Hex Hall (Hex Hall #1)

Hex Hall (Hex Hall #1) Page 9

My heart was still pounding, but my stomach was no longer threatening mutiny. Next to me, Archer had resumed slouching, so I guess he was feeling better too.

Mrs. Casnoff waved her hand again, and like before, images sprang up behind her, only this time they were still pictures instead of movies from hell. "There's a group that calls themselves the Alliance," she said, sounding almost bored as she gestured to a group of bland-looking men and women in suits. I thought her tone was awfully dismissive for a lady who worked for a council called "the Council," but I had to agree that "the Alliance" was pretty lame.

"The Alliance is made up of agents from several different government agencies from several different governments. Luckily, they stay so bogged down with paperwork that they're rarely an actual threat."

That picture faded as a trio of women with the brightest red hair I'd ever seen appeared. "And, of course, the Brannicks, an ancient family from Ireland who have been fighting 'monsters,' as they call us, since the time of Saint Patrick. These are the current keepers of the flame, Aislinn Brannick, and her two daughters, Finley and Isolde. They tend to be a little more dangerous, as their ancestor was Maeve Brannick, an incredibly powerful white witch who renounced her race to join with the church. They're therefore imbued with more power than your regular human."

She waved her hand again, and the women disappeared.

"And then there is our most forceful enemy," Mrs. Casnoff continued.

As she spoke, a black image formed over her head. It took me a minute to figure out that it was an eye. But not an actual eye--more like a really stylized tattoo sketched all in black, except for the iris, which was deep gold.

" ll'Occhio di Dio. The Eye of God," she said. I heard the room draw in a collective breath.

"What's that?" I whispered to Archer.

He turned. That sarcastic smile was hovering around his lips again, so I figured our earlier camaraderie was pretty much over. He confirmed it, saying, "You can't do a blocking spell, and you've never heard of ll'Occhio?

Man, what kind of witch are you?"

I had an incredibly nasty retort ready that involved his mother and the U.S. Navy, but before I could get it out, Mrs. Casnoff said, "ll'Occhio di Dio is the greatest threat to any Prodigium. They are a group based in Rome, and their express purpose is wiping our kind off the face of the earth. They see themselves as holy knights, while we are the evil that must be purged. Last year this group alone was responsible for the deaths of more than one thousand Prodigium."

I stared up at The Eye and felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Now I remembered why it looked so familiar. I'd seen it once in one of Mom's books. I'd been about thirteen, just idly flipping through the pages, admiring the glossy pictures of famous witches. And then I'd turned to a painting of a witch's execution in Scotland, maybe around 1600 or so. The picture was so gruesome that I hadn't been able to stop staring at it. I could still see the witch lying on her back, strapped to a wooden plank. Her blond hair streamed to the ground, a look of sheer terror on her face. Standing over her was a dark-haired man holding a silver knife. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and just above his heart was a tattoo--a black eye with a golden iris.

"In the past we've more than held our own against these three groups, but that's when they were separate and at odds. Now we've received word that they may be forging a sort of peace. If this happens . . ." She sighed.

"Well, let's just say we can't let that happen."

The Eye faded, and Mrs. Casnoff clapped her hands together. "Now.

Enough of that. You all have a very big morning tomorrow, so you are dismissed. Lights out in half an hour."

She sounded so bright and businesslike that I wondered if I had hallucinated the part where she basically told us we were all going to die.

But one look around the room and I knew that my classmates were just as shell-shocked and confused as I was.

"Well," Archer said, slapping his hands on his thighs. "That was new."

Before I could ask what he meant, he was out of his seat and disappearing among the crowd of students.

CHAPTER 8

Thanks to his long-legged stride, I nearly had to jog to catch up with Archer.

By the time I reached him, he was halfway up the stairs.

"Cross!" I called. I just couldn't bring myself to say "Archer" out loud.

I'd have felt like I was in an episode of Masterpiece Theatre: "Archer! Let us fetch a spot of tea, old boy!"

He paused on the stairs and turned to face me. Shockingly, he wasn't smirking.

"Mercer," he replied, making me roll my eyes.

"Look, what did you mean by 'that was new'? I thought you'd seen all that before."

He came down a couple of steps. "I have," he answered when he was only two steps above me. "Three years ago, when I was fourteen. My first year here. But it was different then."

"Different how?"

He shrugged out of his blazer, rolling his shoulders as if the jacket had been heavy. "They still did the Charles Walton thing; that seems to be a favorite. And there was a werewolf getting shot, and maybe one or two faeries on fire. But there weren't as many images. And they weren't all at once like that."

He looked down at me like he was sizing me up. "No hanged witches and warlocks either. I have to say, I'm a little impressed."

I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled. I didn't like the way he was looking at me. "Impressed by what?"

"When I saw that show three years ago, I had to run into that little bathroom over there"--he pointed to a small door across the foyer--"and puke my guts out. What we saw tonight was a lot worse, and you don't even look pale. You're tougher than I thought."

I fought the urge to laugh. My face may have looked calm, but my belly still felt like a mosh pit. Briefly amused by the image of my organs wearing eyeliner and ripped jeans, I gave Archer what I hoped was a look of cool nonchalance. "I just don't believe all that."

He raised an eyebrow, which made me totally jealous. I've never been able to do that. I always just end up raising both of them and looking surprised or scared instead of sardonic.

"Don't believe all what?"

"All that about humans wanting to kill us in lots of nasty ways."

"I think history pretty well supports that hypothesis, Mercer. Hell, humans have wiped out thousands of their own kind trying to get to us."

"Yeah, but that was in the past," I argued. "Back when they also thought drilling a hole in your head, or draining your blood would cure you of a disease. Humans are a lot more enlightened now."

"That a fact?" He was smirking again. I wondered if his face hurt if he took too long a break from it.

"Look," I said. "My mom is human, okay? And she loves Prodigium.

She'd never do a thing to hurt one. She even got a--"

"Her daughter's one."

"What?"

He heaved a sigh and tossed his jacket over one shoulder, holding it with the tip of his index finger. I thought only male models in GQ did that.

"Your mom may be an awesome person, but do you honestly believe she'd feel all warm and fuzzy about witches if she weren't raising one?"

I wanted to answer yes. I really did. But he had a point. Mom may have become a monster expert for my sake, but hadn't she run from my dad the minute he'd told her what he really was?

"You're right," Archer said, his tone softening a little. "Humans aren't what they used to be. But all those images were real, Mercer. Humans are always going to be scared of us. They're always going to be envious of our powers, and suspicious of our motives."

"Not all of them," I said, but my voice sounded weak, and I was thinking of Felicia, hysterical and screaming, "It was her! She's a witch!"

Archer shrugged again. "Maybe not. But you've been living with one foot in each world, and you can't do that anymore. You're at Hecate now."

His words hit hard. It had never occurred to me that I was different, that most Prodigium grew up in households with two parents just like them.

And some of the kids here had had hardly any interactions with humans once they'd come into their powers. Despite the doubt that was crawling over my skin like bugs, I said, "Yeah, but--"

"Arch!"

Elodie was standing on the landing above us, one hand on her basically nonexistent hip. Normally when this kind of thing happens in movies, the girlfriend is glaring down at the other girl with bright green jealousy, but since Elodie was a goddess, and I was, well, not, she didn't look even the littlest bit threatened. More bored, actually.

"Be right there, El," Archer called up to her. She executed that combination eye-roll/hair-flip/hand-wave thing that only beautiful girls irritated with their boyfriends can pull off, and walked up to the third floor. I think she put a little too much swing in her hips as she went, but, hey, matter of opinion.

"'Arch'?" I asked once she was gone, attempting the raised-eyebrow thing. As usual, it didn't work, so I probably just looked startled.

"See ya, Mercer," was all he replied. But as he turned to go, I couldn't help blurting out, "Do you think they might have a reason sometimes?"

He turned back to me. "Who?"

I glanced around, but the hall was empty.

"Those people. The Alliance and those Irish girls. The Eye," I answered. "I mean, what we saw was awful, but aren't there dangerous Prodigium too?"

For a moment we held each other's gaze. At first I thought he was pissed at me, but then I realized the look in his eyes wasn't anger. It was more like he was . . . I don't know . . . studying me or something.

I felt a weird sort of heat travel from my stomach to my cheeks. I don't know if he noticed it, but he smiled at me, a real smile this time, and I actually felt my breath hitch in my chest. It was the same feeling I'd had in the fourth grade when Suzie Strelzyck dared me to touch the bottom of the pool at the YMCA. I'd done it, but kicking back up to the surface, my chest had felt like it was caught in a trash compactor, and I was light-headed by the time I'd broken through the water.

That's how I felt now, staring up into Archer Cross's eyes.

He walked down the two steps between us until he was on the same stair as me. I still had to look up at him, but at least it didn't make my neck hurt. He leaned in close, and I caught that clean soapy smell.

"I wouldn't say that kind of thing around here if I were you, Mercer,"

he whispered. I could feel his breath warm against my cheek, and although I wouldn't swear to it, I think my eyes may have fluttered.

But just a little.

As I watched him lope up the stairs, I gritted my teeth and repeated a mantra in my head:

I will not have a crush on Archer Cross, I will not have a crush on Archer Cross, I will not . . .

When I got back to my room, Jenna was sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading a book.

I heaved a sigh and leaned against the door, pushing it shut with a loud click.

"What's wrong? The Moving Picture Show get to you?" Jenna asked without looking up.

"No. I mean, yeah, of course. That stuff was messed up."

"Mm-hmm," Jenna agreed. "Anything else?"