by Rhea Watson
From the very dramatic roll of her beady eyes, Madame Prewett was definitely not on the same page as her boss. Noted.
With the outside covered, my reluctant tour guide marched me underground, which had a few windowless classrooms for the school’s vampire attendees. In the infirmary, I met the head healer Seamus and his legion of nurses, all of whom seemed like the friendliest people on the planet compared to the surly witch huffing under her breath at my side.
Beneath the courtyard I had been so smitten with was the massive dining hall, three long student tables plus a head one for Root Rot’s staff. Again, no real windows for the sake of those allergic to the sun, but several had been glamored into the walls to reflect the day’s weather.
Which was actually really awesome.
Vampires drifted through eternity unable to experience another sunrise, unable to watch it set—but here, they could pretend, just for a little while, that they were immune. The landscape inside the panels might have been a simple charm, but it was done well enough to pass for the real thing.
Another of Headmaster Clemonte’s additions, apparently, one that Madame Prewett finally had no opinion on.
And thank fuck because I couldn’t deal with her negativity anymore. Frankly, after six years of teaching at smaller academies, Root Rot was fantastic—world class. Beautiful grounds. Obvious care and attention to the fine details. Rehabilitation practices in place rather than a depressing prison atmosphere.
If this snippy witch couldn’t see what a gem she had here, it was her loss.
At least she was just administration.
At least, in theory, she didn’t interact with the students. Attending Root Rot Academy, separated from their friends and family, marked as a supernatural delinquent on their permanent records, was punishment enough—no need to add insult to injury.
Speaking of students: I was surprised to find a handful out of uniform scattered around the absolutely gorgeous third-floor library. Sunlit and cozy beneath a steepled stain glass ceiling, it was a bookworm’s dream. Seated at the round wooden tables or in cushy armchairs, a number of teens had their faces buried in books while a shifter female of some kind, dressed in all black, patrolled the aisles, hands clasped behind her back, gaze always on the prowl.
“Gloria is one of our den mothers,” Madame Prewett mused, the slight quirk of her thin lips suggesting she liked the woman—who had to be pushing seven feet, easily. “Bear shifter. One of the old guard.” And in a flash, the smile vanished, almost like she had said something she shouldn’t—which made me smirk. With a sniff, Prewett nodded to a boy in a nearby armchair. “As you know, you receive a week off between each term, then a two-week holiday between the third and first term of the year. Some students are unable to leave Root Rot, so they are permitted to stay with restrictions imposed on their movements around the castle.”
“Noted.”
While the staff weren’t allotted the same luxurious two-month vacation every summer that most academies offered, along with another fourteen days off around Yule, I didn’t mind Root Rot’s scheduling. I mean, I could be gone before Samhain if I just, you know, surrendered to my darkest fantasies.
But I wasn’t a murderer.
I wasn’t like him.
Unfortunately.
Because that made my situation a whole hell of a lot harder.
The longest tour of my life ended at the base of the staff tower, the door hidden behind a portrait of a scowling, staticky-haired witch. Madame Prewett tapped her wand to all four corners, then murmured a soft, “Ipsum revelare.” In a flash, the almost comical crone—the type humans associated with witchcraft in general—vanished, replaced by a boring wooden door.
“Your flat is on the fourth floor,” Madame Prewett told me. “Flat B. If you’ll excuse me, I have another… tour to give.”
“Oh.” My gut looped again, unleashing a fresh wave of anxiety-nausea that almost cut me off at the knees. “Are… Are all the staff here today?”
The witch readjusted her tartan, glaring down the corridor toward the main doors like she was so over me. “Most. Some will arrive tomorrow.”
Gods. The color bled from my cheeks, prickly and painful, and I touched my left heel back to the wall for balance. “Right. Do you know who is—”
“You can direct any further inquiries to your flatmate, Miss Clarke,” Madame Prewett insisted. “Welcome to Root Rot. Many consider this a thankless position, but we thank you for all your future… hard work.”
She looked me up and down one last time, scrutinizing my curls, my subtle makeup, my rigid blazer and plaid skirt that was probably too short for her taste. Lips in a thin line, she uttered one last dismissive sniff, then turned on her heel and stalked down the hall.
Awesome.
I managed to keep my shit together until I got into the claustrophobically tiny tower stairwell, but as soon as the door swung shut behind me, I was gone. My legs gave out and I tipped into the stone wall, then slid down to the ground. Shaking, teetering on the brink of hyperventilating, I forced myself up a few steps, then propped my feet up on the stair below and folded over to take some deep breaths, head between my knees.
Because…
All my life I had imagined this—breathing the same air as the warlock who had stolen everything from me. Who murdered my parents and set my ancestral home on fire while I snoozed down the hall, blissfully unaware that I’d just become an orphan. A human neighbor had pulled me out the wreckage. My grandparents collected me a few days later, then packed up and moved to a new town where no one knew our story—where the Corwin name meant nothing.
But he had left me there to burn.
He had left me there to die, just like them. To hide the evidence of what he’d done. The atrocity he committed—and for what?
Some bullshit coven feud?
I sucked down a frazzled heave, head spinning, pins and needles dancing in my fingertips. Gods, I knew it would be hard, but this was… too much. Too telling. Too obvious. No one could know.
Alecto Clarke—not Alecto Corwin. Just another young professor hoping to make a difference in some renegade teen’s life.
I’d changed my name.
Just like him.
From Benedict Hammond to…
Ash Cedar.
Which was fucking hilarious. When my djinn PI shared it, I’d burst out laughing, which had quickly turned to sobbing, because how depressing that he had gotten away with such an obviously fake name all these years.
But then again, some of the best lies were so outlandish, so outrageous, that you couldn’t help but believe them.
Get it together, girl.
Weak, exhausted, I forced myself up and leaned back on the next stair, its sharp stone edge digging into my shoulder blades. Fortunately, if anyone did spot me mid-meltdown, I could blame it on first-day jitters, but as I stood, slunk up the wall, and collapsed against it, I decided it would be better not to come across as a giant disaster on my first day. No need to encourage the rumors that were bound to come anyway. No need to draw extra attention to myself before I even met the guy.
Who could be here already.
And who might not be.
I just… I needed to know, one way or another, so I could prepare.
Instead, I dragged myself up four dizzying flights of stairs, the towers stretching much higher than the main castle, and then through a door so narrow it was a miracle my trunks had managed without me.
Hidden behind the mask of Alecto Clarke, I smoothed my blazer and skirt, then grinned to find my luggage waiting for me in a round foyer, a door on either side. Flat A. Flat B. Right. Collecting the ornate skeleton key off the top trunk, I shoved it into Flat B’s door lock, turned it, and slipped inside.
While a bit annoying to have to bunk with someone when our students had their own private quarters, I could get used to this. Key in hand, I strolled into a sizeable common area, the stone floors replaced with a light hardwood. To my right were a pair of twin
doors that must have led to the bedrooms, both closed. To my left, a single door—bathroom, hopefully, and not a linen closet. Please tell me we don’t have a communal bathroom for the entire floor. Please. Dead ahead was a three-seater couch and a—
“Fuck yes,” I whispered, lighting up when I noticed the enormous flat-screen TV mounted between two windows. With the furniture facing it and not a bookshelf or one of the doors suggested my new roommate was an avid watcher, just like me.
Some supers shirked human tech like it was lesser than magic, which was just… stupid. If they used electricity in their homes but turned their noses up at a television, then they were a hypocrite, plain and simple.
Thick white pull-down curtains blocked the late-afternoon sunshine, which glowed hot and golden behind them. Nestled in the corner near the bedroom doors was a wood-burning stove, which almost kicked off my anxiety again, but fireplaces were way down on my list of triggers at this point; at least that beast would keep the flat toasty on the freezing winter nights ahead.
Tapping the skeleton key against my palm, I meandered to the left and nudged open the lone door along the wall, letting out a small sigh of relief when it opened to a bathroom: tub-shower combo, double sinks, big mirror, toilet hidden behind another small door for additional privacy. Nice. Given the products cloistered around one of the sinks had very masculine names, I assumed my roommate was a guy.
“Hello.”
I flinched, suspicions confirmed when a deliciously deep voice rumbled behind me. Faintly accented—English, but with a little extra spice.
Oh.
Oh gods. What if it was Hammond? What if the universe had decided to royally screw with me for using a djinn to manipulate all this to fruition, and now I had to room with the villain who had ruined my life before it even started?
Death-gripping the skeleton key, I whipped around, eyes wide, heart in my throat, panic screaming between my ears…
And found…
Not Benedict Hammond, aka Ash Cedar. Not the warlock in the photos at all.
Instead…
Oh. Wow.
Tall. Broad. White-blond hair cropped and swept away from his face. Ice-blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones and pristine jawline. Strong square chin with a dimple barely hidden by neat facial hair. Pale. Stylish, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, charcoal-grey pullover that fit like a dream on a body made for Parisian runways.
My jaw literally fell open, because…
Holy Viking vampire, Batman.
2
Bjorn
“Oh. Uh. I… Hi.”
I bit back a grin. From the look on her face, she hadn’t expected a vampire flatmate.
And from her suddenly thundering heart, the surge of crimson in her cheeks, this delectable little witch hadn’t expected me. My mouth watered at the flutter in her neck, her pulse dancing, and I offered my hand.
“Bjorn Asulf.”
She slipped her delicate one into mine, flesh like fire in my icy grip. “Alecto Clarke.”
We shook for a moment, her blood drumming through the room like cannon fire, and my fangs gritted into my lower lip, hyperaware of her—of this lovely morsel standing before me, blushing, vibrant, so full of life.
Six years at Root Rot and I finally had a flatmate. Few were willing to room with a vampire, but when she didn’t immediately barricade herself inside the bathroom, I wondered if at long last Alecto Clarke might break the pattern.
She certainly was the most attractive possible flatmate I’d ever had; after all, she still had time to run to Iris Prewett and wail about the dangers of living with a bloodthirsty monster. Whine that I would keep her up all night with my nocturnal schedule. Fret that I might get blood on her things while feeding.
I’d heard it all before. Supernatural prejudice against my kind was alive and well even in the academy-sphere, where open minds and lionhearts were prized above all else.
When we finally broke apart, she might have flexed her hand in and out of a fist, my grasp perhaps too firm, but she stayed put in the bathroom doorway and tried to tuck her explosion of dark brown curls behind her ears with a shy smile.
Tried and failed, her ringlets unruly and oddly endearing.
“And what post are you occupying this year, Alecto Clarke?” I slipped both hands in my pockets, pleased that her eyes snapped to mine and her blush darkened tenfold when I said her name.
Those eyes though.
It had been decades since I had stumbled across someone with irises like molten amber, so bright and breathtaking and present. Gorgeous.
Do not hit on her, you ancient fuck.
“I, uh…” Well then. Was she capable of forming a complete sentence? Surely Jack had vetted this year’s new hires better than the last. “I’m replacing Professor Atkins—”
“Herbalism,” I said smoothly, head bobbing at the thought. While her eyes suggested an air affinity, her grounded aura meshed well with the earthly arts. “Excellent facilities here for that… Have you seen the conservatory? It’s exceptional in the moonlight.”
A few years back, it had almost been a rite of passage for new nurses to accept my invitation for an after-hours stroll in the moonlight, one that always ended in the conservatory. Surrounded by greenery, bathed in starlight and quiet, backlit by fireflies, I had thought it romantic. They saw it as a test—survive an outing with a vampire. Some did it as a dare, I later learned, others because a supernatural women’s magazine sang praises about the orgasmic effect of our bite.
Either way, that pattern had died out with the staff turnover, and eventually I had just… stopped. No fun to tumble around with a woman, no matter how beautiful, when you knew she was using you for one thing or another.
“I… did a quick tour,” Alecto told me, her cheeks still flushed but her words coming out smoother. Even her heart had started to slow, much to my disappointment. Still, she fidgeted, unable to keep her hands still, fiddling with her blazer’s hem, its cuffs, her nails, and she wouldn’t hold my gaze for long. “Just now… With Madame Prewett.”
The slight wrinkle of her nose told me her opinion of Root Rot’s administration tyrant, and my soft chuckle had her pulse racing again. “Ah, yes. Iris Prewett is quite the treat, isn’t she? Prickly old hag…”
The little witch muffled a snort behind her hand, cheeks brightening again at the sound. I tipped my head to the side, studying her, a little smitten with the sound of her voice. It came out deeper than her small stature would imply—strong, a notch above some delicious rasp, the sort of timbre to carry over the battlefield.
Shieldmaiden. The thought came out of nowhere, shieldmaidens and my pillaging past the furthest things from my mind most days. I knew nothing about her, of course, beyond the pretty exterior; Alecto Clarke could be the world’s biggest coward, yet my mind cried warrior maiden all the same.
Sure. Maybe. She would look quite striking in armor—or nothing at all.
Focus, you prat.
“And yourself?” She leaned on the bathroom doorframe. When I just stared down at her, lost in thoughts of all that nothing, she cleared her throat and scratched at the back of her neck. “Uh, what are you teaching?”
Leering idiot. “Self-mastery,” I remarked without thinking, blinking flashes of shieldmaiden-Alecto from my mind’s eye. “It’s required for all ages.” Her frown prompted further explanation; not that I could blame her. Not all academies offered my specialty. “I work most closely with orphan vampires and shifters who struggle with their inner beasts. I find they have the toughest time controlling their urges—it’s usually why they’re here. But, really, there are plenty of other supers who need the lessons.”
Warlocks battled with unpredictable magic just as shifters struggled against their base instincts, but it was usually the shifter or the vampire who faced public scrutiny, while the warlock hid his troubles behind closed doors or an unstable wand.
Just one of the many injustices in our community.
“Oh, I believe it,”
Alecto mused, rolling her eyes. “Everyone should have to go through a class like that at least once in their lives. I think our world would be a whole lot better for it.”
Her gaze darted to mine, shyness melting away, and I found myself drowning in liquid gold so soft and scorching that I swore I felt its burn. Framed in thick black lashes, long and seductive, her eyes flicked side to side, up and down, like she was mapping my features—it was only fair I did the same. Heart-shaped face with a pointed chin and relatively high cheekbones. Cheeks that would round and soften with age, a little sunken for now. Makeup masked the stress she carried around her eyes, while her full lips seemed more accustomed to a frown than a smile.
She needn’t say a word: her face alone told a story.
As if with a mind of their own, my eyes dipped lower to the delicate column of her throat, to that fluttering pulse point and on down to the dip at its base, perfectly sized for my thumb.
I’d fed last night in preparation for the start of term. Gone into a local village, found a sweet but gullible girl to seduce, and drank from her as we sat on the cliffs overlooking a tumultuous sea. Left her limp and happy. Brought her home and tucked her into bed after I had taken my fill.
The school kitchens provided me with blood warmed to the exact right temperature, but only during the academic term. I stayed behind for most holidays, which meant I had to hunt for my own meals in the meantime.
Until this moment, I had been satiated.
But now I was starving.
Ogling her as openly as she ogled me, my mouth watered. My fangs made themselves known, almost too big for my mouth, desperate to plunge into her flesh, to pierce the warm ivory and bathe in the scarlet below.
Preferably while I was balls-deep inside her.
Do not. hit on. your new roommate.