4

There are three things I’ve learned by communicating with plants.

One, they enjoy hearing – and spreading – good gossip like most women on this planet.

Two, do not take their warnings lightly.

And three, they are never wrong about the weather.

That sixty percent chance of rain is now at a hundred, drenching the world and flooding the streets. By the time I closed up shop, there was not a soul in sight, and the only forms of life were those cruising through the rivered street with their cars.

Seeing as there aren’t any witnesses around, I pull up my sleeve to reveal one of many markings on my body. This particular one is but the size of my thumbnail and located on the side of my wrist for easy access, resembling a little umbrella.

Brushing my thumb across it, the marking emits a soft, lilac glow. It lasts only a second before fading, but its effect lingers on my body.

I step into the downpour and feel the rain hit my skin…only to slide off like it would off an umbrella, leaving me perfectly dry. Adjusting my grip on my drawstring bag, I cross the street to head home.

However, I can’t stop thinking about Eisley claiming that the blight came from wild magic. All magic comes with a price, wild magic the greatest of all. Seeing as it derives directly from nature, there is a certain balance that must be maintained. So, if there is a Magian out there who practises wild magic and is using it to create a blight, I’d rather not fathom the consequences they’ll face.

Finally, The Oddity comes into view through the rainy haze that is my neighbourhood. Rushing for the door, I head inside and brush my thumb over the umbrella mark on my wrist, thus dropping the waterproofing charm. Wasting no time, I take the stairs to my apartment and stop at Zari’s door.

“Knock, knock?” I call, holding my breath to listen for a reply. “Zari?”

When no answer follows, I turn the handle and open the door.

I stop dead in the doorway, my breath hitching at the sight before me. Zari lies motionlessly on her bed, covered with blankets up to her chin. Even then do I notice how pale she is, and how every inch of her face is covered with sweat.

Snapping myself to reality, I cross the room to place my hand against her forehead. Her skin is scorching. If she was a human, the fever would’ve surely taken her.

“Oh, no, Z…” I stress and start rummaging through the potions on her bedside table. “Did you take any of these today? Did you eat at all?”

But I should’ve known she’d be unresponsive, which leaves me to figure this out on my own.

Recalling my lessons with Gran, I turn Zari’s head from side to side, searching for any odd rashes or skin pigmentation. Next, I gently peel her one eye open, checking if her pupil responds to the light. When that doesn’t offer results, I open her mouth to check for any frothing or abnormal salivating. Nothing.

Except for the fever, Zari is a perfectly healthy werewolf.

However, an instinct tells me to check her back. Holding her up, I waste no time to roll up Zari’s tank top…and pause abruptly. Zari’s back is a spiderweb of black veins that pulse as though they’re alive. If I looked quickly, it almost looks as though a parasite has latched itself into her skin.

My mind races a thousand miles an hour. A magical blight that targets the supernatural…starting as a fever…takes over after three days…turning the victims violent…or killing them…

But Eisley didn’t say anything about black veins and coma-like states. Then again, the Acolytes who fell ill at the Academy are still being examined, and I doubt the healers there would share any of this information with the students.

If Eisley’s warning was any indication, there isn’t a cure for it yet, and even less telling how long it will take to find one. And when it comes to the Academy, I’d rather not entrust the healers with the life of my best friend.

Magians can be terribly prejudiced when it comes to other supernatural beings. If they do manage to find a cure, they’d rather distribute it among themselves rather than think of those outside the Academy.

No, Zari’s life is better off in my hands.

I’m on my way to promise Mrs. Angela that I won’t rest until I’ve cured her daughter, when a deafening wail shakes the very walls of The Oddity, causing the windows to rattle. The pictures on the walls reverberate, the glass in the frames shattering at the frequency of the sound. Zari’s books and trophies drop off her bookshelf and clatter to the floor, hitting the wood with shattering thuds.

I realize the scream is coming from outside in the hallway. Tapping one of the studs in my ear, I soundproof myself and leave the room to put an end to the wailing.

But the moment I open the door, I feel my heart sink lower than my stomach. Right outside the apartment, stands Haylie, the banshee who lives on the second floor, with tears streaming down her face, smudging her mascara.

And if she’s wailing outside the apartment, that can only mean one thing.

“She doesn’t have much time,” she whimpers, desperately reaching for my hands. Her grip is deadly cold, and I’m filled with the terror that rushes through her veins. “Come morning, Zari Kaluuya will be dead.”