Rising Magic Read online

  Anastasia said, “Who’d want to do that?”

  “No idea.” He wiped pizza crumbs from his lips. “But superwizards are less dangerous alone than in a group, I imagine.”

  Kitty giggled. “Superwizards?”

  “Yeah, sorry. That’s what my friend and I call Arcantaria. Superwizard school.”

  “I love that.”

  Anastasia didn’t smile. “Interesting idea, Dash.”

  He shook his head. “No reason why I thought that. It’s just that it seems like some of the other students don’t like me, and I don’t even know them.” He sipped his cola and let the sweetness wash over him. “I’m just being paranoid.”

  Kitty shrugged. “When I came here this fall, I was told by one of the students that there was a prodigy coming here who was getting all the praise from all the teachers.”

  Anastasia nodded. “I was told much the same thing, although in terms a bit more pejorative in nature. Kitty’s so good-hearted; she no doubt interpreted what was said to her in the best possible way. But in fact what we’re telling you is that yes, there have been rumors, which might have caused some of your fellow students to resent you.”

  He slowly released a breath. He’d suspected, but it hurt to know. “Well, there you go. And I appreciate the fact that the two of you would talk to me.”

  Anastasia snorted. “Kitty’s goodness keeps me honest.”

  “Thanks, Kitty.” He smiled at her and enjoyed seeing her cheeks get pink.

  Kitty said with wide eyes, “But why would someone want other students not to like you, Dash?”

  Dash glanced toward the red-haired teacher. “That’s a really good question, Kitty. I’d like to know that too.” He spoke calmly, but a rivulet of ice ran down his back. Instinct told him something scarier than peer jealousy was at play. Way scarier.

  Chapter Two

  “JAZZ. HIIIIIII.” The pretty blond coed waved as she passed Jazz Vanessen on his way to the big red building where the economics classes were held.

  “Oh, yeah, hi.” He broke into a trot so he wouldn’t be late for Introduction to Microeconomics. The girl seemed to be one of several who’d found out he was among the heirs to the Vanessen family fortune but somehow hadn’t discovered he was gay. Hell, so were all the other heirs. But maybe the girls didn’t care.

  He trotted up the outside staircase of the beautiful old building and ran down the hall in time to slip into the side door of the class and grab a seat in the huge lecture auditorium. He opened his iPad and poised to take notes.

  Once the professor settled down and began his lectures, Jazz tried to focus, but his phone dinged, and he grabbed for it. First he turned off the sound, then glanced at the text.

  Hey fam, sup?

  He smiled and his heart squeezed as his thumbs tapped out, In microeconomics lecture.

  Savage.

  There was a pause.

  Miss you awful.

  He typed, You too.

  Anything?

  His heart did a double thump. She wanted to know if he’d managed to contact Dash through their Jedi mind meld.

  No.

  Another pause. Finally, the bubbles danced and words appeared on his screen. Don’t worry. It’ll happen.

  Wish you were closer. He’d typed the words and sent them before he even realized it. Damn, when he’d chosen Yale and Carla had decided on Harvard, New Haven and Cambridge had seemed so close. Now they felt continents apart.

  Yeah.

  The guy sitting next to Jazz glanced at Jazz’s phone. Jazz typed, Better take notes.

  Love you.

  U 2.

  He slid the phone aside and started typing on his pad. His fingers flew across his keys, copying a couple of the lecturer’s statements, but they made no sense. He couldn’t force himself to care. He truly wanted to get good at the things he needed to know to help run Vanessen Enterprises whenever Pop-Pop decided to retire, but the thrill was gone before he started. Uncovering the plot against his grandfather and then ending up in battles with Nardo, learning the amazing supernatural mysteries of the world with his friends, and declaring his devotion to Dash had all made microeconomics seem silly and out of touch. Which was weird because he wasn’t practicing his magic or any of the stuff he’d learned over the summer either.

  Caught between worlds. Nothing new about that.

  Most of all, he kept worrying about Dash.

  Jazz inhaled and closed his eyes. Come on, baby. Tune in. I miss you so much. He focused his mind on Dash, picturing his amazing, glowing, perfect face, eyes like emeralds and hair that shimmered with stars.

  Uh, right. Romance novel land. Dash would have smacked him upside the head for his sentimental thinking. Dash was a wizard. He was supernaturally beautiful. Get over it.

  Deciding to try again, he focused on the special energy that was Dash. The place in the universe occupied by Dashness. Oh bull. He could practically hear the universe laughing at him. Okay so he was new to the magic business. Well, new if you considered werewolves your regular. But he’d had the chance to study magic as a student at Arcantaria, and he’d chosen to stay with his family and friends. So this is what he got—no one to share his magic with, no one to ask questions of, no way to test himself against real mages.

  Jazz squeezed the bridge of his nose and inhaled.

  The second his guard was down and his mind relaxed, a tidal wave of loneliness washed over him, so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe. The sensation filled his eyes, nose, and ears, confining him to an isolation chamber where his outline dissolved and his sense of disconnection danced and intertwined with another body of aloneness. He gasped as he felt, really felt, Dash in his heart and under his skin for the first time since they’d parted weeks before.

  He was almost afraid to inhale for fear the connection might go away. Dash? Can you hear me? Are you there?

  All he got back was static, but the static played like itchy electricity under his skin.

  Dash? Please. Something.

  The wave came again, and tears grabbed Jazz by the throat. Gods, the loneliness he felt wasn’t his own. That aching, painful sense of isolation wasn’t his. His eyes flew open. It was Dash. Oh gods and goddess, it’s Dash.

  Jazz swallowed and tried to get his mind under control. Of course he’s lonely. We all are. We miss each other. It’s normal. Take a breath. Don’t— Holy shit! Like a mountain of darkness, something ugly and frightening rolled into his brain, making him want to barf. His hand flew to his mouth of its own accord, and his feet were moving before his brain caught up.

  Tromping on some guy’s foot and getting a couple of expletives in response, he blundered through the row he was seated in, made it to the aisle, and raced for the exit. In fact, he had to force himself to only run at human speed.

  When the autumn sun hit his face, he slowed. What the hell am I thinking? Where am I going? But his feet kept moving until he hit a tree in the middle of a pocket park and dropped to his knees. Dash? Dash?

  The static in his brain actually hurt. He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. Then he grabbed his phone and hit Send.

  It rang once, twice.

  Carla’s voice murmured, “Now I’m in class.”

  “I think there’s something wrong with Dash!”

  “What? Hold on.” There was a lot of bumping and scraping on the phone. She was murmuring, “Excuse me. Sorry.” She must be getting out of her class like he’d gotten out of his.

  A couple of minutes later, after a lot of noise and rapid breathing, Carla said, “What’s wrong? Did you talk to him?”

  “No. You know I can’t call or text him. No phone. I was thinking about him, and all of a sudden I just knew. Gods, Carla, he’s miserable. Lonely and unhappy. There’s something else. Something big and—” He stopped. How much to say? “I know there’s shit wrong. And the worst thing is he may not even know all of it himself. I have to do something. We have to do something.”

  “What can we do?” It
was a wail.

  Yeah, she had good reason to wail. They were both freshmen at two of the most prestigious and difficult-to-get-into schools in America. They’d worked hard to be accepted. His program was killer. He could imagine Carla’s was even worse. Hell, she was doing prelaw. What could he and Carla do for Dash, who might as well be in Neverland? Jazz’s shaky exhale buzzed in his head.

  “Jazz, are you still there?”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his hand over his too-long hair. “It’s craptastic, but I agree. What can we do? Dash could be anywhere in the world. Hell, with the combined magic of the MagiCouncil Dash talks about, he could probably be on the moon. To help him, we’d kind of need to have a clue where he is.” Weirdly, he wanted to cry.

  Silence.

  “Carla?”

  “Shh.”

  He stayed quiet for a minute. “Uh, are you okay?”

  “I’ve got it!” Her voice rose.

  “What?”

  “Master Bopherson.”

  “BeBop?”

  “No, Xander. If anyone can figure out where Arcantaria is, it’s got to be the arbiter of the Freeseekers of Fukurokuju, right?”

  His breath caught. “Do you really think…?”

  “It’s worth a try, Jazz. If something’s wrong with Dash, we’ve got to give it a shot.” She inhaled noisily. “So I haven’t got classes Friday afternoon, aka tomorrow. What if I call BeBop? I’ll see if we can meet them in New York and talk to his uncle.”

  “Okay. I’ll take off right after my last class.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll meet you in the city.”

  “Double good.”

  “Thanks, fam.”

  “Can’t wait to see you, my little werewolf.”

  He chuckled. “I hope you’re not in the middle of the cafeteria right now.”

  “Are you kidding? I could announce your furriness in the middle of my poli-sci class, and nobody’d even blink. I can’t even with these people, Jazz. They’re so basic.” She blew out a breath. “Sorry, fam. My complaints are way first world. I’ll text you what BeBop says. Love you.”

  She clicked off, and his chest grew cold. He totally got what she was saying. They’d spent a summer being—superordinary. Of course, they’d all known before summer that they were different. He’d known he was a werewolf since his transition at twelve. Dash was aware he was a mage and studying with Lysandra Mason. Presumably, Khadija and Fatima had realized they were Dusans since birth, and BeBop knew he was a genius. Even Carla, the most human of the group, pretty much knew she didn’t fit in the everyday world. She was too bold, outspoken, and gutsy. But then they’d come together to solve a problem—a life-or-death problem. And they’d gotten a glimpse of what they could be if they surrendered to their own superordinary skills and put them to work together. It had been scary and challenging as hell, but man, it had been special and thrilling. They knew they’d made a difference.

  When Dash left for Arcantaria, Jazz’s heart had nearly cracked, but the normality of hanging with friends and being with family had been like medicine.

  Now, not so much.

  College was… fine. But when he looked into the eyes of his fellow students and tried to care about what ruled their lives, he couldn’t get there. In truth, beyond his own family, he couldn’t relate to the concerns of the werewolf packs either. He wanted to scream, “Don’t you see? Don’t you know what’s happening? Can’t you see the rivers of goodness trying to wipe out the sewers of evil below the surface of your consciousness?”

  And now that evil was scratching at his brain. Danger was rising, lurking, trying to consume. It was after Dash. Dash didn’t know it, but it was coming. Jazz could sense it.

  He closed his eyes. Hang in there, baby. We’re gonna find you. We’re gonna save you.

  THE FOUR mages stood poised, wands focused—

  Nardo snorted softly. Wands. Spare me.

  The fifth mage, what was her name? “Hello, Mickela.” He emphasized the first syllable as in Mouse.

  “It’s Michaela, as you well know, Nardo. And I’ve brought you your food. Please stand back from the power circle.”

  With exaggerated obedience, he stepped to the back wall of his cage so she could walk forward and place his food tray on the table. His meals were always delivered by a trusted mage to assure no one either helped or hurt him in the food. Of course, they knew he didn’t need a chisel in the chicken breast or knife in the macaroni and cheese to escape them. They had special spells leaching his power, but still, just a moment’s lapse of attention—or some outside assistance—he felt his lips turning up and controlled himself. It wouldn’t do to let them think he had a secret.

  Still, his gaze surveyed the circle of mages. There was the old man, Horace; powerful, though no longer quick. Rachelda, the witch of Malta, combined a healthy dose of vindictiveness with her force and her husband Mahout backed her up. Finally, he regarded Odan, the youngest. Odan was lovely, growing in power, and very, very ambitious.

  This time he couldn’t help it—he did smile.

  Chapter Three

  BEBOP BOUNDED up the stairs toward their sixth-floor walkup, inhaling the scents of cabbage, frying onions, cigarette smoke, and the pervasive odor of damp gym socks that seemed to go with all old New York City buildings. He wasn’t complaining. The oldness, smell, and challenging climb to get to the place had helped him, Khadija, and Fatima secure a two-bedroom apartment with enough space for sleeping and for all of them to study and do their “research.” In his case, the work involved math, physics, and an occasional foray into the supernatural practices of hidden communities that he did for his uncle. In the cases of Khadija and Fatima, who knew? Funny how he loved them so much, trusted them so completely, and knew so little about them.

  As he passed the third floor, the apartment door closest to the staircase opened, and Mr. Said peered out. His dark eyes widened. He always looked a little startled when he saw BeBop. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bopherson.”

  “Hey, Mr. Said. How’s it going?”

  “Well. And how are the ladies?” He smiled. Yes, Mr. Said, the building manager, had a curiosity verging on obsession with why he was renting a very hard-to-lease apartment to a fifteen-year-old guy who wore suits, taught math at NYU, and appeared to be the protector of two beautiful, mysterious teenage females who wore headscarves, were seldom seen, but always had enough money to pay the rent.

  “They’re great, thanks. By the way, we’re probably going to have some guests staying with us this weekend.”

  Mr. Said frowned slightly. He’d emphasized when they rented that he didn’t want any “student flophouses” in his building.

  Get out the trowel for laying it on thick, baby. BeBop leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re kind of VIPs from Connecticut. We’re talking the youngest son of a really wealthy family, plus the Connecticut governor’s daughter. They’re taking a break from Yale and Harvard this weekend. I thought it’d be okay with you, but I can tell them no—”

  Mr. Said held up his hand. “No, no, of course not. These sound like the kind of people who will be appropriate to our establishment.”

  BeBop nodded seriously. Right in line with the wet socks. “Thanks, Mr. S. They’ll be so happy.”

  Said held up a finger. “But this is important. Please maintain a very high level of behavior. We have a new resident moving in on your floor, and I do not want to discourage him through the presence of unruly young people.”

  BeBop frowned, but his brain was going a mile a second. Absently he said, “We’re never unruly, Mr. Said. You know that.”

  “Ah yes, but there has been no one in close contact with you. Now there is.”

  “Uh, who are the new neighbors?”

  “A Mr. Odan.”

  “Man, he must be a mountain goat. Has he tried out the walkup?”

  “Yes, he says it is good for his fitness.” Mr. Said smiled. “He is young and strong and, I must say, very handsome. However, he says he will b
e traveling on business a great deal, so he won’t always be here. He felt the sixth-floor apartment offered more security when he is gone.”

  “Right. No burglar’d be dumb enough to climb all those flights.”

  Mr. Said gave BeBop a narrow-eyed look. Oops, never throw shade at Mr. Said’s building.

  “Well, thanks for telling me, Mr. S.” BeBop gave an exploding fist, turned, and ran up the next three flights of stairs. By the time he got to the top, it was pretty obvious that his was still the only occupied apartment on the floor. Two other doors stood closed and dusty looking, with a flyer lying on the ground unclaimed. That solitude had suited the three of them just fine. Especially Khadija and Fatima, who chose to live away from their clandestine community but had to assure the secrecy of said community in doing so. Dusans gave a whole new dimension to the term secret. Of course, that kind of described all of BeBop’s friends. They weren’t going to be happy about a new neighbor. What kind of name is Odan?

  BeBop pushed open the apartment door, stuck his head in, and smiled. “Good evening, my lovelies.” He walked inside and dumped his briefcase under the table beside the door.

  Across the big-for-New-York room, separated from him by a small island, stood Fatima, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a pale blue head wrap, stirring something on the stove that smelled divine. Of the three of them, Fatima was the best cook—and the only one who actually enjoyed it. On his nights to do food, BeBop usually opted for carryout pizza.

  A green scarf framing her pretty but serious face, Khadija sat at her desk as usual, gazing intently at whatever research or communication was occupying her concern at that moment. Every now and then, BeBop’s hacker curiosity tempted him to find out what exactly she was searching for so intently. Of course he’d never break their trust—and he didn’t want to be turned to stone, which was the fate of those who crossed the Dusans.

  Khadija glanced up. “Hello, BeBop.” Her eyes followed when he headed for the couch rather than going straight to his room to change out of his suit. She knew his habits as well as her own. “What?”