by Rhea Watson
And ordinarily I would be. Grumpy, because, blegh, mornings, but relatively fine. After all, this was the best time to prune and pinch and snip and collect, but with Samhain prep pushing all my evening work an hour later, sleep was in short supply lately. Never mind the rest of the stress that kept me up at night—professional and personal and gods Jack Clemonte must have thought I was the biggest freak on the planet given the way I constantly malfunctioned around him. If I didn’t get my act together soon, he might eventually question my teaching ability, maybe even my position here at the academy.
Then goodbye paycheck and farewell acts of murky vengeance on my parents’ murderer, hello unemployment and a giant brick wall between me and Benedict Hammond.
At least when I harvested, no matter how exhausted, I could zone out. Focus on the task at hand. Care for my green babies with all the TLC they deserved. An hour after I started, the sun just creeping over the horizon, I had a full wicker basket of echinacea clippings, valerian root, and goldenseal—stems and roots—for Seamus, Root Rot’s head healer. Wrapped in a massive shawl, my tartan skirt just below the knee and hair like a rat’s nest, the basket really completed the hedge witch from the eighteenth-century vibe I had going as I descended the stairwell underground, cheeks wind kissed and fingers numb from the early morning chill.
Thankfully only the odd security guard and den mother were up at this hour to see me. As it stood, a few students had commented that I was vaguely stylish, leaning toward more modern human fashions than the stodgy garments of witch academic culture, and now I guess I had a reputation to maintain.
Located a few winding corridors away from the dining hall and the underground classrooms, the infirmary was a maze of stone rooms and dark hallways, reminding me of a less depressing minotaur’s labyrinth the few times I had tried to navigate it solo. It stretched the entire length and width of the academy’s outdoor space, built beneath my greenhouses and conservatory, all the way past the athletic fields and out to the perimeter wall. Although sunshine would have done patients a world of good, there was comfort in the darkness, and like the dining hall, all the decorative windows could be charmed to display just about anything.
Strolling through the main doors, I went straight for the check-in desk at the front, the little waiting area vacant and chairs pushed back against the surrounding walls. Behind the counter stood a massive bookshelf with hundreds of paper files, sandwiched in by wooden doors on either side.
Nobody home.
I plopped my basket on the counter with a huff. Seamus and I had a standing agreement that he would be here to collect my supplies every Wednesday morning, and given the ungodsly hour, I didn’t like to wait around. Friendly as he was, tall and blond and attractive in a weird Ken-doll-Captain America hybrid sort of way, the guy had a healer’s god complex; this wouldn’t be the first time he thought his time was more important than mine.
“Hello?” I peeked over the counter, only to find a stack of empty clipboards tucked aside. Even though the infirmary ran all hours of the day, the nurses were probably doing their morning rounds if they had any patients. If not, they, like everyone else, would have been just waking up. Lips pursed, I considered grabbing the nearby ball of elastics and chucking it at one of the doors. “Seamus?”
Seconds later, the door to the left of that huge bookshelf creaked open, and much to my surprise, a student in full uniform slipped out. Short, pimply, pale, and painfully thin, she had been cursed with the same head of curls I had at her age: brown, frizzy, and way out of control. She seemed to be at the stage where she thought if maybe she just brushed them, they might be a little more manageable.
Oh, sweetheart, no. That only made them angry.
Given herbalism was mandatory for the first two years and she looked no older than fourteen, I should have known her.
But I didn’t.
Even if some of the new arrivals’ names eluded me for a few days, I made it my mission to know at least every face that waltzed through my greenhouse door. This one had to be beyond new, a total mystery, because I would sure as hell remember a fellow victim of ridiculous hair.
“He’s just stepped out for a coffee,” the girl offered, up on her toes and barely tall enough to see over the front counter. While the walking definition of mousy, she spoke with a voice like a high soprano, lovely but soft. “Can I help you with something, Professor Clarke?”
Huh. Clearly she knew me, but I swore I hadn’t seen her before. “Er, I—”
“Oh, is that the valerian?” She lurched forward, easing the basket to the edge of the counter and tipping it for a better look at its contents. “And the goldenseal—they look beautiful.”
Yeah, a student who could identify herbs based solely off their roots and clippings? I would definitely know them by name. “Sorry… I don’t think we’ve met before.”
Her enthusiasm instantly withered, and she backed away from the basket, eyes down as she said, “Alice Jameson, Professor. I just arrived a few days ago.”
“Alice…” I started when the name sparked a memory in my sleep-deprived brain. “Oh. Oh. Right. Hello. Pleasure to meet you.”
Jack began last Sunday’s staff meeting with a little spiel about her—about the witch who had just turned thirteen and still couldn’t cast. Magic trickled in with age, slowly pooling in that glorious, bottomless well deep inside a witch or warlock’s soul, but it really came into its own around thirteen. Some had access sooner, some a few months later, but apparently Alice Jameson from Boston showed zero signs of any magical ability. An embarrassment to her coven and her family, she had been shipped off with the hope that we could fix her—or hide her until she turned eighteen and we were forced to boot her out. If she still couldn’t produce an ounce of magic then, we all assumed she would be exiled from her coven for good.
Bastards. Like becoming a teenager wasn’t scary enough, but let’s throw in the added pressure of failing to do the one thing that defined her supernatural identity, too.
“Sorry, but what are you doing here?” At no point did I plan to pity her—not on the outside, anyway—and students generally weren’t manning the front desk of the infirmary. Alice fidgeted with her tie, the knot too tight and small, then moved on to her pressed collar.
“I’ve been allowed to help Healer Seamus as the headmaster organizes my schedule,” she admitted shyly. “I can’t… cast, so I don’t think he knows where to—”
“Where to put you so your talents really shine,” I finished for her, tone obnoxiously perky given it was barely sunrise. For her, I could suck it up and pretend I wasn’t a sleepwalking stress corpse. Because what a shit hand life had dealt her so far, and given her obvious affinity for plants and a near identical mop of curls to mine, I liked her. Instantly—little friend.
And if anyone here had a go at her, student or staff, I’d cut them from stem to stern. Shrugging my shawl off and plopping it on the counter, the thick wool making me sweat, I nudged the basket toward her again, then nodded to the trimmings inside. “You recognized these. It takes a lot of knowledge to classify something based on the root alone… I take it you garden?”
Cheeks pink, Alice managed a nod, fussing uselessly with her frizzy curls.
“Well, I’m so excited to have another herbalism aficionado in my class,” I insisted. Very few her age wanted to be there, and I had a feeling they played nice in my classes because of all the free time I gave them to tend to their personal flowerpots and herb gardens—aka time to gossip with friends while poking at leaves. “Not many students show much interest in it, I’m afraid.”
“I…” Alice pressed her thin lips together as she sucked down a deep, nostril-flaring breath, that nose still a little too big for her face. “I really like gardening.”
If anything, she probably felt the magic in plant life, the gorgeous hum of the natural world, even if she couldn’t feel it in herself. I’d been there: as an angsty teenager, sometimes I felt like the only things I understood, the only things
I could control, were plants. Like many, my magic took a few years to stabilize, influenced by mood and emotion and scars no one else could see but I could damn sure feel.
For six months when I was fourteen, everything I charmed turned green. No matter the spell, no matter the time of day, no matter my mood—green.
Which was just awesome for my razor-thin teenaged self-esteem.
“Well, I bring my fifth years out to harvest with me every other week,” I told her, more than ready to sweep this awkward duckling under my wing. Even if she couldn’t cast, nurturing her green thumb might just be the confidence boost she needed to finally get the magic flowing. “They also come round to help with maintenance whenever they can… Would you like to join the crew? Your schedule will be full of other classes soon, but I would be happy to have you down in the dirt with us whenever you’ve got some time.”
Alice’s whole being lifted at the invitation, her crooked smile brightening up the room. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” Her passion for all things green reminded me of my own at her age, and I’d do whatever I could to encourage it. Besides, a teen witch without magic meant friendships would be in short supply, seen as an oddity by every super in a ten-mile radius. “I’m also on the Samhain committee with Professor Asulf. How do you feel about helping out there, too? We can always use an extra hand.”
A good way for her to meet the nicer population of Root Rot kids would be by sweeping her into our committee fold. Those we selected were all go-getters sentenced here for nonviolent offenses; Alice would be safe with them, if anything.
“Are you sure?” She nibbled at the dry skin on her lower lip, then swiped at it when she caught me looking.
“Yes, we would love to have you,” I assured her.
“I can’t… do much—”
“We don’t need magical abilities.” Not right now, anyway, but they would come in handy on the actual day. “We need ideas and a willingness to roll up your sleeves—lend a bit of elbow grease, you know?”
So far, the Samhain event had spiraled into a two-day affair, which the headmaster had been thrilled about when the student committee put forth our proposal. Not only did we have the Samhain feast on the day of, followed by an upscale ball just like every other academy—all security and den mothers in tow, of course—but the day before now had a huge bonfire ritual for the entire school to participate in. Students and staff alike would be invited to burn items that reminded them of the past year’s hurts.
In theory, it all sounded great, but the thought of such a massive, raging fire had been giving me nightmares all week. I’d do it for the kids, for what it symbolized and the rehabilitative qualities Jack drooled over, but I planned to stand far, far away once we got it going.
“Uh, okay,” Alice finally forced out after I lifted my eyebrows expectantly, my smile starting to tremble the longer I held it. “That sounds nice, actually.”
“Everyone in the committee is really friendly.” Ambitious and a bit bossy, too, the type who wanted to get their Root Rot stint over as fast as possible with a glowing record so it didn’t hurt their chances for future employment—but whatever. Better than bullies and wannabe alphas; they’d eat this magicless witch for lunch, honestly. When I caught her wistfully eyeing my wand in its forearm holster, I subtly rotated my arm to block it from sight. “How about this—are you going to be here all day?”
She nodded. “So far, Professor.”
“Great. I’ll find you this afternoon during my free hour so I can show you the greenhouses, then we’ll do dinner and the committee meeting after.” Bjorn would love this one; he really took a shine to basket cases—which didn’t exactly sit well with me, given how easily we had bonded in the last three months. “Does that sound good?”
She opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, eyes welling and lower lip wobbling, then nodded again.
“Excellent.” I tapped the counter with a grin. “You’ve made my day, Alice. I’ll talk your ear off about everything green if you let me.”
“I’d like that,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Perfect. If I could make her feel good about herself and find her a few friends, I’d done my job and then some.
And, frankly, as exhausted as I was, that made me feel pretty fucking fantastic.
With all the stress and nightmares haunting my steps these days, I’d take fantastic wherever I could get it.
20
Bjorn
“So…” I pressed my steepled hands to my lips, searching for some tact in the face of this. “The feathers…”
Alecto looked down, then held her arms out to reveal even more blackish purple feathers dripping down her arms like wings. “Yeah.”
“Kind of going for a… raven… thing?”
She fluffed the neckpiece, intricately woven feathers licking up her throat and flaring under her chin. “Raven queen aesthetic, the website said.”
“Ah.”
Two weeks out from Samhain and all of Alecto’s gowns had finally arrived from her favorite witch-owned label in London. From the lot, she would select one, then send the rest back via magical post. As the night dragged on, our committee meeting done and dusted and my three hours of classes complete, she had been showing me her options, shuffling out of her bedroom every so often in a new gothic wonder that required my opinion while I read a term’s worth of third year journaling and added my thoughts in the margins, the TV on at a low volume.
Just a casual Tuesday night in Flat 4B, apparently.
“I take it your thoughts are a no, then?”
What other option was there? I mean, she was drowning in fucking feathers. Was the designer a sadist who hated women’s figures? The only skin left exposed were her face and hands, and she could barely move, every curve obscured by the stiff feathery pattern. Still, from the slightly hopeful arch of her brows, Alecto didn’t seem to hate it.
Funny. We were almost always on the same page when it came to critique time on Project Runway.
“Let’s see the last one,” I told her, “and then we’ll make a judgment call.”
Honestly, she looked beautiful in everything, even if the design itself was flawed, but all the dark, heavy gowns just didn’t suit her.
And I was trying to give an honest, unbiased opinion—that was what she had asked of me. Don’t spare my feelings. I don’t want to look weird in some dumb, over-the-top gown. In my experience, everyone went over-the-top for Samhain, the outfits a step above eveningwear and veering into couture territory.
Ugh. Stupid Project Runway. I loathed that I knew the difference between the two styles.
But given my affinity for fashion reality TV—any reality TV, really—it was no surprise Alecto wanted my opinion. Besides, we had become friends in the last three months, and friends didn’t let friends wear dumb gowns.
Outside of all that, I valued her presence in the flat and the way our relationship had blossomed—I’d protect those two pieces of my life viciously, if need be. Not only was she pleasant and sarcastic and real, a true companion I had been without for what felt like centuries, but she saw me for me. Bjorn Asulf. Not vampire Bjorn Asulf. Never once had she shied away from my meals or turned her nose up at my nocturnal habits. We just… existed. Together. It came easy for us, sharing the flat, the bathroom, the couch in front of the television.
Above all else, Alecto Clarke seemed to care. When I’d returned from Jack’s office with Fiona’s death hanging over me like a storm cloud, she had jumped right in to try and make it better, never once pressing for details. She just… cared. Fetched me my favorite blood type from the kitchen, heated to perfection. Tidied around the flat. Let me choose the shows to marathon. Hovered in my personal bubble—chatty when I needed the distraction, silent if my mood soured.
I’d never found comfort in another person, just their physical being in my space, until her.
And it seemed I had needed that.
Jack told me Fiona Simpson had met the sun on a Saturday.
Suicide, apparently, but I wasn’t so sure, and from the look of him at the time, the headmaster wasn’t either. While she had arrived at Root Rot a broken little sparrow, severely damaged by the vampire who turned her and left her to starve, Fiona had been making some strides with my help.
To walk into the sun, to fry—it was so painfully final.
Even orphans feared the golden rays, no matter how depressed.
Someone at Root Rot Academy despised vampires: my vandalized classroom had made that clear months ago. Even now, I kept the incident to myself, preferring to wait until after Samhain to burden Jack with the news. It still didn’t bother me, per se; I could take the judgment and the looks and the sneers. They rolled off my back without ever leaving a mark.
Not all orphan vampires were that strong.
We were down to a handful at the academy now, and I intended to guard and nurture them with everything I had left. I’d even tried to start a Thursday-night club that took place a half hour before curfew, where all the wayward orphans could meet with me and hear my story, learn of the Viking vampire who had survived and thrived and lived after this curse had taken me.
Who had conquered the monster after centuries of setbacks.
No one ever showed up.
Not for the last four Thursdays.
But I’d keep holding office hours then, waiting. One night, someone might walk through my door, and I’d be there for them, even if, like Alecto with me in my grief, I didn’t say a word.
Twenty minutes crawled by with only the odd shuffle, grumble, huff, and whoosh of fabric from behind Alecto’s closed bedroom door, so I upped the television volume—cooking competitions were a guilty pleasure for both of us, even more so when the chefs were outright awful humans—and got back to reading. Two commercial breaks and half a journal later, the telltale creak of her door hinges had me reaching distractedly for the remote and muting the white noise. Bare feet tiptoed over the floorboards, but I didn’t tear myself away from a particularly emotional journal entry until she wandered into the corner of my eye. Sniffing, I snapped the book closed and looked up.