Shadowspell Academy: The Culling Trials, Book 3 by Breene K.F. & Mayer Shannon

Author:Breene, K.F. & Mayer, Shannon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hijinks Ink Publishing
Published: 2019-06-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I wondered if I’d have a stress fracture in my jaw from clenching my teeth so hard. Something was seriously wrong with Ethan. He seemed...defeated, somehow. Like the wind had been stolen from his sails. His pompous arrogance was gone, replaced with hollow indifference. Whatever had him spooked, he didn’t plan to fight back. And that dug into me almost more than the missing memories. It wasn’t like him.

“What happened?” I asked softly, needing more info so I could fight back for him. I wasn’t the type to say die, even when I was obviously being thrown into the deep end with weights around my ankles. “And why would Colt get taken while we ended up in the infirmary with knives sticking out of us? Shade knives, did you say?”

The beautiful woman strode along the top of the gates, just as she’d done with the first three trials. I wondered if her failure to appear the other day had anything to do with how badly our trip through the House of Night had gone. She waved a hand forward as she stood to the side of the gates. “Good luck to you all. Have fun.”

Fun.

We walked through the gates, Ethan leading the way, and a shiver cascaded over me as a magical wall slid behind us, closing us off from turning around and running for the exit. The timing was not surprising. A roar boomed through the air as soon as the wall descended, the sound vibrating through my body. I remembered it from that first day, when Wally had spouted off T-rex statistics, and everyone around us shifted and practically danced in fearful anticipation.

Thoughts of the day before fled. I was sure blood left my face in a rapid flood, if the numbing of my lips was any indication.

“Is there a reason the only magical worker among us waited to do this trial last?” My boot crunched against the brittle grass one moment and thudded against the rustic wooden floor of a saloon the next. Wooden walls had sprung up around us. An old-timey piano played in the corner, the keys pressing down and lifting again in a creepy mime without fingers to propel them. A long bar sat in front of us with a bartender behind it, one hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of whiskey, and the other resting behind five shot glasses.

The man grinned from under his long gray mustache that curled up at the corners in twin perfect swoops. His leather vest hung flat on his stomach and his long, pointed wizard hat indicated he wasn’t great at putting together a costume.

“Welcome,” the man said, his voice gruff, like I’d expect, but with a lilting sort of accent that spoke of posh England, which I wouldn’t expect. “Pick your poison, my young friends.”

“Should be pick yer poison, if you’re going for the Old West vibe,” I glanced around at the establishment we’d found ourselves in. Card tables filled the space, each partially occupied.

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