Root Rot Academy: Term 1

by Rhea Watson

  What I saw tonight was no different than the previous welcome feasts: snot-nosed brats who were here for misdemeanors. The only real difference between my first feast and my fourth was that these urchins had freer rein of the castle. Jack Clemonte had flipped Root Rot on its head when he took over two years back. Gone were the floggings, the whippings, the magical torture that bathed these hallowed halls in screams.

  In its place—rehabilitation. Talk therapy. Gardening.

  Not that I had a stake in this game. I hadn’t the luxury to give two shits about how the delinquents were dealt with—because my opinion didn’t matter either way—so long as a steady influx of them arrived throughout the year for me to peruse. Still, insolence was on the rise with the new protocols, which, in theory, I should have welcomed.

  But Lucifer didn’t want some little fucker who swore at a professor or graffitied dicks on the bathroom stalls, who smuggled beer into the dorms or scaled the newly unwarded walls for a bit of clumsy fumbling in the highlands with their special someone.

  He wanted hellions to mold and serve him. The worst of the worst—those with the most potential. Black souls attached to exceptional ability.

  This bunch was more the former.

  Thank fuck I didn’t have to teach them. Or prowl their towers after curfew. I just had to tell them to shut up most days, all the while watching from the stacks, waiting for a diamond in the rough to present itself.

  Lot of coal out there this year.

  I tapped the side of my to-the-brim goblet, scowling and scanning the three tables before me with a huff. Lot. Of. Coal.

  As soon as the hour struck, bells tolling distantly from the clockface that overlooked the upper courtyard like one great ominous eye, Jack Clemonte rose from his seat in the center of the decadent staff table. A powerful man, an impressive warlock, he rose swiftly, smoothly, his presence all-consuming, and with three simple clinks of his wand against his goblet, the hall fell silent.

  While I had never given him a reason to dislike me, I wasn’t as enthusiastic as my peers about his sweeping academic reforms, nor did I ever play the sycophant who licked his boots and worshipped the ground he walked on. All things considered, he reminded me of noble fae from the Ash Court: uppity, demanding, and more removed from reality than they would ever admit.

  Still, his appointment to headmaster had come with a pay bump for all of us—so there was that.

  As the shifter den mothers silenced the remaining whispers skittering through the student body, Jack launched into yet another welcome speech to kick off the new year. Although the word choice and inflection varied between the years, the general message remained the same. He always touched on the new philosophy at Root Rot Academy—no longer Root Rot Reform School for Troubled Youths. That name had gone out the window once he took his post, but it was hardly the reform bit that was the insult, was it? Rot. Anyone who attended this school, no matter how briefly, was compared to literal disease that killed tree roots, just as they rotted their clans and covens and what have you with their actions.

  Once he touched on the rehabilitation aspect new arrivals could now expect, he eased right along into the rules—curfews, out-of-bounds corridors, inappropriate physical contact. No shifting unless in class. No casting in the hallways. There was even a list of unacceptable spells, but as the headmaster rambled through them, I found myself distracted rather than the usual disengaged.

  Because we had a latecomer.

  She crept in through the massive main doors at the far end of the hall, sticking to the wall like ivy, swift and silent as a shadow.

  Alecto Clarke.

  Hello, little witch.

  My, my, she had been a marvelous surprise last night.

  A malleable brat…

  Thrilling, really. A rare combination.

  And who was I to refuse such a gorgeous creature?

  Anything to make my time in this fucking castle even remotely interesting.

  At the very least, she hadn’t asked for anything after. She scampered off just as fast as she moved now, picking her way around den mothers and security, head down as she climbed the steps up to the staff platform. It was an issue I’d faced regularly in the past: lovers left wanting. Not physically, but emotionally, and it was difficult to escape their yearning hearts inside these four walls. Sure, it was a sizeable enough castle, but they could always find me if they tried hard enough.

  And many did. Nurses. Healers. Professors. Security. I had dipped my wick in every category over the last three years—whatever it took to pass the time, honestly—and most came back wanting more.

  I hadn’t even seen Alecto until this very moment, as she snuck in while Jack prattled on without missing a beat. Although his head twitched slightly in her direction as the new herbalism professor tiptoed to her seat at the far left of the table, there was no acknowledgement beyond that.

  But she would get an earful later, surely. Jack Clemonte had a stellar set of lungs and a mind with no off switch. His lectures for wayward staff members were already legendary, and I’d always wondered if he got off—secretly—on the power imbalance.

  On inflicting a little pain, even with all the generous reforms.

  Not that I could confirm it.

  For all the tension between us, I had never been on the receiving end of a Clemonte berating. He might have been itching for it, but even when I was bored out of my skull, I did my fucking job.

  I had to.

  If I were fired, no other academy would take me on—and where would that leave me with Lucifer? Might as well fish where the prey was plentiful.

  Clearing my throat, I eased forward just enough to peek down at Alecto, past a wall of faces homed in on Jack—though a few had the same glazed-over look in their eyes I usually did. The little witch wore such a dour outfit tonight, no hint of the fire beneath coming to the surface. Bland. Muted. She had too smart a mouth for that.

  A smart mouth I’d love to see wrapped around my cock sometime soon. If she wasn’t interested in anything serious, just as keen as I was for a bit of harmless fucking, then perhaps I could break the rule and double-dip.

  Just this once.

  She didn’t so much as glance my way. Head down, she seemed to be focused on her breathing, her chest shuddering ever so slightly. I dragged my finger over my goblet’s rim, curiosity piqued, and when she finally did lift that pretty head of hers and glance down the table, victory burned in my chest. Had she felt me? Had she—

  Oh.

  She wasn’t even looking at me.

  The hedge witch stared clear through me, the pass of her amber gaze fleeting across my face, carrying on as if I hadn’t made her come like a writhing goddess in the courtyard.

  What the fuck was so fascinating?

  Cedar?

  Alecto seemed taken with the warlock’s hands, transfixed on their movements as he quietly filled his goblet with the same lush red wine that drowned mine. Biting down hard on the insides of my cheeks, I sat back and slowly rotated my chalice in place, frowning. Ash Cedar was the most boring shit alive, painfully steeped in old-school prejudices, but perhaps she had already picked him for her next conquest. Perhaps Alecto Clarke and I were more alike than I’d previously thought. Perhaps she too had a rule against double-dipping.

  Impossible.

  Who wouldn’t come back for more?

  None of them knew just how low-born I was—to them, I was fae. Regal. Powerful. Seductive. We fair folk were to the supernatural community what vampires were to humans. They all came back for more from me, not some aging warlock supremacist. Sure, Cedar got along just fine with the rest of the staff so long as they met his standards, and students seemed to take to his outwardly kind demeanor, but really. The guy was the whitest of the white breads—no flavor.

  As Jack transitioned into the final few paragraphs of his speech, regaling the student body with all the events planned for the first term, I eased forward again and bullied my way into her eyeline. The moment our g
azes clashed, I quirked an eyebrow and offered a subdued version of my panty-melting grin.

  And Alecto frowned.

  Flinched, even, like I had startled her out of some deep thought. While color bloomed in her cheeks, it wasn’t the sort of blush I was used to—the kind that told me I had the vixen in my thrall. This was… embarrassment. Not excitement. Not interest. A second after the lovely pink appeared, it melted away, taking all the color with it, and Alecto went for the nearest bottle of wine, one of many scattered along the staff table, and filled her goblet. She offered me her profile and nothing more, then sank back and out of sight, lost behind the greying mage fuck to her right.

  Okay. So.

  Bit of a blow to the ego there. I clenched my jaw, then shook it off. Hardly a rejection when I lacked all the facts.

  Besides—there were plenty of other options. She wasn’t the only new pretty young thing to have started at Root Rot this year.

  While I missed the final few lines of Jack’s rant, I stood when the rest of the staff did and raised my goblet for our customary toast to the students. Under Clemonte’s regime, we lived to serve them. We were here to make their existence better, to release them back to their communities reformed, sure, but as healthier, happier, stronger individuals, too.

  Whatever.

  The only ones who mattered to me were the ones Jack’s tender loving care couldn’t fix. The untouchables. The dark hearts and curious minds who possessed a hunger for a life beyond this one.

  And as I tipped my head to the side, goblet hoisted high as the student body erupted in applause, then chugged every drop of wine back, I hoped—for my sake—that this bunch of miniature felons proved to be more fruitful than the last.

  7

  Jack

  Why in the seven hells was there a tiny foam castle floating in my espresso?

  As I stared down at the miniscule mug of piping-hot liquid energy, I just didn’t have the will to work out the mechanics of it—nor did I care. All that mattered was the guaranteed boost it offered to get me through the final staff evaluation of this first week. Just a little push to carry me over the finish line when all I wanted was to let my heavy lids fall shut and sleep the next eighteen hours away in my office chair.

  Never mind. The Clemonte philosophy stressed sleeping when you were dead, and I was nothing if not my hard-ass father’s son.

  But I couldn’t function on fumes. Iris had offered to make me something stronger, something laced in magic and pep and would probably taste horrid. While I appreciated the offer, I looked forward to crashing sometime around midnight—an early night, all things considered—and if I gulped down whatever she set in front of me, I’d be wide-awake all weekend.

  Exhaling deeply, I went for the cup that looked tragically tiny in my hand, then shot back the entire thing in one go. It scorched down my throat and burned in my gut, but in a few minutes I’d have the oomph I needed to get through the next hour.

  Iris Prewett, my second-in-command, the one witch I relied on more than anyone in this world, would have preferred I take the magic alternative—but she was a workhorse in need of very little sleep, possibly even less than me. If she had her way, the Root Rot staff would share her intense work ethic, and while I valued hardworking folk under my command, even I had to draw the line somewhere. Human studies had shown workers were more productive—and happier—with a suitable work-life balance. Leisure and rest fell into that paradigm, and even if the rest of the supernatural community put zero stock in human psychology, it was my call. I saw its merit; this job had enough challenges—my people weren’t going to be worked to the bone on top of that. We were a steppingstone for many of the young professors, just a place to gain some experience, to brag about surviving on the other side, but I refused to chalk our high turnover up to burnout.

  Now, if only I could take my own advice, but that was the way of the driven workaholic. What applied to the others never extended to myself—and that was how I liked it.

  Still. Bloody hell, the first week of a new year was always beyond exhausting.

  Almost over. One evaluation to go. Just one. You can do this.

  Never mind that I was operating on little to no sleep, having spent the last week shadowing all my staff, from security right on up to the most experienced professor. Someone else might have pawned the job off on underlings; after all, I had an entire administrative wing outside my office door who, in theory, could fill out a checklist. Iris would have loved to eviscerate my staff with scathing reviews that would haunt their professional lives until retirement—which was why it was imperative I did it myself. Besides, I couldn’t take the anxiety of not knowing, of being hands-off from one of the most important aspects of the academy: staff performances.

  In the last week, I had sat in on classes, tailed security throughout the grounds, scrubbed lavatories with the janitorial crew, and shadowed den mothers at all hours of the night. I needed to. I needed that control, an iron in every fire. How else could I do my job?

  As a blast of energy hit me, fake and fleeting, the timer on, I glanced at the enormous black clock mounted over my brick hearth, a blend of modern and rustic design that extended throughout my office. Nearly three in the afternoon—final staff assessment pending.

  Alecto Clarke: herbalism and potion making.

  All week, I told myself I hadn’t intentionally put her off, but as her full lips flashed across my mind’s eye, it was glaringly obvious I had. Beyond inappropriate, my physical attraction to her. Not only was she ten years my junior, but she was my underling, fresh and new and bright-eyed, ready to conquer the world of academia—a witch who did not need some old creep sullying her career.

  And I wouldn’t, of course. Wouldn’t dream of it.

  She just… fit a type.

  Physically, Alecto Clarke was what I looked for in a submissive, and the first moment I’d laid eyes on that curly-haired beauty, all I could picture was her at my feet, kneeling, staring up at me with wide, wanting eyes—

  Again. Wildly inappropriate.

  It had just been a while since I indulged that side of me, and perhaps I was finally getting twitchy. Dom Jack had been locked away since I had started teaching alchemy at Maelstrom Academy, and he hadn’t made a reappearance after I ascended the ranks to headmaster at Root Rot seven years later. A school wasn’t the place for him, no matter how desperately I needed that outlet.

  Right. I fidgeted with a tie that was already perfect, dressed in my customary svelte black suit. No ridiculous ancient headmaster’s robes at Root Rot—not anymore. Just get it over with.

  Grabbing my notebook, pen and wand tucked into my jacket’s inner pockets, I eased around a desk that was disproportionately large for the space, then left my office behind for the umpteenth time this week.

  “Headmaster,” Iris greeted as soon as I stepped out the door. I caught her nod out of the corner of my eye, her desk situated outside my office like Cerberus guarding the Underworld.

  “Iris,” I said back, more out of habit than anything, offering a little half nod as I breezed by. She didn’t look up from her computer—never did—and, some two years after I had forced her to use it, the sight still made me smirk. Like many who had been with Root Rot long before my arrival and shake-up, Iris Prewett had pushed back hard against the integration of human tech into a predominantly supernatural atmosphere, but now that she had it, she couldn’t live without it. The rest of her admin staff had tablets of their own right alongside their wands, the dozen young witches under her command positioned around the room and hard at work on all manner of administrative needs.

  We had the whole north wing of the third floor partitioned off just for us. With mine being the most modern and updated office of the lot, everything else here mirrored classrooms and towers with the stone on stone on stone look, tapestries strung up from the old days and Root Rot emblems everywhere. Beyond the sprawling admin office was a foyer full of couches and chairs, another of Iris’s people seated behind
a minimalistic desk to usher truant students through. Thus far, not an ass in any of the seats—and I’d like to keep it that way, at least for the first week.

  My predecessor rarely left his office during the day, but I liked students and staff to know that I was here—that I was involved. Roaming the halls, nodding at students in their uniforms—plaid red skirts and white dress shirts for the girls, stockings or high socks optional, then dress pants and crisp button-ups for the boys, ties mandatory—made my presence unavoidable.

  They needed that.

  Not just the students, who were all here for a variety of issues, from the mundane to the truly horrible, but the staff, too. So far, no one was a disaster by my standards, which absolutely hadn’t been the case my first year. It was crucial that they got on board with my reforms as fast as possible for the sake of those in our care, and at first, not everyone had been willing to give up their unfettered freedom to do whatever the hell they wanted to children who needed guidance, not the lash.

  Rehabilitation had proven time and time again to produce better outcomes than punishment, and while we still had detentions, still had consequences, the new philosophy under my rule was rebirth, not grinding troublemakers into the dirt.

  Well, none of the students were ground into the dirt anymore—just me. Reforms of this sort were unheard of in the academic community, especially at an institution like Root Rot. We were the forgotten school, the one others sneered at. Change didn’t go over well, and my sweeping transformations had sent ripples throughout the entire academic system.

  I estimated I had roughly five years to implement everything and show true results before the council finally gave me the boot. Replaced me with someone backward and senile, just to reestablish the status quo.

  Tired as I was, these evaluations were crucial—more than any of my staff could ever know. All these young faces, fresh blood, mildly inexperienced professors… They were hungry to prove themselves, and many wholeheartedly embraced a kind but firm approach to handling our delinquent population. If they chucked me because I couldn’t produce concrete results of reformed students who went on to do good in their clan or coven, my replacement would just tear it all down and go back to the old ways.