Root Rot Academy: Term 2 Read online

  Or, maybe I was just so fucking starved for a proper friendship that I had forgotten what one looked like. In fact, I could scarcely remember a time when I’d been friends with a woman, always diving headlong between her thighs when the opportunity presented itself.

  And with my charm, my looks, my know-how, that opportunity came sooner and sooner with every conquest.

  Then it was over.

  Alone again.

  Like all Root Rot staff—save Iris and Jack, naturally—I too had a roommate: Seamus Norman, head healer. Given his good bone structure and his somewhat smarmy charisma, outsiders might consider us quite the pair. We would clean up at any bar on this miserable island, yet he couldn’t stand me. Absolutely despised the way I plowed through his nurses each year—something he could have done just as easily given he was a single, rich warlock with a prestigious job title. Instead, he constantly had a go at me about the string of broken hearts I left in my wake, perpetually unimpressed with my antics and always snippy.

  Always.

  Barely spoke more than two words to me in any given conversation, and they were forever laced with disdain.

  Bjorn had been alone for the last six years of his tenure at Root Rot, but now he had her.

  What I wouldn’t give to shove my flatmate off the staff tower and trade places with the vampire.

  I inhaled sharply at the thought, dragging in a much too big pull and hacking all the smoke out like a total amateur.

  Trade places with him—for the solitude, of course, not to room with Alecto Clarke. Lovely as she was, immune to my advances now like she had taken a vaccine against me, she wasn’t worth the trouble. That little witch, whose laughter echoed down the corridor even with the pair long gone, made me feel more than I cared to admit.

  Made me… consider things.

  Consider her.

  Consider what it would be like not to navigate this dull realm totally alone, everyone kept at an arm’s length.

  After a swig from my silver flask, small enough to fit neatly and discreetly in my jacket pocket, I settled my throat enough to enjoy the last of my pipe before I had to dump its charred contents all over the courtyard. Fuck them. Fuck Bjorn and Alecto for looking so fucking happy and smitten. Fuck Seamus for not seeing the purpose behind my casual affairs. Fuck all of them—I wasn’t here for friendship.

  Pipe dangling from my lips, teeth anchoring it in place, I went for my other inner jacket pocket. Left side. Seldom used. A letter had arrived for me today, delivered straight to my desk by one of the admin ditzes while I’d been stuffing my face at lunch. Slowly, I pulled it out and flipped the aged parchment envelope over. No return address, of course, but the red wax stamp with its subtle 666 in ornate flourishes was telling. Biting down harder on my pipe, I slipped a finger under the top fold and carefully broke the seal.

  Then waited.

  Some envelopes could be hexed, capable of maiming the recipient the moment they opened them.

  Nothing.

  Exhaling a curt breath, I wrenched the letter out—and scowled at the glitter dust that came with it. Doused in little sparkles, I tossed the envelope aside and opened the folded paper within.

  Ah.

  As expected, the Darkwell Academy emblem saluted me from the letterhead, even more glitter inside the folded parchment.

  Dearest Gavriel of the Ash Court…

  My eyes narrowed as I deciphered the nearly illegible, beyond obnoxious cursive scrawl. While I’d almost thought this might be a handwritten note from Lucifer himself given the wax details, its origins lay in his dark academy’s admissions office instead.

  And contained a single snarky paragraph thanking me for the dozens of exceptional student candidates I had sent their way this year.

  Snarling, I bit down so hard that my pipe’s ebonite stem splintered.

  Cracked right down to the bowl.

  The bastards then had the nerve to sign off with:

  All our love, affection, and gratitude,

  Darkwell Academy Admissions

  xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  Along with a half-dozen hearts around the signatures of what appeared to be the entire admissions office. I stared at the big picture for a moment—the hearts, the emblem, the glitter—and then viciously crumpled the parchment into a ball. However, before I could hurl it across the courtyard or will it alight with fae fire, I stopped. Reconsidered. Smoothed it out, folded it over and over and over into a teeny rectangle, then shoved it back in my jacket pocket with trembling fingers. Fueled by fury, humiliation, it would have been easy to get rid of the evidence.

  But I ought to keep it. Carry it around with me. Let it be an embarrassing reminder of my failings.

  A reminder not to get swept into the affairs of those around me. To not covet what Alecto and Bjorn shared—but to covet a position in the Ash Court. That was what this had always been about: a lowly fae, once a great warrior, returning home like the prodigal son, beckoned into the king’s embrace courtesy of Lucifer.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  But all the little urchins are shit this year—

  Seething, I emptied my pipe one last time and kicked at the scattered black bits that settled between the grey cobblestones. Time to lock myself in my room so I didn’t snap on the wrong person.

  Time to drink until I passed out, honestly.

  Again.

  With a clenched jaw, I marched across the courtyard—and slammed right into another body marching in through the arched opening.

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  Ash Cedar stumbled back on impact, leveling a curse at me with those hauntingly dark eyes, but neither of us said a word to each other. No apologies. He looked down slowly, however, to sneer at the glitter I’d transferred onto his stodgy warlock robes. Thankfully there wasn’t anyone around to see the blunder, and we shouldered by each other—hard—to squish through the archway at the same time like a pair of stubborn children.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck the letter in my pocket.

  Fuck Darkwell and Root Rot and Bjorn and Alecto and Ash fucking Cedar—

  Fuck everything. I was officially done until sunrise tomorrow, and if anyone else got in my way, I’d put them through the fucking wall.

  8

  Alecto

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Over the raging winds, someone was determined enough to make their knuckles heard on the door of the main greenhouse. Red pen in hand, the checkmark I’d just made all jerky from the shock of the noise, I slowly glared toward the door at the back. Lights on, greenhouse a beacon in the oppressive November darkness, seeing through the glass pane was a crapshoot, and given my mood, I was tempted to just ignore it.

  Who the hell went outside in this weather, anyway?

  Tap, tap.

  I gritted my teeth, refocusing on the quiz, steadily blitzing through the multiple-choice questions with a check, check, check, huge X of my pen. If anything, I could blame the sound on the wind, because the last thing I wanted to do this gloomy Saturday night, my weekend office hours long since over, was talk to anyone.

  Precisely twenty-six years ago, my parents had been brutally slaughtered in their own home.

  Torn apart.

  Butchered.

  And I had been left there to burn in my bed.

  In the past, I mourned their loss with my grandparents. We kept busy on the anniversary, lighting candles and holding rituals for the spirits of those long gone. I wrote letters to my parents individually, telling them about my year, all I had accomplished and all I still hoped to do.

  Usually those letters ended with a vow, a promise to avenge their deaths and make the culprit pay.

  I had him within reach—but he still hadn’t paid.

  And I was so miserable today, so heartbroken—just broken, period—that a part of me wondered if he ever would.

  Wondered if I even had the courage to do what I needed to.

  Probably not. I mean, I spent all day in bed, the last place
I ever wanted to be on the anniversary of the night that changed my life. I cried and slept and grieved and pretended I couldn’t feel the heat slithering across my skin, couldn’t taste the smoke choking me from the inside.

  Unfortunately, office hours were mandatory, and mine were on Saturdays this term. In an ideal world, that meant more students should have time to visit, and based on the end-of-term exams before Samhain, most of them needed to visit me during these off days. But no one showed, same as always, except Alice. The witch had hunkered down at the desk in front of mine to work on assignments that weren’t even herbalism or potions related, overly meticulous in her research of wand woods for her spellwork term paper.

  Then office hours ended. She left.

  I stayed.

  Skipped dinner, preferring the solitude, needing to be alone in my misery, my angst. No candles lit today—I was too much of a wuss to play with fire alone—and no letters written.

  What could I say to Mom and Dad?

  Hey, guys! Found your killer. He’s been hitting on me a bunch lately, but Imma just let it slide while I drown in cowardice, indecision, and self-loathing. K, bye, have a great time in the spirit world! Say hey to Gram and Gramps for me! xoxo

  Yeah. That about covered it. Pathetic.

  From my list of coping mechanisms, I settled on one of the healthier strategies: work. No booze. No men. Just—boatloads of grading that kept me busy for as long as I could focus. Anytime my concentration wavered, I was gone, sinking hard and fast. Fortunately, as night took hold and my stomach roared, I had a week’s worth of quizzes from all my classes to drudge through. Overall, these were a vast improvement from last term, which meant my kids had either realized what I wanted from them, or I had figured out how to speak to this particular bunch.

  Either way—silver lining on a shitcake of a day.

  Tap, tap, tap, wham.

  Knuckles turned to a fist on the other side of my door, and I slammed my pen down with a huff. Fine. Couldn’t exactly blame that on the wind anymore, even if it was screaming like an army of banshees out there.

  I’d made it up, around my desk, and halfway down the aisle between student worktables when the door finally creaked open.

  And Benedict Hammond poked his head inside.

  My gut bottomed out. My knees buckled. I lilted to the left and barely managed to brace on a table before collapsing.

  “Sorry, sorry,” the warlock crooned, taking my silence as an invitation and darting in, battling to close the door against the wind. “I didn’t want to frighten you by just barreling inside, so I thought I’d knock.”

  Mouth dry, throat suddenly thick and raw with unshed tears, I just stared at him. Blinked. Trembled. Panic flashed through me like lightning. All the immunity I had built up against his stupid fucking face, against his presence, the odd touch—accidental or not—up and died. I couldn’t… I just…

  You killed them today.

  What were you wearing? Were you smiling like that? Did they invite you into the house, or did you force your way inside—just like this?

  “Saw the light and knew you were burning the midnight oil,” he insisted, cheery and oblivious to the meltdown tearing through me. “Thought I’d bring this.” From behind his pack, he produced a to-go cup, presumably of coffee since that seemed like all he fucking knew about me, my stupid coffee order, and that was more than enough. “Just the way you like it.”

  With the anniversary creeping up, November 26 a permanent black mark in my yearly calendar, I’d gone out of my way to avoid him more than usual lately.

  But he had found me.

  Wasn’t exactly difficult.

  I should have made it difficult.

  You should make him suffer, you fucking coward.

  “Listen…” Benedict readjusted his dark grey warlock robes, heavy, almost oppressive material that still seemed tailored to his tall, lean figure. Another regal cloak-cigarette pants combination, along with a pair of polished loafers caked in fresh mud. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the village tomorrow for a spot of lunch. It’s a human pub, which—” He scoffed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “—I know, I know, but trust me, they do this amazing Sunday roast—”

  “Appointment,” I blurted, half croaking the word, half screaming it. He flinched, taken aback by the volume, and I cleared my throat, unable to force the smile I usually did for this murderer. “I-I have an appointment tomorrow. With Clemonte.”

  Benedict’s dark, neatly trimmed brows shot up, nostrils flared as if to sniff out the lie, and I braced harder on the table, slowly losing control of my calm—of everything.

  “To talk… lessons,” I finished lamely.

  “Right.” He frowned for a moment, looking me up and down slowly. “Sure. Okay. How about next week, then? We could take a leisurely lunch hour, have a bit of wine…?”

  You cut them into pieces twenty-six years ago.

  And now he was asking me on a fucking lunch date.

  Like I could share a casual Sunday roast with him without puking it all up a second after forcing it down.

  A wave of light-headedness struck, more vicious than the screeching winds, and I popped a hip against the table, needing to lean almost all of me on it to get through this.

  “I… will have to check my planner.” Gods, that was painful. Rejecting him outright, screaming in his face, tearing off my mask and reminding him of the woman who had my eyes—who was his sun, apparently—felt… premature. Impulsive. Dangerous. Alone down here, just him and me, I had no plan, no exit strategy, no road map for the future. Sure, my wand sat in its holster up my sleeve, but he had one of those, too, and from the way I reacted to just the sight of him tonight, I wasn’t in the proper headspace to duel.

  He might even kill me.

  Make it an anniversary to remember.

  Bury yet another murderous secret.

  Benedict studied me with a grin, eyes roving my body more suggestively this time, making his intentions crystal clear. “Splendid. Do let me know, and if you forget—I know just where to find you.” He tapped at the to-go coffee as I gulped down a flood of bile. “Might need a warming charm for this… Got a bit distracted on the way here.”

  “Okay,” I bit out. I know just where to find you. That sentence would haunt my dreams tonight, shrouded in fire and smoke.

  Attack him.

  Do it.

  Move your fucking useless body and gouge his eyes out—

  That was the fury in me, the little piece of the true Alecto I adopted when I took her title, when I chose it for myself at thirteen believing I could be a warrior, a woman of righteous—violent—justice just like her.

  I didn’t deserve her name.

  I’d always be Hannah Corwin, the terrified little girl trapped in her bed who wet herself at the pop and sizzle of a raging fire.

  “Good night, Alecto,” Benedict purred, rapping his knuckles twice on the table in front of him, grinning like the cat who’d finally caught the canary. “Don’t work too hard, now.”

  I nodded reflexively, laughed without hearing it, head still bobbing like some manic wooden puppet by the time Benedict was out the door. He struggled to shut it, really throwing his back into it and body shoved up against the pane, but then he was gone, fading into the black as a high-pitched whine blotted out the wind.

  Sick to my stomach, every thought erupted in a maelstrom of sound whipping around my skull a hundred miles an hour. Accusations and protests and misery and insults and the odd You’re doing your best in a fucked-up situation barely above a whisper. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t speak, my throat closing, the heat of that horrible night creeping up my neck.

  Dizzy. Too dizzy. Need—air.

  Trembling, I managed to turn around and stumble two desks forward before collapsing. Agony ripped through me, grief shredding my lungs as I broke apart after months of keeping it together.

  I hated him, but I hated myself more. What was the point
of paying some djinn nearly everything I had to show up here and do nothing about Benedict motherfucking Hammond? Coward didn’t even begin to describe it, but my inner self sure loved bellowing it as I curled over and wailed into my hands. Screamed and sobbed and—

  Need air.

  Need air or I’d pass out.

  Gasping, I somehow got on my own two feet. Made it to the back door and out into the tempest. The clouds turned cruel suddenly, like they had been waiting for me, and misted the academy’s grounds with a freezing damp. I’d forgotten my jacket, my sweater, my scarf. The air out here was too sharp, too bitter, too painful as I sucked it down by the lungful.

  Torture. Can’t take it anymore.

  Trapped in my head, in a body that fought me for every step, I staggered to the stone stairs embedded in the hillside, then hauled myself up one at a time. Fell along the way. Slipped on the wet. Knocked around by the wind and lost in the dark.

  Until I reached the top, the lanterns bolted around the castle doorways flickering but bright against the elements. Only it wasn’t their warm orange glow that felt like a buoy in the tumultuous seas.

  It was Jack Clemonte, lording over me at the crest of the staircase, that massive body layered in black and utterly unyielding against the wailing winds.

  Cold and lost and desperate, I crumbled to my knees at his feet as the world went up in flames.

  9

  Jack

  The storm wasn’t supposed to hit until midnight.

  But when had the weather ever done what it was supposed to?

  It had been building since six o’clock this evening. Clouds darkening. Air thickening, cooling fast and furious enough to fog all my office windows. Although the reports might fail me again, the storm was predicted to last until Monday, battering the castle through the night, Sunday a complete wash—along with it, my morning run. No outlet tomorrow, no chance to really blow off steam, let loose the stress that built like stone towers on my shoulders.