Every Shade of Shadow: A Dark Magic Academy Romance, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
COPYRIGHT
VIP SIGN-UP
AUTHOR NOTE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Ravenna Thorne
Published by Ravenna Thorne
Copyright © 2024 by Ravenna Thorne
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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AUTHOR NOTE
Every Shade of Shadow is a dark magic-academy romance and contains mature themes that may trigger some readers. If you are concerned by any of the below, this is not the book for you. Your mental health matters.
Alcohol consumption
Drug use
Cruel devices
Graphic Violence
Blood and gore
Theft
Magical manipulation
Serial killer
Murder
Explicit sex
Frequent swearing
Stalking
Manipulation
Gender swapping
Sex with clones
Issues of consent
Blood play
Self-harm
Trafficking
Mental illness
Anal play
Knife play
Breath play
Bondage
Suicidal thoughts
Dom/sub relationship
Mass casualty event
Death of a parent
DEDICATION
For my Professor.
The brighter the light,
the deeper the shadow.
CHAPTER ONE
Sun blares through my threadbare curtains, or it’s the Second Coming. Could be either. Not that anyone has been coming around here lately. I mean, one measly orgasm—just one. Is it too much to ask, o’ omnipotent one?
Sadly, there are no spells for a sneaky climax. Not that I’d take the easy way out.
In any case, I’m done with sleep, or lack thereof.
I groan, rolling over and clutching my pillow. Last night replays in my mind, a mess of sweaty, fumbly hands. You’d think a guy I picked up at a bar wouldn’t need a map, but alas, he was rather clueless about female anatomy, because no, that is a butthole, and no, I don’t get off having my clit worked like a faulty light switch. I was going to sprout into a beanstalk if he kept at it.
Whatever the case, he gave up and fucked off, which is, sadly, not an uncommon occurrence. There was no way I was going to let him take my virginity anyhow. No matter who it is, it never seems ‘right.’
They’re all the same, and while it would be nice to lose said V-card given I just hit the big two-one, I don’t want my first time to be with Bobby No Clue with a dick shaped like a bent banana.
The deeper issue is why they always bail. Logic dictates there must be something fundamentally wrong with me. But I’ve pulled out a mirror and there’s nothing untoward about my vagina. It doesn’t have teeth, for instance. That’s a plus, right?
I drag myself from bed with a sigh and shuffle to the bathroom. Bruises mottle my hips and thighs from bumping into tables all day. I stare at my reflection, pale skin and rat-nest hair, and hate what I see.
There are no spells to fix split ends either. Splitting someone in half with perpetual flame? Sure, but a quick blow-dry? No can do.
You’re an idiot, I tell myself, but it doesn’t have the required zing I was hoping for.
Men like the chase, the conquest, but once they have me, it's over. I'm too inexperienced, too naive. Try as I might, I can't give them what they want. What they need, apparently, and vice-versa—provided they’re not running for the door when they meet Toothless. They front up at the pearly gates and I inevitably deny entry because what? I’m hoping for magic, that rom-com toe wiggle when the planets align?
Fuck that, but it doesn’t mean I have to settle.
I've only been with a handful of men, but it's always the same. Awkward fingers, their pleasure, my frustration. It’s an endless cycle of misery.
I turn away from the mirror.
The thought of waiting tables today makes me want to scream. Doesn’t help the café is the size of a shoebox, which means I’m constantly running into things and scuttling about mumbling apologies. Breakages come out of my wage, so there’s that, and my asshole of a boss, and the fact I’m being evicted in a week.
Gran would be devastated if she knew the bank was taking her apartment, the one she raised me in, but she’s been dead for two months now. It’s a firm no-go on resurrection spells either. Trust me, I’ve turned her grimoire inside out looking.
She’s dead, my parents likewise before I could even remember them. Others I know who lost a parent at least recall what they looked like.
So yeah, Death and I aren’t exactly strangers.
My life is a mess, but what else is new? At least the ache between my legs is familiar, as constant as the worries that keep me up at night.
I'm stuck, trapped in a cycle of longing and regret. Always searching for something just out of reach. Something I'm starting to believe I'll never find.
I pad over to check my cell. The notification light is blinking, as I knew it would be. Another message from the art school. My loan payment is overdue—like, more overdue—and if I don't pay within a week, they'll cancel my enrollment, which yeah, is the real icing on the clusterfuck cake.
I toss my cell onto the couch.
God knows why I even decided to go to art school in the first place. I kind of liked it in high school, but I doubt I’m going to be the next Kandinsky. My grades reflect as much.
I lean my head against the wall, eyes closed. What's the point anyway? I'll never be able to afford the supplies, never mind the extra tuition every other kid in this city seems to have. Just another dream crushed under the burgeoning heel of reality.
The apartment is dim and stuffy, the air conditioner wheezing its last, which is wonderful in this New York heatwave. I haven't paid the electric bill in months. Any day now the power will be cut.
I rummage through the fridge, coming up empty.
A knock at the door startles me.
I creep over and peer through the peephole to find Sabrina on the other side, arms laden with grocery bags.
Of course.
I fling the door open with a flourish. "Well, what is this?"
Sabrina breezes in, depositing the bags on my kitchen counter. She looks me over, snuffing. "Jesus, aren't you a ray of sunshine today.”
I roll my eyes, yawning. “Is it that obvious?”
She looks me over again. “It’s like you’ve been in the tumble cycle too long. Anywho, thought I'd bring you some essentials since I figured your cupboards are bare."
Tears prick at my eyes as I stare at the bags of food. "You didn't have to do this."
"Of course I did.” She points behind herself. “I saw the sign on the door. When are you out?”
“A week.”
Sabrina shakes her head. “You know if I could help…”
“I know, I know, but your parents control the money, trust fund, whatever.”
“They’re snobs.”
I give a short laugh. “Says the girl at the most prestigious magic academy in New York already set up with a cushy position in a local enclave and all the power that entails. Even your name is witchy.”
“It’s not like that.”
I shield my eyes, stepping
Sabrina looks concerned. “What is it?”
I keep squinting. “It’s just so…blinding.”
“What?”
“The glare…off the silver spoon in your ass.”
She reaches forward and shoves me. “You thought about a career in comedy?”
“You ever notice that? How there are no spells for humor. No, like, joke spells?”
“Joke spells?” Sabrina chuckles. “I could think of a few that could be rather entertaining in the right circumstances.” She steps back. “Speaking of spells, maybe you could consider selling your gran’s grimoire? It’s old as fuck, probably worth a small fortune. I bet my parents have contacts.”
I fold my arms across my chest, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. She’d rise from the grave and kill me herself.”
“But you don’t even practice,” Sabrina says, pushing.
“Nothing good comes from magic,” I remind her, echoing Gran’s words, “even if I do know every spell, every charm, every little thing about it.”
“You know what they say about all theory and no practice.”
I wave my hand around. “Who am I supposed to practice on, hmm?”
Sabrina raises her hands back. “Alright, enough about all that. You’re working today?”
“In an hour.”
“How about breakfast then, my treat?”
"I can't let you—"
"Hush. I'm not taking no for an answer." She steers me toward the door. "You need to eat, and besides, I have something to run past you."
“Can I at least change out of my PJs?”
She stops, eyeing me again. “Shit, is that what they are?”
*
Sab and I settle into our usual back-corner booth at the diner. She orders omelets and coffee for both of us, ignoring my protests.
"So," she says, scrutinizing me over the rim of her mug. "How are you really doing?"
I stare out the window, watching people rush by on the sidewalk, going about their lives. "I don't know. It's been a rough couple of weeks with Gran’s passing, the bank trying to collect...I thought she had all her finances in order, you know. I give my hand a little flourish in the air. “I didn’t expect whatever this fucking nightmare is.”
"I know." Sabrina reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "But things will get better. They always do."
"Do they, though?" I can't help the bitterness in my tone. "Because it seems like every time I start to get my head above water, another wave, wham, comes along to drag me under."
"Please, you're stronger than you realize." Sabrina waits until I meet her gaze. "You've been through so much, and you're still here. That says a lot."
I shrug, brushing off the compliment. "What choice do I have?"
"There's always a choice. And you've chosen to keep fighting." Her eyes soften. "But you also need to take care of yourself. When's the last time you, you know, relaxed? Like, relaxed relaxed."
Heat stains my cheeks. I stare fixedly at my coffee, clutching the warm mug. I finally draw my eyes up to meet her. “You’re kidding, right? I’m about to be evicted. Relaxing is the last thing on my mind, and if you’re about to launch into a tirade on the power of self-pleasure, that bunny or clit-whisperer or whatever can join the silver spoon in your butt.”
Sabrina's eyes widen. "No wonder you're so tense."
Mortification and frustration war inside me. Why does she always have to push?
"Can we please talk about something else?"
"Annabelle—"
"Drop it," I snap. "Just, please, drop it."
Sabrina holds up her hands in surrender. "Fuck, fine. I'll drop it."
We finish our coffee in silence. The tension slowly ebbs, but a heaviness remains. I hate fighting with Sabrina. She's only trying to help, even if her methods leave something to be desired.
When we part ways, she offers me a tight hug. "Call me if you need anything. And think about what I said, okay?"
That would be the offer to sleep on the floor of her dorm room—illegally, of course, sneaking in and out like a common thief.
I nod, too emotionally drained to argue further.
*
I really wanted my shift at the café to be slow.
Uneventful.
Boring, even.
But it’s a nightmare.
I could have done without ridiculous drama like a badly boiled egg or a smaller than usual omelet. I have real problems, unlike the suited goons I have to serve all day. Like, come on, what do you expect? This isn’t Madison Park.
The walk home is a blur. By the time I reach my apartment, melancholy has settled deep into my bones.
I hit the light switch, but nada.
Fuck me.
Today of all days.
The unit is dark and stuffy with the power out. I light a few candles and start to run a bath, hoping the warm water will ease my frazzled nerves. But as I sink into the tub, the flickering candlelight only magnifies the gloom.
What's the point of all this? The struggle, the pain, the constant uphill battle—for what? A life I don't even want? The water sloshes over the side of the tub as I sit up abruptly. My gaze lands on one of the candles, flame dancing in the dim light.
How easy it would be to end it all. A few slashes of the razor, wrists slipping under the water, the gradual loss of consciousness as my lifeblood seeps into the—
The shrill ring of my cell startles me from my thoughts. I reach over the side of the tub, swiping it from the floor.
Sab's bubbly voice filters through. "I have a surprise for you."
I groan inwardly, not in the mood for her endless enthusiasm. "What is it? And please don’t say it’s one of those Womanizer things that’s going to suck my clit off."
She ignores me. "I got us tickets to this ball tomorrow night—real fancy masquerade thing." She squeals loudly enough I have to hold the phone away from my ear. "It's going to be so glamorous, all the wealthy socialites will be there in their designer gowns and masks. Everyone who's anyone in the city will attend."
"You sound like a bad Sex and the City script. I'm really not in the mood to—"
“It’s a Society thing.”
Society, in the proper noun form, would refer to magical society, which here in New York is exclusive indeed. Some of the country’s most prominent witches and wizards reside right here in the ol’ Big Apple. They keep to their own.
“I have nothing to wear.”
"Don't you worry your pretty nose about a thing," she interrupts. "I have a friend who works for Dior and she's going to lend you one of their new cocktail dresses for the night. Well, not lend. Borrow, let’s say.”
“Borrow?”
“Off the rack. We’ll have it back by morning, steamed and ready to go. All good.”
Sabrina herself is interning at an uptown fashion label. All her friends are. It’s thanks to her folks, her father a prominent businessman and her mom this witchy fashionista social powerhouse. It’s rarified air.
Her parents used to come to Gran for herbology stuff, as some Society folk were want to do given it was ‘natural’ and trendy at the time. They would drag Sab with them and we struck up something of an odd friendship. It never mattered I wasn’t Society. Sab never cared for that nonsense.
I bite my lip, anxiety gnawing at my stomach. The last thing I want is to attend some lavish party where I'll feel completely out of place.
“Come on,” Sabrina enthuses, “it’s going to be amazing, and maybe you’ll meet someone—a nice sugar daddy with a cock like a Louisville Slugger.”
“My cervix says pass.”
“Annabelle,” she pleads. “Please.”
The thought of her disappointment is enough to sway me, and I suppose I have nothing to lose. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the caliber of men at this particular event will be a cut above my usual bar diving.
"Alright, I'll go," I tell her, adding a resigned sigh.
Sabrina squeals again. "I'll pick you up at nine tomorrow evening. This is going to be so much fun. You won't regret it."
“Famous last words.”
I place my cell back on the floor and sink into the tub wondering what I've gotten myself into. A Society gathering? For real? Just when I’m about to lose the roof over my head? Talk about life’s ironies… I will be in the company of people who probably have too much money to spend in a lifetime, and I can’t afford my next meal.
A part of me is intimidated by all this. Yet a bigger part of me is intrigued at the thought of attending such an exclusive event and escaping the otherwise dreary fuckery of my life.
