Root Rot Academy: Term 3

by Rhea Watson

  What. The. Fucking. Fuck.

  “Hey!” I barked, instinctively shaking my arm to dislodge my wand from its holster—but I still didn’t have a wand. My original, along with Jack’s, was somewhere in the dark depths of that lake, gone, its replacement in transit from the same Toronto shop I’d once bought its long-lost twin. Still, I didn’t need a wand to assert my authority. While it was easier to run in flats, I lacked the scary click-click-click of heels as I stalked toward the trio, evidenced by the fact that the security goons didn’t move—didn’t even flinch when I pointed at the assault unfurling right before my eyes. “Get your hands off him!”

  I wanted to call out his name—give him his personhood back, this cowering little warlock, all the color drained from his face, eyes wide and glossy. But I didn’t know it. And that only pissed me off more.

  Before I could physically intervene, however, still halfway down the corridor and charging like a bull, a den mother blitzed out of the closest stairwell and was on the trio in a second. Cloaked in the standard black attire, Eleanor—a wolf shifter from Maine—jumped in there with a snarl, bodychecking security out of the way and grabbing the first year by his crisp white collar. I slowed, unsure if her aggressive manhandling was better or worse.

  Better.

  I finally stopped, letting her take the lead here. Definitely better. Yes, it looked rough as she hauled the blond toward the stairwell door, but she had dragged him in front of her—positioned her body between him and security. Held him close. Kept him under her arm. Marched him away from danger without a word—without so much as a backward glance toward the gawking warlocks.

  Who then turned their attention to me, shock replaced with sneers, with up-and-down leers like they could see through my dark blue jeans and tucked beige blouse. I stood tall under their scrutiny and pinned them with my best Medusa glare. “If you ever touch a child like that in front of me—”

  “What?” the ringleader of the pair drawled, arms out as if daring me to do my worst. “You’ll do what?”

  Pick your battles.

  Gavriel’s whisper slithered around my skull, a sentiment Bjorn had echoed after we three sat through yet another bullshit staff meeting last night.

  He was right, of course. Everything might piss me off about the direction things had taken at Root Rot, but nothing was worth me blowing my top over. Pick my battles. Live to fight another day—to keep my kids safe, to be on the same side of the ward as Bjorn and Gavriel, to uphold Jack’s legacy, and kick Benedict’s ass.

  You know, legally.

  Right.

  I lowered my arm, still scowling but with a better grasp on the magical floodwaters pounding through my veins. The warlock duo chuckled amongst themselves.

  “Yeah,” the bastard who had jammed his forearm against a student’s neck barely a minute ago sneered. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Run along now,” his partner added, the air thick with their overcompensating auras—and mine, full of wrath and desperate to explode. “Off to class you go, Professor.”

  I left without a word, fuming as I ripped open the door Eleanor had just taken with her shell-shocked charge.

  Sobs echoed off the stone.

  The raging witch in me fell away, replaced by a protective professor who took the stairs two at a time.

  I discovered Eleanor seated on a step, the blond first year cradled to her chest. Her head snapped up as soon as I rounded the stairwell’s curve, and I paused a moment, taking in the wolf shifter’s electric gaze, irises like copper, her inner wolf right at the surface to protect her pup. With a hand on the back of the boy’s head, she shuffled them both aside to let me pass, silent, the same anger that burned in my chest reflected back in her grim expression.

  “He can skip class,” I murmured, pressing a hand to her shoulder as I crept by, the little squeeze of solidarity only earning me a slow blink and a low growl. “Take him to the infirmary to settle down.”

  Eleanor nodded, hugging her whimpering pup tighter, and I hurried off to my first afternoon lecture of the third term with my head held high, spine like steel and heart determined.

  Pleased that I had allies in this castle.

  But worried that the worst was yet to come.

  6

  Bjorn

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait—am I actually just here to watch TV?”

  Tugging my after-work sweater the rest of the way down, slacks swapped for sweats, silk socks replaced with a thick wool, I meandered into my bedroom doorway with a grin. There, across the common area, stood an unimpressed Gavriel at the front door, hand on the knob, taking in our flat with a steadily deepening frown.

  Alecto straightened from her spot at the coffee table, still organizing the chip bowls and cheese platters next to a bottle of warmed AB-negative. Curls wrangled in a bun, she smoothed the creases of her long-sleeved shirt, backlit by the glow of the muted television, and then shrugged.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Gavriel opened and closed his mouth, then shut the front door with a sigh. “Right.” Unlike us, the fae looked ready for a boardroom meeting in a dapper dark olive suit, the cuffs and tie clip a dull gold, his leather oxfords way too polished for a Friday night in flat 4B. “When you invited me here to hang out…” He added obnoxious air quotes for emphasis. “I thought there would be significantly less clothing involved.” That eyebrow wiggle said loud and clear what he thought might happen tonight, silvery gaze dancing between Alecto and me. “But… this is just sad.”

  Alecto stared at him for a beat, cheeks hollow, eyes narrowed, and then pointed the remote with the same precision she might brandish her wand.

  Her replacement wand.

  Which had arrived yesterday.

  And supposedly wasn’t as good as her previous wand, despite being the exact same make and model, the cherrywood finish identical to my eyes.

  “Just for that,” she said slowly, peering down her nose at the fae, “I’m putting on more clothes.”

  Remote tossed on the couch, she headed for her bedroom’s partially open doorway, catching and squeezing my forearm as she breezed by and out of sight. Cursing under his breath, Gavriel loosened his tie and sauntered into the flat, eyes on the screen, his nose crinkle suggesting the content somehow offended him. He made it all the way to the coffee table watching the last minute or so of the Real Housewives finale Alecto and I had already seen a few times, swiping a handful of rippled potato chips without tearing his gaze away.

  “Evening,” he muttered before popping the first chip in and falling into Alecto’s corner of the couch—like it was his usual spot, like he had been here a dozen times before and knew the ins and outs of the space, same as me.

  “Hey.” I perched at the edge of my usual spot and cracked open the blood bottle, quickly filling the awaiting wineglass. At the first waft a metallic-y AB-negative, my fangs nudged into my lower lip, eager for a taste.

  But not for what used to be my favorite vintage.

  For her. For Alecto’s blood, somehow both sweet and tart, only shared with me during the odd fiery kiss—which had been few and far between this week. Even then, her blood dribbled sparingly whenever I nicked her lower lip, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. Desperate as I was to rip off tonight’s black leggings, tear away the cotton panties beneath, and plunge into the meat of her inner thigh, really taste her, let her moans wash over me, consume me, sustain me better than blood ever could—I was a patient man.

  This century, at least.

  We all had enough on our plates lately. No need to push Alecto into giving more than she was in the headspace to offer.

  “So,” Gavriel started, a small pile of chips in his cupped hand, one long leg crossed over the other as he sank deeper into the couch, “you guys do this… all the time?”

  “Most nights,” I told him, capping the blood bottle and setting it on the floor. Given the precariously stacked pyramid of canned beer on the coffee table, I didn’t need some tipsy witch and a
buzzed fae to knock it over later; blood was a nightmare to scrub out of the floorboards.

  “Again—sad.”

  “You’re jealous,” I mused, seeing clear through Gavriel’s snark. Even before we shared our first kiss, Alecto and I had this—a routine, private and personal, something just for us. We had hours and hours of conversations, private jokes, and memories shared on this very couch, in front of that very screen. We learned about one another through a human medium, likes and dislikes, fears and beliefs. Ridiculous as it seemed wasting the evenings away here, it had become our thing, a mundane ritual to bond us.

  I wouldn’t trade our history on this couch for anything.

  Nursing my first sip of AB-negative, I glanced at Gavriel over the rim of my wineglass, then smirked again. Ha. He and Alecto had the same sunken-cheek expression when annoyed, both prone to gnawing at the fleshy insides if a comment landed too close to home.

  True to form, Gavriel retaliated by taking the entire chip bowl for himself, hogging it on his lap and shoving his hand in deep to really plant that flag.

  Better than guzzling a full bottle of vodka, I suppose.

  After all, that was probably what he would have done had Alecto not swept him into our usual Friday-night fold—the only difference, besides the fae’s presence, being that we had vowed not to talk about this week. At all. Not even a hint. No dissecting the state of the academy. No shoptalk about unhappy students. No gossip about Iris struggling to maintain control over a divided faculty.

  And definitely no mention of the fact that Gavriel was doing the duties of his underlings, only a few librarians replenished after the mass walkout last month. He stalked these corridors like a raging storm cloud lately, lightning sizzling in his eyes and footsteps falling like thunder. Alecto shouldered more problems than I could count, struggling with vengeance after finally witnessing students punished by the old regime’s standards.

  While I kept my own frustrations with the academy’s regression in check, I too tiptoed a razor-thin line. One wrong move and I’d fall—probably crack some security bastard’s skull open on the way down.

  We knew things had gone to shit.

  We needed Jack to bring the cavalry. In the meantime—limbo.

  Friday nights on this couch were sacred, and we had agreed not to spoil it. Tomorrow we could regroup. Come up with a plan for next week. Find other den mothers and professors who shared our views and make our contempt known.

  Not now.

  Now was for—

  Alecto returned in an almost passive-aggressively huge grey sweater that went all the way down to the middle of her thighs, shapeless, curves hidden—adorable. With a pair of striped wool socks tugged up to her mid-calves, she tiptoed onto the scene a little buoyant, then flopped into the limited space between Gavriel and me on the couch. Quickly arranging herself so her knees touched us both, cross-legged and flushed, she grabbed a handful of chips from Gavriel’s bowl—even when he tried to hold it out of reach—and chomped down noisily as she pointed to the screen.

  “Mmkay,” she managed through a mouthful of crisps, swallowing hard when Gavriel’s nose crinkled. “We can do an actual movie, or, if you’d prefer, Bjorn and I have a million reality shows downloaded and ready to go.”

  Gavriel gawked as if we’d both suddenly sprouted six heads. “What joy do you get out of watching humans?”

  “Usually the contestants make you feel better about yourself,” Alecto insisted, slow and deliberate as if explaining the nuances of reality television to a toddler. “Like, compared to them, we’re all really functional, healthy, mature adults.”

  Realization dawned on the fae’s angular features—clean-shaven, I just noted, almost like he had groomed himself for tonight’s hang. “Ah.”

  “Hey.” I tapped at Alecto’s thigh. “I’m… functional—beyond the comparison to those on the screen.”

  “Way to make the rest of us feel like shit, mate,” Gavriel said, then stuffed another huge crunchy handful of chips in his mouth. I rolled my eyes as Alecto stole a few more crisps before nuzzling back against me, shuffling into my side and under my arm.

  Since Gavriel and I had agreed to watch Alecto now that the cat was out of the metaphorical bag with Benedict Hammond, I’d noted a few things about our collective dynamic. Whereas Gavriel expressed his affection verbally, all flirty-combative with Alecto, compliments laced with innuendos, his blunt honesty a part of their love language, she and I were physical in our displays.

  No, we weren’t fucking on the coffee table in front of him by any means, but while she and Gavriel brushed arms, hands, or legs occasionally, I couldn’t get enough. If we were remotely within reach of each other, I had to touch her. Hold her. Run my nose along her shoulder and up her neck into her hair. Use her body’s odor to scent-mark the hell out of my frigid flesh.

  Most of all, my outward affection staked a claim to the rest of the academy.

  Let everyone know the vampire had found a partner in crime, a woman whose heart danced for him—a companion who actively sought his company, his attention, and his touch.

  Alecto and Gavriel could make what they wished of their connection, and in the end, it was up to them how and if they wanted to share it with the world.

  I did. Vehemently. If I could scream it from the rooftops, I would.

  Because no one had ever made me feel so cherished before, and like fuck I’d keep that a secret.

  She never shied away from my possessive caress, more than happy to sink into it with a contented sigh, pulse pitter-pattering before eventually evening out, safe and secure in my arms. In turn, Gavriel never once shifted his disdain onto us, his heart full of rage for others—but never us.

  So, that was where we were now, we three slowly becoming more and more entangled as secrets crept into the open.

  As communication improved.

  As we became more ourselves, free to be both miserable and content in each other’s company—free to be honest.

  But as good as it felt, I knew in her heart of hearts, Alecto didn’t feel whole without Jack. I couldn’t imagine him joining us on the couch for a movie night, independent and work-driven, but he was a part of this—her—and his absence stung.

  We eventually settled on a slasher flick that took place at a summer camp, the counselors oversexed and barely dressed for the first twenty minutes, then bloody victims for the rest. The back-and-forth chatter I usually shared with Alecto was with Gavriel tonight, the pair of us taking the piss out of the characters, the direction, the cinematography—frequently pointing out the fallacies in some of the more gruesome deaths.

  Accuracy was important, after all, and who knew more about murder than two ancient warriors.

  Alecto occasionally added her two cents, but for the most part just stared at the screen, cuddled into my side but a million miles away. On the cusp of the film’s third act, I’d had enough.

  “Hey,” I whispered, stroking her cheek with my knuckle and startling her out of whatever thought had made her look so serious. My brows twitched up when our eyes met. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, fine.” Alecto shifted about to sit straighter, my arm easing up to the back of the couch rather than slung across her figure and curved around her waist. My elskling fussed with her hair briefly, still focused on the wall-mounted screen as she added, “I… I’m just worried about Jack.”

  She shot me an apologetic look when I sighed. We had promised no shoptalk tonight—but she couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop her mind from drifting to the powerful warlock who had stolen a piece of her heart.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t fault her for that.

  “Jack Clemonte is one of the richest warlocks in the country,” Gavriel mused, his scoff sparking an embarrassed flush in Alecto’s cheeks. The fae seemed not to notice, setting his empty plastic chip bowl aside in favor of the untouched cheese platter our girl had organized with the kitchen staff after dinner. “He’s probably got his feet kicked up in some London
penthouse… You needn’t be so concerned over his physical well-being, anyway.” Gavriel then snapped at the screen, eyes full of life, mouth twisted with cruel anticipation. “Oh, oh, she’s next—definitely. Nipples seem to be an indicator of death, I’m realizing.”

  “Yikes,” Alecto muttered, her jab as halfhearted as the piece of brie Gavriel lobbed her way. She barely caught it, and while I knew she loved the stuff, she held back, smooshing it between two fingers as she said, “I mean, yeah, you’re right. I’m sure he’s not… living on the streets or whatever.”

  The sentiment didn’t seem to make her feel any better, forehead creased with worry, concern showing in her refusal to shove that hunk of cheese in her mouth.

  My girl loved cheese.

  Gavriel might have had a point that physically Jack was fine, but I also couldn’t see him abandoning Root Rot for his London estate. Relaxing back in the city while we suffered behind a ward was the antithesis of Jack’s character.

  Still. Alecto needed him—needed to see him, talk to him, confirm for herself that after watching a siren king mutilate him on an altar, he was okay.

  Relatively speaking, anyway.

  I could gift her that—relief and understanding. If I knew the true Root Rot Academy headmaster as well as I thought, he had to be nearby.

  With my speed, I could cross the entire highland territory in a night or two.

  Wherever he was, Jack Clemonte wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

  With that in mind, I plucked the squished brie from between her fingers and fed it to her, waiting until her mischievous tongue licked the sticky innards off my fingers. Then, cock beyond responsive to the brush of fire, I dragged her closer, her back to me, and tucked her head under my chin.

  Malleable as a kitten, Alecto let me rearrange her, then stretched out across the couch and wriggled her socked feet under Gavriel’s thigh.

  “Stars above, woman,” he growled, one hand hoisting the cheese plate, the other grabbing at her ankle and wrenching it back. “I can feel your freezing toes through those hideous socks.”