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.

Twenty minutes later, I put my pencil down. I’d filled in the answers, and I hoped at least a few of them were correct. But I didn’t stress over it.

Infatuation apparently made me intellectually lazy.

16

Scout waited until dinner to interrogate me about Jason’s visit to campus. It being Monday, we’d been blessed with brand-new food. Since I didn’t eat chicken, it was rice and mixed vegetables for me, but even simple food was better than dirty rice or stew. Or so I assumed.

“So, what did Mr. Shepherd have to say?” Scout asked, spearing a chunk of grilled chicken with her fork. “Are you engaged or promised, or what? Did you get his lavaliere? Did he pin you?”

“What’s a lavaliere?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a fraternity thing?”

“Well, whatever it is, there wasn’t one. We just talked about the meeting. About the attitude he copped. He apologized.”

Scout lifted appreciative brows. “Shepherd apologized? Jeez, Parker. You must have worked faster than I thought. He’s as stubborn as they come.”

“He said he was worried about me. About the possibility that I’d get wrapped up in a Reapers versus Adepts cage match and wouldn’t have a way to defend myself, especially if you weren’t there to work your mojo.”

“And what spectacular mojo it is, too,” she muttered. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. “Listen,” she finally said. “I don’t want to warn you off some kind of budding romance, but you should be careful around Jason. I’m not sure I’d recommend getting involved with him.”

“I’m not getting involved with him,” I protested. “Wait, why can’t I get involved with him?”

“He’s just—I don’t know. He’s different.”

“Yeah, being a werewolf does make him kinda unique.”

She raised her eyebrows, surprise in her expression. “You know.”

“I do now.”

“How did you find out?”

“I heard him growl after I got hit with the firespell. I confirmed it yesterday.”

“He admitted he was a wolf? To you?”

“He let me see his eyes do that flashy, color-changey thing. He did the same thing again when we talked in the hospital.”

“After you made us leave?”

I bobbed my head. Scout made a low whistle. “In one week, you’ve gone from new kid in school to being wooed by a werewolf. You move fast, Parker.”

“I doubt he’s wooing me, and I didn’t do anything but be my usually charming self.”

“I’m sure you were plenty charming, but I just want you to be careful.”

“Is that a little were-ism I’m hearing?”

“It’s a little reminder that he’s not like the rest of us. He’s a whole different brand of Adept. And you don’t have to buy my opinion. I’m just telling you what I think. On the other hand, in our short but explosive friendship, have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Did you want me to start with the getting hit by firespell or becoming an enemy to soul-sucking teenagers?”

“Did you mean the Reapers or the brat pack?”

I grinned appreciatively. “Ooh, well played.”

“I have my moments. Besides, who’d you borrow those kick-ass flats from?”

I glanced down at the screaming yellow and navy patent leather ballet flats she’d let me borrow on our hurried way out the door this morning.

“Fine,” I finally said. “Fashion trumps evil and prissy teenagers. You win.”

Scout grinned at me. “I always win. Let’s chow.”

We noshed, said our hellos to Collette and Lesley, and when dinner was done, returned to the suite for our hour-long break before study hall. The brat pack had made camp in the living room, blond hair and expensive accessories flung about as we entered.

Veronica sat cross-legged on the couch, an open folder in her lap and M.K. and Amie at her feet like adoring handmaids.

“It also says,” Veronica said, gazing at the folder, “that her parents dumped her here so they could head off to Munich.” She lifted her head, a lock of blond hair falling across her shoulders, and gave me a pointed look.

Was that my folder she was reading? Had M.K. taken it from Foley’s office while she was on hall-monitoring duty?