Root Rot Academy: Term 1

by Rhea Watson

  Of all those seated at this table, I would click most with Bjorn should either of us make an effort. A man with a brutal past, he liked fighting and fucking and feasting—or had, at some point in his life, a child of the old Norse customs, a raider who pillaged this land from north to south and back again. Perhaps with a little coaxing, the warrior might return to us.

  What bloody fun that would be, the two of us reveling in a bit of shared history.

  For now, I usually left him to stew in his docility—a wild thing caged for the sake of everyone around him, much like myself.

  “Now then,” Jack boomed, facing the student body again, den mothers and security patrolling the outskirts of the dining hall like always. Finally, my stupid candle sparked, and I carefully eased it out of the black candle’s flames, holding it over my plate and trying not to breath on it so it went out before it was supposed to. Always the same, these ceremonies, all but Samhain written in stone. Jack hoisted his own candle, the flame monstrously large and unflinchingly strong, much like the man, and held it out to his audience. “One by one, starting at the front of each table, you will blow out your candle, all the while giving thanks to the impending darkness.”

  Kind of bullshit—in my opinion—to thrust kids into all this when it didn’t resonate, but ceremonies and rituals bonded participants.

  And, at the end of the day, that was the point of the headmaster’s persistent theatrics.

  Or so I hoped, anyway—that he had more depth to him and wasn’t just some rich warlock zealot.

  Without outright saying it, we seated at the head table knew staff would be the last to extinguish their candles. Already a thin streak of white wax dribbled from the end of mine, plopping onto the plate in silent, milky droplets. Candle wax… That gave me an idea for the next time I took one of the many lovelies around me to bed—

  “Begin,” Jack rumbled, the word celebrated by his rich gravitas, pounding through the hall and snuffing out all the communal black candles. As instructed, students at the front of each table blew out their candles, some years moving along faster than the others—not that it mattered. Contrary to what Jack Clemonte preached, it didn’t need to be perfect. A sea of black descended upon the hall, the sun sinking below the dark horizon in the charmed windows, and as the final few students extinguished their light, Jack spoke once more, voice thundering through the shadows. “In darkness, we find peace. In darkness, we find focus. In darkness—we find ourselves. Let those be your goals in the months to come.”

  None of these smart-mouthed delinquents would truly find themselves for another ten years at least. For now and into the months ahead, they’d flounder, same as always, until they had the mental capacity to truly understand who and what they were.

  Still… A pretty sentiment, I suppose.

  When the last remnants of light died at the end of the three tables, Jack gestured back to us, blowing out his own candle like he was the bridge between the staff and students. Rolling my eyes, I huffed out my stubborn flame and set the candle on my plate. Many of the creatures here saw fine in the pitch-blackness; I could make out my chalice—and that was good enough. A fae of the Ash Court meant I spent a great deal of time between black and orange, soot and fire, but I closed my eyes now, succumbing to true darkness, and really sank into my high-backed chair, waiting for it to be over.

  Same as every year, students tittered nervously in the blackout, whispers and giggles erupting as soon as the last staff flame vanished.

  “Quiet, now, quiet,” Jack urged. “Two minutes of silence in the dark before we begin the equinox feast…”

  My stomach gurgled appreciatively at the thought, loud enough to make Cedar exhale a chuckle beside me. Two minutes might as well be two hours when it came to Jack Clemonte’s ceremonies, and my fingers drifted toward the cutlery lined neatly on either side of my plate, fidgeting with the dessert fork. At the first ting of silver to porcelain, I could feel the headmaster’s glare snap my way again, and with a sigh, I threaded my hands together and set them on my lap.

  Roughly forty-seven seconds later, a scream shattered the silence. I shot up, eyes wide and scanning, heart lurching as a second screech joined it, then another, and another, terror erupting throughout the dining hall.

  “Get off me!” one of the female students cried, all pitchy and frantic. “Get off, get off, get off!”

  In an instant, every light in the hall exploded back to life, candles and electric alike. Sun blazed in the charmed windowpanes, and students leapt from their benches in a panic.

  A symphony of fear—undercut by the hiss of thousands upon thousands of snakes. I shot to my feet, mouth twisted in a feral grin as I took in the horror unfolding. Serpents spilled down the walls, piled high under the tables, and slithered out of empty cups down all the student tables. Den mothers swooped in immediately, followed by the security squad in all black—useless fucks who had never once caught me creeping about the grounds at night.

  But it was too late for any of that. Students had already bolted for the huge main doors at the far end of the hall, screaming and sprinting and knocking each other out of the way. They spread the virus, an army of slithering vipers at their heels, infecting the castle in seconds. A few students had panic-shifted, birds flittering around the hall’s rafters, a lone scraggly adolescent male lion stalking the first- and second-years’ table, teeth bared and eyes frightened.

  A garter snake slowly emerged from my chalice, tinted red from the wine, and I cocked my head to the side as the rest of the staff sprang into action all around me. Curious, I crouched to meet the reptile’s black eyes, its forked tongue flickering out to sample the air. Amazing—the detail on this thing, sporting a cheetah print down its back and slashed with the customary white stripe along the spine. When I touched it, it certainly felt real, but as soon as I captured the serpent in my fist, about to test its mettle, it vanished. Poof. Just a cloud of charcoal smoke in the chaos.

  Magic whizzed around the hall, Alecto Clarke among the staffers combating the enchantment—and what a powerful enchantment at that. Darkwell Academy caliber, mischievous and devious and inventive enough to impress the fallen angel holding the key to my rise in the Ash Court.

  Whoever had cast this had power in their bones and chaos in their heart.

  But with most of the students gone, madness unleashed on the bowels of the castle, professors joining forces with den mothers to wrangle wayward delinquents, Jack and the other witches and warlocks on extermination duty, the question remained…

  Who the hell had made it rain snakes—and were they strong enough to be my first official tribute of the year?

  Finally… The great game was afoot.

  And after far too many failures, it was time for a win.

  13

  Alecto

  Gods, this had been a night—a Mabon to remember.

  Who would have thought such a calm, peaceful ritual would have erupted into… that? Staff had spent the last two hours dismantling the enchantment, which was nothing more than a simple spell to conjure a lifelike serpent. Where it turned dangerous was in the quantity; whoever had cast had amplified the hex tenfold, then tenfold again, unleashing countless snakes into the Root Rot dining hall. No one in my classes had shown such a keen grasp of spellwork, but the work students did with me erred more toward the physical: hands in earth, babying seedlings and saplings, learning the theory behind all the magical properties in each plant.

  In time, we would move onto potion brewing, but even that relied more on a super’s finesse with their hands, following an exact recipe, than on their casting abilities. This was above and beyond what you’d expect from kids this age and had me immediately suspecting a fifth-year clique who were already so over everything Root Rot had to offer.

  No matter who had conjured the chaos, the incident had been a dangerous one. It created panic. Havoc. Kids running everywhere, shifters accidentally tearing through their uniforms—so terrified that they shifted right there in
the dining hall, in open defiance of the castle’s rules. Two hours later, the other magic-wielding professors and I had stamped out the last of the snakes. Den mothers and security rounded up students and sent them straight to bed, the kitchen staff transferring tonight’s equinox feast into takeout containers, the evening officially ruined.

  Jack had had his hands full, working alongside us to wipe out the hex swiftly and painlessly, but before he had stormed off to the admin wing, he barked out that we were all required for a staff meeting tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp.

  Which was just what my exhausted body needed—even less sleep than usual. Through the gossipy grapevine, people predicted a lockdown in the near future, all students escorted between classes and clubs canceled for at least a week. Nothing but classwork, timed library visits, set mealtimes, and bed for everyone—just because one little witch or warlock had played a prank.

  One steps out of line and the rest suffer.

  Hopefully this bunch had the insight to see that.

  Eyes heavy and brain fuzzy, I stumbled through the portrait door at the foot of the staff tower, then groaned at the sight of all those damn stairs. It was around this time every term—roughly three-quarters of the way through—when exhaustion hit. Midterms and essays and really getting into the meat of the academic units meant students and professors alike were up to their eyeballs in work. Students formed social groups, allies and enemies on the rise, which created more drama during classes on top of the intensified workload. Sure, I had found my rhythm at the academy. I had my people, the few staffers I really clicked with, and then Bjorn was like a breath of fresh air at the end of the day, the first gasp after you breached the water’s surface.

  But I was beat.

  Weighed down by the work and the kids and trying to be on my absolute best behavior in front of a headmaster who probably thought I was a walking disaster after everything he’d seen from me outside the classroom—and then good ol’ Benedict fucking Hammond. Even though I didn’t devolve into a panicky mess around him anymore, my anxiety still spiked—and that in and of itself wore a person down.

  Running on fumes, irons in dozens of fires, I had been trying—unsuccessfully—to build a case against Benedict without the djinn’s assistance, something evidence-based and damning to present to a judiciary high council.

  Which was just a nightmare.

  I had nothing.

  I didn’t have the time or the resources to find what I needed, and if I went before a governing body of ancient witches and warlocks with nothing, I’d be laughed out of their chambers before I made it through my opening argument.

  And that meant I had to find alternatives.

  Possibly bloody alternatives to avenge my parents’ deaths.

  The thought of which made my stomach turn. Not the blood part—Bjorn had our flat smelling like the stuff most nights after his evening classes, nursing a bottle in front of the TV alongside my tea, coffee, or, more recently, straight vodka. Blood didn’t freak me out; the thought of making someone bloody, even if he deserved it, of attacking him, punishing him, exacting my own kind of justice…

  I wasn’t sure I could do it.

  Fortunately, I still had time to consider all my options. Even though the man was obsessed with looking me dead in the eye, nothing about our fleeting interactions said he suspected I was anyone but Alecto Clarke, herbalism professor.

  Not Alecto Corwin, orphaned daughter of Bellamy and Gwendolyn Corwin.

  And definitely not Hannah Corwin, the three-year-old he had left to burn in her bed.

  Gavriel had dubbed me a fury. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  Little did he realize, I had chosen that title for myself at thirteen, shirking simple Hannah for the brutal avenger of moral crimes—like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I had chosen to be reborn, to pay homage to the Erinyes.

  Become Alecto.

  I had grander ambitions for some nameless, faceless man’s punishment back then, filled with teenage angst and rage, rebellion and bloodlust.

  Not understanding what any of those really meant, just some naïve girl—a lonely girl, grief-stricken and hurting and in desperate need of stability.

  Desperate for someone to just hug me and promise to never let go.

  Sixteen years later, as I hauled my weary bones up the winding stairwell, an oppressive silence bearing down from all sides as Root Rot slowly settled, I didn’t feel worthy of my chosen name anymore.

  But fuck it.

  I’d dealt with enough guilt and self-loathing lately.

  Right now, I just wanted to crash.

  And then, you know, get up in four hours for the crack-of-dawn staff meeting to debrief what the hell had happened tonight.

  Two and a half months into the academic year, the stairs up to the fourth floor were less of an obstacle than they had been at first. Tonight, however, they went on forever, one step after the other, never-ending and exhausting. By the time I made it up to my level, sweat stamped my brow and my heart thundered in my throat, the weight of the day—all my problems—adding an extra hundred pounds onto the trek.

  All that vanished when I saw our flat’s door.

  I blinked, mouth falling open, arms limp at my sides.

  Someone had nailed a cross to our door.

  A wooden cross—nothing fancy, just sanded pine, smooth and glossy in the landing’s dim light. Aesthetically pleasing.

  A direct insult to Bjorn. Crosses only affected vampires in human pop culture, but the wood was what really messed them up. As soon as it pierced their flesh, penetrated their bloodstream, they were said to go down—hard. It was why a stake to the heart had been such an enduring legend; a stake anywhere would weaken a vampire enough that killing them should be a breeze.

  And someone…

  Someone had…

  Nailed—that—to our door.

  Seething, I stomped over and ripped it clean off. An iron nail bounced on the cobblestone and rolled into a crack, quickly lost to the grey. Obviously he hadn’t noticed this yet; it wouldn’t still be here if he had.

  Last I had seen my roommate, he was tending to the first year who panic-shifted into his lion form, that mane comically patchy—but his size, his claws, promising serious damage if he didn’t get ahold of himself. As I’d blasted snakes, Bjorn had sat on the table, fearless, staring into the lion’s eyes and coaxing him to shift back, to let the boy handle everything instead.

  Bjorn was such a good man. Patient, empathetic, resilient. So much more than a gorgeous smile and piercing eyes. He had dedicated his life to Root Rot, even before the headmaster’s rehabilitative program, to working with students who needed his knowledge more than any I’d ever met, and this was the thanks he got? A vandalized classroom and a crudely nailed cross at his door?

  Fury had me shaking as I hastily unlocked the door with my wand, forgoing the skeleton key in my blazer’s breast pocket for the sake of efficiency, then stormed inside. Sure enough, the apartment was quiet—empty. He hadn’t seen this, and he never would. Bjorn hadn’t wanted to pester Jack with what had happened in his classroom last month, and to some extent, I understood. Not completely, of course, but I had given him my word not to say anything. Tonight, our headmaster had more than enough to deal with after the feast—the last thing he needed was me marching into his office in this mood, living up to my name finally as I demanded righteous punishment, and adding more to his plate.

  But…

  This couldn’t go on.

  With a white-knuckle grip on the cross, I stalked to the corner hearth, which had yet to be used even in the chilly autumn evenings, the temperature taking a September nosedive. As much as I wanted to burn this thing, this insult, I couldn’t bring myself to toss it in—couldn’t bring myself to light it.

  Couldn’t face the fire.

  I had barely made it through tonight’s ritual, surrounded by flickering orange, without outing my lifelong phobia. Bjo
rn must have heard the uptick in my heartbeat, but at this point, I was better at controlling my aversion to fire than I was my fear of Benedict Hammond.

  But standing here alone, I still couldn’t do it. Couldn’t utter the words that would spark a flame in the hearth. Couldn’t handle the color, the heat, the smoke.

  Jaw clenched, I tossed the cross on the floor instead.

  “Excindo.”

  A flash of black surged from my wand, the beam shaded with shadowy white, and as soon as it met its target, the cross imploded to dust. Destroyed.

  Gone, but certainly not forgotten.

  As I grabbed the little dustpan and broom from the bathroom cabinet, one thought stood out above the rest.

  Someone at Root Rot Academy hated vampires so deeply that they had attacked Bjorn twice. Each strike had been indirect, but this one had happened right on our doorstep—almost inside our home. When would it escalate? How? Would I find my roommate staked in his bed next?

  Cracking open the window to the right of the TV, I tossed the dust to the wind, willing the highlands to carry it out to the sea. Was it a student doing all this—a group of them even—or was it a member of staff? And, more importantly, which was more dangerous?

  All these unanswered questions left a foul taste in my mouth about Root Rot as a whole, and after prepping for bed in our empty apartment and crawling under the covers, I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t relax. Couldn’t will my body to settle long enough for the exhaustion to take me.

  And when it eventually did, nearly two hours later, I dreamed of fire.

  Fire and pain and Benedict Hammond’s coal-black eyes watching as I burned.

  14

  Bjorn

  “I understand the concerns about having another sabbat celebration so soon after the Mabon incident, but this is not up for discussion.”

  Standing at the helm of the staff table, captain of the ship, steely-eyed and stern, Jack’s tone left zero room for objection, and anyone stupid enough to argue with him right now would get a verbal evisceration bound to leave a horrible scar. Dressed in a severe black suit, Root Rot’s headmaster had an aura about him today that dared anyone to fuck with him—because he was in the mood to beat someone bloody. I’d seen the look many times before. In fact, I had owned that look for centuries.