Monstrous

After escaping a deadly warlock, Iona seeks refuge in the elite Coterie of Mages—a brutal magical university housed in the eerie Obelisk. But her hopes for safety quickly vanish as she faces cutthroat peers, indifferent professors, and sinister whispers in the dark. With fatal “pranks” escalating and old threats resurfacing, Iona must rely on an uneasy alliance with two fellow students to survive. As the warlock Fenris returns—now bonded to something far worse—the trio is pulled into a deadly game of betrayal, arcane politics, and ancient horrors.

Chapter One



Iona braced for thunder as she ran recklessly towards the silver Greyhound bus, praying that it wouldn't leave before she arrived. The sky crackled as the onslaught of unforgiving winds shook the nearby elms, throwing wet leaves in her face.

She shoved the large envelope under her shirt while rain pelted her like a thousand tiny arrows from the sky. The roar of the diesel engine and crunch of gravel provided fuel for the final sprint. Iona screamed into the storm, willing the driver to hear her. The bus accelerated away, widening the gulf between the life she had and the one she wanted.

Iona skidded to a stop, out of breath and coated with rain and disappointment.

The spell would have to be quick. The gestures felt stiff after clutching the documents for over three miles. Never mind the blisters on her feet from the ill-fitting work boots, or the burning in her thighs. Or the fear. Unrepentant fear drove her forward: thoughtless and never looking back. Never. That would be the death of her.

She made the gestures as she'd observed but rarely practiced except in darkness. She felt the icy chill at the base of her skull where faez—the raw stuff of magic—originated. Crimson sparks flew from her fingertips like cheap fireworks. The display was feeble in the face of the symphony above as bruise-black clouds were briefly illuminated by pounding flashes.

The bus continued to accelerate.

Iona felt that doorway closing before she could reach it. Her chance lost to fate and the cruelty of others' addictions and ambitions. Then. Miraculously. The wet glare of red lights exploded on the back end of the silver bus. Brake lights. Iona made the last sprint, slipping past the soaked Missouri elms that grabbed at her shirt, trying to keep her from escaping, as she reached the open accordion doors.

"Iona?"

The bus driver looked like a wizened raisin behind the massive wheel.

She nodded.

Too tired to speak, Iona fished the crumpled ticket out of her pocket. The waterlogged paper looked barely passable. The driver stared at it suspiciously.

"No bags?"

Iona shook her head, which slapped dripping blonde hair against her neck. The driver shrugged and nodded into the back, where tired riders had briefly stirred to see the reason for their delay. Nothing more than a soaking wet girl left them returning to their gopher holes.

She took a spot halfway to the back and out of direct line of the AC unit, shivering already. An old woman with a knitting bag sat directly across. Iona rubbed her ankles as if that would end the ache of blisters that had formed during her long run.

"Do you need a towel?" asked the old woman, reaching into a carpetbag.

"I'm fine."

The small towel was tossed into her lap. It looked like it'd been cut from a larger version and smelled like cheap perfume. Iona smiled at the woman's frugality.

"You'll catch the death of cold if you don't dry off."

"Thanks," said Iona.

She quickly wiped the rain from her arms and face, then tried to dry her hair, but the small piece of terry cloth was already soaked, so she draped it over the back of the seat next to her.

Iona settled into the spot, rubbing her arms for warmth. Once she had stopped shivering she checked the envelope, thanking her paper-thin luck that the university administrators had chosen a sturdy envelope in which to send her scholarship documents. Wrinkly fingers touched her arm, making Iona jump.

"Is that blood?"

Iona recoiled.

"Paint. I was painting."

She wiped away the fresh scab near her wrist and hid her hands so the woman wouldn't see the recent scars from when she'd failed to prepare the ritual correctly, though it hadn't been her fault that Fenris had purchased cheap silvered salt.

The old woman frowned.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked the old woman.

The repeated question brought roiling thoughts as if the seas were preparing to boil. She resisted the urge to look backwards. The faster they got to Invictus, the City of Sorcery, the better.

Iona sensed the old woman wouldn't take a simple answer, so she wiped the wet hair from her face and offered a reassuring smile.

"I had to run the last three miles to get here. I thought I was late and going to miss the bus. It's my only chance."

"Only chance?"

Iona glanced to the front, suddenly worried that she'd gotten on the wrong bus.

"We're going to Invictus, right?"

"Why yes."

"Oh, good. I was worried."

The old woman pulled her arms close to her stomach. She looked like she was having a moment of indigestion.

"Are you a Hall student?"

Iona searched the woman's face for clues to her state of mind. Outside of the major cities, distrust of magic ran fierce. Or at least that's what she'd been told. She had no experience of her own to confirm. Maybe those had been lies, expressly given to make it harder for her to escape.

"I'm going to the Trials of Magic. I won a scholarship. I want to be a mage."

Iona had never spoken her desires out loud. Until today, she'd kept her thoughts as hidden as possible, not even daring to think about escaping for fear that she'd be found out. The relief of hearing her own voice speaking what she'd so long desired made the knot in her chest uncoil.

The woman's overly plucked eyebrows rose, making her look like she'd let a grandchild draw lines on her forehead.

"That place is a death trap for children."

"I know," said Iona, nodding tightly.

"Aren't you afraid of what magic will do to you?" The old woman leaned forward conspiratorially. "Some mages go mad with power, or just plain mad."

"I won't go mad."

"Of course you won't, sweetie. You look like a fine young woman," she said, patting her leg.

Iona wasn't sure how the old woman could come to that conclusion. She was wearing cutoff jeans with frayed edges, mud-stained work boots, and a long-sleeve shirt with a bucking bronco on the front that was the logo for the big, fancy truck stop off Hwy-72 that Fenris had taken her to twice for good behavior.

A gentleman behind them with a hat over his face shushed them and pointed to his watch. The old woman lifted both shoulders and leaned back into her seat, freeing Iona from further interaction.

Sliding to the window seat, Iona stared out the rain-streaked window as blurry lights occasionally passed. The big oaks and elms looked the same as home, yet she could feel the difference in her chest. Or maybe she just wanted it to be that way. Was she crazy for doing this? She imagined that Fenris had figured out she was missing and had rampaged through the old house with malice on the mind.

The memories of his anger brought a quiver to her lip, but she fought to control it, punching her leg until she was no longer shaking.

She rubbed her wrists. It was strange not to have the bracelets anymore.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine."

Iona dug into her front pocket, producing the only other things of value she'd dared to take. The stolen seed was as big as a walnut and bound with charms. She rolled the nut around in her palm, feeling the way the contained magic trembled to get out.

Then she checked the hard oblong object the size of her thumb. A petrified butterfly chrysalis. Unlike the seed, it contained no magic. It was exactly what it looked like: a rock formed from the body of a long dead pupa who'd never made the transition to butterfly. Iona rubbed her thumb along the bumpy edges before she shoved both items back in her front pocket.

Last, she checked the tattoos on the inside of her forearms to make sure they weren't awake. The words were written in a long-dead language. There were other tattoos as well, but she only needed to check these to confirm that he hadn't figured out where she'd gone yet. Iona wondered if he'd ever learned that she could tell when he was in the house by the tattoos.

Probably not, or he might not have taken such a long trip.

Iona leaned her forehead against the cool window and let the relief flood in. She'd gotten away. He didn't know where she was yet. But he would soon.



Don't attract attention.

Stick to the lesser tome.

Never use the tattoos.



These were rules she'd devised for herself. To keep her safe. Hidden. If she stuck to them in the City of Sorcery, maybe she'd be able to learn enough to defend herself. With the panic of the last few hours starting to recede, Iona settled against the wall.

The old woman turned suddenly and made a show of focusing on her knitting, but Iona knew when someone had been watching. Not that it mattered. She was safe and on a bus heading east, away from Fenris and towards the City of Sorcery. A little old woman with her knitting couldn't hurt her.



#



Iona couldn't figure out why she was awake. The bus was no longer moving and it was still dark. A different kind of dark. The kind that lived in cities. A nimbus of light was on the wrong side of the bus. Premorning. A time of renewal and rebirth. That's what she hoped for anyway.

She made her way off the empty bus to find the rest of the passengers huddled in a knot while the driver and two others had their heads in the engine compartment. The old woman unexpectedly gave her a nasty look as Iona stretched her neck and turned around. The sight made her stumble because she hadn't been expecting it.

The Spire.

The enormous skyscraper touched the clouds. The impossibly lofty tower, twice as tall and nearly three times wider than the next largest, had caught the morning sun and was lit up like a candle at the very tip. Biggest damn candle in all the realms. The seat of the Hundred Halls, the only magical university in the entire world.

Iona inhaled, expecting woody oaks and petrichor, but it looked like the rain had been left far behind in the night. Instead, she caught the scent of discarded oil and old trash.

The surrounding area was dilapidated buildings and crumbling factories covered in graffiti and orangish-red rust. Iona guessed by the position of the sun and their location in relation to the Spire that they were either slightly west of the city, or right on the edge of the twelfth ward.

Iona smacked her lips, wishing she had something to drink. She had to use the bathroom too, but it didn't look like there was anything nearby.

She approached the old woman. The other bus riders scowled at her approach, which confused Iona since she'd been asleep for nearly the entire ride.

"What time is it?" she asked.

The old woman clutched the ugly carpet bag with knitting needles sticking out the top to her chest.

"Why does it matter?"

"I have to get to the Spire by 9 am."

The old woman leaned forward, her grandmotherly expression twisted with anger until she looked like one of Fenris's drawings.

"You did this. You ruined our trip with your sorcery."

"What? Why would I do that? I need to get to the city the same as you all."

"I saw those hex focusers in your pocket, and the tattoos. You're not on the way to the Trials, you're a beast who tricked their way onto the bus to ruin us."

She made warding signs and spat on the ground.

"I didn't do anything," said Iona, anger rising in her gut until she imagined wrapping her hands around the woman's neck.

She unconsciously took a step forward but a taller man in a trucker hat stepped in her way.

"You're not welcome here. Even if they get the bus fixed, we ain't letting you on. You get that?"

A knot formed in her throat. She couldn't believe this was happening.

"I don't understand."

The first rock came from the back of the group. It hit her right in the shoulder bone, which sent a sharp pain through her chest.

"Ow, that hurt!"

Before she could think to defend herself, more rocks came. Blinding rage filled her vision until she wanted to burn them to ashes, but she couldn't allow that to happen, so she did the only thing she could think to do.

She ran.

Iona raced down the roadside in her muddy work boots. The blisters she'd gotten from her late-night run exploded, the tortured flesh ripping free and exposing the wounds beneath, turning into little hot spots of pain. But stopping wasn’t an option. The rocks would hurt if they struck her, but that wasn’t her real fear. If she didn’t reach the Spire by nine, the Trials of Magic would begin without her.