Rosemary Johns - Rebel Academy - Crave

“Help, the birds are after me,” he laughed. “My prey has turned against me. I blame global warming.”

The robins twirled and dived, enjoying the game as much as he was. Lysander rolled his eyes, but Bask giggled, shifting closer to Lysander who sprawled back on his elbows.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of the artificial flowers. I remembered when there’d been no laughter in the Bird Turret, apart from Byron’s and my own. Yet this room had been filled with other beautiful things: a brightly painted rocking horse, china dolls, and samplers embroidered with the RAcrest. Witching heavens, I’d hated embroidering those.

I’d adored sitting on the window seat amongst my ranks of dolls, however, pretending to read Jane Eyre , as I’d sneaked glances at the Rebels below. Well, sneaked glances at one Rebel in particular: a young mage with a tumble of burnished red hair and intense emerald eyes. After all, I’d never seen a mage before (and they were meant to be as wicked as I was Blessed).

It’d made me shiver.

What did he do that was so naughty?

Byron had told me that not eating my broccoli was naughty. Perhaps, the mage had refused to eat up his greens…? I’d frowned at the bruise that’d swelled his eye and cheek. Bryon had often tried to hide bruising just like that. When Bryon would mutter that he’d been bad and had deserved it, I’d never believed it. Father had been the kindest…most fun…and least wicked person that I’d known. Of course, I’d barely known anyone, but compared to mother who’d punished Byron simply because she’d been displeased with my work, he’d been my hero.

I’d studied the mage in the courtyard, who’d cradled his purpled cheek. He’d been dressed as a whipping boy and hung back from the other Rebels, who’d ignored him.

Was he also my hero, rather than wicked?

I’d thrown aside my book, crawling closer to the glass and pressing my hand against it.

All of a sudden, in a spray of golden glitter, the mage transformed into a red squirrel. I gasped, clapping my hands in delight.

Why had nobody told me that mages were also shifters?

Bubbling cauldrons, he was cute.

My fingers had clenched to snuggle him and pet his fluffy tail. He’d chattered, dancing around the hollering Rebels, who’d recoiled from him like he was a tiger, rather than snatched him up and cuddled him like he was begging for.

When Henrietta prowled from the shadows with dangerous intent, my eyes had widened. I’d known that look and it’d always ended in tears… Byron’s .

Henrietta had clutched the squirrel by the base of the tail, swinging him into the air. The mage had let out a high-pitching whining sound like he was crying in distress and pain. His little paws had scrabbled desperately.

My eyes had smarted with tears, as I’d raised my fist to bang on the window for the first time ever.

Let him go, let him go, let him…

The magical robins had fluttered around the roof, yeeping in alarm. Then I’d felt a warm hand on my shoulder and had realized that I hadn’t been alone.

My hero had arrived. Unfortunately, Byron had also witnessed my tantrum.

I’d primly settled back onto the window seat, opening the book at a random page… upside down .

Did I have time to cast a Reading Upside Down Spell?

Bryon had snorted. “Good try, Magenta.” He’d plucked the book from my hand and tossed it onto the floor. His green suit had been open at the neck to reveal his peacock amulet, which he’d stroked. I could tell that had meant he was plotting something. His mouth had been tight, as he’d stared out of the window. “The boy down there is an orphan mage called Robin.” His elegant fingers had brushed the amulet again. “You’re lonely up here, aren’t you?”

I’d warily nodded.

“What if that boy was allowed into the Bird Turret to play with you?” Bryon had straightened, clicking his smart heels together as if on parade.

My magic had burst from me, sparking like pink fire.

The excitement of the forbidden, mixed in with the chance to cuddle a squirrel (and rescue a Rebel from Henrietta), had me bouncing up and down on my seat.

The lack of decorum in becoming a bouncing witch would’ve horrified mother. I’d bounced even harder.

Bryon had raised his finger in warning. “I hate to ask it of you, but we must keep this a secret from mama, or I shall suffer.”

Well, that was how to stop a witch bouncing.

My grin had slipped but it hadn’t faded. “Papa, I can keep a secret. I want the mage.”

Byron’s icy eyes had flashed, as he’d snatched up my most loved doll and waved it in front of me. “Pan’s balls, Robin is not a toy. I don’t suggest bringing him here, so that you can practice witch cruelty or coo over him like he’s no more than this doll.” My lip trembled. Byron had never spoken to me with such harshness before. What had I done? Bryon’s expression softened, as he dropped the doll and pulled me into a hug, stroking my hair. “Calm, Magenta,” he’d murmured. I’d sighed, safe in his arms. “ Hush , now, there’s no need for tears. But believe me, in here Robin shall be your equal . You’ll share with him, and he’ll choose what you play. I know that’s hard to understand with what mama preaches, but let me show you a different way.”

I’d nodded, nestling closer to his warmth. He’d pushed me back so that his gaze could meet mine.

“If you mistreat him, then you lose this chance,” his voice had been steely. I’d quivered, tightening my arms around his waist because it’d felt like if I lost Robin, then I’d lose Byron as well. “Do you understand?”

“Robin will be my friend,” I’d whispered. “I’ll love him.”

And I had. I’d loved him to death.

Now, watching Fox as he finally threw himself next to me, underneath the flock of painted robins, I bit back a sob because if I didn’t win the contest today, then I’d have loved this mage to death as well.

One mistake is forgivable, but two deserves the Revenge Hex: 88 in the Principal’s Motto Book.

I’d hex myself if I let Fox down today.

When Lysander’s haughty gaze met mine across the circle, and he pointed the tip of his wing at me like a golden sword, I rather thought that the fae intended to hex me himself. After what Sleipnir had shown me about the Membership, I now understood that the Rebel Cup meant as much to the princes in their own way as it did to me. Yet whatever they thought that they were proving through winning, it could never be worth Fox’s life.

If I had to witch slap a few princes to prove that point, then so be it.

I inclined my head to Lysander (because manners cost nothing), and Lysander gaped at me. With a snarl, Lysander wrapped his wing around Willoughby instead, manhandling him to sit straighter in the way that I hated. Willoughby’s gaze appeared hazy again like he was lost somewhere inside his own mind again.

Were all elves so inscrutable or only their beautiful princes?

At the sudden flutter of feathers, I turned to the window. When Ezekiel flew through with outstretched violet wings like the righteous angels that I’d dreamed about as a child (although none of them had such rippling muscles that warmth coiled through me, along with the desire to lick along his bronzed chest), Tchaikovsky’s “1812: Overture” burst out in all its martial glory.

Mage’s balls on a stick, were even angels musical in this day and age?

I jumped, and my magic exploded from me like twinkling fireworks. They lit the shadowy room, as the rousing music swelled with bells and cannon blasts.