by A. K. Koonce
A.K. Koonce
Aleera Anaya Ceres
Escaping Hallow Hill Academy
Copyright 2020 A.K. Koonce & Aleera Anaya Ceres
All Rights Reserved
Editing by Copeland Edits
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Also by A.K. Koonce
Also by Aleera Anaya Ceres
About A.K. Koonce
About Aleera Anaya Ceres
Chapter One
“Sing for me.” A laugh follows my words as my newest victim squirms beneath my heeled boot. Blood gushes around the sole, and I dig it further into his neck. He doesn’t realize his struggles only fuel my spells even more.
A gurgled attempt at what I think might be a Britney Spears song gasps from his lips, and I just cannot believe the embarrassing lengths people will go to in order to keep their lives.
I smirk at the garbled syllables. He has no idea who the fuck I am.
I am the last of the Sekar. Witches of the night, worshipers of darkness and death.
Funny, then, that my name means “light.”
The irony isn’t lost on me when not a sliver of light lives inside my body or thrums through my veins. The brightness illuminates every inky line carved into my skin from the Goddess herself.
That’s what happens when you kill people for a living, I suppose. Bathing in the blood and blackened souls of enemies has stained my skin. Others would scratch at their arms with soap and water because they couldn’t stand the taint of their own wicked nature.
Me?
I fucking love it.
Or at least I’ve learned to live with it.
There’s only so often you can feel regret for the souls you’ve taken. After those first few, the guilt slowly fades away, and you learn to embrace the violence you’re meant to wreak. Sometimes, it really is kill or be killed. And I’ll never die a weak death.
I’ll also never feel safe.
Financially safe, maybe. I’m a hired assassin, and my name is whispered around this city like a prayer. Desperate people love me. Power hungry people . . . they’re a different story. I know firsthand that being rare also means being hunted. So I kill, and I don’t think twice about it.
I’d be lying if I said I did it solely for the money, though. I’ve learned to love a bit of wickedness. Learned to love the sound of the dying.
It’s like music to my ears.
Wet fingers grasp for my black boot and squeeze, slippery and demanding. I tsk-tsk and jerk my foot away.
“That’s going to leave a stain, and I didn’t even bring my Tide pen, Jeffrey,” I complain, looking down at my favorite leather boots while my victim scrambles away from me.
I let him go. I let his broken, bleeding fingernails drag him across the asphalt as he tries so damn hard to flee from me.
It’s cute, really. Cute but obnoxious.
This always used to be the fun part of the hunt. Now, I’m just annoyed. Still, it’s my nature to allow him a bit of a head start, at least.
I shake the dripping blood from my shoe and count to ten. Slowly, my fingers close around the black hilt of my moonlit silver sword, and I unsheathe it from my waist.
I catch a glimpse of my tan complexion on the runed blade. One of the runes spells my blade’s name. Damios. Tattoos of ancient symbols glow in golden colors across my features from the scrawling marks etched along my arms. The pretty hue dances through black eyes that are consumed with as much darkness as the heart beating in my chest, and even darker wisps of hair stray against my cheeks.
I shove the strands away with a touch of impatience before I stalk after my victim in confident strides.
The clack of my heeled boot against the ground makes him scream. The sound of his fear scuttles over brick and echoes into the night.
His adorable attempt at some kind of last call for help shouldn’t make me smile.
I shouldn’t relish in his fear.
And yet, I do.
I pick up speed, whispering a quick spell against the wind to gift me with fleeted feet. I somersault through the air, landing in a crouch in front of his dragging body.
His screams cut short as I stand, placing the blade against his throat. My sword hums and sings with the promise of a new soul, of death.
The man glares up at me. “Fuck you, you trash witch,” he spits, blood and saliva staining the points of my shoes.
“What did I tell you about the Tide pen, Jeff?” My hand lifts with annoyance while the other tightens around my weapon.
My muscles poise. My arm flexes. My blade slices a bit of his skin open with excruciating slowness. I swear he pisses himself.
“Please,” he begs. Funny how quickly he changes his tone when his life is on the line. “Why are you doing this?”
As if he doesn’t know.
I give him a wide-toothed smile that I swear, my Holy Lady of Death would be proud of.
He trembles at the very sight of it. “Please . . . mercy.”
“When those women you murdered begged for mercy, did you grant it?” I can see him pale in the darkness. I wonder if he’s remembering how young they were. How they never made it home to their parents. The cowardly fuck. “Didn’t think so.”
I lift my sword up, feeling it vibrate and hum with ecstasy. I hold it tightly, ready to swing it down . . .
“Emmera Lucero?”
I pause, lowering my sword to my side, and throw a surreptitious glance over my shoulder, meeting the owner of that mysterious, inquiring voice.
A man stands a few feet away from me, shrouded in the shadows. When he takes a step forward, I hear the snapping of fingers, and a small ball of light appears over his head, illuminating him.
It’s the bright blue rings around his pupils I notice first, glowing like beacons in the dark. They are like a mark amongst our kind; rings around our pupils that show us as what we are. Supernaturals.
“Warlock,” I greet coldly.
The next thing I notice about him is the collar around his neck. A simple, gray thing that gleams like metal with black spikes studded around the length of it.
The punk jewelry is completely at odds with the penguin suit he wears, his pristine white gloves bright against his clean-cut black jacket. It’s strange, but I’m not a kink shamer. Whatever he does in his free time is his own business . . .
“I have no quarrel with your kind.” I make sure the threat is obvious in-between my words.
Warlocks and witches have a tentative peace between our races. One would think ma
gic wielders would find one another, bonding and mutual interests and all that.
It isn’t true.
Warlocks are alchemists. They have magic in their veins, but it’s usually activated by mixing chemicals and different substances together.
Witches are divided into covens. And each coven’s magic is derived from different forces of nature or deities.
Evil, the warlocks call us.
Parlor-trick bakers, we call them.
“May I have a moment of your time?” he asks demurely.
A scrambling on the asphalt makes me roll my eyes and sigh in exasperation. I whip around to see my victim running away on wobbling legs, one of them injured and nearly dragging behind him.
“See what you’ve done?” I demand. “You’ve lost me my kill, Rachel Ray.”
“Rachel Ray?” The baker’s whisper is a puzzled sound, but I don’t have time for him.
I’m tired of these games. Damios is getting annoyed as well.
I break out into a run, and my footsteps only prompt my prey to go faster. Not fast enough, but it’s a sweet effort he puts in for me.
I skewer him from behind to get it done and over with, without the contentment of watching his life leave his eyes. It’s nothing more than a lash of my weapon and a desperate gasp from his lungs.
I didn’t even get to enjoy it.
Oh, well.
There are always others.
At least my sword is satisfied. It pulses and hums as it drinks his life force, and when there’s nothing left inside him, I yank my weapon out, and he crumples to the ground.
Blood slides off the blade, leaving no trace of it behind on the shining metal. No trace except for the burning glow of his soul, that is.
I sheathe the weapon once again and bend to search his pockets. There I find a few crumpled-up twenties that are bloody. Forty bucks. He’s a good tipper. I appreciate it.
I’m not above stealing from a dead man, and a murderer at that. The only thing I want is money. Pawning off trinkets like his watch in a shop leaves a trail. I don’t want anyone coming after me for what I do.
Life is dangerous enough as is.
Footsteps sound slowly behind me, but I ignore them while keeping my senses alert.
I hear the mirth in his voice. “Are you quite finished, or do you think you’ll take his gold fillings, too?”
“Now there’s an idea . . .” I shove the last of the bills and coins into my coat pocket and stand to turn and face him. Cocking my hip to the side and pressing my palm against my curve, I get a good look at the asshole. “What do you want?”
His lips quirk up, and I think he might be attractive with his dark hair and sharp complexion, but I’d rather choke on a troll dick than admit that to a warlock. Ever.
“Forgive the interruption, but I’ve come on behalf of Headmistress Krist Emperium of Hallow Hill Academy.” With a flourish, he brandishes a glittering card from thin air and hands it to me.
Show-off.
I look at it warily before taking it, glancing at the scrawling letters there.
I purse my lips. “Yeah. Tell the emperor I said hi, but I’ve never heard of him.”
“Headmistress Krist would like to extend an invitation for you to meet her in person on Academy grounds for a . . . business proposition.”
I flick the card back at him. It catches in his fine suit jacket before floating to the ground. “Not interested in the Beverly Hills Academy.”
“Hallow Hill Academy. And you will be, once I explain, I am sure.” I hate that he sounds so condescending and smug, but he can’t help himself, I’m sure. All warlocks are alike. They think they’re better than witches, purer because darkness doesn’t run through their blood.
As if they’re all so innocent.
I snort. Arrogant little shit. I turn and focus on the corpse at my feet. Time for the harder part of the job. Disposing of the evidence.
There’s plenty of crime in this city, but I like to live a quiet little life. When I’m not feeding my sword with the blood of men like Jeff here, I like to keep to myself.
It’s safer that way.
I begin turning through my spell, feeling my blood heat through my veins as magic gathers around me. It takes energy from me, but I manage to give the cadaver a forceful shove into the hidden plane. My own personal garbage disposal for my kills. Place is a fucking rotting morgue, but I’ll never have to look at it, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Miss Lucero . . .”
“Shit on a cracker! You’re still here? I told you, I’m not fucking interested. I have a job.” Fucking self-employed and loving it. Okay, so the benefits are shit, but other than that, my hours are my own, and I don’t have to answer to anyone other than my Holy Lady of Death. That means I don’t have a shitty boss I have the urge to kill every time I go into the office and see his stupid face. I’m nobody’s lapdog.
His lip pulls back into a sneer. “Hunting common human criminals and half-breeds for pay. Riveting, I’m sure, but Headmistress Krist is prepared to pay you a hefty sum for your troubles.”
My ears threaten to twitch. Money is a weakness, but as much as I love cash, I also know I can live without it. It comes and goes, and there’s so many criminals waiting for their death that I can cash in on.
“No, thanks.” I start to walk away from him, done with this conversation.
Still, he calls after me. “The Academy caters to the rarest supernaturals in our history. There is so much we can learn from you and even more you can learn from us.”
I snort and call over my shoulder, “Yeah, like what?”
“You’re a Sekar, are you not?”
Fuck. So much for a quiet evening. This guy’s over here screaming and moaning about my race like a porn star on set.
“Lower your tone, baker.”
He gives my pet name a shake of his head but simply carries on. “The Sekar are the rarest of the witches in the world. But you are not alone.”
I freeze. He doesn’t need to tell me what I already know. I am the last of my kind, of my coven, and that loss hurts me more than the blood beneath my fingernails ever could.
“I am the last.” And I won’t go to some Academy with other sad, pitiful supernaturals that are as alone as I am.
Sounds like the most depressing place on Earth. No, thanks.
“You’re wrong. There’s another Sekar. Another one of your kind, and he’s at the Academy.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up slowly one by one.
I whirl then, seething. “You’re lying.”
He’s smirking like he can read every thought swirling in my brain, and I want to cut the lips off his fucking face. “I am not. But if you do not believe me, come meet with Headmistress Krist. Speak to the Sekar. You’ll see for yourself.” He turns slowly away and strides off down the dark alleyway.
And just like that. This asshole’s fucked up my night entirely.
Because I bend down then.
And silently pick up that glittering card.
Chapter Two
I kick the door closed to my one-bedroom apartment and yank off my boots a moment later. My clothes are discarded all over as I walk into the small space until I’m naked with nothing but my sheathed sword dangling from my fingers. I grab a random shirt that could probably go for a fluff-and-fold, but I’m too tired to give a shit.
I make my way to the altar in the middle of my house dedicated to my Holy Lady of Death.
Some say that you should always look your best for your deities, that you should be perfectly put together. I like to think my lady appreciates me as I am.
A half-naked hot mess and all.
I kneel before the altar. It’s a stairway structure, decorated in black-and-purple candles, dark orchids, mirrors, cauldrons, and at the very top is my Lady.
She is a woman draped in long, dark robes and a sheer veil that covers her skeletal face. Legends say that to look into her eyes is so powerful, it can wake death with a s
ingle glance; her gaze is madness incarnate and frightening to behold. It’s why she wears the veil, why she’s depicted with her features covered in our holy images.
Even pictures are powerful things.
I place the sword in front of the altar before I press my palms flat against the floor and lean forward, staring up at her image. “My Lady, I took another soul today. An offering for you, another soul for your river of sorrow.” I pause, chewing at my bottom lip, pondering what I should say next.
Ah, what the hell. She can likely already read every thought running through my mind, anyway.
“Am I really the last, Lady? For so long, I’ve lived with this thought that my people are gone and today . . .” I suck in a breath. “Today, they told me it was all a lie. Another Sekar is out there at Hallow Hill Academy. Is this true? Should I go? Please, Lady, give me a sign . . .”
I wait a long moment and then another, measuring the seconds with my own frantic heartbeats, hoping for a signal of some kind.
Nothing.
There’s nothing. Not that I’ve ever expected it. Signs can be found all around, but my Lady has never spoken directly to me.
I close my eyes, unsure of what to believe, and when I open them again, I notice the sword of souls glowing brighter and brighter, and the voices of the dead inside rise into an ear-splitting shriek of utter chaos that swirls around the small room. It’s blinding light that reflects off the dirty walls. For a moment, it’s a symphony of voices and screams that drown out the constant sound of the city and life in general.
They die down, and my heart is pounding erratically in my chest. I look back up at my Lady and smile.
My Lady, the subtle queen of darkness.
I know what I have to do.
The next morning, sunlight hits the gleaming card in my hand with an intensity that makes it hard to read the fancy black letters.