by Rhea Watson
Was that supposed to mean something?
Like—there was more to this upstart trust fund warlock than I’d thought?
I mean, obviously. Alecto wouldn’t fancy him for nothing.
Still, beyond the wealth and good looks, what was there? Did she have a thing for stupid rules and rigid deadlines? Long-winded speeches and fanciful thinking?
“Where did you come from?” Jack growled, bypassing my demands and focusing on the boring shit. Ugh. I rolled my eyes and pointed to the staff tower. Craning back, Jack followed the general direction of my finger, then faced me with a steadily deepening frown. “Who is that up there?”
I scoffed. “Don’t you know?”
Surely he had an inkling. While we weren’t exactly on casual acquaintance terms, Jack Clemonte and I had interacted on a professional basis quite regularly for years. We had many, many, many tedious meetings in his office about budgets and dull-as-fuck administration nonsense for the library. He saw me around the castle, at events, at meals. He knew I didn’t have friends—and that there were probably only two beings at this academy who would give me, Gavriel, not Gavriel the Seductive Fae, the time of day.
“Look.” Jack refocused with a shake of his head. “I don’t have a choice here, but I’m hardly finished.”
“Actually, Mr. Clemonte,” one of the security warlocks piped up—some ginger-haired fuck barely pushing six feet but somehow wider than Jack, his neck sacrificed for more muscle, “this will be your final day on campus. Please.” He gestured toward the locked front gate behind me. “Keep moving.”
I stared into those soulless green eyes for a beat, then sneered. Fuck this Napoleon-complex prat. Bjorn had a point: Jack might have tried my last nerve during his tenure at Root Rot, but he was good for the academy—for the staff and the students. We all saw pay raises when he joined the team, and while students still faced weekend detentions, not a drop of blood had been spilled in the courtyard.
Not a child strung up and whipped at the old oak, its trunk stained with trauma.
Yes, Jack Clemonte was a pretentious warlock with more money than sense, but if I set my personal opinions aside, he had value.
Especially at Root Rot. Unlike his predecessor, this man actually gave a shit about what happened to the kids who trudged through our doors.
And to sack him over a student’s death without the whole story out there…
It wasn’t right.
He deserved a hearing and a trial and whatever else to determine if he was fit to continue at his post. Death was a complicated, messy affair; Jack’s termination was too squeaky clean to be legitimate.
“This is bullshit,” I hissed, parroting Alecto’s words back to her contracted—special—friend. Whatever that meant. Jack’s brows shot up, the edges of his mouth twitching, and he shuffled closer.
“Hardly knew you cared, Gavriel.”
“Well, I’m not the president of your fan club, no.” Never would be—but maybe one day I could consider donating at a club bake sale or something. “She’s sitting up there.” I motioned halfheartedly to the staff tower again. “And she’s watching you get the perp walk out of here without saying goodbye.”
Again with the brooding, overtly masculine jaw clench. Finally, Jack rose to his full height, a spark of the powerful warlock who strode these halls shining through as he looked to the tower—to Alecto and Bjorn’s dark silhouettes.
“Take care of her,” he murmured, something so dreadfully genuine in his eyes that it made me shift about, a bit awkward at the display. “Please, Gavriel… Make sure she’s okay.”
Huh.
Did he know about Benedict Hammond—about the wolf stalking her in the night? The beast had a taste for her blood now, and he wouldn’t stop at just that.
“You know the danger you’re leaving her in, right?” I said slowly, voice low, head slightly tilted to gauge whether we were on the same page. The blocks of warlock muscle at his back closed in, refusing to give Jack an ounce of privacy, but that hardly mattered: he had no idea. Not a single clue. I saw it in his expression, the confusion, the searching gleam in his eyes as they bore heatedly into mine.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Right. Definitely not. “Never mind.” Let him think it was just the standard risk of working at an academy that permitted brazen torture. It wasn’t my place or my right to spill her secrets, not when she had so dutifully kept mine. I raised a hand when he started up again, perhaps to press further, but instinct told me the security squadron at his back was seconds from snapping. “You’d better fight this, Clemonte. They’re going to start flaying students again as soon as you walk through that gate.”
And that wasn’t hyperbole. Rare, sure, the act of flaying a squealing shifter, all the while knowing their flesh would grow back unscarred, but it had happened before.
I… drank a lot to forget the incident.
I’d heard bloody screams all my life as a warrior, but nothing compared to the agony that ripped through the castle that day. Sure, the shifter in question had gone full tiger and attacked a den mother—but nothing excused that level of torture.
Nothing.
Spine straight, shoulders back, Jack stood tall, all gruff and gritty as he growled, “You will see me again soon.”
The blond security warlock at his right snorted. “Not likely. Come on—move.”
He then had the audacity to shove Jack forward. Sure, my former boss barely moved, but it was the implication that stung.
This lot was ready for the magical and the physical—ready to make Jack Clemonte the first victim of the old regime.
But Jack held his ground, and so did I, easing around his massive frame to meet the security goon’s gaze. Bright hazel, more brown than green in this light, blazed back at me, unflinching and defiant, until suddenly a wand entered my line of sight—a cheap ploy to make me blink first.
“What?” The warlock flashed fighting eyes, goading me to take a swing. “You got something to say, fairy?”
“No.” My wings flared at the burst of battle adrenaline. “I don’t need to say a word.”
Fae magic was about intention, after all. No need for some Latin incantation to summon my power. It was all inside me, waiting at my beck and call, capable of wiping out the entire Root Rot grounds with just a thought.
More wands shot up, a trio of conduits trained on me—chest and forehead, prime spots for a takedown. I started to raise my hand, mind awash with the foul torments I could unleash on them, but Jack grabbed my wrist and forced it back down.
Well then. Rather strong for a pampered Clemonte prince.
“Choose your battles, Gavriel,” he ordered, sounding more like the fae I had willingly and happily followed into battle, men I had looked up to and aspired to become—the capable commanders who came before those funded by the gentry. Jack suddenly possessed their energy, his voice calm and confident. He tipped his head toward the staff tower, still gripping tight. “And watch their backs while I’m gone.”
Three wands still leveled my way, I yanked him closer with a jerk of my arm and whispered a few heated last words. “Don’t dawdle, Jack, like you do with everything else. Just shut the fuck up and put a little pep in your step. We need you back here.”
He released me just as the intensity of his grip started to ache and was then swept away, hands on his shoulders, wands at his back. Scowling, I stepped aside, teeth gritted, wings hidden, and watched the bastards march Root Rot’s moral compass toward the front gate. It certainly didn’t help that all three warlocks saw fit to sneer and smirk as they strode by, victory in their veins, but I let them have this battle.
The war had only just begun.
And—it all felt oddly familiar. The clear-cut sides. Jack’s command. Something long dead and forgotten clicked into place inside, and I lifted my chin, glowering at the enemy party, feeling as though my commanding officer had just issued a direct order.
Given me a mission.
&nb
sp; Not one that was destined to fail, sugarcoated and falsified—made to ruin me. A mission that had merit: protect those who needed me. Even though I had never taken Jack Clemonte seriously before, and I still wasn’t about to drop to my knees and lick his boots, I could acknowledge his merit.
Unlike the headmaster who held his post during my first year, Jack cared about others first. Sure, he was ambitious. Ruthless in his own way. Determined and self-possessed—but not at the expense of the innocents around him. Not at the cost of his people.
So… Mission accepted, Commander.
Under my watch, no one would touch a fucking hair on Bjorn and Alecto’s head.
And if the rest of the faculty proved worthy of my time, I’d keep an eye on them, too. Students, shitty as the little bastards could be, I suppose fell under that umbrella as well.
I’d hold down the fort.
Take this seriously.
See his order for what it really was: a chance to make up for past failings…
This time, I wouldn’t lose a single soldier.
Let the war begin. A battle cry echoed in my heart as I took flight again, headed back to Bjorn and Alecto with a renewed sense of duty prickling in my gut—adding a bit of steel to my spine. I’m more than ready.
5
Alecto
The first day of the third academic term and the ushering in of the new—old—Root Rot reform regime was quiet.
Too quiet.
Too structured.
A consistent routine had always carried our students through the day. Jack constantly preached the benefits of structure—of setting expectations and praising kids for meeting them. Classes were still ninety minutes, same as before, and mealtimes hadn’t changed, but the process of getting to and from all that had become vastly different over the weeklong term break.
A break in which half the Root Rot faculty took the severance package and bailed, unwilling to work at a reform school without Jack Clemonte. I couldn’t exactly blame them; if I didn’t care about these kids, I would have left too. I didn’t vibe with punitive policies—and that was putting it mildly.
Still, as I’d taken in the bevy of new faces popping up around the castle over the last seven days, my anger only grew. Anger at the circumstances, at Iris Prewett, at Benedict Hammond—at the high council for putting so many young lives at risk, body and mind. Hell, even at my former colleagues who jumped ship; if there had been enough of us to stand up to the changes, maybe we could have softened the blow.
Instead, I woke up Monday morning after Iris’s grim start-of-term feast the night before to a new—ridiculously intense—security team and a barrage of unfamiliar colleagues. Not a single den mother had left their post, though some walked around with this don’t fuck with me energy that hinted some within their ranks also didn’t approve of the changes, but unlike professors I’d once considered work friends, they weren’t willing to leave their cubs behind.
Very few of the new faculty had given me the time of day yet, a very clear divide between the old hires and the new. Whatever Iris had told them kept them at an arm’s length from the rest of us, which I didn’t hate, but I preferred to know my enemy.
Because all of a sudden, there were a lot more of them.
And Benedict had snuggled right into their new-hire bosom.
Like he needed the additional protection: he already had Iris on his side, the new headmistress wielding her power like a broadsword, slashing club budgets and nixing the spring sport leagues, ready to hire and fire at the drop of a hat. No more severance packages for those of us who stayed: if we couldn’t hack it, we’d find ourselves outside the ward surrounded by all our shit, no recommendation letter, no nothing.
That had been the gist of her overwrought speech at last night’s staff meeting, anyway, as she glared daggers into those who turned our noses up at her paid offer to bail. I might have had a more legitimate reason to stay at Root Rot than some of my peers, but I also wouldn’t abandon these kids to the wolves. Fuck no.
Not that I possessed the firepower to really do much about it, stuck watching it all unfold today, tense and hyperaware of every new security officer—of anytime I felt like someone was eyeing me a little too intensely.
Which was often. After my run-in with Benedict, way too often. Gavriel and Bjorn shadowed me whenever their schedules allowed, but they couldn’t be my private bodyguards twenty-four seven; I had to take accountability for my own safety, which had left me exhausted come nightfall during the spring break.
And now that I was back to full teaching days, that would only get worse, on the lookout for not only my own welfare, but for my students’ as well. I mean, it was tough to concentrate on exacting righteous revenge, plus my course load, plus finding Jack now that they had banished him from the grounds and, oh yeah, also navigating this new relationship with my scrumptious vampire roommate, and just…
Ugh.
A lot.
Whatever. That was nothing new. I could handle it—all of it—but I was still allowed to complain a little along the way.
Seated at the staff table, I nudged my plate aside, today’s breaded chicken cutlet paired with a side salad drizzled in balsamic vinaigrette nowhere near as appetizing as usual. With breakfast still churning away, I had nothing to shove in my face—nothing to distract me from the very full dining hall, every student on campus seated for the meal. Under the Clemonte administration, kids could come and go as they pleased so long as they ate at some point during the relegated mealtimes. Today, security warlocks and den mothers lined the perimeter, scrutinizing the three long student tables filled with kids shoveling food down in the ridiculous half hour allotted for lunch.
Staff, meanwhile, had filtered in and out, some just grabbing a plate and leaving, others staking claims on seats that had belonged to former colleagues. Gavriel’s was probably still warm beside me; the fae had left only a few minutes prior, off to shoulder some of the library’s burdens. His kingdom was still grossly understaffed after the inexplicable mass walkout weeks earlier, and while he had had more than enough applicants, he had hated every last one.
He might have weaseled his way into the academy with ulterior motives, same as me, but suddenly he cared enough to not fill the library with subpar idiots.
His words, not mine.
Unfortunately, that meant he had his regular duties plus those of his underlings, which put him in a mood—one that rolled off me like pondwater off a duck’s back, honestly. His grump didn’t faze me anymore, not when he and Bjorn had slowly but surely become my Root Rot people.
Let him be as surly as he wanted.
If he was a dick, I called him out on it.
And he always came back for more.
As soon as the 12:45 bells tolled through the hall, gonging from the massive clock over the main doors, I downed the rest of my water and considered getting a move on to the greenhouse for my first afternoon class of the day.
Only the den mothers and security beat me to it. A split second later, chaos broke out, security swarming, den mothers shouting, all of them ushering the student body up from their seats and guiding them toward the doors in a giant herd two hundred strong. An explosion of voices pounded around the hall, prompting one new grey-haired mage down the staff table to plug his ears and glare, but it quieted down just as fast when sparks blazed from security’s wands.
A few warning shots.
I bit down on the insides of my cheeks, anger blazing in my chest, and when I glanced along the table again, I noted head healer Seamus looking equally upset.
Our eyes met fleetingly before he tucked into his lunch, and I popped an elbow on the table with a scowl, chin on my fist. Even if we didn’t approve, neither of us did a damn thing about it—about security bellowing for children to, quote, shut the hell up, and den mothers herding their charges toward the door, seconds away from literally nipping at their heels.
And that made me—as a professor and as a grown witch—feel pretty gross.
Stewing in a sullen silence, I waited for the hall to clear. They might have been assholes about it, but those in charge got the kids out in an orderly fashion, and within minutes quiet descended again, peppered only by the clink of cutlery on plates.
I hated it.
Fucking hated it.
Hands in fists, I stalked out of the hall without eating a single thing. The underground corridors had the same eerie hush the rest of the castle did today, and as I passed a few classrooms on the way to the stairs, I noted most of the seats filled.
Security posted at the doors.
Den mothers prowling.
Student chatter nonexistent.
Yeah, it was annoying as fuck to have them whisper and giggle in my lectures, but they were teenagers—that came with the territory. To have them browbeaten into silence only made the gut churn worse, all bitter and acidic, clawing up my throat like a stubborn heartburn.
A yelp around the next corner made me stop, process—then sprint forward to investigate, wearing my flats for this exact purpose. No more heels if it meant I couldn’t run to a kid’s aid.
And there it was, my first true reform school experience of the year: two huge security warlocks in their black uniforms—and a first year shoved against the wall. Pale-faced and shirt half-tucked. New, his name a mystery. Probably also headed for the greenhouse, scheduled with me for the next ninety minutes. Given his proximity to the boy’s bathroom across the corridor, he had probably just stumbled out.
Which gave these jerks the chance to, what, punish him? Because his ass wasn’t in a seat?
One even had the audacity to slam his beefy forearm against the kid’s neck, hoisting him onto his toes, pinning him to the wall as his companion squatted to sneer something in the beanpole blond’s ear.
Stunned, I just stopped and stared for a beat, knees about to buckle, heart in my throat.
What the fuck.
And then the bubble burst. Fury ruptured like a volcano, my magical well spilling over with offensive hexes the second one of those security fuckers had the nerve to laugh at the boy’s stammer.