Cursed to the Bone

1. Twig Life

Feral witches made the worst company. Offend them? Cursed. Question them? Cursed. Thwart their nefarious plans to devour your soul? Extra-cursed. Me? I was extra-cursed as a child and I've been unlucky since. Unlucky enough that the civilized society of witches told me my curse was there to stay. Ferals didn't make curses out of kindness, after all, and mine was no exception. The only thing I had going for me was that I was a witch, too.

For that reason, I stood on a mountain path in the towering shadow of Sage University. Circled nearby were six mountains separated by a sea of trees, all six dedicated to a legendary witch of the past. Those witches were long gone, of course, but they would all die again if they saw our education system at work.

In their infinite wisdom—or lack thereof—those in power wrote it into law that witches could only begin casting by themselves at eighteen. Eighteen! It made sense considering the number that lost their lives to foolish mistakes, but it sucked. It left me feeling way more powerless than a witch ought to be at eighteen.

Of all the schools I considered, this was my favorite. The ancient stone glowed in the sun. Each floor was a sandy ring jutting out like jagged rocks, and at the top-most layer, the spikes met in an asymmetric crown. No windows were visible from the outside. At a glance, you'd never know there was a school there.

Other students bustled past, the wheels of their luggage clacking on stones until I was alone. The wind barreled by with a cold tug and a howl that warned of winter. It was all the encouragement I needed to get moving. Grabbing my luggage handle, I hustled for the stairs.

Slow and steady, and with my eyes glued to my feet, I climbed. I wasn't about to risk rushing. Not with my curse. It was a terrible one, placed upon me by a terrible witch. Weakness of bone. One misstep could break every bone in my body and send me to the infirmary on day one. Been there, done that. No thanks.

As I reached the final step, I hefted my bag up beside me just in time to see a man approach. He wore all black and held a book to his buttoned overcoat.

"Vera Tate, I assume?" he said, his voice deeper and more pleasant than his impassive, crimson stare suggested, and with the faintest hint of an accent. French?

"Yes." I shifted on my feet while trying to subtly inspect him. He looked a bit young to be a professor, maybe thirty or so with such smooth skin. But seeing as he was standing there, intent on bothering me, I couldn't imagine he was anything else. "And you are?"

"Professor Lacroix, to you."

Lacroix? I knew that name. Nothing came to mind at that moment, but it was familiar. Really familiar. I didn't have long to think about it, though, as he reached for my bag. Too close. Instinctively, I stepped back. Only, there was no step back. A mixture of a gasp and shriek filled the air as I swung backward, hand latching to the rail.

The professor shot forward and grabbed the front of my coat, pulling me upright. He muttered something I couldn't fully hear over the rush of blood in my ears. Something about consistency.

"Thanks." Putting some space between us, I willed my heart to slow.

"Of course." He swept a strand of brown hair behind his ear and recovered his book from the ground. As he rightened himself, he exhaled a soft hum. "A good thing you did not fall."

Did he really need to say that?

"Be more cautious of your footing in the future."

I dipped my chin in an obedient nod, hiding my annoyance, and bit out a weak, "Yes, sir."

"Leave your luggage. I will deliver it for you, lest you find a way to inadvertently harm yourself." He gestured toward the door. "Please head inside."

"Thanks." Jerk. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I moved around the professor toward the entryway.