. Crossing the room, he bends and picks up the obsidian sphere, replacing it carefully on the desk.

"Perhaps you've done enough for today," he suggests. "I don't expect you to finish the lot in one sitting, and you've made excellent progress so far."

I glance up at him and frown. "None of the stones have held my power, though. It just drains away."

He circles to stand at my back, resting his hands on my shoulders as he leans over to inspect the small pile of promising gems. There are chunks of clear, rose, and smokey quartz, a topaz, a geode of amethyst, a dark rock with little flecks of red in it—blood stone, or heliotrope—and the carnelian.

"This is only the first round," he says, giving my shoulders an unwanted squeeze. "Once we've identified the most promising specimens, I'll collect additional samples of each. We don't yet know which attributes may influence a gem's capacity to store magic. Size, shape, purity—countless factors may play a role." He reaches past me and picks up the carnelian, rolling it over in his palm. "In fact, I expected an even higher rate of failure in this initial test. This is excellent work, and quite enough for today. You look about done-in. Oh! But I've got something for you as well—upholding my side of the bargain, you know."

Thankfully, he steps away and retrieves his messenger bag from where he'd left it beside his chair, digs through it, and returns with a book. It's small and old, and has a faded cover of green cloth with the edges frayed soft. He holds it out to me and I take it. Unable to make out the words on the cover, I lay it carefully on the desk and open it to the title page.

"Harbor City College: A Secret History, by Agatha Bodewell," I read aloud.

I glance up at Edwards, curious.

He shrugs, hands in his pockets. "Daisy—down at the college archives—owes me a... a personal favor," he says. "I asked if she'd ever heard of this 'Devil's Song,' or anything like it, and she said she'd look into it for me. This is all she found. I glanced through, but couldn't make heads or tails of it, myself. History's not my bag, though; Volodchenko's your man for that."

Returning my attention to the book, I nod. "Thank you, professor. I tried searching the library, but...."

"That's the advantage of the personal favor," Edwards says, sounding pleased with himself. "The Archives are largely uncatalogued; if you don't know what's in there, you'll never find what you're looking for. Fortunately, Daisy's Gifted. She has perfect recall—never forgets a thing she's seen or read, or where she's filed something. That's why she never lets anyone else in there, too; another person moving things around would completely destroy her system. Makes it fun to play pranks on her, though."

He laughs easily, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Oh—that reminds me. Do take care of that, won't you?" He nods at the book. "Apparently it's rather valuable, and Daisy will have my hide if it gets lost or damaged."

"I'll be careful," I say, and lean down to tuck it into my pack.

When I straighten, I find Edwards watching me with a curiously intent look, all traces of humor gone.

"You're sure you're alright?" he asks. "You're welcome to stay here—rest a while, if you like."

I shake my head and get to my feet, not meeting his eyes. I know my limits well, now—how much magic I can use without passing out or turning into a lust magnet—but from the way he's looking at me, I'm guessing there's still some effect. He's probably not even aware of it.

"No, thanks. I have to go. Thank you for the book."

I cross to the door, a little unsteady on my feet, and he follows and opens it for me.

Two female professors are walking by—one thin and gray-haired, the other youthful and full-figured. Edwards catches their eye as they glance at us.

With studied casualness, he leans close to me, smoothing the collar of my shirt and brushing the back of my neck with his fingertips.

"Same time on Thursday?" he whispers near my ear.

His whisper carries and, from their expressions, it's obvious his colleagues heard him loud and clear.

"Sure," I agree, and dodge away from him, slinging my pack over my shoulder and suppressing a shudder at the lingering sensation of his unwelcome touch. I keep my eyes on the floor as I pass the two women, knowing my cheeks are hot with shame.

I don't know what his game is, but it's obvious what Edwards wants everyone to think, though it makes no sense. Surely, fucking a student is more problematic than having one help him with his research, and yet that's the impression he conveys every chance he gets.

On the other hand, I'm grateful for the book, and eager for a closer look at it. If it contains something useful, I'm excited to tell Jaxon what I found—even if I can't tell him exactly how I found it—and prove my usefulness.

At the thought of Jaxon, I feel my face flush again.

That's another thing I'm grateful for; despite being low on energy and magically drained, Edwards's touch had repulsed me. I hadn't felt an ounce of attraction to him.

Jaxon, though...

I pull out my phone as a crazy idea occurs to me—probably inspired by Edwards's inappropriate behavior—and pull up Jaxon's contact. I'd warned him I might have to Craft a bit, so it wouldn't come as a complete surprise. We could meet in secret somewhere—a supply closet, or an empty classroom, and then—

I blink and shake my head, steadying myself against the hallway wall, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I must have used more magic than I'd thought.

Pocketing my phone again, I inhale. This isn't me, I remind myself. It's just what I am.

My breath leaves me in a scornful puff of laughter. What's the difference, if it's something I can't change?

Shaking my head at myself, I descend the stairs to the first floor, push my way through the heavy glass doors, and exit the building with a sense of immediate relief.

Outside, the summer air is warm and light, tempered by a breeze from the sea, and its mellow freshness helps to clear my head. Feeling slightly refreshed, I start for the little cafe, a few blocks over, where I like to spend the afternoon as I wait for Jaxon.

Taking an indirect route, I follow tree-shaded paths through the park-like center of campus, and the farther from the rush and bustle of people I get—the farther from Edwards I get—the more my sense of calm returns.

I promise myself I'll confront him next time. Giving people the wrong idea wasn't part of our agreement; and if he thinks it should be, I want to know why.

Firm in this resolution, I cross the street, pass the rows of student housing, and I make my way over to the next block, where cute little shops and restaurants nestle side by side, as if jostling for the prime real estate. This area of Harbor City hums with the vibrant life a college town, even at three on a summer afternoon.

Tired and conflicted, I find the lively energy oddly relaxing. I may not have the means or will to take part in the joyful consumerism, but I enjoy the excitement of the local street market as I pass, and the pretty displays in the shop windows catch my eye.

I'm passing one of these—a cute boutique clothing store—when I'm stopped in my tracks.

In the window, my pale, ghost-like reflection stares back at me. On the other side, my female doppelgänger stands, laughing with delight as the shop attendant shows her a flowing, Bohemian-style dress.

I glance to either side, but among the crowd of tourists, students, and locals, I see no one else I recognize.

Meanwhile, the interior of the shop is empty—except for that one, painfully familiar customer.

So, heart in my mouth and hands tingling with nerves, I mount the worn stone step before the faded green door and push it open. Then, stepping into the cool, patchouli-scented interior with a soft jingle of chimes, I take a deep breath and approach my sister.