White Heart of Justice by Jill Archer Read Free Book Online Page B

weekend, Gordy.”
    He gave me a nonplussed look. “You did?”
    â€œUh-huh,” I said, nodding my head emphatically. I pinched another tendril back that had started creeping up my arm and winked. Gordy scowled and turned his back to me.
    Artifice class was on the same floor as Manipulation (our first year “Intro to Demon Law” class) but it was farther down the hallway. The fourth floor of Rickard Building was semi-abandoned. Only MITs, our Maegester professors, and a demon or two came up here. We assumed the lack of maintenance and modernization was meant to create a more welcoming environment for our ofttimes centuries-old clients but who really knew? Maybe Waldron Seknecus, our dean of demon affairs, just preferred vintage aesthetics. In any case, once students stepped out of the winder lift at the end of the hall, they stepped back in time.
    Wooden worktables on this floor were old and scarred. As were the floors. In this classroom there was even old bead board on the lower portion of the walls. On the upper stone walls, there was only one tiny square window, very high up, with iron bars. A holdover from St. Luck’s Fort Babylon days. No doubt our Artifice classroom had once housed high-rank prisoners. Little had they known how appropriate and appreciated their jailhouse graffiti would one day become. Singed into the bead board with waning magic or real fire were several oft quoted laments, with
libera me ex hoc purgatorio
(deliver me from this purgatory) being the most popular among students. With a quick pruning slash across another errant strand of Gordy’s signature that had crept too close to my neck for comfort, I focused my attention on the row of students in front of us.
    There were five other MITs taking Artifice with me: Gordy and another third year named Benvolio “Ben” Nyssa and Mercator, Sasha, and Brunus, who were all second years like me. I sat across from Ben.
    Mettius Glashia paced up and down the aisle separating our tables. I took out my casebook, notepad, and an ink pen, nodded at Ben and gave Mercator a small wave. Brunus and Sasha I ignored. Although Sasha was my cousin, we weren’t close. Sometimes I wished I could get along with more people, but then I reminded myself it wasn’t
my
fault if
they
couldn’t accept the fact that I was a woman who’d been born with waning magic.
    Brunus ignored me too, but I could feel his hatred for me in his signature. It felt even worse today than usual, which I imagined was because the question of which one of us would compete in the Laurel Crown Race had now been decided.
    And that person would be me, not him.
    â€œCongratulations, Ms. Onyx,” Glashia said. “I hear you beat your opponent in Friday’s rank match.” I tensed inwardly but tried not to let it show. Glashia, and the rest of the St. Luck’s faculty, excelled at provoking students. Glashia’s words were mostly testing Brunus, but they were also testing me. “So you’ll be St. Luck’s contender for the Laurel Crown starting this Friday.”
    I gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and murmured my assent and thanks, careful all the while not to sound too boastful or too modest. Brunus, however, was incapable of feigning good grace over my win. He glowered at me as a single nova-like burst of naked animosity pulsed from his signature. Glashia cleared his throat, redirecting attention back to class.
    â€œDoes anyone know who the first bounty hunter was?” he asked, returning to his lectern at the end of the aisle. Mercator raised his hand.
    â€œAnyone besides Mr. Palladium?”
    No one else responded. I could almost see Glashia’s inward sigh.
    â€œMs. Onyx, I couldn’t help but notice your contest carving at Friday night’s festival.”
    I met Glashia’s stare, making sure to keep both my signature and expression light and easy. It wouldn’t do to look guilty. Besides, I