Root Rot Academy: Term 3

by Rhea Watson

  “It’s fight or flight,” Gavriel mused. “I anticipate one last stand on his behalf, likely where he can do the most damage to you.”

  I gulped, gaze darting between Gavriel and Jack. At the very least, all the pieces of my heart were safe and accounted for, but there were still tons of people within the academy who mattered to me. Sure, I wasn’t in love with any of them, but they didn’t deserve to suffer because some freak wanted to make me suffer.

  “If and when he runs, I will of course track him down, but—”

  I bailed, catching Gavriel so off guard that I slipped his hold before he could stop me. Mind racing, I jogged around the circular stone-and-iron fountain, some of its spray misting my face, and then shoved into the huddle of whispering suits.

  “We have to get into Root Rot,” I declared, met with a range of expression stretching from startled to annoyed. These warlocks with their fancy robes and high-brow London accents were all here for Jack, sworn to his coven and his bloodline. They’d do whatever they could to get him back into the headmaster’s office—but the wheels of justice turned just as painfully slow as I’d always feared, and Iris Prewett paled in comparison to Benedict Hammond.

  If he was responsible for letting a shitload of demon-possessed people into the academy, he needed to be taken out—today.

  Gavriel shouldered through the crowd, his hand settling on the back of my neck, deftly navigating the curls to hold me—ground me, the pressure firm and comforting.

  “Fury, I’ve no proof,” he hissed in my ear, eyeing the sea of frowning faces, the deepest among them from Jack. “Nothing concrete. I doubt he will come back to testify to any of this.”

  “Alecto, I know you’re frustrated with the situation,” Jack added, sounding sure of himself like always, but there was something off in his eyes. Maybe the rest didn’t notice, maybe only I had seen him at his most vulnerable that I recognized it right away, but he had his feelers out; he sensed he was missing a piece of our puzzle.

  And that wasn’t great. Gavriel and Bjorn were in the loop about what Benedict Hammond meant to me, but Jack was a warlock who could really do something about it. He had the heft in our community to drop the hammer. Most of all, he cared about me. Deeply. If last night’s speech hadn’t proven that already, leading the charge to rescue Gavriel spoke volumes.

  I owed him the truth.

  He had my heart.

  He deserved my scars. He deserved the whole picture—if only to keep him safe from a real sadist.

  “I’m afraid nothing will come of today,” he added, swapping glances with a nearby warlock, who nodded gravely. “We’re here now to file my petition and submit allegations. That’s it. Technically, we got what we wanted.”

  Gavriel fluttered his lashes when all eyes fell on him, and I took a deep breath to slow the anxiety churn ramping up inside. When a chorus of male voices rose around me, as if satisfied the panicky witch in their midst had been soothed, I plunged into a tailspin.

  From my understanding, Jack’s people had a strong case to have him reinstated as headmaster. If that was too much of a pipe dream, they possessed extensive evidence from testimonials vouching for his character to at least warrant a fair and proper hearing.

  Fair and proper. Nothing about his firing had been fair and proper, the document culling his career missing about eleven signatures—never mind the fact that they had literally hauled him out of his hospital bed after nearly being sacrificed in a siren ritual. Security hadn’t done their job. Former librarians had been tracked down and went on record to admit that they were offered huge severance packages to stage a walk-out, and the one who refused was fired on the spot. All in all, Donovan McCavish and his underlings had boxes and boxes of evidence that Iris Prewett had manipulated the system to get Jack fired.

  Whether she wanted to replace him herself or just usher in another headmaster who fell in line with her way of thinking was up for debate—and not really the issue. Jack Clemonte was about to become a huge thorn in the high council of academies collective side, and from my very brief interaction with that Donovan warlock, he delighted in being as brutal as possible.

  And that was all well and good. Our students would hopefully be safe within a week or so, rightful order on the way to being restored.

  But Benedict Hammond had gone off the rails big-time if he had orchestrated the invasion.

  No one was safe.

  Not me, not the men I loved—no real time to process that revelation, but yeah, the L-bomb applied to all three of them, and I was just rolling with it.

  Clearly the academy and its occupants were just cannon fodder.

  He needed to be dealt with.

  Now.

  Amidst the white noise of conversing warlocks, interjected frequently and obnoxiously by Gavriel’s lofty fae rumble, I glanced back at the courthouse.

  Here I was, at a seat of power within the witch and warlock community—the figures inside could do something about Hammond.

  I could report him. I had my mom’s ring hidden under a floorboard—stuffed there weeks ago when I was paranoid about someone breaking into my room—and Iris Prewett had without a doubt heard mine and Benedict’s fight that night. She knew something.

  And…

  And he had spilled the tea during that stupid villain monologue, so, you know, there was that.

  But it might not be enough.

  All this time, I had wanted to obliterate Hammond for destroying my family—but I lacked proof, and I clearly didn’t have the stones to just kill him.

  Then, last week, he lost his mind and handed me the answer.

  Two witnesses had seen him just as he was gearing up to rape me in the greenhouse.

  That ought to be enough for a high council raid on Root Rot tonight. By witch law, I had the right to accuse my assailant face-to-face, before a council of witnesses, preferably those within the judiciary.

  I closed my eyes tight, resolve hardening to a painful little nugget in my gut. Shit. If it were up to me, I’d tell no one, ever, about what had happened in the greenhouse.

  Not how he stunned me. Stripped me. Touched me. Smothered me and pinched my nipples while I lay there helpless.

  That was a horror I planned to bury. Gavriel and Bjorn knew about it, sure, but they had arrived at the end. There was so much more to it, so much shit to haunt my dreams.

  But if one of Hammond’s plans went to pot, he must have others simmering on the back burner.

  No one should suffer whatever was worse than a fucking invasion.

  “What if we alleged abuse at the academy,” Gavriel demanded, the strength of his words jostling me out of my musings. A calm acceptance crept over me, and as he carried on, I looked to Donovan McCavish. “Couldn’t we at least have an investigation launched today? We can all swear on, you know, some stupid book.” Donovan McCavish: a waifish stick insect, tall and bony, with a hook nose and a sharp widow’s peak. Calculating grey eyes. Jet-black hair slicked down so intensely that you could make out the shape of his scalp. Drowning in black and grey, he’d layered up like the fresh springtime air was an assault. That was my guy. “It’s not like we’re fabricating it. Jack, you were chosen because the old regime was too rigid, and now—”

  “I can get us in,” I blurted. Ignoring Gavriel’s heated protests and Jack’s confused rumbling, I grabbed this bony legal shark by the sleeve and hauled him toward the courthouse. Much to my surprise, the crowd parted for us. “I just need to borrow you for a sec…”

  While Gavriel and Jack trailed after us, I kept Donovan McCavish moving at a steady clip. He might have been taller than me by a good foot, but after tussling with a warlock built like a mountain, a vampire made of steel, and a fae with speed and strength that surpassed us all, it was almost too easy to bend him to my will.

  “I hate to impede this rather dramatic moment,” the Irish warlock drawled as we climbed the steps, “but what exactly—”

  “There’s a warlock at Root Rot Academy who goes b
y the name of Ash Cedar,” I told him, slitting myself wide open and spilling my guts to a stranger. “His real name is Benedict Hammond. I had him privately investigated by a djinn last year, and he is responsible for the murder of my parents and attempting to burn me alive as a child.”

  Donovan staggered to a halt at the top step. “Uh, you—”

  “Recently, I made myself known to him,” I continued somewhat breathlessly, clutching at the courthouse’s wooden door handle, eyes on the ground, heart in my throat. “Our covens had been at odds for centuries… Anyway, long story short, about two weeks ago he stunned me, dragged me into my greenhouse, undressed me, then assaulted me and probably would have raped me on campus grounds had we not been interrupted by Gavriel and Bjorn.” Steeling myself, I took a deep breath and lifted my chin, shoulders back, courage there but wavering. “I need you to help me assert my right to confront and accuse my attacker before a representative of the high council. Today.”

  “You…” Donovan’s tongue flicked over his thin lower lip, beady eyes twitching side to side like he was sifting through my info dump at warp speed. He then strolled over to the other door and wrenched it open, gesturing for me to enter. “I think you’ll need to write all that down for me, Miss Clarke.”

  “Not Clarke—Corwin,” I told him, legs weak and shaky as I forced myself inside. “It’s actually Alecto Corwin…”

  25

  Jack

  “By order of the high council of academies, you will open this ward and grant us entrance. In not doing so, you are denying us entry to an academy explicitly under council jurisdiction. Refusal will be seen as a calculated act of war and will be responded to accordingly.”

  Gods above, this was the day that would never end.

  Yet for my little one, this was a nightmare that had dragged on for years.

  Despite my lack of sleep, the dull ache in my lower back and my beyond-heavy lids, I stood alert amidst a group of over two dozen, glowering at the empty territory that housed the Root Rot castle.

  A moment later, someone inside lifted the ward—some unknown security bloke who looked scarred and grizzled and much too gruff to be dealing with children. The warlock representative of the high council at the front of our group saluted the unfamiliar face with his warrant of entry, the legal right to access this property written in stark black ink on weathered yellow parchment. Six steely-eyed officials in red flanked him, their wands ready for action. Behind the first wave, more from the courthouse administration, witches and warlocks of true authority ready to act as witnesses. Half of Donovan’s men padded the crowd, along with the warlock himself, here to represent both Alecto and me in this legal shitstorm.

  I stayed behind my girl toward the rear of the group, letting others take charge even when I wanted to rip this ward apart with my bare hands. Bust through the doors. Reclaim my academy with fists and fury.

  Bjorn to her right. Gavriel to her left. Me at her back. Protected from all sides, we strode through the ward and across the forested front pathway as one, the castle ahead in shambles.

  From here, it was hard to get a read on her, but even if I looked Alecto Corwin dead in the eye, I might, for the first time, truly struggle to read her. She wore a mask tonight, a neutral expression that held firm despite my caress and Gavriel’s jokes and Bjorn’s softly murmured elskling before we set out in a vehicle convoy from Trentmore some three hours ago.

  Three hours on top of a full day of testimony and inquiry, waiting until sunset for Bjorn to make his official sworn statement—regarding her assault.

  Once again, Alecto had kept something from me that resulted in someone getting seriously injured—only this time it was her. Not Bjorn. Not Alice. Not me. Her. Throughout the tedious day of court administration and interviews and signatures aplenty, I finally learned the truth.

  A traitor and a liar and a bloody murderer had been working rather happily under my nose all these years. He had fooled my predecessors, fooled everyone, his grisly history a secret, his smile a lie.

  Benedict Hammond deserved to burn for what he had done, both to Alecto’s family and to her. If Bjorn and Gavriel hadn’t stopped him in the greenhouse, there was no telling what might have become of my darling little one. While tried and tested in the face of danger, what recourse had she when magic stilled her body?

  My girl… Helpless, at his cruel mercy, and I had been… in some shack atop a pub.

  The group slowed at the new castle doors, antique wood replaced with studded iron, the spikes an especially vile touch. From what I could see, one of the towers still lay in ruins, yet Iris had the time and budget to do this?

  Pathetic.

  A ridiculous waste of resources.

  Grinding my teeth, I waited, fuming, furious at everything.

  Usually I rationalized my way through problems. Patience had always been a Clemonte virtue, especially if it meant going in for the kill at the exact right moment.

  But today had been my greatest test of all—and I’d failed miserably. Jealousy touched my heart when I learned Bjorn and Gavriel were aware of Hammond and his connection to Alecto long, long before me. Fury clouded my mind as I listened to her tale and absorbed her tragedy, so much that I lost myself in a black world of violence, so many plans percolating about how I might make the bastard suffer.

  Slowly.

  Painfully.

  Over many, many, many days until he begged for death and I denied him, again and again—

  Late this afternoon, Alecto had wept in my stony silence, as if imagining my wrath was for her—for her secret-keeping. Failure. Only Gavriel’s well-timed punch to my arm, his silvery eyes in slits, brought me back to the moment. Seated in the courthouse hallway, surrounded by old paintings and tile flooring and natural finishes, I’d realized my error. Hauled her into my lap, cradled her in my arms, and then just held her. Rocked her. Murmured soft apologies and insisted I didn’t blame her—it was her story to tell whenever she saw fit.

  And that I was grateful she had shared it.

  After all, infuriated didn’t begin to cover how I felt about my own situation, but endless weeks of trial prep and paperwork and that dingy flat had worn me out.

  This breathed life back into the fire.

  Transformed me into a lion, king of the pride, claws and all.

  And if anyone touched my mate again, anyone outside my predatory pride, I’d rip them to pieces with my bare fucking hands.

  Beyond the new main doors, half the group followed Donovan McCavish left, headed for the administration wing to serve Iris, while the rest of us went right. Antoine Johannes stayed at the front of the pack, using my map of Root Rot Academy to locate Benedict Hammond’s spellwork classroom on the second floor. Bearded and round, he looked like jolly old Saint Nicholas, though his cutthroat reputation made him more of a Krampus.

  I could walk these halls with my eyes closed, the smell of stone and damp beautifully familiar—but the look all wrong. Gone were the portraits of former headmasters. Piles of rubble and ruin stacked high in the corners, the sight fueling my wrath: that demon invasion had happened days ago. The right incantation could have tidied everything in an hour, yet Iris let it pile up, almost as if to remind the student body what had happened…

  What could happen again.

  After arriving at Hammond’s corner classroom, largest on the floor with an exquisite north-facing view of the greenhouses and beyond, we waited outside for the high council representatives to do their work. Before me, still only clad in my shirt and jacket, Alecto rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, psyching herself up for what she had demanded: the chance to confront her attacker before witnesses. Her aura possessed an admirable stillness now, focused, no longer scattered and buzzing in the ether, but even and solid.

  A few minutes later, den mothers escorted Hammond’s night class out, fourth years gawking at me, Gavriel, Bjorn, and Alecto, whispers rising through the corridor. As soon as the room emptied, we charged, Alecto leading the wa
y.

  “What is the meaning of this?” His voice had a pathetic nasally quality to it that I had never noticed before, this overt traditionalist glowering from the front of the classroom, standing before a chalkboard in luxe blue warlock robes, rows upon rows of desks between us.

  Benedict Hammond blanched the moment Alecto strode into his space, expression tightening when he spied her men at her back, loyal and protective and pissed as hell. Even with high council security fanning out and covering all exits, if the bastard made one wrong move, we would end him. Bjorn could be on him in a heartbeat. Gavriel could rip his spine out in the blink of an eye.

  And I’d set him aflame, hopefully as he drew his last breath.

  “Benedict Hammond,” Alecto said, her voice steady, her words as crisp as his ironed white shirt collar. She stopped at the last row of desks, head held high, mask firmly in place. “I assert my right by witch law to accuse you before the high council of academies.”

  “What is this—”

  “I accuse you of sexual assault and battery by force and by magic,” she pressed on, unfazed by his outburst, unaffected save for the slight flare of pink in her cheeks, “in greenhouse number three, on the fifth of April, with the use of the reses spell.”

  Benedict looked to the men in the room, sneering, searching for support among his fellow warlocks.

  He would find none of that here—not from this group. Much to my surprise, Alecto’s assault allegation had been received with the utmost seriousness, the courthouse a flurry of activity to prepare for her accusation tonight.

  “This is most outrageous,” the warlock finally barked, pointing a finger at her, his curled lip and cruel gaze suggesting he expected her to cower before him. My little one merely stood taller.

  Bjorn snarled, stalking back and forth like a caged beast.

  Gavriel cracked his knuckles, wings flaring suddenly and cutting clean through his loose linen shirt.

  I strolled up behind Alecto in a show of unity, and as soon as his eyes slid to mine, I anticipated his next move before he said a damn word.