by Rhea Watson
The crack of his fist breaking bone resonated throughout the valley, and Benedict hit the ground again with a grunt, limp and lifeless at Jack’s feet. Flexing his hand in and out of a fist, my Sir skirted around him and went straight for me.
Only I couldn’t focus on him—not when Gavriel descended at Benedict’s side, wings all innocently aflutter. He then sank to his knees, flipped the warlock on his back, and grabbed his right hand.
“I’ve wanted to do this for ages,” the fae announced before snapping his wrist. Benedict’s howl was music to my ears, even as my own pain flooded back in, rising from a simmer to a boil now that I’d shifted the survival burden elsewhere. By the time Jack reached me, my ankles were shot and my knees gave way, forcing him to rush forward and catch me before I collapsed. Some ten feet across the crumbling rooftop, Gavriel had moved on to breaking each of Benedict’s fingers, a knee on his chest, pinning him down as he squirmed and screamed and flailed and begged.
Bjorn, meanwhile, had managed to locate Benedict’s wand and seemed to take great pleasure in snapping it like a twig, then hurling the pieces into the loch.
“You all right, little one?” Jack murmured, bracing my battered body with an arm around my waist, his free hand examining my busted nose and whatever else I couldn’t feel anymore with a cautious tenderness that made me want to cry. “I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t apologize,” I told him, fighting to be firm—to be the Dom in this scenario. I didn’t blame him for anything: Benedict had come out of nowhere and grabbed me so fast back at Root Rot… Jack would have needed supernatural speed that far surpassed our own to keep up. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He hurt you.” Like Bjorn, a dangerous air had come over the other third of my heart, all the gold in his eyes washed away, replaced by a brooding black that just did something to me.
Made me strong.
Made me want to keep fighting until the bitter end.
I shrugged, suddenly unfazed by the symphony of agony playing throughout my body. “I’ll heal.”
“He won’t,” Jack insisted, that impossibly deep baritone full of promise—and rage.
Gavriel had moved to Benedict’s other hand, breaking each finger at multiple points with a savage glee that should have scared me. Instead, when Bjorn joined him, driving his foot hard into Benedict’s ribs, I couldn’t look away.
I didn’t want to.
I wanted to bask in the savagery, in this moment where the monster who had pruned my branch of the Corwin family tree back to nothing, over nothing, finally got his gruesome comeuppance.
Jack’s huge hand suddenly obscured my view, brushing across my face, collecting curls and smoothing them back, and the spellbound air around us shattered when I noticed a smear of red.
“Oh, Jack…” Not just a smear: he had split his knuckles open with that knockout punch. Before I could baby them, however, maybe even fix them with a simple healing spell, Jack tucked his hand out of sight.
“Leave it,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’ll heal.”
The dark twinkle in his eyes suggested he was… proud of the war wound?
Maybe it made him feel closer to Bjorn and Gavriel, who were both caked in Benedict’s blood at this point, red spattered up their arms and across their cheeks. Even if he didn’t say it, I sensed Jack chomping at the bit to get over there—exact a little righteous justice of his own. After all, Benedict had pulled the wool over his eyes for years; he deserved to get a few good licks in before it was over.
“Go on, then,” I murmured, perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet now. Sure, I’d slouch. My knees would knock, and my legs would rather I fold, but I didn’t need him to hold me up, as safe as I felt in his arms.
All of them, together, were the port in the storm.
But I could be my own port sometimes, too.
After another quick assessment of my person, Jack marched into the fray. My men lacked pomp and ceremony. No dramatic speeches or sneering remarks.
They just beat the ever-loving shit out of Benedict, leaving him no room to cast, no time or space to even attempt to teleport away. Three on one was hardly fair—but neither was leaving a child to burn in her bed.
It felt like it went on forever, a gentle breeze gusting over me, toying with my curls, the air chilly as the adrenaline faded. However, as soon as Gavriel reeled back and put a hand on Bjorn and Jack’s shoulders, it spiked again, lightning striking my heart.
“Fury,” my fae called, gesturing to the whimpering warlock curled in a ball at his feet with a lazy thrust of his chin, “you should be the one to finish him.”
Gods, this was it.
I’d waited my whole life for this moment.
And…
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill that pathetic creature. My guys could beat him until sunrise for all I cared, so long as he survived long enough for the high council to lock him in a hole for the rest of his miserable days.
He deserved to rot.
Not stay with me forever. I needed this to be over.
Bjorn was right.
Nibbling my lower lip, I watched the slimeball drag his broken body toward one of the towers. It was slow going, a river of red left in his wake, fingers contorted at odd angles, his legs useless. Without a word, I followed, limping past my guys, then cast a few light orbs to track Benedict up the stairs.
It took us a good fifteen minutes to reach the top. At one point, I heard Jack bellowing about fire, but then the orange glowing through the slits in the walls vanished, the inferno conquered.
I let Benedict take all the time he needed.
It was the only small mercy I’d ever offer, and by the time he slithered onto the open landing at the top of the tower, me hobbling out after him, we were both exhausted. Panting, spent, utterly destroyed from everything.
Yet he still had the energy to roll over and scowl up at me, his face black and blue, purple and swollen, almost unrecognizable from the warlock who had stalked my every move these last few months. Bathed in the unflinching glow of my light orbs, he seethed and hissed, bared his broken teeth like that might scare me off.
“I spared you,” he snarled. The warlock then spat another mouthful of blood my way. “Time and time again, I let you live, you ungrateful little bitch!”
“Oh my gods, Benedict.” I slumped against what was left of the doorway, then pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re so exhausting. It’s over.”
With a grimace, he inched toward the edge of the tower, to the crumbling perimeter like he still had somewhere to go. More ground to cover. One final stand. “I should have smothered you in your sleep.”
Bleeding, puffy, and bruised, he was still articulate as ever—but his words had no visceral effect on me. They didn’t trigger my body as they once had: no racing heart, no stomach drops, no flash of anxiety.
At this point, I was just tired.
“You should have,” I agreed, ambling after him, stilling when the stone cracked underfoot like ice over a pond. Frowning, I stepped around the weak spot and alternated between looking at him and the ground, both dangerous, both unpredictable. “But you didn’t. You let me live, and I’m going to return the favor.” I stared him dead in the eye and grinned. “I’m going to watch them put you away forever. They’ll never let you go.”
Another gruesome display of bloody, chipped teeth. “I’ll find a way out.” Benedict gargled through a few wet chuckles. “And then I’ll kill those boys down there, one by one.” He paused, waiting for a reaction—expecting me to cower and protest, maybe even cry. I gave him nothing, because I didn’t buy his threats for a second. Scowling, he inched closer to the edge, then pushed up onto his elbows. “Painfully. I’ll record each of their deaths. Send you their bits in the mail. Then I’ll find you and rip your tongue out—”
“Ugh, stop already.” This was just… too much. Too pathetic, even for me.
“So we can clean that filthy mouth once and for all before I
finally fuck it,” he spat, his voice getting harsher with every word, more choked as he worked himself up. “And then I’ll—”
Apparently the fort had had enough of him, too: the stone gave way, disintegrating under his weight. One moment he was there, the next—gone. Falling, screaming. A numbness washed over me, and I stared at where he had once sat, his bulbous features twisted with disgust, hatred in his eyes, in total disbelief that he—
Then my name echoed from somewhere below, and I scuttled to the new edge of the tower—to find him hanging there, his arm curled around a stone stump sticking out of the wall.
“A-Alecto…” He desperately searched out my gaze, frantic and flushed, his body nowhere near capable of supporting him. Below, a good seven-story drop awaited him with a bed of rubble to cushion his fall.
I could just let it happen.
Technically, Fort Dàn would have killed him, not me.
“You s-said you won’t let me die.”
Fuck. Teeth gritted, I assessed the precarious stonework beneath me, then slowly sank to my knees. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“Ah, there she is,” he said hoarsely, smile psychotic as I slowly, gingerly, offered him a hand. “Good girl. I-I knew you felt something—”
The stone limb cracked in the middle.
I’d never forget the look in his eye, the shock, the fear, as his last lifeline gave way.
That moment the gods chose death for Benedict Hammond.
He plummeted down, down, down, then—splat.
I sucked in a sharp gasp, unable to look away from the warped, twisted, mangled body below. That neck was definitely broken. That hollow gaze still bore deep into mine—my mother’s eyes the last thing he would ever see in this life.
Victory should have soared through me. Made me light as air. A weight lifted and the everything so much brighter.
I just… felt empty.
And sick.
“Alecto?”
Footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and when I slowly twisted around, there was Bjorn and Jack hurrying onto what was left of the tower’s tallest peak. My vampire grabbed Jack when he lurched forward, then motioned to the ground, to the stones that could give way at any moment. Eyes suddenly swimming, I opened and closed my mouth a few times, struggling to find the words.
It was over.
“He fell. I tried to—”
A scream shredded my throat when the ground gave way beneath me.
And I felt what he must have in those final few seconds: the shock of free fall, the terror, the anticipation of pain—
Only fae arms caught me, not the bed of ruthless rubble. Subtle strength and a steely embrace cushioned my fall, not fire-forged stone. My gut bottomed out, the abrupt stop just as jarring as the initial plunge.
“Oh.” I scrambled for something to cling onto, arms snapped around Gavriel’s neck, the beat of his wings making the cold sweat on my forehead even more apparent. Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I buried my face against his shoulder, tingling with the aftershocks of yet another huge adrenaline spike. “Oh gods, thank you.”
“Please,” Gavriel huffed, adjusting his grip, carrying me bridal-style as he left the tower behind for the more stable rooftop. “Like I’d let that happen.” However, rather than descending like he did before, graceful and elegant and gentle, he hovered there for a moment, all his sharp angles highlighted in the moon’s glow when I glanced up. “Alecto Corwin, falling in love with you is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Butterfly wings tickled my insides, a whole army of them twining in a triumphant twister, and I smacked his chest. “Hey.”
His velvety laughter drowned out mine, and the asshole did a fake-out drop just to make me squeal, then held tighter, nuzzling into my hair as he murmured, “And I never want to do it again with anyone else—ever. It’s you, fury.” He then pulled back with a groan and rolled his eyes dramatically. “So, you know, don’t go dying on me the second we’ve won this fucking thing.”
“You’re the absolute worst,” I shot back, laughing breathlessly, tearing up, mouth aching from a smile that wouldn’t stop blooming, “and I love you for it.”
“Yeah, yeah, lay on the charm, fury…” He gently lowered us to solid ground. “You owe me—that’s two payback blowjobs in the bank.”
As soon as we touched down and I was back on my own two feet, I shoved him, giggling, then yanked him into a hug so tight that he struggled to breathe for once. Moments later, Jack and Bjorn joined us, each getting their own tackle-hugs, and we stayed in our little huddle for ages after, fussing over injuries, over each other, reliving the horrors we had survived and speculating about the very near future…
And celebrating my victory.
Our victory.
Finally.
29
Alecto
Oh, yikes. Was that what passed for making out these days: full face suck from chin to nose? Just… total coverage.
Gods.
“Uh, hi.” The two second years deep in each other’s tonsils sprang apart on the very bench Bjorn and I had shared our first kiss. The second I’d spotted these two creeping toward the conservatory, I figured I’d find… this. “Yeah, no, this isn’t going to fly.” I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “Back to Beltane, both of you.”
“Professor,” Michael Hendricks whispered conspiratorially, leaning forward and beckoning me closer like we were about to share a secret. His beau, one Mildred Something from Scotland—a new arrival as of yesterday—buried her beet-red face in her hands, groaning. Michael, meanwhile, appeared calm, cool, and collected as he tried to talk his way out of trouble. “It isn’t even Beltane. It’s June.”
“It’s belated Beltane,” I said flatly. “Go.”
The pair slunk off together without a word, footsteps slow and steady at first, then quickening into a frantic, giggly sprint for the main doors. Fighting back a grin, I sighed and shook my head, Bjorn’s and my bench only a little tainted by the incident.
And, I mean, he wasn’t wrong.
It was June.
Beltane happened on the first of May each year, another witch-driven sabbat that celebrated the coming of summer. All the rituals involved a lot of fire and dancing and, outside of a reform school, drinking and general frivolous merriment. The fire had always turned me off before, but this year, I could finally look the dozen bonfires on the athletics field in the eye without fear.
Still, there was no getting around it: today was Friday, the fourth of June, and we were celebrating Beltane a month late.
But only because Root Rot Academy had been closed for all of May to deal with the absolute clusterfuck left by Iris and Benedict. The high council of academies had seized control of the school the night Benedict died, then booted everyone out while they got to the bottom of things. Student sentences were suspended. Staff were told not to leave the UK.
Gavriel, Bjorn, Jack, and I headed south for Jack’s London town house, where we spent four glorious weeks on holiday—like, an actual vacation full of sightseeing and sex and laughter and scrumptious food…
Interrupted intermittently by legal proceedings. Witness statements and interviews with inspectors. I’d had to relive the final showdown with Benedict more times than I cared to, but they had eventually accepted the truth: he had fallen to his death. Jack and Bjorn confirmed hearing him plummet when the tower’s structure crumpled, while Gavriel—fucking Gavriel—had watched him fall without a care in the world, content to let him splat on the rocks below. Only when he saw me follow in the psycho’s footsteps did he make his move.
Save my life.
At the end of the investigations, Iris had been removed as headmistress and was currently detained in London, charges pending for her role in the demon invasion, the siren portal, and Alice’s death by accessory.
Unfortunately for Jack, despite having a strong case and dozens of character statements, he couldn’t be reinstated as headmaster. After all, even if Iris manipulated it to fru
ition, a student had still died on his watch. Throw in Fiona, an orphan vampire who had met the sun back in the first term, and the high council refused to put him in the academy’s seat of power again.
The news had caused an absolute riot. Parents wanted his reform philosophy reinstated. Students wrote letters upon letters citing how much they had grown and changed under his leadership.
Staff threatened not to return unless Jack was involved.
So, they offered him assistant headmaster, Iris’s old job, and called it a day.
Then went on to hire some hippy warlock from Florida who came out of retirement just for us. Sure, he had the credentials, but he was the polar opposite of every headmaster who came before him, so lax and carefree that suddenly Jack was the stern, no-nonsense one who had to keep the ship from capsizing into the torrents of outlandish, groovy nonsense spouted by one Stephen Caulder.
Still, weird as he was, difficult as he had been to follow during our first staff meeting, quite the fan of wistful ramblings, he was leagues better than Iris and any of her hardline predecessors.
And for the sake of the kids, that was all that mattered.
The term had resumed June first, and now, just a few days later, on a gorgeous Friday night, we were neck-deep in our last sabbat celebration of the academic year. All new security, heavily vetted by the high council, and the den mothers kept an eye on things. It had only been a few days—and only an hour into belated Beltane—but things were… okay.
Good, even.
No Benedict Hammond skulking in the shadows and no Iris Prewett demanding the world of us—so, great, actually.
Really, really great.
So solid, in fact, that I wasn’t in a rush to get back to the festivities, the general anxiety and urgency that surrounded past events nowhere to be found. Instead, fiddling with the dandelion heads woven into my chunky, frizzy braid, I lost myself in the fireflies. Enjoyed their little dance. Watched them flutter and swoop with a soft smile, for once not making note of all the greenery I needed to trim and uproot.