Rare Form: Descended of Dragons, Book 1 (6 page)

T
he two of
us entered an already-populous ballroom, and while the looker beside me deserved all the attention, I knew all eyes were on me. Chill bumps skittered up my spine before my lungs seized. I stood unmoving, not breathing as paranoia fought with embarrassment.

Timbra nudged me and cleared her throat. When I still didn’t move she patted me on the shoulder and whispered, “You got this.”

I inhaled deeply and fought to overcome my fright. I took another breath, then another, and eased back into my senses. Once the initial shock of being the center of attention, the new girl in a new world, wore off I resolved not to make it easier for anyone to reject me. I stood up a little straighter and headed for the bar with a confidence that was purely superficial. I ordered a glass of liquid courage in the form of a margarita and Timbra had an Old Fashioned. Of course she did. Even her drink was a sophisticated throwback.

A DJ in the corner spun upbeat dance music, and after the initial collective gawk at the new girl, the crowd’s conversations started back up. I had just begun to relax a little when a group of four approached us.

“Who’s the new girl, Redfern?” an imposing man asked. He had to be at least six-five and I could tell by the rounded slope of his shoulders and the girth of his thighs that underneath a vintage concert T-shirt and jeans was a hulking mass of muscle. He was too big. Everything about him was over-sized—his eyes were rounded, his nose was on the overly-large size, and his wide mouth revealed a cluster of white teeth—but somehow it all worked to form one big baby face. I wondered if he even shaved, and knew right away this one was a teddy bear…or a Labrador.

“Good lord. Are you descended of bears or something?”

The words just rolled out of my mouth before I even considered whether they might be offensive or not. I had yet to be schooled on the subtleties and nuances of this strange new world, but realized questioning a person’s origins might not be politically correct. I resolved—again—to work on my brain-to-mouth filter.

“Oh, god. I’m sorry. I…”

Luckily, he took pity on me and interrupted with a wicked grin.

“Don’t sweat it. All you need to know is that I’m all man.”

I think it took everything he had not to adjust himself to illustrate the point. And I swear his nostrils flared.

“Forgive our horn-dog friend. His humanoid sense of smell is so limited that he sniffs up every skirt on the rare occasion he gets lucky. I’m Layla. I’ve never met a real celebrity before. Will you sign my boobs?”

Layla, the funny one—I was guessing—was impersonating a Japanese anime character. Her long straight hair was black with bangs cut straight across her forehead. The thick locks were pulled back in a high ponytail except for two bright aqua strands hanging over her ears to fall on her shoulders.

At the boobs comment, she stretched open a white V-neck, revealing a tattoo that spanned her entire chest. A two-headed raven began at her collarbone and extended down into her slight cleavage. The intricate black outline of the tattoo was filled in with an aqua that matched the hue of her hair. The two ravens’ heads stretched, open-mouthed, toward her shoulders as if cawing before taking flight upon a pair of outstretched wings.

The bird’s tail wasn’t fully visible, but I could just glimpse the top of two powerful talons gathered high into its body. Layla’s slight frame topped out just over five feet, but five-inch platform boots that hugged her legs all the way up her reedy thighs put her nearly at my eye level. A tightly-fitted black leather jacket with tiny daggers for buttons completed her Miniature Badass ensemble.

“Can it, crow,” the big man retorted. “And put the girls away. Everyone here has already seen ’em, anyway.”

Layla wasn’t fazed by the banter and dramatically rolled her eyes at the big guy, who surged forward with his hand out.

“Name’s Boone Adder. This is Bex, and that’s Ewan.” He nodded in the direction of the other two, who both nodded at me in turn.

Bex very obviously had feline forbearers. She exuded sleek and haughty. Her long silky hair was a rich caramel color, her skin tone only a shade lighter. Her eyes, the color of honey, were wide and bright in the middle, but slanted sharply at both corners. I imagined her circling her prey, ass in the air and tail switching, though no tail was presently visible. She was attractive, sexy—the kind of girl that always seemed to attract older men and had no time for ‘boys.’

Ewan, though, looked to be as homo sapien as I was.

Growing up in the South, I hadn’t seen many men with overly-long hair. I’d known one or two who expressed their pride of heritage with traditional long locks, and there had been shag-cut trends, but by and large most men I knew kept their hair cropped close to their scalp. This guy, though, had the most gorgeous head of hair I had seen on a man. Shiny black curls fell in layers almost to the top of his shoulders in back, and just around his temples in the front. No hair was in its proper place, but it was perfect just the same. He rocked the look, no doubt about it.

Big, dark-brown eyes with almost curly black lashes studied my face. The slender slope of his nose peaked, skimmed over slight nostrils and into cheeks that looked downy soft compared to the perpetual five o’clock shadow that ran the length of his jawbone and into splashing of sideburns. A hint of a mustache brought attention to his mouth, which flashed bright white teeth for just a moment as he smiled warmly in welcome.

“Stella enrolled today. She’s my new suitemate,” announced Timbra.

Everyone offered congratulations. Well, most everyone. Bex’s top lip twitched, though she covered it quickly. I wasn’t sure if it was my new status as a student that she objected to, or that I was Timbra’s suitemate. Ultimately, I decided that she saw me as competition. Cats.

“Aw, that’s my jam,” threw in the big man. “Stella, care to dance?”

I did. The bass was thumping, the dance floor was packed, and I had never been opposed to fun. I shot Timbra a wide-eyed smile and made my way to the middle of the room. Boone followed, and I was soon shaking my ass like there was church tomorrow.

Boone had good moves for someone so large. I figured him a humper for sure, but he surprised me with polite distance and fun spins and dips. We returned to the group when the next song turned out to be a ballad.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted Gresham near the bar. I excused myself and made my way over. He saw me and raised his head in recognition.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Change of plans,” he replied.

He looked fantastic, and I couldn’t tell if he had tried to, or if it was something hastily thrown together. A tan blazer topped a sapphire V-neck T-shirt. Dark denim jeans ran into worn brown leather loafers with no socks.

“You seem to be getting along fine,” he said. “You’ve made friends already, I see. I know the Redfern girl’s family. Don’t recognize the others.”

“Yes, I think they’re all freshmen, like me, so you wouldn’t have had them in class yet.”

“Primos, not freshmen. But I don’t teach here. Is that what you thought? That I’m a professor?” He seemed to find this immensely humorous and his eyes twinkled. “Here,” he said. “Your necklace has turned.” His big hands were warm on my collarbone as he adjusted my pendant. A jolt of electricity shot from my neck, straight through the center of my body, and all the way to my toes. I shivered and his smile widened. Then darkened.

“Well...ah...yes,” I stammered. “ I mean…of course, now that I think about it, it would be weird that a professor crossed worlds and sought out a potential student. But, if you’re not a teacher here, what do you do?”

“I do…special projects.”

“Special projects like crashing SUV’s into innocent girls, destroying their personal property, forcibly removing them from the scene of an accident, breaking into their apartment, and very nearly sexually assaulting them?”

“Now, hold on. I did not break into your apartment. And I apologized about my…physical response, though don’t expect me to apologize again. Furthermore, I saved you from burning alive in that car, and for the last time—you hit me.”

“Where did you get those cars, anyway, Mr. Gresham? And why does someone from a world where money is an afterthought choose SUV’s and sports cars instead of something usefully utilitarian like, say, a Taurus?”

“A Taurus?” he snarled and scraped his tongue between his teeth, as if removing a bad taste from his mouth. “I rented those cars. I like nice things.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I hummed playfully. Boy, riling him up was just too easy. Was I flirting? Maybe.

My attempt to hide my grin behind a sip of my drink was unsuccessful, and the tension soon left his shoulders. As I inquired further about Gresham’s “special projects,” I caught sight of a lovely brunette in her late thirties as she approached him from behind. She ran her hand through Gresham’s arm and clasped his bicep possessively.

“Hello,” she said coolly. “I’m Livia Miles.”

She pronounced this la-VEE-yah. Her gray eyes were sharp and assessing as she took in my proximity to Gresham. I backed up a step instinctively. She extended a bony hand, and I took the time to do a little assessing of my own. Now, I like to consider myself fairly well-groomed, but Livia was the type of woman who always looked…pristine. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and the shine on her toe polish caused me to blink. Her smooth skin had obviously been exfoliated and buffed to perfection, her makeup was flawless, if on the heavy side. Her jewelry was tasteful and expensive, and her hair…god, her long brown curls absolutely gleamed reflecting the overhead lights. A tight black lace dress revealed a runner’s legs and no breasts to speak of, thank the good lord for small mercies.

“Livia, this is Stella Stonewall,” Gresham put in. “Stella is a primos, and will likely be in your department’s Intro to Craft and Ritual class.”

“I know who she is, Gresham,” she said icily.

“Oh, uhm… Nice to meet you, Professor Miles,” I stumbled. “Craft? I’m sorry; Orientation is tomorrow. I know very little about the coursework here.”

“Dean Miles,” she corrected. “Craft. The art and science of causing change in accordance with one’s will.”

I must have looked as clueless as I felt, because she turned to Gresham.

“Ugh. Rowan. She is an imbecile. Wherever did you find her, and what moron allowed her into this institution? If this is the caliber of student my department is expected to instruct, I…”

“Stella is new to our ways, as you know, Livia,” Gresham growled. “She is a bright young woman, and will catch on quickly, I am sure, with the help of exceptional teachers like you.”

To this obvious schmoozing, Livia seemed appeased. I had a sneaking suspicion he had just saved me from some serious in-class discrimination.

I couldn’t recall the last time I had been so flagrantly insulted. Fifteen responses and backhanded insults raced through my mind, as did a speedy synopsis of my circumstances—new town, new school, new teacher. Don’t make enemies, I told myself. Swallow your pride. Hold your tongue.

But the fact was I had real difficulty with those particular virtues.

“I look forward to learning as much as I can from someone with so many years of experience behind them,” I said, perhaps a tad tartly. “My best days are still ahead of me, you know, and I could use a mentor.”

Her eyes flashed with loathing at my implied slight to her age. Guess I hit a sore spot.

Gresham wheezed deep in his throat before recovering himself, though his eyes still shone with repressed laughter as he bid me goodnight and led her to the bar.

“
S
tella
, it is time to wake. It is Thursday, May thirteenth. The time now is seven a.m.”

“Stella, it is time to wake. It is Thursday, May thirteenth. The time now is seven a.m.”

I opened one eye to the rude and monotonous awakening. I knew that voice. Pia.

Just before I fell asleep the night before, I lay back on the worn quilt with my hands behind my head, recalling the dizzying amount of new information I had gained. After a while, I noticed tiny scribbles all over the cracked plaster ceiling. I stood on the bed to get a better look and found the ceiling was covered with signatures—I assumed those of the previous occupants. Some were tight, rigid forms of letters; others slanting and flourished. All were a dark burnt-umber color. The thought of those who had lain in my bed, lived and studied in that very room, was bizarre and deeply intriguing. How many years had Radix students been occupying my room? A hundred years, certainly. Five hundred? More?

I had fallen asleep contemplating the history the school possessed, and dreamed of women dressed in hip pads, corsets, and full skirts. I dreamed of men with plaited hair and longswords, and in that real but apparitional way of dreams, two familiar faces appeared among the costumed crowd. A stunning brunette possessively clasped the upper arm of a powerfully built man with an unruly mane of black hair and piercing amber eyes.

“Morning, Pia,” I mumbled, one side of my face still firmly planted in a pillow.

“Good morning, Stella. The time now is seven-oh-one a.m. The Radix Primo Anno Orientation begins in fifty-nine minutes. You are required to attend this function that is expected to break for a one-hour lunch at noon and conclude by four p.m.”

“Wait. Ano what? And would it be so hard to wake me with a little energizing music? Some encouragement, maybe, or at least some sort of pleasantry? This ‘The time now’ business is so…sterile. I’m a morning person; let’s start the day off right.”

“Pleasant?” Pia asked. “Encouraging? I’m sorry, Stella. I must have missed the memo that your mother was also enrolling in The Root.”

“Humor. Now that’s more like it, Pia.”

I jumped in the shower and hurriedly dressed for the day. I had brought my favorite jeans—the ones I knew made my butt look good. One less thing to worry about. Timbra was nowhere to be seen, so I headed downstairs for coffee.

“JEEN-jah! Pleasant morning? Coffee?”

It was Knox, the frustratingly adorable bartender/barista.

“My. Name. Is. Stella. Aren’t you chipper this morning? I’ll take a…”

“Let me guess. Hmmm. Mocha. Nonfat. Covered with whipped cream.”

“That’s exactly right. How did you know?” I supposed he could add mind reader to his growing list of useful talents.

“A lucky guess. Would you settle for vanilla, though? The nonfat and whipped cream I have covered, but even this tan would never qualify as ‘mocha’.”

This he said with an easy smile, and I laughed, despite myself.

“Are you headed to the big orientation today, then?”

“Yes. I’m in desperate need of a crash course. I have a lot to learn, and I already feel the disadvantage. I’ve made some friends, and their parents are alumni, as were their grandparents and great-grandparents—their connections to this place go back hundreds of years. They’ve always known they would go here; they’re prepared for it. I’m afraid I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Oh, don’t fear that, Ginger. You do stick out, I’ll tell ye now.”

I groaned in despair, but he went on, “No, no. Think of your ignorance as a gift. You’re new, you’re fresh, you’re a blank slate. You have nothing to prove, no familial expectations, no one to impress or let down. Absorb everything like a sponge, and enjoy it. There’s a whole new world out there; dive right in.”

The truth in his blunt assessment made me feel better, as did the encouragement. I left with a latte and a croissant in hand and a smile on my face.

“A nonfat mocha latte has 220 calories and three grams of fat.”

This unwelcome commentary came from my personal interactive assistant.

“Oh, hell no, Pia. You turn that function off right now.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“So not helpful. You want to help? Where am I going for this orientation?”

“I’m more than a map, you know,” Pia mumbled.

I
entered
Martyrskirk Theatre and scanned those seated until I spotted Timbra. She held up a hand, and I took the seat that she’d saved. I spotted Ewan and Layla and some others in the surrounding seats and smiled.

“Good morning, and welcome to you, the 921st entering Primos Class of Radix Citadel for Supernatural Learning,” a stern, confident female voice boomed through the theater.

“I’m Faye Edgecliffe, vice chancellor of this esteemed institution, and it is my pleasure to tell you that for nearly a millennium Radix has maintained a reputation as Thayer's leading center for magical instruction and research. The institution has provided an invigorating intellectual and introspective climate in which our graduates have learned to harness their full potential as individuals, benefiting themselves, their families, and society as a whole.”

“Gods, how long will she blather on, you think?”

This from Timbra, who I was shocked to hear utter a disparaging remark. She looked lovely and casual in a black top, thin heather gray leggings and black flats. Her almond-colored hair hung loosely about her shoulders. I shook my head, wide-eyed not because I didn’t know, but because
I did not know
the history and prominence behind the school in which I was now enrolled.

Vice Chancellor Edgecliffe continued, “This year, Radix received sixteen applications per availability. Having met our standards and been chosen, you know too well that Radix sets highly challenging entrance requirements to attract only the most academically and magically potent students in the arts, sciences, and physical forms of the supernatural. Our reputation for delivering the highest quality instruction and research makes Radix the most sought after institution the world over.”

The Vice Chancellor continued on about the superiority and exclusivity of Radix, but I heard nothing else. All thought centered on her claims that the school received 16 applications per spot available, and that the entrance requirements were steep.

Was this true? How in the world had I gained a spot, considering I was an unknown, last minute applicant? Actually, I hadn’t even applied. I had just shown up and enrolled. I had a bad feeling about it. I was smart enough to know that when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.

I came out of my reverie to a hard elbow to the arm.

“Ow. What’d you do that for?”

“Look, it’s your friend from the mixer.” Timbra nodded at the stage. “RBF has taken the stage.”

I had told her about my encounter with Dean Miles. We had both decided that, while strikingly beautiful, Livia Miles definitely suffered from ‘Resting Bitch Face.’

I snorted, but quickly gained my composure when I saw her. RBF was in full effect, all right, as she strode confidently to the mic. A high bun made her look more severe, but no less lovely. A copper-colored academic gown with gold embellishments draped her artfully as the hem met sleek, tan, muscular calves. Her very high-heeled gold pumps clack, clack, clacked as she took her place behind the podium.

“Hello, students. Your acceptance to this institution marks the beginning of your personal journey, not just into the physical world of your own genetic lineage, but into the metaphysical worlds of magic and the supernatural. As Dean of the Department of Craft and Ritual, it is my honor to give you an overview of today’s orientation. A successful Radix student will learn to strike a balance between academic and practical coursework. Please refer to your prospectus as I outline the departments that comprise Radix, Citadel for Supernatural Learning.”

I opened a thin booklet and flipped through the first few pages.

T
he remainder
of the day was filled with tours of the sprawling campus, team building exercises, and firm reminders of the standard to which Radix students were held. The day flew by, and in no time at all it was four p.m.

Pia was beside herself to inform me that a group dinner was scheduled that evening in the large banquet hall. After a quick change into an airy summer dress I headed for the banquet hall, thankful I’d had the foresight to pack several different outfits.

Timbra and I entered the massive gray rubble masonry building that said ‘Crusades’ much more than it said ‘college.’ I thought it must have been a medieval banquet hall because two towering wood doors with iron bolts like fists and hinges the length of my forearm opened into cavernous room that could hold at least 600 people. The stone floors were uneven, though they had supported so many footfalls that the edges were smooth and nearly shiny.

Long, worn wooden tables and benches, now gray and porous with age, formed rows the width of the room and stopped within feet of a large dais. The platform held three more tables, these with ancient wooden chairs and decorated with ornate candelabras and tasteful muted arrangements.

Faded tapestries depicting ancient battle scenes covered most of the walls of the hall; these artfully framed by medieval weaponry. Swords, bows, maces, mauls, and bludgeoning devices of all sorts gave the drafty dining room a welcoming touch. Despite the overwhelming impression of frost, death, and dank, a glorious smell of roasted meat, onions, and butter wafted throughout the hall.

“What’s with this place?” I asked of Timbra once we had found a place to sit among the worn benches. “Are they going to feed us gruel and salted herring? Though, if that’s the case, bring on the mead. I had some once at a beekeeper’s wedding. Nom, nom. That stuff is dan-ger-ous.”

“Well, I’m a vegetarian, so let’s hope they don’t send out a whole roasted pig.”

“Oh, I never thought of that. I suppose being descended of deer you wouldn’t eat meat.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Is a person’s ancestry an okay topic to ask about? This is all so new to me,” I said apologetically. “I don’t want to offend anyone, but I have a million questions.”

“In general, it is a perfectly fine topic of discussion. Some people are more or less proud of their lineage than others. Bex, you might have noticed, is exceedingly fond of her descent from lions.”

“Yes, I had. She holds her nose so high I thought if it rained she might drown.”

Timbra guffawed at the precise moment Bex and the others took seats at our table.

“What’s funny?” This from Layla, who’d today coordinated her teal hair and prominent tattoo with an orange tank and a short, tight jean skirt.

Timbra, though warming up to me, was still quite shy in a group. It was fascinating to observe the change in her. One-on-one she was fun, interesting, but as more people joined her sphere of interaction, the more reserved she became.

“Stella wants to learn to make mead,” she blurted.

This only served to confuse the newcomers, since it wasn’t the least bit funny, but I appreciated the solidarity and smiled warmly at her in acknowledgment.

The majority of primos students had found seats, and before long a wait staff brought out glasses of water and a salad course.

“Does anyone know the history of this banquet hall?” I asked. “It’s so odd they’re serving us here. I really think they’re feeding us on the same table they used for butchering. There has to be a more suitable place for our class size.”