by Rhea Watson
Yeah. I liked my roommate.
So glad I didn’t screw him tonight.
“G’night,” I offered, nudging my bedroom door open with my hip and tossing my flats inside. Bjorn tipped his head back with an easy smile.
“Sleep well.”
“I guess I’ll see you… tomorrow evening?”
“That you will.”
With one last shy wave, I skirted inside and closed the door. Slumping back against it, I could have sworn I still felt his eyes on me, penetrating the wood like lasers.
At the very least, he could hear me loud and clear.
Not great for privacy, but as I let everything fall—towel, skirt, top, ruined underwear—I couldn’t give less of a shit if I tried. All that mattered now was that bed.
Which I collapsed gracelessly into with a grunt.
And passed out, naked and spread-eagle, less than a minute later.
5
Alecto
Gods. How was I still hungover?
Never again.
Never. Again.
Exhausted after the most tedious day of my life in the greenhouses, I fluffed my fingers through my unruly hair with a groan and scowled at my reflection in the dead television screen.
“You look fine,” Bjorn called from the bathroom, his words tinged by a smile I could hear, not see, and followed by a rush of tap water that made my headache pitch a fit.
“Yeah, well, I feel like death.”
“Then take the draught and stop being a martyr.”
“So, okay…” My gaze slid to the bathroom door’s reflection in the screen. “You’re going to need to tone down the sass by like ten—we are not that close.”
His chuckles shot back at me like silky gunfire. “You’re such a pleasant drunk, but at what cost, Professor Clarke?”
“Are you almost done in there, Professor Assulf? We’re going to be late.”
“Go on without me,” my vampire roomie insisted with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll still need a minute or two…”
I rolled my eyes, battling with that one dick curl that was shorter and springier than the rest right in front of my ear. Always a troublemaker, this guy—though I wasn’t the only one having hair problems tonight. Bjorn had been in the bathroom since I left it about an hour ago, prepping for the start of year feast, same as me, but spending an exorbitant amount of time on his icy-blond locks… which had looked the exact same every time he popped into my room for my opinion. Short and thick, there was only so much one could do with that besides sweeping it away from one’s ridiculously handsome face. Either way, he looked good through his hair disasters; I teetered between deranged poodle and lion if I got this mane wrong.
“Can’t quite nail that Superman curl, eh?” I mused, flattening my rogue corkscrew and trying—failing, like always—to stretch it out behind my ear. The rest of my curls had done as they were told, scorched to death under a styling glamor that straightened them just enough to make a loose chignon.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“I thought you were a hip, modern vampire,” I remarked with another eye roll. Seriously, Superman was big enough to breach the supernatural world; human pop culture blanketed ours tenfold, their population substantially larger. “You watch Real Housewives, but you don’t know who—”
“Aren’t you going to be late?”
Ugh, fine. Feeling this shitty, I hadn’t wanted to navigate the echoey castle corridors alone, but whatever. I was a big girl—a grown witch. I didn’t need a buddy, even if I would have liked one.
Shooting the bathroom a glare in passing, I went straight for my shoes at the front door. Tonight’s outfit blended masculine and feminine: crisp black cigarette pants scaled my legs, while a delicate white silk blouse was tucked into the high waistband, with bell sleeves that nipped at the wrists and a collared neckline. I tied it all off with a black bowtie, its tails long and stamped with a gold button at each end. Stylish but comfortable, my grey oxfords erred more toward the human fashion trends that were always big with the younger supernatural crowd.
Bjorn had gone for the full professor aesthetic with a tweed jacket and elbow patches and a vest—hot, but a little stuffy for my taste.
Feet shoved in my shoes, I rounded in place, lips parted, and took in a soft breath to have one last word—
“I’ll catch up,” Bjorn told me, still hidden behind the partially closed bathroom door, still fussing with hair that would look the same no matter what he did to it. Wand tucked up my sleeve—a pain to access under the blouse cuffs, but whatever—I turned the front doorknob with a huff.
“Fine. I’ll save you a seat, then.”
“They’re assigned for the formal feasts, newbie.”
“Oh my gods—”
“Are you still here?”
“Byyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyye,” I drawled as I slunk outside, then slammed the door for his benefit. Standing there on the landing, the wham reverberating over the high-pitched whine between my ears, it hit me. All of it. Not only had this been one of the worst hangovers I’d ever had, painfully persistent no matter how much water I chugged or what kind of greasy food I shoveled down at brunch with all the other bleary-eyed staff—but at some point tonight, I would come face-to-face with my parents’ murderer.
The warlock who had left me to burn.
I’d been on edge all day. It had started when I crawled out of bed feeling like I’d been hit by a bus, then it carried on to the noonish meal I shared with the rest of my colleagues—those of us who had made it to the dining hall an hour before students started rolling in, anyway.
Last night had been messy, from the drinking to the dancing on the table to the sex with a random fae—sloppy. And I saw it in a few eyes today, the way they dismissed me and the others who had let loose.
Whatever.
At least I had a clique of younger professors who were all in the same boat, which was a first in my entire career.
No Benedict Hammond there.
And of course he wasn’t in the greenhouses, either, where I had spent the afternoon prepping for my first week. Miranda Atkins—my predecessor and yet another source of my ever-present guilt—was a goddess. Demeter reborn. It was obvious from the established greenery she loved her work just as much as I did, and I vowed to care for what she had built with the same tenderness and care.
The djinn I had paid originally offered to kill her to create a spot at Root Rot Academy for me.
I had pushed for a cushy retirement. In her sixties, forty-five years of teaching behind her, the witch could use a break.
Apparently said option was boring, but the djinn did as he was told—because the client called all the shots. As far as I knew, she had gone back to Wiltshire to be with family and open her own nursery.
So.
Living her best life, hopefully.
Big shoes to fill, and today hadn’t exactly been my finest work. Nauseous, headachy, sweaty, anxious, terrified, I had toiled beneath a relentless sun, the greenhouses roasting, for hours, prepping and organizing and pruning and harvesting and taking a ridiculously thorough inventory—yet when I left, it looked like I’d done nothing. Which was just… fantastic.
Exhausted, I had trudged back to the flat, assaulted by student chatter and den mothers shouting over the chaos at every turn, to nap for an hour. I then forced myself to fine-tune this upcoming week’s lesson plan, had a quick shower, got dressed for the feast—and now I was here.
Feeling just as shit as I had when I’d woken up an eternity ago, now with the added stress of knowing for a fact that in no time at all, I would have to see him.
Breathe the same air as him.
Once, that had given me courage. Made me bold. Made me angry and determined.
Tonight, the thought had me gagging, all that simmering nausea coming to a boil and threatening to spill all over this outfit, which, while cute, was already starting to feel like too much. What I would have done to go to this thing in sweatpants�
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Squaring my shoulders, I forced myself through a few deep, calming breaths, then wiped away the surge of cold sweat from my forehead and rubbed my palms on my slacks.
You can do this. You can do this.
I had spent years dreaming of this.
Emptied my bank accounts for this.
Moved across the world for this.
Even if I couldn’t do it, I had to. No turning back now.
Fidgeting through the blouse with my wand in its forearm holster, I made my way down the winding stairwell to the main floor—only to pause with a grimace at the commotion on the other side of the portrait door. Root Rot Academy housed about two hundred delinquent teens at any given time during the academic year, kids coming and going depending on their sentence, others here on a more permanent basis, and from the voices rising and laughing and shrieking outside, it sounded like they were all gathered in one place. Nope. Big nope. I veered left instead, shoving at the stiff wood door at the base of the staff tower’s stairs, which opened to a dim, dark, tight stairwell that coiled down to the underground level.
From the cobwebs clinging to the corners and hanging from the scattered gas lamps, it didn’t get a lot of foot traffic. Musty, but quiet.
Just what my headache needed, frankly. Fingers ghosting the stone wall, I hurried down, the air stale and still, not tuning in to the second set of footsteps until it was too late.
Until I was right on top of him.
Him.
We just about slammed into each other around one of the turns, and I leapt back with a pitchy cry, slipping on a stair and losing my footing.
“Whoa there… Easy.”
Those were his first words—words of kindness, of care, those hands reaching out to steady me the very same that had butchered my parents.
They were found in pieces, my mom and dad.
Scorched remains scattered around the ruins of our ancestral home.
He—
Same as his picture. Eyes so dark they were almost black. Regal nose, small mouth, high cheekbones. A few more greys than that photo, white creeping in around his temples and sideburns. Tall. Handsome in his youth, aging like a fine wine.
Benedict Hammond.
He sounded vaguely English with that nondescript accent, and he looked like an angel with that smile.
Fake accent.
And all demons were handsome.
“You look like…” His gaze swept my features before locking onto mine, arms outstretched like he thought I might grab his hands for balance. I clawed up the wall instead, shaking, knees a breath away from knocking. Head cocked, he retreated somewhat once I was up, his pleasant smile not quite meeting his eyes anymore as he scrutinized me in the shadows. “You look like a new face.”
I blinked back at him, tongue thick and throat closing.
“Ash Cedar,” he said a beat later, pressing his large hand to his chest, dressed in shockingly traditional warlock robes. Emerald and mauve. Baggy overcoat that made him look even bigger than I always imagined. A dark wand dangled from his belt—not that I had the focus to discern its make or markings. He cleared his throat, the false name rolling off his tongue so easily—just like mine. “I teach spells, charms, and hex usage for the witches and warlocks here at Root Rot… Responsible usage, of course.”
The added wink made my skin crawl. My nails gritted into the stone, the high-pitched whine slicing through my brain dulled by a thousand racing thoughts.
Jab your thumbs into his eyes and don’t stop till you hear the pop.
Scream.
Attack.
Hex him, kill him, demand answers—collapse and sob and succumb to the grief that has haunted you your whole life.
I forced a smile instead. This was a long-con and the game was only just beginning. When I finally confronted him, in whatever manner I eventually settled on, he needed to be shellshocked.
I wanted to best him. It needed to be satisfying.
“P-Professor Alecto Clarke,” I stammered, voice barely above a whisper. After a gulp and a soft clearing of my throat, I tried to be louder, stronger, but my body refused to work with me. “Herbalism and potion making.”
“Ah, yes.” His head bobbed, everything about him sickeningly pleasant—except for his eyes. They never left mine, barely even blinked. “Miranda’s replacement. Lovely. Pleasure to meet you.”
Were those obsidian marbles the last things my parents ever saw? Did they feel the same burn I did now, the weight, the intensity, the unnervingly intimate way they burrowed into you, right down to the core?
“Sorry, I don’t mean to stare.” Finally, Benedict motherfucking Hammond blinked, the intensity replaced with the same easy cheeriness that painted the rest of him. “I just—”
We both flinched at the thunder booming down the stairwell from above, a door slamming shut and a shadow creeping down the walls—until the man caught up to it, Bjorn slowing to a halt a few steps above me. His bright blues flicked between Hammond and me, expression neutral, and then he tipped his head down with a thin half-smile.
“Cedar,” he said gruffly. Hammond grunted, barely acknowledging the looming vampire, then fixed me with a charming expression that had a chill cutting down my spine.
“Welcome to Root Rot, Alecto.” He started up the stairs, patting my elbow even as I shoved myself against the wall so that we wouldn’t touch—going out of his way to invade my personal bubble under the guise of friendliness. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Always happy to help a fellow witch.”
Benedict carried on up the stairwell without a backward glance, a bit of pep in his step, his touch already starting to scar on my arm.
“Faen ta deg,” Bjorn grumbled, lumbering down until just a stair separated us, even more of a giant than usual in the tight space. “He won’t acknowledge you unless you’re a witch or warlock… Lucky you.”
I nodded because I had to—couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear when he was right on top of me, when we were literally the only two bodies in this stairwell. But my gut dropped in Hammond’s absence, legs weak and prickly, suddenly shivering and gritting my teeth hard so he wouldn’t hear them chatter.
“Are you sure you don’t have a heart condition?” His hand on my shoulder had me yelping and stumbling down a few of the steps, and Bjorn chased after me, stopping just shy of making contact. “I apologize—”
“Just nerves,” I bit out, the walls closing in, the stagnant air suffocating. “First day—night, whatever… I’m always like this. I…” Need to get out. Need to breathe. Need to scream my throat raw. “Left something in the flat. Sorry.”
Even though he stepped to the side as best he could, Bjorn’s massive body made it impossible to squish by without touching him. But I barely felt it. Barely noticed the steel hiding behind the dark brown tweed. I was drowning and just needed an out—needed to breach the surface, escape the darkness.
Breathe.
Only I didn’t draw a full breath until I was back in the flat, falling through the door and collapsing to my knees with a strangled sob. With the edges of my vision tinged black, I crawled across the hardwood and onto the tile, the bathroom pitch-black but the layout painfully unimaginative. Could have found the toilet with my eyes closed.
I did.
I found it, ripped up the lid—and emptied my guts into the porcelain bowl, sobbing and dry heaving until there was nothing left.
When it was over, I sank down and pressed my cheek to the tile, hoping the chill might ground me.
Instead, I just curled in on myself and wailed like I had that day—waking up to the flames and the smoke.
Completely, utterly alone.
6
Gavriel
Another year, another welcome feast.
Tonight marked my fourth in the ten-year contract I had signed with the last headmaster, and as it stood, I was behind schedule. By a lot. A fuck-ton, to put it eloquently. A fuck-ton behind where I had envisioned myself when all this star
ted.
Call me a fool, but I had thought making a deal with the Devil would be easy. One hundred souls accepted into Darkwell Academy, one hundred delinquent supernatural and shifter teens to sweep into his fold, and I would have all I had ever desired: prominence in the Ash Court. Wealth. Fame. A spotless reputation and a seat on the king’s high council.
All that a low-born fae would never achieve, no matter how hard they tried—no matter what they sacrificed.
Back home, I wasn’t even permitted to look through the royal palace’s front gates anymore, never mind plead my worth to my sovereign—to offer him my services directly. I had skill. Tact. Ability. Guts.
But I had been born dirt, and in the Ash Court, dirt was all I would be until eternity expired and we all went up in flame.
One hundred students to carry on from Root Rot for further studies in the dark and wicked arts at Darkwell Academy. One hundred future soldiers for that fallen angel’s army. What did I care of the spat between Heaven and Hell? I was one of the fair folk, a creature of the beyond, a citizen of the Otherworld. Let dark and light battle it out until they ripped this realm apart for all I cared.
Year four, I should have acquired thirty—or, at the very least, put forth thirty names for consideration.
Thus far, three had passed the initial assessment, and two had been accepted to Darkwell after their eighteenth birthday.
Fucking two.
Apparently I had grossly underestimated the quality of this realm. All the little heathens seated in front of me were supposed to be the worst of their kind, rebels that even the highest ranking members of their covens, clans, and families had no interest in dealing with—children who needed a firmer hand. Children who lacked control of their powers. Children who might just relish a global apocalypse if it meant they could really let loose.