Now the new memories of the hospital wage war against the old ones, until finally, the lies dissolve.
Selwyn and the police officer. Both chanted a spell of some kind. Both bent my mind to their will.
My eyes snap open.
The first time I saw magic was the night my mother died.
* * *
My first class, English in Greenlaw, goes by in a blur. I don’t remember walking there. I sit at the back of the classroom. Questions run through my mind on a loop:
Was the officer at the hospital like Sel? A Merlin? A Kingsmage? How big is the Legendborn network? Why did I remember what Sel wanted me to forget? Why am I only now remembering what happened then? What other memories did that officer take? And why? Was an isel there at the hospital that night too? Did it attack my mother? Is that what killed her? How much do I really know about my mother’s death?
I lose time. The professor talks. I don’t write a thing.
My phone buzzes.
Briana. I got a phone call from the Chens then a phone call from the dean. Going off campus? Trespassing? The police? You need to call me back ASAP.
My father’s anger barely registers, but I force myself to text back.
He gave us a warning. I’m in class right now. Can we talk later?
You hid this from me on the phone. A lie of omission is still a lie.
I know, Dad. I’ll call you after dinner.
Yes, you will!
Two hours later, class is over. I drift through the crowd like a ghost, eyes unfocused and turned inward.
The campus that had seemed large and intimidating now feels tight and claustrophobic. Trees obscure the lawn like curtains hiding secret truths. Towering oaks are sentinels, monitoring our every word. I lose time again while sitting on a bench outside, so far gone that I jump when my phone buzzes.
Hey, Briana! Nick again. Hope your first day is going well! My last class gets out at five thirty. Want to meet up for dinner?
Ignore.
By the time my second class is over, one thought has burrowed in my mind like a splinter:
Someone used magic to hide what really happened the night my mother died, and I’m not going to let them get away with it.
6
WHERE DO WE begin? At the beginning.
Well, by dinner, I have the beginnings of a plan. In the busy dining hall I grab a table and take bites of a sandwich between texting the only person I know who might have answers.
Hey! We didn’t get expelled.
The response is instant. Charlotte’s the type of girl who lives with her phone in her hand, never on silent, never on do-not-disturb.
YEsssss! I’m serious tho i’m really sorry I almost got y’all kicke out!!! I feel like hsit
I should feel ashamed about using her guilt to my advantage, right?
All good. That party was wild. Lots of different kids there.
For REAL! somebody ratted out those football players! They have to ride the bench our first game and it’s against State, too!
That’s bullshit! I don’t keep up with football, but vulgarity seems like the right response. Who was that girl yelling at everyone to leave? Tall blond ponytail
Victoria Morgan. Goes by Tor. A serious legacy. She adds a couple of thumbs-down emojis.
What’s her deal?
Her daddy and granddaddy and whoever else all the way back to whenever went to UNC. Couple years ago, her fam donated so much $ to the B School they renamed a building after them. Old money good ol’ boys. Legacy kids waltz in, get whatever grades, and leave 4 years later with great internships and jobs lined up
Old money and good ol’ boys. Why am I not surprised? This is the South. Tight-knit groups, lots of loyalty, established networks, plenty of resources. Perfect for the Legendborn, I bet.
What about that guy she was with? I pick out the descriptors that sound the most… reasonable. Dark hair. Angry. Yellow eyes.
SELWYN KANE WAS THERE!?!?! AND I MISSED HIM!?? He never parties with ANYONE. Holy Jesus that boy is hottt
A stream of emojis: tongue-out smiley face, both hands up, hunnit, kissy lips.
I shudder. I don’t think Charlotte would add kissy lips if she’d seen Sel snarl like a lion and almost break someone’s kneecaps with one hand. She texts me back before I can respond.
Selwyn doesn’t hang with Tor tho?
He doesn’t? They were both standing right near the fight. All true. All things anyone could have seen.
I’ve never seen them even SPEAK to each other. They don’t run in the same circles, babe. Not even close! He’s an EC junior like me and Tor’s a regular junior.
My wheels spin. So, the Legendborn avoid each other in public, but in private, they’re coordinated. Organized. They mentioned a Gate on campus. Is that where they usually hunt? If Sel is an EC junior, he’s not ageless; he’s eighteen.
Gotta go. Sigma party tonight! Wanna come?
Nope. Already on the dean’s shitlist.
* * *
By the time I finish dinner, the sun has set and ribbons of deep purple and burnt orange streak through the darkening sky. I push through the doors into the thick soup of a humid evening, lost in thought.
“Briana Irene Matthews!”
I freeze, then pivot slowly to look for the sort of asshole who calls out someone’s full name in public to get their attention.
Leaning against the wall just beside the exit is a tall white boy with tousled straw-blond hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He looks like he belongs on the cover of the university brochure: impossibly bright and cheery, wearing plain jeans and a Carolina blue zipped hoodie. When he laughs, the sound is warm and genuine. “Now, that’s what you call a murderous expression!”
“Want to help me with the follow-through?” I snap.
He smiles, shoves off the wall with one foot, and strolls toward me. “You’re hard to pin down.” He looks up briefly, as if considering. Eyes back on me. “And rude, too, leaving me on read all day.”
My eyes fall shut as I mutter, “You’re the babysitter.”
“Does that mean you’re a baby?” My eyes snap open to find Nick Davis standing right in front of me, eyes twinkling with barely contained mirth. He is at least four inches taller than me, which is saying something, even though as a second-year EC he’s probably only a year older than I am. Definitely not built like any seventeen-year-olds I know. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, he looks like one of those Olympic gymnasts.
I turn on my heel to leave. This boy is not part of the plan. Not the beginning, middle, or anywhere in between.
“Briana, wait up!” Nick jogs to follow. “I’ll walk you to your dorm.”
“It’s Bree, and no thanks.”
When he catches up, his fresh-laundry-and-cedar scent comes with him. Of course he smells good. “Bree, short for Briana.” His dimple-edged smile is probably on a poster at a dentist’s office somewhere.
“I’d be happy to escort you. Peer mentor and all that,” he says without a stitch of sarcasm. “According to the dean, you have a tendency to get lost at night and accidentally end up in the back of police cruisers?”
I huff and pick up the pace, but he matches mine without missing a beat. “How did you find me?”
He shrugs. “I asked Dean McKinnon for your class schedule and campus ID photo.” He holds up a hand before I protest. “Not personal information typically shared with students, but the EC consent forms we all signed waive that right between mentors, orientation assistants, and other assigned guides. I found out when your last class ended. Made a guess as to when you’d hit dinner, then estimated how long it’d take for you to get through the buffet line in Lenoir, find a table, and eat at that hour of the day. All I had to do was show up and wait outside the exit closest to Old East.”