by Watson, Rhea
But that was a shitty thing to do.
I’d never forgive someone if they did that to me.
“Sure,” I said, hesitant, reaching for it and then withdrawing. After a few seconds of staring, I collapsed in on myself, wilting under Gavriel’s slightly impatient gaze. “Can you… Can you light it for me?”
Gods, why did he still look so fucking attractive even with a judgmental frown? Once again I steeled myself for whatever he had to say to that, no doubt something cruel and teasing, something mean after what I’d said about him not being genuine.
And once again he surprised me.
With a sniff, Gavriel folded forward and held the end of the cigarette in the floating purple flames, giving it a moment before retreating and blowing on the end. He then handed it over without a word, and I took it, no stranger to smoking the odd joint, albeit a few years out of practice.
As advertised, lemon stood out the strongest after the first inhale. Lemony, citrusy, a strong palate cleanser, smooth like sorbet.
“Fly you back to the castle if you give me a blowjob.”
Exhaling a generous gust of smoke, nowhere near as talented as this fae at making shapes and patterns, I turned on him with an unimpressed scowl.
Which made him laugh.
Actually laugh, the skin around his eyes crinkling, mouth open, expression briefly—gorgeously—carefree. I giggled, unable to take another pull until we both settled.
The heavy quiet returned faster than I would have liked, all the bullshit from before resurfacing, racing around my skull and demanding answers. But there was something comforting about experiencing it alongside another person, someone else who seemed trapped inside their own head, same as me. So, we smoked and watched the water together, the clouds eventually clearing just enough to catch the sun vanish below the horizon.
And when the fae fire couldn’t warm us anymore, our teeth chattering but both of us too stubborn to cuddle, Gavriel flew me back to Root Rot Academy, dropped me off at the back gate, and—
“I’ll take a rain check on that blowjob, fury.”
Even as I flipped him off and tried to slam the gate in his face while he shouldered through halfheartedly from the other side, our laughter echoed through the empty grounds.
Stayed with me for the rest of the night, even, an unexpected shield against everything else.
And for the first time in days, I slept through until dawn, not a nightmare to be found.
5
Bjorn
With the last of the third years flitting out my classroom door, the first week of the second term came to a close. I watched as the wood panel slowly swung halfway shut behind them, then pivoted around and went for the chalkboard. Eraser in hand, I cleared the notes from this evening’s lecture, tensed, senses on high alert for any errant footsteps creeping into the room—any sudden whiffs of cologne that ought not be there.
Pathetic, really, to be checking over my shoulder.
To carry Leroy and Malorie and all those little fuckers with me after that night. As soon as Alecto had tucked me into bed, Gavriel hovering awkwardly over her shoulder, it should have been over. Done. Dusted. On to the next disaster.
I preached self-care in this very room. Patience and love and understanding. Awareness of one’s flaws—acceptance of them.
Only I couldn’t apply any of that to myself.
Perhaps that was the pathetic thing here. Not the fear, not the paranoia, but my unwillingness to accept that I might need time to heal.
Chalkboard clean, milky-white dust floating around me, fusing up my nostrils and down my dry throat, I moved on to the desks, gathering the reflection essays I had given my kids the last hour to work on. They could be as short or as long as they desired, but they needed to reflect on the past term—whether they were here at Root Rot or some other academy—and then set some goals for the upcoming four months. Reasonable goals. Something they could confidently conquer.
The first sheet of parchment was two sentences. Right. And then—oh, six pages. Biting back a grin, I quickly grabbed the rest for some four-o’clock reading long after Alecto had gone to sleep.
Sleep—the gift my flatmate had given me, along with her kindness, her attentiveness, and her slight hovering during my recovery. Whatever she had done to that draught worked like a charm: I had slept for three days and nights, and when I finally came to—slowly, peacefully, not jolting awake from a night terror—I felt refreshed.
Most of all, I felt like myself again.
Or, at least 80 percent of the way there.
The rest would come with time. Term had gotten off to a shaky start, the swarm of uniforms and the influx of body odor, laughter, and activity more of an assault than usual. Fortunately, none of the students knew about Samhain. Unlike my colleagues, there were no stares or whispers, no pitying glances or awkward attempts to express shallow condolences. The kids were just… kids. Moody and withdrawn and angry. Snooty and disruptive and lost. I found myself amongst them, and as the first week wrapped, Friday-night curfew fifteen minutes out, my confidence was just about back.
Maybe.
No telling what tomorrow might bring.
After stacking the essays, I tidied around the room: tucked in chairs, straightened the rows of desks, locked all my things in drawers. I fell into familiar busywork until the nine-o’clock bells tolled through the castle, curfew in effect—and Alecto and my movie night officially underway.
While she had been babying me since Samhain, I hadn’t the heart to stop her. Outsiders fretted when people they cared about struggled; they just wanted to do something, anything, to make it better. And after all she had done for me, I owed Alecto that much. Let her fuss and coddle. Let her wear the odd low-cut top because men and their simple brains liked cleavage. She was trying.
No one had ever tried for me before.
I hailed from a culture of warriors. The men in my raiding party might have been brothers on the battlefield, partners in the shieldwall, but they would never provide a shoulder to cry on, never lend an ear just to talk. Alecto had offered both in the last two weeks with no strings attached, and while I’d refused them, not about to cry in front of the witch who, despite our friendship, still made my dead heart dance, I appreciated the sentiment.
Classroom organized, I grabbed the pile of essays and headed for the door.
Only to stop just shy of it, anxiety tickling my insides, a reminder that I had once been human—and that I couldn’t escape feeling like one every now and again. Along with all the other shit that had hounded me since the incident, I’d been checking doors almost obsessively. Scrutinizing their handles and knobs, poking at them and retreating, waiting for the spikes to flare.
No credence behind the behavior. No reason for it.
I did the same tonight, hesitating before prodding at the copper ball, rearing back a second later and waiting.
Nothing.
Teeth gritted, fangs cutting into my lower lip, I shouldered into the hall with a scowl. Ridiculous. Totally nonsensical—but that was the way with fear.
With trauma.
Fucking fuck—
Footsteps whispered in the shadowy stone corridor. I stilled, not exactly afraid but on higher alert than I would have been before Samhain. Had it been a roving security guard, the footfalls would have continued in one direction or the other, tromping along like always, their boots heavy and authoritative. Purposeful.
Gone now, the echoes fading off.
Followed by a whump, then a muffled cry.
Clutching the reflection essays tight, I blitzed down the hall, silent and clinging to the shadows. A racing heartbeat to my immediate left stopped me in front of an alcove near the northwest tower stairwell, a small circular space students occasionally loitered in. I’d even caught a few snogging at the foot of Clíodhna’s statue along the exterior wall.
No surprise there: queen of the banshees and love, that goddess. Smitten teens flocked to her, this remnant of the old worl
d trapped underground.
Tonight, however, a heartbeat drummed behind her towering figure. Beautiful, even in stone, the immortalized goddess loomed tall with her hands outstretched, reminiscent of the Virgin Mary—except for the lack of clothing, one breast exposed, the rest barely covered by a slip of fabric, while a trio of stone songbirds perched daintily on her shoulders. Face serene, nothing like the horrible screams of her banshee children, she stood on guard in the bowels of the castle, watching over all the tiny witches and warlocks who might still worship her, her hair wild and curly.
Savage, all the old Celtic deities. Utterly wild.
So like my own gods, the immortals I’d once spilled legions of blood to impress.
Just the one heartbeat behind her, breath hitching and falling—hard and heavy nostril gasps, if I heard it right.
“Come out,” I urged, internal alarm bells falling silent. While I wasn’t afraid to walk these corridors, lately anger nipped at my heels—anger that I’d been captured and strung up and staked. All my life, I had been the aggressor. I’d done the damage. I set the tone. Rarely had I felt helpless. So much of the last few decades was new to me: controlling the bloody beast within, chiding rogue vampires, being completely ignored and dismissed by other supernatural entities.
While it helped me understand and connect with the students here at Root Rot, the learning curve was steep after centuries of letting the monster run free.
“You’re past curfew.” While the heartbeat behind the statue had quickened to unsafe levels, she refused to show her face. From the very faint, almost sickeningly sweet rose perfume, I assumed it was a she, anyway. “I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well just come out.” Nothing. “I also don’t really need to sleep, so I can play this game all night.”
Some thirty seconds later, a sniffling shadow emerged from behind the goddess’s outstretched arm, and I softened as soon as the light hit her face.
Alice Jameson.
The witch who couldn’t cast.
She crept shyly around Clíodhna, head down, arms crossed, bringing with her a rush of that saccharine sweet perfume and… salt water. Frowning, I looked her up and down. Not a speck of water anywhere, but the scent was unmistakable.
Maybe a body scrub, the salty brine tickling my nose, just as her defeated posture and her cowering stance plucked at my heartstrings. Poor thing: shipped off to Root Rot because she was the family shame, the one witch in her coven who couldn’t summon an ounce of magic. Even here, on the isle of misfit toys, she struggled to find her place.
“Alice…” I beckoned her to me with a gentle smile. “What were you doing back there?”
“I… I heard you coming,” she admitted, her dark bronze-brown curls manic tonight, looking as though she had tried to comb them straight and now they were giving her hell for it. “I thought… I didn’t want to get in trouble.”
The rose and salt water crashed together the nearer she came, melding into something rather unpleasant for my keen sense of smell. Fortunately, I towered over her by a few feet, and the air was always a bit clearer up here.
The height difference also showed the spots along her hairline where she hadn’t properly spread her foundation, the makeup about two tones too dark against her naturally fair complexion. At this age, all the girls were experimenting with new looks, but from the bumps on her forehead and chin, someone had been trying to hide a surge of acne.
Makeup. Perfume. Brushed hair and her uniform skirt hitched a smidgen higher than acceptable… Was this little sparrow out here to meet someone?
“Come along.” Whatever the reason, it was none of my business. Alice lacked a social circle now that the Samhain committee had disbanded, and according to Alecto, she excelled in the theoretical work of every class—just less so in the practical unless she was out in the gardens. All that considered, Alice Jameson was a good girl. A shitty witch, sure, but a child who did not belong at Root Rot Academy. “I’ll escort you to your tower.”
Shoulders slumped, she padded after me as I headed for the nearby stairwell. “I’m sorry, Professor. I really didn’t mean to… I lost track of time—”
“It’s all right.” I paused and waited for her to catch up, reflection essays rolled in one hand, the other in my pocket. “We all make mistakes.”
Especially in our youth.
Fuck—what if some devil had tricked her into waiting for him out here?
I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting a scowl. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past any of them.
In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me if there was a whole group waiting in the shadows somewhere to jump out and guffaw in her face.
Never mind.
I’d found her first, this little outcast, and I would see that no one made her feel worthless tonight.
“But let’s not make a habit of it, shall we?” I mused as she fell in line beside me, her smile shy but her enthusiastic nod promising this wouldn’t happen again. And unlike so many of the others in here, the ones who assured me they would try harder, do better, be kinder, I actually believed her. Alecto had an obvious soft spot for the girl, and perhaps I did, too. For weeks I had watched her flourish on the Samhain committee, but now here she was again—alone. No friends except the herbalism professor.
Difficult as it was not to intervene, it was best to let them figure it out on their own. Struggling through the dark and coming out the other side stronger built character.
Note to self, you ancient fuck.
“Right, let’s go.” I motioned toward the nearby door at the base of the northwest tower. While Alecto and I had agreed to meet outside my classroom to walk back to the flat together—just another sign of her babying me, escorting me through the very corridor I had been attacked in—she was a big girl. A grown witch. As soon as she realized I wasn’t there, she could draw her own conclusions and meet me upstairs after I dropped Alice off at her dorm.
No way was I letting this girl who smelled like the sea go wandering by herself.
And I wouldn’t have to.
Just before we reached the door, me going for it, about to prop it open and usher Alice and her slightly hitched skirt through, her full name hissed through the corridor.
We both rounded in place, Alice’s eyes wide as saucers at the approach of Nadia, a bear shifter den mother with cropped strawberry blonde hair and murder in her eyes.
“Where have you been?” the shifter demanded, almost as tall as me and twice as imposing. Swathed in black from head to toe in standard den mother attire, her gaze bled from green to dark brown as she stalked toward Alice, her inner bear surging to the surface now that she had found her lost cub. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“I—”
“It’s my fault,” I interjected smoothly, placing a hand to my chest as the den mother slowed, nostrils flared like she was giving me a nasal once-over. Or, more likely, she too scented the salt water and was searching for its source. “Alice stopped by to help me tidy the classroom, and I’m afraid we lost track of time. I was just taking her back to the tower.”
Heartbeat frantic, Alice nodded at my side so hard that it was a wonder she didn’t snap her own neck. I frowned down at her.
Little mouse, what were you doing down here?
Nadia shot me an annoyed look, disbelief rippling across her features, then snapped at the stairwell door.
“Well, perhaps you could pay more attention to the clock next time, Professor,” she growled, marching forth and snagging Alice by the shoulder. “Good night.”
I scrambled out of the way so she didn’t barrel clear through me. Honestly, bear shifters were the ideal den mothers; mess with their kids and they will tear you limb from limb, magic or no magic.
“Of course,” I said with a nod, delicately grasping the stack of coiled essays in front of me as the pair rushed by. “Have a pleasant evening—both of you.”
Alice peeked around her den mother, mouth open to say something, but the shifter�
��s growl had those thin lips snapping back together, and in a blink, they were gone, footsteps echoing off the stone steps. Slowly, the wooden door eased shut, cutting off their departure and blanketing the corridor in a familiar bedtime quiet.
But the smell of the sea remained. Salty air and marine brine—
Jaw clenched, I peered around the corner into the little alcove again. Clíodhna remained, silent and lovely, arms outstretched like she was beckoning a lover into her embrace. That scent—unmistakable. I’d spent decades on the water as a human, sailing, raiding, swimming, transporting stolen goods to seedy markets…
The oceans of this world were in my blood. They lingered, even with this vampiric disease, and should I ever actually die one day, I hoped my loved ones would toss my ashes to the waves.
Perhaps I ought to write that in a will, just to be safe.
I’d never considered writing a will until now—until a band of children reminded me that even immortals weren’t untouchable.
This goddess smelled like the sea. Loosely grasping the reflection essays, I blitzed to Clíodhna’s side. Nothing behind her. Nothing around her. While a faint magical aura pulsed in the alcove, that was expected in a place like this. Frowning, I leaned in close—and flinched at the crash of water. From the statue’s heart, I swore I heard waves, sloshing and splashing. Eyes closed, I almost felt the salty spray—
“Bjorn?”
But there was nothing here. Just stone walls and hollow limestone eyes, Clíodhna’s mouth carved in a seductive arc.
“Bjorn?” Alecto’s voice pitched higher this time, her concern ricocheting through the underground corridors. I eased back from Clíodhna, giving her one last up-and-down sweep even as my mind wandered elsewhere, drawn like a moth to the flame at the lure of Alecto Clarke.
Strange, though, that smell. It started to fade as I padded away, but this was a Root Rot first.
A Root Rot mystery, at that.
But one to ponder another time.