“You’ve still got a few days to think about it.”

“Is your arm okay after the bogling?” I ask.

“Just fine. Nothing but a scratch. Oh—Mr. Fotsios, we need to talk.” Emmi hurries off to join the music teacher.

“Hey,” Aoife says. “This spot taken?”

“All yours.” I brush a pile of twigs out of the way so Aoife can plonk down beside me.

Aoife is in House Tero, not that she’s ever talked to me before now. I glance over at the students in yellow and find Aysha getting cozy with Morgan. He must feel me staring. He looks over and his scowl smooths into an almost grin as he gives me a salute. Somehow, he manages to look punk rock despite the yellow school shirt, wearing it over a black long-sleeve tee with self-cut thumbholes in the cuffs.

“You doing okay?” Aoife asks.

I clear my throat, nervous in front of this older girl who radiates grace and power even while weaving twigs.

“Yeah, just worried about Natalie. Did you find Sorin?”

Aoife knots the string around her bundle and bites off the excess. “Yeah, I did.”

So much for our theory about all the most magical kids going AWOL.

“Was he okay?” And, as if my words are a summoning spell, a long shadow falls over us.

Sorin.

Unlike everyone else in House Aero, he isn’t wearing his yellow house shirt. He doesn’t seem the sort who’d ever wear yellow given his black-and-white attire. He shouldn’t be in House Aero at all. Technically, vampires are shape-shifters and they all belong in House Aithyr along with shamans, ’mancers, and the like, but Myrskyjärvi doesn’t offer those subjects. Too dangerous, apparently, and teetering too close to chaos magic.

It means the six shape-shifters at our school get lumped in with air elementalists and House Aithyr simply doesn’t exist. Aithyr runes are still included in runelore textbooks, but no one really bothers with them since they’re mostly useless, unless you can combine elements like Morgan.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Aoife says, her words so sharp I wonder how they don’t leave her lips bloody. Her hands tighten on the twigs, snapping them in half.

“Can we talk?” Sorin asks.

“Oh, so now you want to talk?”

“Please.” Sorin’s voice is low and resonant, like it’s been biologically programmed with reverb.

I don’t know much about the guy except he’s one of the most gifted shape-shifters in the world thanks to his pure Strigoi blood. All the vampires—even the half-blooded ones—tend to be good-looking, and Sorin is no different, even if he tries to hide it under baggy sweats and messy hair. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black, catching the light as if he’s got tinsel where the rest of us have pupils.

Sorin offers his hand to Aoife. Slowly, she accepts.