Firespell (The Dark Elite #1)(45)
Author: Chloe Neill

Glancing around the neighborhood, across glass and steel and concrete, the city buzzing around us, I could see their point.

“There have always been a handful of people who know about us. Who know what we do, know what we fight for,” Scout said as we rounded the corner and walked toward St. Sophia’s.

And there he was.

Jason stood in front of the stone wall, hands in his pockets, in khaki pants and a navy blue sweater with an embroidered gold crest on the pocket. His dark blond hair was tidy, and his eyes had turned a muted, steel blue beneath the cloudy sky, beneath those dark eyebrows and long lashes.

Those eyes were aimed, laserlike, in my direction.

Scout, who’d taken a heartening sip of strawberry-flavored sugar water after relaying Derek’s history, released the straw just long enough to snark. “It appears you have a visitor.”

“He could be here for you,” I absently said.

“Uh, no. Jason Shepherd does not make trips to St. Sophia’s to see me. If he needed me, he could text me.”

I made a vague sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her assessment, but my nerves apparently agreed. My throat was tight; my stomach fluttered. Had this boy—this boy with those ridiculous blue eyes—come here to see me?

Right before I melted into a ridiculous puddle of girl, I remembered that I was still irritated with Jason and wiped the dopey smile off my face. I’d show him “distraction.”

“Shepherd,” Scout said when we reached him, “what brings you to our fine institution of higher learning?” She managed those ten words before her lips found the straw again. I realized I’d found Scout’s pacifier, should it ever prove necessary—strawberry soda.

Jason bobbed his head at Scout, then looked at me again. “Can I talk to you?”

I glanced at Scout, who checked her watch. “You’ve got seven minutes before class,” she said, then motioned with a hand. “Give me your bag, and I’ll stick it in your chair.”

“Thanks,” I said, and made the transfer.

Jason and I watched Scout trot down the sidewalk and disappear into the building. It wasn’t until she was gone that he looked at me again.

“About yesterday.” He paused, eyes on the sidewalk, as if deciding what to say. “It’s not personal.”

I arched my eyebrows. I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

He looked away, wet his lips, then found my gaze again. “When you were in the hospital, we talked about the Reapers. About the fact that we’re in the minority?”

“A splinter cell, you said.”

He bobbed his head. “In a way. We’re like a resistance movement. A rebellion. We aren’t equally matched. The Reapers—we call them Reapers—they’re not just a handful of misfits. They’re all the gifted—all the Dark Elite—except for us.”

“All except for you?”

“Unfortunately. That means the odds are stacked against us, Lily.” He took a step forward, a step toward me. “Our position is dangerous. And if you don’t have magic, I don’t want you wrapped up in it. Not if you don’t have a way to defend yourself. Scout can’t always be there . . . and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

An orchestra could have been playing on the St. Sophia’s grounds and I wouldn’t have heard it. I heard nothing but the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, saw nothing but the blue of his lash-fringed eyes.

“Thank you,” I quietly said.

“That’s not to say I wasn’t bitter that you ignored me Sunday.”

I nibbled the edge of my lip. “Look, I’m sorry about that—”

Jason shook his head. “You saw the mark, and you needed time to process. We’ve all been there. I mean, you could have chosen better company, but I understand the urge to get away. To escape.” Jason looked down at the sidewalk, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. “When I found out who I was, what I was, I ran away. Hopped a Greyhound bus and headed to my grandmother’s house in Alabama. I camped out there for three weeks that summer. I was thirteen,” he said, raising his gaze again. His eyes had switched color from turquoise to chartreuse, and something animal appeared in his expression—something intense.

“You’re a . . . wolf?” I said it like a question, but I suddenly had no doubt, and no fear, about the possibility that he was something far scarier than Scout and the rest of the Adepts.

“I am,” he said, his voice a little deeper than it had been a moment ago. Goose bumps rose on my arms, and a chill slunk down my spine. I wondered whether that was a common reaction—Little Red Riding Hood syndrome, maybe.

I stared at him and he stared back at me, my focus so complete that I actually shook in surprise when the tower bells began to ring, signaling the end of the lunch period.

“You should go,” he said. When I nodded, he reached out and squeezed my hand. Electricity sparked up my spine. “Goodbye, Lily Parker.”

“Goodbye, Jason Shepherd,” I said, but he was already walking away.

He’d walked to St. Sophia’s to see me—to talk to me. To explain why he hadn’t wanted me to sit in on the Adepts’ meetings, mark or not.

Because he was worried about me.

Because he hadn’t wanted me to get hurt.

The moment I’d shared with Jason had been so incredibly phenomenal, the universe had to equalize. And what was the chosen brand of karmic balance for a high school junior?

Two words: pop quiz.

Magic in the world or not, I was still in high school, and a high school that prided itself on Ivy League admissions. Peters, our European history teacher, decided he needed to ensure that we’d read our chapters on the Picts and Vikings by using fifteen multiple-choice questions. I’d read the chapters—I was paranoid enough to make sure I finished my homework, magical hysterics notwithstanding. But that didn’t mean my stomach didn’t turn as Peters walked the rows, dropping stapled copies of the test on our desks.

“You have twenty minutes,” he said, “which means you have a little more than one minute per question. Quizzes will account for twenty percent of your grade, so I strongly recommend you consider your answers carefully.”

When the tests were distributed, he returned to his desk and took a seat without glancing up.

“Begin,” he said, and pencils began to scribble.

I stared down at the paper, my nerves making the letters spin—well, nerves and the thought of a blue-eyed boy who’d worried for me, and who’d held my hand.