by Rhea Watson
And now I was paying for it in more ways than one. Head healer Seamus might have stitched up my face after that shoddy ward split it open, invisible magical sutures sealing the wounds, but I hadn’t let him touch the rest of me—I refused to waste any more time. Shocks of pain still shot up my legs and gathered like a storm in my lower back. Then throw in the heartache, the guilt, for being so fucking stubborn earlier. Could have found him sooner, but it was just so hard to let Gavriel do anything for me at this point.
Which was stupid.
Pathetic.
Selfish.
Gods. Shuffling along the dimly lit hallway, I pinched the bridge of my nose, then rubbed at my eyes.
Bed. I needed bed now.
It had been calling to me ever since Gavriel and I tucked Bjorn into his despite our objections. For once, the fae and I had been on the same page: Bjorn Asulf needed the tender loving care of our healers. Yes, his body would heal on its own, but a touch of magic could have sped things along, sealed all the wounds properly and painlessly. Instead, he demanded we take him to bed.
Pretty persistent for a vamp on death’s doorstep.
In the end, we had agreed not to push him, even if we physically could have, just this once, his strength depleted but regrouping by the hour. Hopefully when I checked on him in the next ten minutes—or however long it took to haul my walking corpse up to our flat—I’d find him with an empty blood bag on his nightstand, passed out and recovering.
Only then could I finally justify stealing a few winks of shut-eye.
The crash of a door slam echoed through the castle, making what little adrenaline I had left spike and then immediately flatline. With a heavy sigh, I ambled around another corner into the corridor with the most direct route to the staff tower. I had no reason to think I was anything but alone down here, most of the staff either still dealing with students in their dorms, helping Jack in the admin wing, or having already gone to bed…
But then a shadow pushed off the wall, rising from the other side of the staff tower’s doorway and easing into the light.
It shouldn’t faze me.
This wasn’t the first time I had unexpectantly happened upon him, but Benedict Hammond was the last person I wanted to see tonight. Reluctantly, even I could acknowledge he looked suave in that black suit with its lacy gold cuffs—and the skeletal mask suited him perfectly. Given his past, his sins, it didn’t shock me one bit that he had gravitated toward something dark and demonic, everything from the nose up covered in an unnerving skull, all the angles extra pointy, his eyes shrouded in darkness inside the protruding sockets.
Despite the exhaustion in my bones, fight or flight kicked in. If it were anyone else, I would have pushed on, too tired for small talk but still polite enough to smile and wish a happy Samhain in passing. Instead, I rooted in place, staring, pulse throbbing between my ears as he wandered toward me.
Replace the half-empty gin bottle in his left hand with a scythe and he’d be the epitome of a grim reaper—just like I had always imagined as a kid.
“All’s quiet?” he croaked. The castle sure as shit sounded quiet, far more muted than usual even at this hour, so the question struck me as rhetorical. I forced the edges of my mouth to lift, then swallowed a comment about how I hadn’t seen him much in the aftermath. The rest of us had been down in the trenches, herding students and confiscating liquor and breaking up squabbles and oh gods please put your clothes on literal children.
Where this golden boy had been, this salt-and-pepper warlock all the younger staff around me aspired to grow into, was anyone’s guess.
“Yup,” I managed hoarsely, throat raw from all of tonight’s yelling—from shouting at Gavriel before he broke that poor girl’s arm. Benedict came to a gentle stop a few feet in front of me, his blackened eyes sweeping up and down my figure, the leftover gin sloshing around the bottle. If I hadn’t spotted him creep out of the shadows, I probably would have smelled him a few seconds later.
“Is Asulf all right?”
You fake asshole. He never asked after anyone who wasn’t a witch or a warlock—barely even gave faculty shifters the time of day. I couldn’t imagine being one in any of his classes.
“He will be,” I told him.
“Good.” His head bobbed up and down, his smile one of those misleading ones that didn’t go all the way up. “Great to hear.”
Clutching my cape in front of me, I suddenly realized I’d turned my heels so that I could stab them into his neck with a single brutal swing of my arm. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, but certainly not tonight. Clearing my throat, I forced a strained grin and nodded to the portrait behind him, ready to get the fuck out of here and into bed already, when he obliterated the height difference between us by ducking down to meet my eyeline.
“You have lovely eyes.”
His, meanwhile, were a bit glazed, the gin affecting more than just his breath. An uncomfortable chuckle spilled out before I could catch it. “Oh… Thank you.”
“I knew a woman once with those exact eyes,” he drawled, staring deep into them as my blood ran cold. “She was the sun… She was my sun.”
Then why did you kill her? Fear gave way to rage, and I had to blink hard, then drop my gaze so he wouldn’t see.
I had my mother’s eyes. Bright amber veering on gold wasn’t completely uncommon among witches, our irises touched by magic and usually more vibrant than humans, but mine were the spitting image of hers, the exact shade.
Disgusting that he remembered.
That he compared me to her, drunk, without even realizing the connection.
Benedict raised his hand suddenly as if to touch me, to use the gin bottle’s open mouth to brush the curls from my face. The second his other hand followed, headed for my chin, maybe my throat, I stumbled back, eyes wide and breath catching.
That brought him back to reality. Arms falling to his sides, he straightened with a shake of his head, a little more distance put between us—but not enough.
Never enough.
“New year, new me, right?” Benedict slurred before taking a shot of gin. I wrinkled my nose as he chugged and then wiped at his mouth, so sick of hearing that expression today. New year, new me. To some in our world, October 31 marked the end of one year and the start of another, and January could just fuck right off.
“Yeah, I guess.” I followed the actual calendar for the most part, but I had a little notebook full of resolutions I made each Samhain. This year, most of them were about him.
Benedict cocked his head to the side, staring at me again, at my eyes whenever he could catch them, dragging it out for a long, awkward moment until I shifted my weight from leg to leg, then tried to leave.
“Do you ever wonder,” he started, easing his body into my path, “if this Samhain will be your last?”
What the fuck kind of question was that? This time, I let my opinion about what had just come out of that mouth read in my eyes, across my face. As if giving me time to think about it, the warlock waited, unfazed by my expression, and then chuckled, the little amused huffs of air making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Makes you question… if you’ve made the most of it, huh?”
I gulped. “Sure.”
His free hand went for the back of his mask, fiddling with it until he got the strings undone. It swung loose from his face, revealing glossy black eyes ringed in charcoal, the satin ties twined around his fingers. “Did you?”
“What?”
“Make the most of it?”
To everyone else, this was Ash Cedar—professor, warlock, all-around nice guy. Sure, he was prejudiced as hell against anyone outside of our shared community, but he wasn’t the only one with biases. My coworkers liked him. Jack seemed to respect him.
Taking off his Samhain mask was symbolic in a way only I would ever know.
Because removing that half skull, unveiling drunk eyes that still managed to see clear through me, wasn’t all he peeled off tonight. He shed
the human mask he wore for all the rest of them, this persona of a decent warlock who just wanted to teach and fix our broken pupils. Benedict Hammond studied me with an unnerving intensity, all those practiced smiles gone, fixated on my eyes because he knew them.
And that seemed to piss him off. A lot.
This peek behind the curtain, this glimpse beneath the mask—it was probably what my parents saw right before he butchered them.
Before he left me to burn.
As far as he was concerned, I did burn. They had included little Hannah Corwin in my parents’ joint funeral.
Naturally, I wasn’t invited, sequestered miles and miles away in another town, out of the way and forgotten. Confused. Lost. Asking for my mom and dad. Where were they? When do I go home, Gra’ma?
My chest shuddered, breath shallow and panic rising, but I schooled my features through a hapless shrug and busied myself with my cape.
“I did my best this year,” I told him, the words choked and in sharp contrast to the mask of calm I tried to adopt around him. Approval rumbled in his chest at the thought, and he swiped at my arm as if to clap it; I swiveled ever so slightly so he just missed and grazed my cape instead.
“That’s a good girl,” he crooned. He then strolled around me, looking me over more obviously this time, and his husky rasp slithered down my spine when he added, “Blessed Samhain, Alecto Clarke.”
I glared dead ahead, looking but barely seeing the familiar corridor closing in on me. Shaking. Gripping my shoes so tight they warped around my fingers, his every footstep in the opposite direction an assault.
“Blessed Samhain,” I managed in return, forcing my lips shut before his name hissed out of them. His true name. Not Ash Cedar.
Benedict. Hammond.
Murderer. Liar. Psychopath.
I slowly peered over my shoulder, glowering at his retreating form, his swaying gait, that skull mask dangling from his hand. He wasn’t the bringer of death anymore. Never, ever again.
Blessed Samhain, fucker.
For all you know… this might just be your last.
To be continued in
Root Rot Academy: Term 2
January 2021
Coming Soon!
Reconnect with Alecto, Bjorn, Gabriel, and Jack in Term 2 & 3!
Root Rot Academy: Term 2 ~ January 2021
Root Rot Academy: Term 3 ~ March 2021
Available for preorder now on Amazon! xo
Acknowledgments
First and forever, thank you to my editorial goddess Amanda! You read through all my first draft nonsense with poise and tact. I’d be lost without you. Just like I’d be lost without the awesome proofreading skills of Sandra at One Love Editing, and my phenomenal typo-checker Linda. You ladies rock my world with every new release!!
Thank you to all the readers continuing on this reverse harem journey with me. Your spirit, excitement, and love always makes my heart so very full. It inspires me to keep going even when things get tough, so thank you, from the bottom fo my heart.
To my Sun and Stars, you’re my everything. Thank you for your kindness and your constant support throughout this crazy author journey.
Shout out to my mom, my #1 fan no matter what I write.
And here’s to Calder and Emma, hero and heroine of my first professor-centric academy romance Dark Days. This duet opened my eyes and told me just how much I love, love, love writing about professors falling in love and all the drama that brings. Without these two, there would be no Alecto, Jack, Bjorn, or Gavriel.
See you in Root Rot Academy: Term 2!! If you enjoyed the first term, feel free to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews help indies thrive — even the one-stars. #nervoussweat
xoxoxoxo
Rhea
About the Author
Rhea Watson is a Canadian reverse harem author who loves a good paranormal romance. She writes layered alpha heroes with rough exteriors who melt for their strong, independent soulmates.
In her spare time, Rhea babies her herb garden, bows to her cat's every whim, and flies through Netflix shows like it's her day job.
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Also by Rhea:
All the Queen’s Men Series
(Standalones, Same Universe)
Reaper’s Pack
Caged Kitten
Taken by Her Beasts ~ May-June 2021
Root Rot Academy
Term 1
Term 2
Term 3
Rhea Watson writing as Evie Kent:
To Love a God (Lily of the Valley, #1)
Surrender: A Lily of the Valley Novella