Royals of Villain Academy 3: Sinister Wizardry

by Eva Chase

  Ms. Grimsworth tapped the microphone, and the chatter around the room fell silent. “It looks as though we have everyone here,” she said, gazing over the crowd. “To begin with, I’d like to congratulate you on a successful summer all around. We saw great efforts from many students and minimal overstepping of rules.” Her voice turned wry with those last words.

  I couldn’t help glancing toward where I’d spotted Victory standing in the midst of her closest friends and a few other girls on the other side of the room. She didn’t look my way at all. She’d completely avoided me since her attack on Deborah two days ago. I’d imagine my persuasive spell had worn off and she could use her magic just fine, but she probably wasn’t in any hurry to risk losing it again.

  I might not have exactly won there, and whatever success I’d achieved had been partly due to Malcolm’s intervention, but if all she did was ignore me for the rest of my time here at Blood U, I’d consider that a real victory.

  “I’m sure you’re all impatient to hear which student’s performance exceeded all others, so I won’t leave you waiting,” the headmistress went on. “I’m pleased to announce that our judges unanimously agreed this year’s prize should go to a young lady who’s not only achieved a remarkable goal but done so only a short time after discovering her powers: Rory Bloodstone.”

  My name rolled over me with a momentary jolt of shock. Jude whooped, and Connar let out a cheer, and that seemed to spur any students who might have been hesitant given the focus of my project into action. Applause echoed around the room.

  Ms. Grimsworth beckoned me up to the platform, and I pushed myself forward to weave through the crowd. A smile stretched across my face as exhilaration bubbled up in my chest. I’d hoped, but I hadn’t really been sure—hadn’t known whether the professors judging our work might dock me an awful lot of points for helping the Naries rather than attacking them.

  But they hadn’t opposed that approach, at least not enough for them to deny how much I’d accomplished. That was a reason for a lot more hope, wasn’t it? Maybe I had even more people here who could transform fearmancer society into something less horrifying.

  When I stepped up on the platform, Ms. Grimsworth gave my hand a brisk but firm shake with a smile that was warm by her standards. Professor Crowford came up to me with a small gilded certificate.

  “Congratulations, Miss Bloodstone,” he said. “Have you decided on your chosen object and enchantment?”

  Right—the prize. I’d gotten so focused on seeing the project through that I’d forgotten I’d win anything other than seeing it complete.

  “I’m going to need a little time to decide,” I said.

  He nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, bring that certificate to the professor you’d like to cast the spell, and they’ll be happy to comply.”

  I turned back toward the room, and Ms. Grimsworth nudged me forward with her hand on my back. “Let’s hear a little more appreciation for this year’s winner,” she said.

  Another round of applause and cheers echoed through the room. My gaze found Declan standing off to the side, clapping hard and beaming like he’d never doubted I’d pull this off. If only I could have really celebrated with him too.

  Malcolm stood several feet beyond him, clapping too, his own smile crooked. But it was a smile. I didn’t know what to make of this apparent truce he’d decided on, but I guessed there’d be plenty of time to hash that out next term.

  Before I got down from the platform, I scanned the crowd one more time for another familiar face framed by dark blond hair. I’d have liked to acknowledge Imogen—she’d helped me pull the clubhouse together too. She didn’t appear to be in the room, though. Maybe she’d headed home early, she’d been so sure she wasn’t in the running?

  Shelby should have gotten credit as well—most of the Naries should have, really—but they had at least gotten their clubhouse as a prize. That’d have to do for now.

  Several of the other professors came over as I left the platform, grasping my hand or patting my shoulder with enthusiastic congratulations. I tensed a little at Professor Viceport’s approach, but her expression didn’t look as stiff as it usually did.

  “An impressive bit of work, Miss Bloodstone,” she said, shaking my hand with her cool dry fingers. “I have to say I’m looking forward to seeing how far you can take these skills of yours in the months ahead.”

  That approving remark felt like a whole extra win. I restrained the urge to do a fist-pump in celebration.

  After a few moments, I was caught up in the crowd of my fellow students, with more congratulatory gestures and remarks. I doubted most of them meant that appreciation all that genuinely, but fearmancers were nothing if not pragmatic when it came to sucking up to people. If it meant even fewer of them messed with me next term, I was all for it.

  The maintenance staff set out platters of snacks and drinks on tables along one wall, and for the next hour or so, the gym turned into an end-of-summer party. Someone turned on an upbeat pop album that didn’t sound fearmancer-y at all, and Jude twirled me around a few times in his approximation of dancing. Connar grabbed the last of my favorite kind of tart before it disappeared.

  As people started to drift out of the building, the two guys each took one of my hands. “So,” Jude said meaningfully, “about that ‘action’ we were planning…?”

  I elbowed him, but a flicker of heat ran through me. “We could go for a little drive, get right off campus?”

  “I’d go for that,” Connar said.

  “Let me just pop back into the dorm. These aren’t the best shoes for driving.” I’d worn heels to go with my dressy slacks, but I wasn’t so confident behind the wheel I wanted to experiment with advanced types of footwear just yet.

  “As you wish,” Jude said. “We’ll meet you at the garage.”

  We parted ways on the green. As I headed to the stairs in Ashgrave Hall, Cressida barged past me in the hall with a rigid expression and a swish of her braid, her shoulder jarring against mine. Apparently she was in quite a rush to get home.

  I hurried up the stairs to the fifth floor, my mind riffling through the possibilities for a peaceful—and private—date spot. Maybe the place where Jude had arranged our picnic what felt like ages ago? Or we could go all the way out to my country property. That might take too long for us to make it home in good time tonight, though…

  I pushed open the door to the dorm room and stopped in my tracks. Every thought in my head scattered.

  A body lay sprawled on the floor just a few feet into the room. A body splattered with blood and unnaturally still. A body with blond hair held back by a silver clip that glinted beneath the flecks of red.

  My stomach lurched, and a rush of images flashed in front of my eyes. Imogen’s face, twisted with anger, yelling something at me. Her hand slashing out to slap my face, the impression so real my cheek stung. My throat vibrating with words and power. A hail of razor-edged magic cutting my friend down. Her throat, slit. Her chest and stomach gouged.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head as if I could force the images away. But they weren’t coming from inside me. They had to be some kind of spell, an illusion. They started up all over again from the beginning, Imogen yelling at me even as she lay there lifeless on the floor.

  I tried to spin, to grope for the door that had hung open somehow behind me. My legs jarred, refusing to budge. I sucked in a breath to scream, and that caught in my throat. Magic gripped me from head to toe as the illusion whirled through its violent imagery in front of me. I couldn’t even force my eyes to stay closed. My eyelids jerked back open with every blink.

  And Imogen just lay there, the blood seeping further across the floor…

  I had to help her. If there was any way she was still alive—please, let her still be alive—

  There was a gasp and a shriek in the hall behind me. A voice murmured frantically as it faded away down the stairs. The illusions battered me again. I strained at my legs, at my vocal chords.
Come on, Rory.

  Footsteps thundered up the steps, and just like that, the spell released me. I stumbled around with a ragged inhalation to see four figures in black shirts and slacks bursting into the fifth floor hall. They charged right at me. One of them caught sight of Imogen’s body beyond me and grimaced as he nodded to the others. A woman dropped beside Imogen and held her hand over Imogen’s chest with a murmur of a casting.

  “My friend—” I started.

  “She’s dead,” the woman said, looking up.

  The man at the front of the pack wheeled on me. “Rory Bloodstone,” he said in a hard voice. “You need to come with us. You’re under arrest.”

  * * *

  How will Rory overcome the trap her enemies have laid for her—and will the other scions stay by her side? Find out in Horrid Charms, the fourth book in the Royals of Villain Academy series. Get Horrid Charms now!

  If you’re a fan of reverse harem paranormal romance, why not check out one of Eva’s complete series, The Witch’s Consorts? You can grab the prequel story FREE here!

  Next in the Royals of Villain Academy series

  Horrid Charms (Royals of Villain Academy #4)

  With her enemies multiplying and a terrible accusation hanging over her head, Rory’s position in the magical world is more precarious than ever. Clearing her name and keeping her freedom may require trusting the people she’d never have wanted to turn to. Can she count on the other scions when they find out just how close to home the true villains are?

  Get it now!

  Consort of Secrets excerpt

  Want to get a taste of Consort of Secrets, my gothic-flavored witchy reverse harem paranormal romance? Enjoy the first chapter below…

  CONSORT OF SECRETS

  1

  Rose

  To a stranger, Hallowell Manor would have looked like the kind of place where dark deeds happened. You know: skeletons bricked up behind the tall foreboding walls. A madman prowling in the attic beneath the steeply sloped roof. Cheating lovers pushed from the turrets’ arched windows to their death. Although as far as I knew none of those things had actually happened there.

  Let’s just say the house had a lot of character.

  My father pushed the control on the Bentley’s dash, and the automated gate whirred shut behind us. The car turned along the drive through the falling twilight. As the house loomed over us, my heart lifted with anticipation.

  I wasn’t a stranger, and to me this place was home. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t set foot on our country estate in more than eleven years. The manor and the massive property around it had set the stage for my fondest childhood memories. Through all that time in Portland, through my studies and the dinner parties and the strolls through fenced back gardens, part of me had always been waiting for the moment when I’d return here.

  “That is an eyeful and a half, now isn’t it?” Philomena said in her lilting British accent. She craned her neck as she peered out the window. “Just ripe for adventure.”

  “I’m supposed to be settling back in, not stirring up trouble,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can find time enough for both, Rose.” She shot me the classic Phil expression: lips curved, brows lightly arched, brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Dad parked by the garage. A couple of the staff were already hustling over to retrieve the few pieces of luggage we’d brought with us instead of sending it ahead. My stepmother let out a slow breath, her pale blue gaze fixed on the house.

  “Well, here we are,” she said. Her tone was so dry I couldn’t tell whether she was expressing relief or trepidation.

  I found it safest to care about Celestine’s feelings about as little as she cared about mine—which was essentially not at all. Ignoring her comment, I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the pavement. The cool breeze of the early spring evening teased through my hair. I pushed the black tumble of those locks back over my shoulders and drank in the lush green scents of home.

  The tang of fresh paint reached my nose. The staff must have been touching up the outer buildings to prepare for our arrival. The once-green slats of the garage walls now glowered a deep maroon.

  Something deep in my chest twisted. The change jarred with my memories. But it couldn’t stop the image from rising up in my head of the last time I’d seen the boys, standing just a few paces from where I stood now, watching a car very much like this one carry me away.

  I jerked my gaze away before Dad or Celestine could notice me looking. It was the company I’d been keeping all those years ago that had prompted our move to the city. Better if neither my father nor my stepmother suspected how much those memories still meant to me.

  Dad typed a quick message into his phone and tucked it into his slacks pocket. Probably letting one of the many people he did business with know he’d be available for conversation and negotiations within the hour. Celestine smoothed her hand over her sleek silver-blond bob and wrapped her slender fingers around his. He directed a quick but warm smile over his shoulder at me, and we started toward the house.

  “Good Lord, it looks even bigger from out here,” Philomena said, clutching her expansive skirts with one gloved hand while she braced the back of the other against her forehead. She stared up at the manor. “Are you absolutely sure you didn’t forget to tell me you’re a duchess or a marchioness or some such?”

  I swallowed a laugh. “I promise, I’m nothing by regular standards. In witching society, I guess we’re about on the level of a viscount?”

  “Hmm.” She glanced at Dad. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying I have always thought your father would look rather tempting in a proper tailcoat and cravat.”

  “Ugh. I’ll forgive you if you promise to never mention finding him ‘tempting’ ever again.”

  Philomena just smirked at me. It really was a good thing she was only a figment of my imagination and not someone Dad could actually overhear.

  Phil’s insatiable exuberance had practically made her leap out of the book she starred in during the gazillion times I’d read it in the last seven years. I hugely admired her habit of speaking her mind unfiltered. But it wouldn’t have gone over any better in my society than it should have in hers, if her regency romance had been particularly true-to-reality.

  Trust me, if you’d met the company I’d had in Portland, you wouldn’t blame me for plucking my best friend out of the pages of my favorite novel instead. The girls from the witching families around the city had all been as alternately judgmental and fawning as my older stepsisters. As far as they’d been concerned, I was either a country rube to look down on or a Hallowell they should suck up to. Sometimes both at the same time, which had thrown more than one of them for a loop.

  But they didn’t matter now. I was home.

  The staff had opened up the manor’s broad front door. Golden light spilled down over the front steps. My gaze caught on the tiny crack that ran through the second from the bottom.

  How many times, long ago, had I sat there and traced my finger along that spidery line? A voice that wasn’t Philomena’s swam up in my head from the past. Are those stairs a lot more fascinating than they look, or do you figure you’d like to come have some real fun?

  My fingers curled toward the sleeve of my sweater. I had one of my ribbons wrapped around my left wrist, like always. “Rose’s little fashion trend,” my stepsisters had liked to comment with a giggle.

  We stepped into the grand front hall. The porters hefted our luggage up the wide, velvet-carpeted staircase to the second floor. The cherry wood of the banisters and the wall paneling gleamed.

  “I hope the journey was smooth, Master and Lady Hallowell,” our estate manager, Meredith, said, welcoming us in. She’d come ahead with the rest of the key staff that moved with the family when we relocated from one property to another. They’d have spent all day setting the house in order for our arrival.

  “And for Rosalind as well,” she added with a quick wink. Now with only a few strea
ks of gray left in her white, braided hair, Meredith had been with the Hallowells for generations. You could say she’d raised me alongside my father.

  My stepmother considered the grand front hall and sniffed. “I don’t like to see a painting askew the moment I step inside,” she said in the icy voice she usually used when speaking to Meredith.

  She glanced around to confirm none of the unsparked staff were nearby and motioned the gold-framed artwork that had provoked her displeasure. The gesture turned into a quick flick of magic. The painting shifted straight without so much as a touch.

  Celestine looked at Meredith with a slight arch of her eyebrows, as if to remind the manager that a lesser witch like her couldn’t afford to use her own magic that flippantly. “I hope the rest of the house is in better shape. Double-check the main floor rooms, will you?”

  The corners of Meredith’s mouth tightened only a smidge. “Yes, Lady Hallowell.” Her gaze slid past my stepmother to my father, the man she considered her real employer. He nodded, but he gave her a wry smile at the same time as if to apologize.

  As Meredith bustled away, a sallow, gangly figure appeared at the top of the staircase. “I’ve seen to it that all your office materials are as they should be, Lady Hallowell,” Douglas, my stepmother’s primary assistant, called down.

  “Excellent,” Celestine said with a wave to dismiss him.

  From the depths of the house, the chime of our ancient grandfather clock rang out. Seven o’clock. A lump lodged in my throat. The familiar smell of the manor, wood polish and aged plaster, had drifted all around me, but it only made the ache in my chest deepen.

  This place was home, but it felt abruptly empty.