1

There is just one day left before I am dragged back to the hell that is The Academy of Bluestone for the Education of Exceptional and Elite Society.

Such a mouthy title when it is much easier to say a school for witches , because that’s what it is. It is also the bane of my existence, the home of my torture, the place I am most punished for what I am.

I’m a witch.

But I am a broken one. A witch without magic.

I know—what you’re thinking is, a witch without magic isn’t a witch at all, right?

Wrong.

Handicapped witches like me aren’t common, especially not in the ancient bloodlines I hail from, but we happen enough that there are hatreds and names and prejudices for us.

‘ Handicap Witch’ is the academic term for what I am.

‘ Deadblood’ , the common term.

The other names for me aren’t so nice.

I hear them every day at Bluestone.

Cripple, invalid, derelict.

The worst of the worst: waif .

Just the thought of that last one grits my teeth.

No matter what they call me, there’s a constant truth: I am a pariah. A broken witch without power, born from ancient bloodlines into an aristo family of powerful witches.

Talk about being a disappointment.

Being a witch without magic in a society like ours, it isn’t easy. And at Bluestone, it’s downright torture.

With a glance at my white gold watch, I note that I return to that torture in less than twenty-four hours. The dread thickens in my churning gut.

I spend much of that time like I spend most. Shopping. With such few friends and too much money, what else is there to do but waste my days in the heart of London’s boutiques?

My feet are aching, burning in my boots by the time I have shredded through my allowance and the sun is too close to setting.

Time to make my way back home.

Tucked away near the ruins of the Winchester Palace, there’s a little hidden lane that leads to one of the city’s veils—a shadow of warped air that we witches use to travel great distances.

This veil will take me to Stonehenge.

If I ever reach it.

At the sight of the spiralling queue, unribboning down the narrow, damp lane, my head lolls back with a groan.

Less than an hour shy of sunset. I cut it too close.

If I was the self-blaming type, then that is what I would do.

Instead, I flip my head back into place, and my face is crumpled, fallen by the huffiness that weighs down my boots as I drag myself to the end of the queue.

It snakes all the way down the lane and ends just at the edge of the decrepit dungeon gate. I slump my shoulder on the old, rusted metal, long abandoned. It groans under my weight, loud enough that the witch in front of me turns a curious look over her shoulder.

Her gaze settles on me.

Then her face wipes. She lifts her chin a tad higher, then allows a curt nod before she turns her back on me.

I don’t know the woman.

Never seen her before in my life.

But she must know exactly who I am, or—more importantly—who my family is.

She doesn’t look over her shoulder again.

The wait is long.

The queue is slow-moving, as it should be on a Saturday in London. Too many families are out. Witches, male and female alike, with their sticky toddlers and their screeching brats. They are lined ahead of me in the dozens for the Stonehenge veil.

A quarter-hour trudges by before I relent and drop my boutique bags to the cobblestone. Some slam, others smack, a particularly heavy set of bags thud. Books.

I wince at the sound.

I’ll complain later if the books are wrinkled, but I can’t bear the weight of the bags pulling down on my forearm, not another moment. The flesh there is practically torn, it’s so red and angry.

I spent hours in London today. Those hours were filled with aimless wandering, parks and museums, then—of course—splurging on the black card. Funny thing about shopping my life away, is that I don’t particularly love fashion. It’s just better sometimes than to sit in my room and stare at the wall. Those days suck the life out of me.

I don’t have a lot to fill my time.

I do have friends, you know.

Two, to be exact.

Courtney and James.

James is something of a token friend, one that comes with Courtney. But they are…

Well, they were born from krums; humans .

And that makes them both made witches .

There are tiers to our society. Made ones are at the bottom. My family—elites and aristos—we are crowns perched on top.

Can’t exactly fill my days with Courtney.

My father would have a fit if I invited her over. So I go the entire lengths of the school breaks without her. Without any friends, really.

Makes for long, quiet days.

And so this is what I do.

A whole load of nothing.

The exhaustion of nothing sags my shoulders with a sigh.

I kick my bags closer to the veil. All seven of them. Takes me a moment—careful not to topple them over. But the delay earns a huff from the man behind me.

I whip a dark look over my shoulder at him.

His eyes narrow.

But his hand tightens on his daughter’s, and he is silent in his simmering insults, the ones that flicker behind his eyes but that he doesn’t dare voice.

I roll my eyes as I turn my back on him.

There are still some people ahead of me, so it’s hardly as though the time I spent on pushing my bags along the queue cost us precious time.

We have time to spare.

Moron.

With so much witch traffic today, I know most must be in their last-minute rushes to gather all the supplies needed for the return to The Academy of Bluestone for the Education of Exceptional and Elite Society.

My mouth puckers with a puff of annoyance at the mere thought of the pretentious name—though, it’s nowhere near as pretentious as some of its students.

The private school for witches is tucked away in the Swiss Alps, and we live much of our young lives there. From thirteen to twenty-three, our entire education—including university, mandatory in our world—we live at Bluestone.

One of the many reasons school holidays are my favourite times of year. Boredom, be damned—this is still a hell of a lot better than being trapped within those walls… with him .

I bite down on the insides of my cheeks.

The reminder of his existence is enough to send a chill down my spine.

I force his name out of mind before it can settle and, ahead, I watch the traffic disturb the warped, shadowy air.

The veil. Little more than a sheet of darkness, a pocket of dusk. The veil’s shadows skitter as the next witch steps through it from the other side. The witch appears seemingly from nowhere. Boots landing effortlessly on cobblestone.

But it’s all so slow.

I’m tired of this one-in-one-out method.

Part of me wonders how many grumbles or shouts I’ll get if I push to the front.

Will anyone be brave enough to shout me down for it?

It’s not to face me that they will need to muster courage for. Rather, who my family is. What my surname is. Who my father is.

That matters among the witches.

More than anything, really.

Like I said, our society is built on bricks, formed of tiers.

Elites are of the ancient bloodlines.

Half-breeds are diluted with krums.

Made ones are born of krums.

And that’s just the bloodlines.

The wealth that one must have to be considered worthy of everything, it is ranked much the same way.

Aristos at the peak, then gentry, then commoners (I know, ick, but I didn’t coin the terms) or, to say it nicely, citizens.

My family is both elite and aristos.

So, my father is not a witch that anyone wants trouble with.

I can use that.

The temptation is there. It’s nestled deep inside of me, stirring, and I almost, almost , test it out. To just snatch my bags and stalk to the head of the queue, cut the line and step through the veil.

I doubt anyone would stop me.

Maybe they would. Maybe one witch would stop me.

If I have learned anything over the years at Bluestone, it’s that I can’t really handle myself in a fight.

I always lose.

And Father’s reprimand creeps through my head, “ We can does not equate to we should .”

So I don’t cut.

I watch the traffic move, the shadows fold, then settle into a mist against the backdrop of the stone wall. A perfect blend that any passing krum won’t look twice at. Not that there aren’t repellents all over this place to keep the krums away.

“Laszlo, wait!” The familiar, universal hiss of a mother’s voice snares my attention. “It’s not our turn—you’ll get trampled into a toad.”

I look up at the head of the queue just as a slender woman grabs a toddler by the ankles and hoists him upside-down.

He thrashes, but the alternative was worse.

Right where that boy was crawling just a heartbeat ago, out-steps the boots of the new city-goer coming through the veil.

I glance at him—and my throat tightens instantly.

A gentle unease blushes itself over my cheeks. The heat of it itches my skin, and I’m suddenly very aware of myself.

Eric Harling, a not-so-wealthy-but-definitely-handsome -elite-witch, steps out of the veil’s shadows.

He spares a bright grin on the thrashing toddler.

I snatch at my hair and wrangle out the golden clip that has it twisted to the top of my head. Dull brown is quick to rope down my back. I shake my head to loosen it out, once, twice, then run my hands down my dress, as though to smooth out any creases that aren’t there. There is a damp spot at the rear, and I think I got it from leaning on the gate. Ugh.

I look up at Eric.

He has left the veil, the mother and the toddler behind.

He walks along the edge of the queue. There’s an ease in how he moves, a laziness in the way he swipes at the stagnant shadows down his shirt, like he doesn’t care too much about them, few troubles in the world.

Dresses like it, too. Plain breeches, plain leather boots, a grey t-shirt, not nearly warm enough for this colder summer day.

‘There is little sun in summer to warm your skin,’ my governess once said, before I came of age for Bluestone, ‘but plenty of pollen to tickle your nose.’

Reminders of my old governess are swatted from me the moment Eric lands his gaze on me. The caramel of his eyes softens before a dazzling grin sweeps his sunkissed face—and he stops.

The blush burns hotter on my cheeks.

“Olivia!” He says my name as though it’s something nice, something kind.

It’s neither of those things.

I am neither of those things.

Still, that seamless edge of ease carries with him as he strides towards me. He tucks his hands into his pockets, and the grin he wears fades into a lazy smile.

His gaze drops to the glossy bags arched around my suede boots. “Bit of light shopping?”

The blush spreads down my neck. I can just feel it, and that only makes it worse, the pink darkening into something crimson.

I wish the veil would expand and swallow me up, whole.

The queue rustles into movement again.

I bend at the knees to gather up the bags.

“Just a little,” I say, standing, and there’s a sheepish tilt to my flat mouth. “You?”

His smile disarms me. It’s so slight, but warm.

“Same. Very last minute,” he confesses, and takes a step back with a sweeping look around the witch traffic. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

My mouth turns down with a frown.

The reminder of reality is a pin to my bubble.

Eric is a senior now at Bluestone. His final year of study, his final year to bear witness to all the mortification I’ll be subjected to.

It doesn’t offer me any relief that Eric is the one who will stop in the corridor to help me unstick my books from the ceiling, or the one who will offer me his hand after the rugs are magically tugged out from under me, literally, and I’m sprawled out on my bruised ass.

It doesn’t help that he’s kind.

It only humiliates me more that it even happens at all.

And it happens.

All the time.

In answer, I just give a lame nod-shrug hybrid.

I am the clear victor of small talk over here.

Bury me.

The queue rustles again.

I step forward with it, just two witches away from disappearing into the veil. The straps of the bags cut into my arms, sear at my flesh and pull my muscles like they are made of nothing more than saltwater taffy.

Hands in his trouser pockets, Eric takes a casual step back, keeping up with me.

“I won an apprenticeship,” he tells me. “So I’ll be half senior, half Master’s Aide.”

A faint smile paints over my face. “Will they cut you in half?”

His lashes flutter. A blink of surprise before he schools himself.

I decide I hate myself, my wretched attempts to be funny, and I might lob myself off the closest bridge.

“An apprenticeship?” I try for the polite conversation. But my heart sinks a little. He’s not the biggest crush I’ve ever had, but his smooth, tanned skin and chocolate-brown hair are to ritualise over. As faculty, even if only part-time, he’s untouchable. “Which subject?”

“Rituals and Sacrifices.”

I arch an eyebrow, a small smile playing on my rose-painted lips. “Is that your thing? Running around, slaughtering goats and whatnot to summon the devil?”

He laughs, but it’s a forced sound. Polite, and still, it sounds like bells.

Guess he’s heard the joke before, probably a dozen times already, and I’m not so original.

Or he just doesn’t think I am funny.

No, I decide that perhaps he just doesn’t think that Rituals and Sacrifices is a subject to be taken lightly. Only a very particular few witches can pull off rituals.

We witches all have our talents—our prints —and mine of course is nothing at all.

To step out of one’s print can be deadly, even catastrophic. So I suppose it’s a good thing for me that I don’t have a print on my soul, a blood magic bound to me. I would find a way to mess it up or kill myself in the discovery of my talent. Somehow summon a deity that will collapse the earth, or end up drowning an entire city with what the krums call tsunamis.

Silver lining, and all that.

“It’s not really Rituals and Sacrifices,” he says and cuts a sheepish look down to his brown leather boots. The look he lifts to me is one of unease, as though he let his joke go too far, or I took it too far and he’s reeling it back in. “Star Theory is my field of interest.”

I shuffle along with the queue. Only one witch in front of me now, the one who faltered in her glower what feels like hours ago.

I throw a look at Eric. “I take that class.”

He glances down the heads of the queue towards the city beyond the lane, a tinge of pink on his cheekbones. “Well, I’ll see you in class.”

I nod before he stalks off to be swallowed up by the sweltering city.

I watch him go for a moment before I move for the veil.

Finally, it’s my turn. Though I’m glad, maybe a little, that I waited in the queue and didn’t take my chances on a taxi all that distance home and getting stuck in car traffic instead, because then I wouldn’t have run into Eric Harling.

I have no foolish ambitions there.

Just a small crush.

It can never be more.

Eric might be of fullblood from ancient bloodlines, but he isn’t like us. Not like my family. Not worthy of my father’s consideration.

And father’s consideration is everything.

Without his approval, his name signed on the contract for my marriage, my dowry and my lifetime allowance, there is no marriage to be had.

Shame, really.

Eric would be what so few have the potential of ever being.

Good.

A good, decent man, a kind husband to be had.

Handsome, too.

That isn’t in the cards for me. Not in my crystal ball.

Someone like Eric wouldn’t blink twice at my status as a deadblood. My bloodline remains pure, ancient—and I am still an aristo.

I simply happen to have no magic.

Eric, if he meant to marry well, would accept that about me. But within my circle, within the company my family keeps, our allies, I am a stain.

I am one of the very few elite debutantes whose marriage contracts are still unsigned.

I have no betrothed, no arranged future with anyone. I’m twenty-two years old, and I face a future stuck in the family estate, a burden to my parents, the unmarried deadblood.

Ugh. I’ll be demoted, too, in my own home.

Eventually, my brother will take over the estate—and he, with his wife, will be above me. In my own home .

Can you imagine?

Serena Vasile will be in charge of my home one day.

My brother has been intended to Serena Vasile since their births, maybe even when they were both still in the wombs. Their engagement was solidified before they even reached their teens. They will marry after graduation. My brother will take on a role within the family estate, and Serena will be what she’s always been intended for. Wifery. Motherhood.

That is the life of an elite, aristo woman.

That is what we are raised for. Moulded to be.

The bitterness of it twists my mouth as I wrangle out the copper pentacle from my pocket, then step into the cold, billowing rush of shadows. The veil steals me from the lane, sucks the breath right out of me—

I stagger out onto the packed, flattened grass opposite Stonehenge.

The family car has been waiting.

The glossy sheen comes over the hill the moment I arrive.

Pocketing the pentacle—enchanted to allow me passage through veils, being a deadblood and all—I drag my bags along with my weighed down, tired body.