Wings and Shadowthief by May Sage

In the Mirror

Gwen had felt out of sorts since waking up from that disturbing—and disturbingly hot—dream, and things weren't getting better. Her stomach felt tight, on edge. Her magic was brewing under the surface, as if ready to lash out at an enemy anytime. Only there was no enemy, and no obvious reason for being quite so annoyed. It was a sunny day, rare this time of the year as winter and spring battled for dominion. Generally, in Scotland, winter won, at least until May or June. Not today.

Perhaps her allergies were playing up again. Even though she tried to rationalize her uneasiness, she could tell it was bigger than the pollen’s annual attempt to murder her.

At lunch time, she let her gaze drift to the long table the huntsmen typically shared. They had the same lunch on Thursdays, and unless they were racing around the territory, they usually sat together, though Tris had taken to joining her.

She frowned, taking in each face.

They were obviously in agreement with her: today sucked. All of them seemed thoroughly beaten down, their shoulders slumped, their heads low. The huntsmen were a loud bunch, typically laughing and half-shouting. Today, they ate in silence.

And he wasn’t here.

She hadn’t bumped into him at the dorm, or in Adairford, or anywhere in the Institute all day. Normally, she at least saw him across the courtyard, training his men.

Jack didn’t always eat with the rest of the huntsmen. His duties spanned further than the confines of Oldcrest. he was always on the move, negotiating with a faction, smoothing things over between warring clans, and what not. His absence wasn’t anything to be worried about, per se.

But something was wrong.

Gwen bit her lip, wishing she had her phone on her. She could have headed out of the gates and called Tris to check.

“Looking for someone?” Chloe asked, following Gwen’s gaze to the huntsmen’s table.

Gwen forced her eyes away from the other table with an indifferent shrug. “They look down. I was wondering why.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Blair asked.

The fire witch was Chloe’s mentor at the Institute—a job she took very seriously. She always made sure to eat lunch with them and check daily whether Chloe needed help.

Cat Stormhale and Bash Venari occupied the rest of the table. Until then, they’d been whispering sweet nothings to each other, ignoring the rest of them, but Bash shot Blair a warning glance. “Don’t talk about huntsmen business here, please.”

It was easy to forget that the newborn vampire had been a huntsman mere months ago, before getting bitten by a feral. He’d only survived the change thanks to Chloe’s blood. Now, Bash had entirely embraced his nature. His eyes shone red with magic and lust half the time, but he didn’t seem to mind anymore.

Though she was dying to know what the whole mystery was about, Gwen assured him, “I don’t want to gossip.”

Bash smiled at her. “I don’t mean you can’t hear what’s going on, but there are too many ears in this room.”

She nodded, hiding the fact that she felt, once again, out of the loop. All her friends were aware of something—something big, by the looks of it—and no one had thought to mention it to her until now. Tris would have reached out, but Tris was on another continent, an ocean away.

The unwelcome reminder that she wasn't truly part of the core friendship between the Night Hill inhabitants, or the huntsmen, or anyone else, didn't sting as much as it did on other days. She was too concerned to feel piqued today. What was wrong, and what did it have to do with Jack?

She wasn't worried about him. Jack could take care of himself, and besides, he wasn't anyone to her. He'd be fine. He was fine.

Blair reached out, placing her palm over Gwen's. "Are you okay?"

Gwen lifted her eyes to her friend, surprised to see Blair, always bubbly and smiling, looking so alert. Almost fearful.

"Sure, why?"

No one answered for a moment, though Gwen felt all eyes around the table fixed on her. She wasn't used to being the center of attention, and she didn't like it one bit.

Chloe chuckled, stuffing a hand in her satchel to retrieve a pretty, round, golden object she slid across the table. "Have a look."

Frowning, Gwen took the metal trinket, turning it around in her fingers to observe it. The other side was a smooth spelled mirror, reflecting someone who looked like Gwen, and yet, not at all.

The reflection had silver-white hair and eyes the blue of a stormy sky.

"What kind of spell is that?"

Blair winced. "No spell, lady. You're shifting."

Shifting.

Gwen was as familiar with the term as anyone from Oldcrest. Even regular children knew what a shifter was; a sup capable of altering their appearances. Animal shifters transformed into their inner beasts, the Enlightened and demi-gods of the worlds shifted to don claws or wings, or whatever else those posers felt like having. Even vampires underwent minor shifts, their fangs extending, their eyes changing as they focused the magic in their veins.

Witches’ shifts were minor. The eyes, sometimes. Gwen had heard about some witches gaining claws, too, but generally, those had a drop or two of fae blood in their ancestry.

But this? Gwen couldn't even begin to understand. She brought her hand to her face, to touch it, make sure it was real. Her long fingers shivered on her lips. She hadn't done anything to her nails in ages, yet they seemed painted black.

Tearing her eyes away from the pocket mirror, she stared at her actual hand.

No, her nails weren't painted black. There was no shine, no stroke. They'd turned dark as coal and grown sharp.

"What's happening to me?" The whisper traveled through the silence, but no one had an answer.

After a long moment Gwen could have counted in days or mere seconds, Blair seized her wrist. "Breathe, sweet. Breathe through it." Blair inhaled slowly, and exhaled, demonstrating a slow, calming rhythm.

Gwen did her best to follow each breath.

"You're fine. You're hardly the first sup to go through a change. When's your birthday again?"

Gwen blinked, understanding what the other witch was implying.

Several races bloomed at twenty-five, coming into the bulk of their power the moment they entered the age of majority set by the old gods. But not witches—not those from her clan, in any case. The Saiaras were mortal. Her ancestors had made a point of only breeding with plain, boring men and women they could dismiss to keep their bloodline intact, in fact.

"In the summer," she replied, her jaw tight. "I'm not evolving. I have enough power."

The thought of gaining more magic was downright terrifying to her. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't.

"Calm down, sweet. Just breathe. You'll be fine. We're all here for you."

"Blair—" Cat's voice held a warning, but the witch shot the vampire princess the sharpest look Gwen had ever seen from Blair.

To her surprise, Cat shut up, but she kept her eyes set on Gwen, looking at her in a way Gwen recognized.

Like she was a threat to take down. A potential enemy. Bash's expression mirrored his mate's, though he wasn't just staring at Gwen; his eyes travelled between her and Chloe.

Oh, God. They thought that she might be a threat to their very pregnant friend.

And maybe they were right. If Gwen knew one thing, it was that she had no clue what was going on, and she wasn't in control. Not even a little bit.

A few days ago, she’d felt her magic finally taking shape, and she’d been dumb enough to think it a good thing. A step in the right direction, making her a witch like any of her friends, like anyone in her clan. She must have been an awful person in another life, because it looked like the Fates had other plans for her.

"I have to go." Tray in hand, Gwen rushed away from the table.

She could be wrong, of course, but if she wasn’t…she needed to get away from her very pregnant friend.

“Gwen—” Chloe began, but Cat reached out for her sleeve before the vampire could catch up. Chloe glared at her. “Can’t you see she’s unwell?”

“She’s not unwell.” Catherine Stormhale wasn’t known for possessing an abundance of compassion. “She’s awakening.”