by Rhea Watson
And I’d press my mouth to hers.
Softly.
Gently.
Not a whiff of the pillager I was once, no violence or force or fire.
Alecto deserved to be wooed. Worshipped.
You know, unless she balked at my closeness. That was a possibility as well. If that was the case, I vowed to just enjoy the night, no matter where it took us.
Despite our lingering glances, her constant blushes when I held her for a practice waltz, I still wasn’t completely confident that she wanted more. Time would tell. The heat of the moment would reveal all.
Knowing the underground passages like the back of my hand, I strolled from the dining hall to my locked classroom lost inside my head, effortlessly sidestepping pumpkins and easing around tight corners, reaching for the doorknob to turn it that specific way so that it would unlock—
“Fuck.”
I reeled back with a snarl, pain blossoming in my palm.
Pain followed by a flood of sedation up my arm…
Stunned, I blinked down at my splayed hand, my wide-stretched fingers—and found wood spikes sticking out of my palm as if I’d grabbed a porcupine.
What…?
Vampires could withstand so much in this world. So much pain, torture, and brutality. I’d loved that about this disease as a raider, unaffected by steel and fists and iron. But Mother Nature had plans for her children of the night, curtailing their bloodlust with sunshine—and wood. The sun fried us to ash. Wood lulled us off to sleep. Weakened our muscles and our minds and our preternatural regeneration…
I dropped to one knee, gawking at the spikes. With clumsy fingers, I plucked one free, hissing again at the sharpness, at the tearing of flesh as the quill came out barbed and spiked. Cold, dead blood plumed from the wound, dark like mulberry wine, and I lurched forward as a grey fog blurred the corners of my vision.
Have to get them out. Get them out now.
My shoulder slammed into the door. No time to panic—barely even the wherewithal to think. Survival mode kicked in, and I lifted my good hand to the next spike.
But it was too late.
My body gave out, succumbing to the twelve little wooden assholes puncturing flesh and grazing bone.
I hit the floor hard, collapsing onto my side with an incoherent jumble of old Norse falling from my tongue…
And an army of footsteps creeping down the corridor at my back.
25
Jack
Cue the strings. The brass. The gentle accent of a flute. Root Rot Academy’s orchestra trickled triumphantly from speakers around the hall; other academies had the reputation to bring in actual musicians with actual instruments. No one wanted to come here. No one wanted to trek into the highlands, to the middle of nowhere in the Scottish moors, to play for an audience of supernatural outcasts and misfits.
Their loss.
My students looked magnificent tonight as they rose from the round tables arranged on the outskirts of the decorated dining hall, draped in silk and situated below windows filled with glittering stars. Dressed to impress, a crowd of beaming faces stared back at me as applause broke out, customary to start the gala. Gold and red, black and white, masked and unmasked, my kids were beautiful. Smart. Regal.
Happy. That was what mattered most—that they were having a good time. That they felt normal when many had been told the opposite all their lives, that horrid message pounded into their skulls until they finally snapped and ended up on my doorstep. Tonight, we were like any other academy starting a Samhain celebration with a traditional faculty waltz. My professors swept onto the dance floor in pairs, the medical staff at their heels, den mothers all gussied up, and a few select security officers in tuxes.
This… had gone well.
Too well, some might say, but I had been trying to see the best in my school lately. Despite my personal failings last night during the bonfire ritual, those images of Alecto Clarke locked away in the recesses of my mind, today had been smooth as silk, soft as butter. From noon with students retreating to their towers, the library, or the courtyard to congregate and celebrate, to the Samhain feast at six o’clock sharp, to now, a gala unfurling that they would remember all year. No one had talked during either of my speeches. No one giggled or caused trouble.
There were so many of them here tonight, the campus in its entirety relegated to this massive hall to celebrate the end of the supernatural year, one of the most significant nights for witches and warlocks and magic-users around the world. Humans went trick-or-treating. They hosted parties and carved pumpkins. We celebrated in style.
And they were all here. All my people.
Delivering the final speech of the night, one full of thanks and gratitude and promises, had been… overwhelming in the best way possible. So many smiling faces. So many open minds ready to dive into tradition.
It all made my heart so very full.
If only the high council could see this—see my school at its best.
As pairs joined hands on the floor, fabric swirling and mouths beaming, I started my slow jaunt around the perimeter, hands clasped behind my back, ensuring that this too went off seamlessly. We had almost every security guard stationed in the castle, along with a few patrolling the grounds, so I didn’t need to monitor. In theory, I could just have fun.
But a good headmaster stepped away from the party and let his people enjoy themselves—
Wait.
Why wasn’t Alecto out there?
When I stuttered to a halt halfway through my first lap, students up and watching their elders go through the motions of a regal, formal waltz, there was one prominent figure not on the dance floor.
And in a black hole of dark gowns, she was the North Star shining bright. I’d gone out of my way to ignore her tonight, only interacting as necessary for the sake of the event, but my gods—she was magnificent. Beneath a creamy-white cape patterned with leafy gold, Alecto Clarke was a beacon in the night, a light cutting through the fog and calling me home.
Or… warning me away from the jagged shoreline.
Yes, definitely the latter. It had to be.
Still, the fitted gold fabric clung to her curves just right, even beneath the cape, and she ought to be the belle of the ball. She deserved all eyes on her, to take center stage and beguile a smitten audience with her smile. Instead, she lingered on the outskirts of the dance floor, her mass of unruly curls wrangled into a tousled chignon, a trio of dried roses stuck into the elegant knot. Lower lip snared between her teeth, she scanned the hall with a worried frown I ought to ignore—but instead marched toward like a moth to a godsdamn flame.
And I wasn’t the only one drawn to a damsel in distress. Dressed in an all-black suit strikingly similar to mine, save the gold ruffles poking out his sleeves, Ash Cedar prowled toward Alecto with half his face concealed behind a skull mask, dark eyes unnervingly centered on her. As soon as I entered his eyeline, however, the warlock slowed, then stopped completely and turned to the den mother nearby as if she had been his intended all along and steered her onto the dance floor.
Curious.
Shaking that off, I swooped in on Alecto from behind, dropping low enough that if I had less self-control, my lips would have brushed her ear with every word.
“Everything all right?”
She flinched, her hand flying to her chest, and then let out a nervous titter as she glanced at me. “Oh, fine. Perfect, actually. I just… I don’t know where Bjorn is. He should be here.”
Only then did I even notice her vampire counterpart was missing. With a frown of my own, I did a quick search of the hall, far too many faces present to account for everyone, and then nodded: he was, in fact, absent. And that bothered Alecto. She stood there fidgeting with her bracelet, her gold rings, like I didn’t exist—like Bjorn was all that mattered and his absence was catastrophic. While she schooled her features well, I saw the fear in her eyes, in the slight furrow and quiver of her brow.
Against my better jud
gment, the instinct to protect and correct kicked in hard. Good Doms made the world a better, safer place for their submissives, and in that moment, all I wanted to do was assure her everything was perfect.
That I would locate Bjorn for her momentarily.
No. Keep it innocent. I might have been her headmaster, but it wasn’t my place to fix every problem in Alecto’s life.
“He’s supposed to be my partner,” she said absently, gaze on the waltzing couples. “We’ve…” Her breath hitched, and she stole another quick glance up at me. “We’ve been practicing.”
Don’t do it, you dumb bastard— “I could be his stand-in, if you’d like.”
Shit.
“Oh, no.” Alecto waved me off with a nervous giggle. “That’s not necessary, Headmaster, but thank you. I’m a terrible dancer.”
“But it sounds like you’ve worked hard at it all the same.” Leave it be. Walk away. I rarely took a partner at these academy waltzes, even less so once I became headmaster. If Iris had been willing to take a turn on the dance floor, fine, but anyone else might read as favoritism, and I had no intention of sparking any untoward gossip within my ranks.
Yet here I was—offering. Sparking. Hurling us both headlong into the fray, consequences be damned.
A waltz isn’t innocent, a little voice at the back of my mind hissed, and I gritted my jaw in response. A waltz could be hot or cold depending on the pair, and I vowed to keep it frosty. After all, she was the only professor not out there, and those who breezed by were starting to stare.
“I…” Her longing look toward the dance floor was permission enough, even if she shook her head shyly. “It’s fine—”
I offered my hand. Bit of a tosser move—with students and staff watching, she couldn’t exactly refuse me. But she deserved this. She had worked so hard for this, and even if it should have been Bjorn leading her through the steps, Alecto didn’t belong on the sidelines in his absence.
She ought to be in the thick of it.
Besides, the song was nearly halfway over, “The Blue Danube” a timeless classic—even if its composer was just a human. We’d be out there five minutes, maybe less, before handing the evening over to the student body.
I could be respectful for five minutes.
Make her look good for five minutes.
All that went out the window the moment she slipped her hand into mine. Alecto wasn’t necessarily an overly petite woman, but everyone was small compared to me. With neat nails and soil-weathered fingers, she accepted my hand awkwardly, her gasp nowhere near subtle. Perhaps she was unaccustomed to its size, my massive hand engulfing hers, even if Bjorn and I were similar in that regard.
Only it wasn’t the size difference that threw me for a loop—but the electricity. The current sizzling between our skin, humming like a low throb of desire, sizzling like lightning over drought-dried grasses…
Setting the world ablaze in an instant.
She sucked in another curt little breath as soon as I gripped her back. This wasn’t one-sided. It never had been, surely, but from the look on her face, the whisper of confusion, she still didn’t understand.
And that was probably for the best.
Accustomed to prestige and tradition and the outright snobbery that accompanied the Clemonte name, I took charge—as if I had a passive bone in my body, anyway. Steering her onto the dance floor, I splayed a possessive hand across her back, not too low, not too high, and blended us seamlessly with the other waltzing couples.
As beautiful as she looked, as elegant as her updo and glittering as her jewelry, Alecto was a terrible dancer. She possessed some semblance of rhythm, but she spent a great deal of time looking down at our feet, and I could practically hear her counting the steps in her head. She traipsed on my toes. Stumbled into me. Tripped on her cape.
And I didn’t let a soul see it. I overcorrected everything, kept us graceful and fluid, took charge in every way possible so that to outsiders, we were a team. Professional and perfect to the very last moment.
That was the Clemonte way, after all.
For the first few fumbling minutes, we did manage to stay cold. Kept an arm’s length between our bodies. Focused more on the dance than each other. Until my grip firmed up on her back and I corrected her hand’s position on my shoulder. Then her eyes snapped to mine, and we were fucked. Fire took over, the electricity flowing between us sharper, like some unseen bastard had upped the voltage, trapping us together so we couldn’t break apart even if we tried.
I never wanted to let her go, frankly, and from the way she fell into my eyes—dove headlong in, more like—Alecto had no intention of going anywhere, either.
Her steps improved. Less tromping on my feet when she gave in, surrendered to the music, to the moment, to me.
And then it was over.
The strings and the brass and the flute tapered off, replaced with the thunder of applause and the odd hoot from some hooligan in the back. We stopped moving, waltzing, swirling, but neither pulled away. Custom dictated we bow and clap politely, both to the musicians and each other. We just stood there, her hand on my shoulder and mine on her back. My arm trembled as I battled the urge to wrench her in, slam her to my chest, make my intentions known.
Seconds later, music meant for teenagers came screeching out of the speakers like a bloody hurricane. Assaulted by the racket, by the cheers of the student body, Alecto blinked hurriedly and withdrew. Waltzing staffers drifted off the floor, which was quickly flooded by students in their Sunday best, and I locked my knees so I wouldn’t chase her.
“Thank you, Headmaster,” she said over the din, her smile subdued but her eyes sparkling—wanting, ablaze with emotion I’d never seen in her before.
Gods, I was so absolutely, positively fucked.
“Thank you, Alecto,” I offered in return, masking my features and schooling my tone so I looked and sounded like her boss, not her Dom, “for the lovely dance.”
She dipped her head, then vanished into the crowd. While still disappointed with my thoughts, at least my behavior had been better than last night. My cock twitched with interest, ached to feel her body nudged up against it—subtly, of course. No grinding. No overt displays. Something sneaky and seductive and public so that only we two knew it was even happening.
But there would be none of that.
There could be none of that.
Just to be sure, I turned in the opposite direction and threaded through the throngs of students, wishing those who acknowledged me a blessed Samhain, encouraging them to have fun, then beelined for the least sexual professors we had on staff…
Intent on using those dry, grey-haired gaffers like the cold shower I needed to get through the rest of the night.
26
Alecto
Okay. Where the fuck is Bjorn?
The hour hand on the enormous dining hall clock had nearly reached eleven and he still wasn’t here. Hadn’t shown his face in nearly two hours. Which was just… bizarre. Heron had been the last to see him before things started, and he had been on his way to collect all the roses we hung to dry in his office weeks ago. Worried that he had stumbled onto another bullshit display of anti-vampirism, I’d gone to check there shortly after the faculty waltz.
Nothing.
No one.
Door still locked, I had needed my wand to break into his classroom, only to find everything neat and orderly as ever, roses still hanging and undisturbed. Confused, I’d brought them back with me and handed them over to a committee member so they could hastily shove them into the centerpieces—which had been lacking without, apparently.
From there, the night had been a blur of breaking up canoodling in dark corners and reminding teenage boys to watch their hands on the dance floor. Professors weren’t required to chaperone; at the last Sunday meeting we emphasized that the entire security staff would be assigned to the event, so everyone else could just have fun. Let loose a little. Celebrate Samhain in style. Still, I couldn’t help mys
elf. It came naturally, curbing mischief the second I saw it, and I had managed to waste away two worrying hours flitting between that and checking on my committee.
Checking on poor Alice, who for some reason had volunteered to run the drinks table all night. A month into her stay at Root Rot, the little witch still had no magic and few—if any—friends, but I did what I could to make her feel welcome. She was sweet enough and loved the greenhouse, and in time, she’d find someone to be her person.
They always did.
But my person was still missing, and at this point, worry had started to creep into fear territory. Bjorn wouldn’t bail on the gala. We had worked too hard on this for ages.
We… We had practiced the waltz.
I’d been looking forward to strutting my stuff with him.
He wouldn’t skip it for no reason.
After helping one of my committee kids carry two massive trays of bat-shaped pumpkin cookies up from the kitchen, I did a loop around the hall searching for Jack.
Huh. No Jack, either.
If it weren’t for Bjorn’s absence, that wouldn’t be a bad thing. Dancing with him had stirred something inside me, something persistent and slightly uncomfortable, heat gathering at the nape of my neck, along my back where his hand pressed harder and harder as we found our rhythm.
Between my thighs—especially when our eyes met.
In Jack Clemonte’s arms, the rest of the world melted away.
And I hadn’t wanted it to come back.
But it did.
It always did.
And while I would have preferred to keep my distance from him for the rest of the night—just to quell the inappropriate thoughts and feelings that had gone forth and multiplied since we parted ways—there were bigger fish to fry.
I ended up asking around, landing on Madame Prewett last. The twiggy witch perched on a chair at one of the tables claimed by the admin crew early in the night, sipping a signature virgin cocktail and watching her girls chatter. Still perpetually unimpressed with me, she merely offered her ear—didn’t even turn her head—when I crouched down to ask if she had seen Jack anywhere.