A tingling begins in my fingertip as Morgan mumbles some words. Again, I feel the sudden snap of cold in the air around me as my nails turn metallic purple one at a time. Morgan releases my hand, his gaze on the paint-job. It only takes a few seconds for the color to start fading.
“Huh.” His mouth twists as if he’s pondering a particularly complex math problem. “So, you’re like immune to spells?”
“Not immune exactly, maybe more like I have a high tolerance for it? Like spells just don’t stick and affect me a lot less than they should. I guess you could say I’m resistant to magic.”
He regards me from across the table with narrowed eyes. “That’s a kind of magic power in itself, you know.”
“What, having antimagic? That’s not an ability.”
“It could be useful.”
“I’d rather have regular magic, like you,” I say.
Morgan leans back in his chair as if my words have physically shoved him away. I’m about to ask him why, but he cuts me off.
“So, I was thinking,” he says. “If Natalie is truly missing, you have any idea who’d want to hurt her? I’m guessing you’re not the only one getting it from her friends?”
“Her friends are jerks, but not Nat. She’s loved by everyone.” Oh gods, my cheeks are burning. “I mean, she’s really popular and besides, she’s descended from fire giants. I don’t think anyone could hurt her even if they tried.”
“There’s always a way. Even the most powerful mages have vulnerabilities.” His words send ants scurrying beneath my skin.
There’s one kind of magic that can hurt anyone. It doesn’t matter if chaos magic has been outlawed for centuries—and for good reason—someone must be using it, or how else were the battle mages on Svalbard defeated?
“I’m guessing Natalie isn’t the type to run away or get herself in trouble either?” Morgan asks.
Before I can answer, the sound of a breaking window splinters the drone of lunchtime conversation.
“Look out!” a teacher shouts as glass showers into the courtyard right in front of the cafeteria.
My crows squawk, taking to the air in a frenzy of feathers.
A ball of white light hurtles across the yard. It tears after a group of kids, who scream and cry as they run for cover. Morgan and I push up close to the window to watch. We’ve got front-row seats as everyone in the cafeteria gathers at the glass.
Tiny arms extend from the ball of light, tinier hands grabbing at beanies and ponytails as the light-ball zips back and forth, slow-morphing into a toad with wings and a long spiky tail. This is nothing like a liekkiö.