by Watson, Rhea
From here on out, there would be no need to ponder or speculate.
With her, all I needed to do was feel.
And I for one very much welcomed that—a chance to switch off.
“I’m here, Alecto.”
To smell vanilla instead of salt.
A welcome change indeed.
6
Alecto
When the nine-o’clock bell chimed, the castle fell under a curfewed hush that lasted until sunrise. I’d always found it a little oppressive and creepy, almost punishing in the way the quiet bore down on you—a firm reminder for students to get back to bed where they belonged. From nine o’clock on, silence reigned supreme everywhere.
Everywhere but the kitchen.
Because the kitchens at Root Rot Academy were a kingdom unto themselves.
At the back of the dining hall, just beyond the staff table, stood a pair of swinging salon doors that opened to yet another dark stairwell. As soon as you shouldered through, you were smacked in the face with a cacophony of competing scents: freshly baked breads, slow-roast chickens, desserts that gave you a sugar high just by smelling them. Students weren’t permitted down here without an escort, but staff like myself made use of the fact that the kitchen was a twenty-four-hour operation. If they weren’t serving a meal, they were preparing for the next one—and the next one, and the next one, the bakery crew working the crack ass of dawn shift and the Italian head chef in the evening a total douche-canoe.
I rarely went deeper than the main entrance, loitering at a marble counter like everyone else who wasn’t a citizen of this food republic after giving my order. Sometimes I placed it in the mornings for pickup in the evening; tonight, after a rare night class and then a long ninety minutes spent pruning in the conservatory, I’d stumbled in fifteen minutes ago and relayed my evening snack order to a flustered sous chef.
Drumming my fingers on the countertop, I cringed at the crash of glassware somewhere deep inside the bright space, obnoxious white counters and shiny stainless steel as far as the eye could see. Of course, I appreciated the fact that even though it was so white, the place looked spotless, but coming down here after navigating the castle’s dark corridors was always such an assault.
“Professor Clarke?”
I perked up as one of the lesser chefs—evidenced by the spattered apron, the messy hair behind the net, and the huge bags under his eyes—marched out of the chaos with my order.
“Yes, hi,” I babbled, straightening and reaching over the counter to relieve him. “Thank you.”
“One thin-crust pepperoni pizza,” he said flatly, his white cotton tee visibly stained around the pits. Yikes. Not quite as sparkly clean as all the stainless steel and marble implied, apparently. The nameless cook shoved the pizza box into my hands, almost with a Didn’t you eat at dinner? glower in his eye. Just because we all made regular trips down here for after-hours nibbles didn’t mean any of them liked having us in their space. “The ranch dip is inside.”
My mouth watered at the first whiff of three different kinds of melted cheese that wafted out during the handover. “Ugh, yes.”
“And… this.” Nose crinkled, the cook practically threw the thermos of blood at me, as if he couldn’t stand to touch it a second longer. Balancing the pizza box on my forearm, I steadied the metal cylinder on top, all my previous friendliness gone. Same shit, different day with this crew. They prepped blood regularly for the castle’s vampire inhabitants; it seriously shouldn’t be such a big deal to heat a few cups and put it in a thermos. If it was that offensive, they could always pretend it was tomato soup. You know, just be an adult and get the fuck over it.
Warlock asshole.
His aura hinted at him being another magic-user, but the wand poking out of his apron’s pocket was the dead giveaway. Hands planted on his hips, the cook lifted his eyebrows at me, wordlessly asking if I was done while also silently insisting I fuck off already. With a sniff, I gave him a nod of thanks, no longer in the mood to gush over my pizza no matter how delicious it smelled, then turned on my heel and stalked out.
Pizza box jabbing into my side like I was a seventeenth-century washerwoman lugging a basket of laundry around, I let my feet guide me up a floor to Bjorn’s underground classroom, the Root Rot castle familiar enough by now that I could navigate it no matter how distracted.
And I was distracted—distracted cussing out that fucking cook in my head, belatedly coming up with all the clever and sassy things I could have sneered at him and his anti-vampirism attitude.
Only to stop, brain short-circuiting, at Bjorn’s closed classroom door. Swallowing thickly, I glanced at the knob. So gross that those kids had hexed the copper to grow wooden spikes. Sometimes I questioned why Bjorn hadn’t noticed them—but then remembered we all walked these halls on autopilot, a million other problems to think about in the meantime. With a shake of my head, I balanced everything with one arm and popped his door open.
And was greeted by an empty classroom on the other side.
“Bjorn?” I poked my head in, scanning the orderly bookshelves, the tidied desks, the dusty chalkboard. We had promised to meet here around this time, to walk back together and hang out tonight for a movie—no work, no shop talk, no nothing. Just me and him decompressing after surviving the first week of the second term. He wouldn’t…
He wouldn’t bail.
And he wouldn’t just leave his classroom door unlocked.
Anxiety trickled down my spine like the first breath of winter frost. Annoying, really, to still be triggered by his empty classroom, but that night had stuck with me. Sure, Bjorn was the traumatized one—and rightly so—but seeing him up on that cross, hanging limp and slick with thick, dark blood, stakes buried deep…
That would stay with me for a while.
At the time, I’d thought I lost him, and my heart just… broke. Of course, I shoved all that aside and focused on getting him down. As soon as his eyes had fluttered open, something warm and welcome stitched my heart back together, whole again—for now.
No one answered my call. Blanketed in the castle’s nighttime quiet, I marched deeper into the classroom for a more intense look, then jogged out to the corridor, panic making my throat tight.
“Bjorn?” Tight enough to turn my voice all squeaky. Awesome.
“I’m here, Alecto.”
While I still couldn’t see him, at least I had a direction, his voice carrying faintly from the left. Readjusting my grip on the pizza box and the metal thermos perched on top, I hurried down the hallway, around the corner, and then bam—nearly plowed straight into him.
“What are you doing down here?” Heart whumping loud enough that I just knew he heard every beat, I peeked around him at the alcove near the tower staircase. No one else around but a love goddess; I arched an eyebrow. “Clíodhna giving you that look?”
“Always,” he said with a deliciously deep chuckle as he accepted the thermos, looking positively scrumptious in green and beige tweed tonight, the leather elbow patches always a nice touch. I used to think the look was stuffy, but now it… did things to me. Even worse, he had started wearing the odd pair of dark jeans to lectures lately—which just fit him so well. Bjorn Asulf had the hot professor vibe down better than anyone I’d met in my entire teaching career.
The vampire gave the thermos a little shake, still grinning as he said, “No, I was… Well, I found your Alice hiding behind her.”
“What?” I dropped the teasing pretense with a frown, shifting the pizza box to my left hip so it wasn’t jutting straight out at his torso. Nostrils flared, the greasy cheese-pepperoni combo probably an assault on his senses, Bjorn eased back slightly and shrugged.
“She was out after curfew and tried to hide from me.”
“What?” Even though her family had hidden her away at a reform academy, Alice Jameson was the furthest thing from a rule breaker. A goody-goody and an overt people-pleaser, just the thought of her bending the rules slightly put me in a tailspin.
What had triggered this? Had I read her wrong? We spent oodles of time together; given her coven’s rejection, the witch who couldn’t cast craved attention and lots of it. I did my best to ensure that she received positive attention for all her other talents, especially her green thumb, so my little awkward duckling wouldn’t go looking for the wrong sort elsewhere.
“She’s fine,” Bjorn insisted, tapping his rolled stack of parchments against my arm, his grin nowhere near as reassuring as usual. Alice ignoring the rules was really out of character; she always left early so that she didn’t risk missing curfew by a second. “I gave her a warning, then covered for her with the den mother.”
And there was Bjorn, wildly in character, forever the shepherd to Root Rot’s lost, stubborn, moody lambs. Seriously, I could always count on him to be the good guy. Smirking, I shoved at his arm, all steely and solid under the unassuming tweed.
“You old softie.”
His icy blues narrowed, that handsome mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Little witch, I hail from warrior descent—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” I poked at his bicep a few times. “Not a warrior now, are you?”
Just a big ol’ bear who would protect his cubs from everything—even themselves.
Bjorn cocked an eyebrow and tucked the thermos under his arm. “Depends on the circumstances.”
Lightning fast, the vampire snatched my wrist and dragged me into him. I stumbled forward like a giggly schoolgirl, surrendering to the play fighting, to the push and pull and laughter. With him, I couldn’t help it: this vampire was Forever material.
But he was my roommate.
And my friend.
And as fun as it was to flirt and giggle and tussle with each other in a dimly lit underground corridor, it probably shouldn’t go beyond that. So, as always, I retreated first, stepping back to put some healthy distance between us, still chuckling as I scooped my curls behind my ears.
“Anyway.” Cheeks a dull pink, Bjorn tossed his head toward the nearby stairwell. “How is Alice doing these days? Any magic?”
“Nope.”
“Shame,” he muttered as we ambled along. “She’s quiet in my classes as well.”
“Yeah, no friends yet, either,” I told him, waiting while he nudged open the door and then ducking by while he held it, “but I’m working on it.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for the sane ones.” Bjorn’s honeyed baritone rumbled through the stairwell as we climbed together, me a few steps ahead and still only a few inches taller.
“’preciate that, bruh.”
“Do you hear what comes out of your mouth sometimes?” The vampire snorted when I flipped him off over my shoulder. “What the fuck is a bruh?”
“You.” I shouldered through the door at the first-floor landing and propped it open for him, pizza box gritted into my waist, its fresh-out-the-oven heat starting to get uncomfortable. “You’re a bruh.”
“No, thanks,” he said, breezing by with the thermos to his nose. He slowed, waiting for me to catch up with his long strides as we trekked through the open-air corridor around the main courtyard. “Is this AB-negative?”
I shot him a duh look, then rolled my eyes as he smiled thoughtfully.
“You know me so well, little witch.”
“Well, after you went on that rant about the nuances of AB-negative, I kind of figured it was your brand.”
“It wasn’t a rant—more a reflective monologue about…” He trailed off, chuckling again when I stabbed my elbow into his arm. I might have loved to listen to him talk, his velvety voice a siren song that actually did something to this witch, but I couldn’t take another speech about the subtle wonders of AB-negative.
“So,” I started, meandering along, forcing him to go at my pace when his much longer legs could outrun mine by a mile, “you still up for a movie night?”
“Always.” Bjorn thrust his chin toward my extra-large pizza box. “You obviously are.”
“Always,” I said with a sniff, nose up, totally unfazed at the implication that I would, in fact, demolish all fourteen pieces of this nirvana before the movie was up. “Preference?”
“Your call,” Bjorn told me as we drifted around a corner, a frigid breeze whipping through the courtyard and rustling the magically protected greenery inside. Although this hallway was just as chilly as the exterior, strategic charms would keep the elements out of the castle when the weather took a real nosedive in a few weeks.
Apparently. I still counted on wearing six layers to get from our flat to the greenhouse when winter finally struck.
“I’m in the mood for…” I nibbled my lower lip, not really needing those few seconds to consider my options but doing so anyway, reveling in the chill. Having lived on Canada’s west coast for almost a decade, I so wasn’t down for northern winters, but the frosty breath of the highlands always perked me up.
Made me feel alive.
Reminded me of Bjorn’s icy touch.
“Oh, wait, let me guess—”
“Shitty horror,” I finished for him. I knew his favorite blood type just like Bjorn knew the movie genre I’d campaign for when given the chance. He let out a knowing laugh and shook his head.
“When are you not in the mood for that?”
“Like…” I brought the pizza box to my other hip, giving the left side a break and putting a cardboard buffer between me and the vampire whose bones I so wanted to jump but so wasn’t allowed to. “Like human teens go camping and are killed by a slasher psycho horror.”
Bjorn’s eyebrows shot up, and he tapped his nose with the rolled-up parchments. “Bit on the nose with that one. Slasher is out.”
“Nosferatu?” I floated with an innocent flutter of my eyelashes. Bjorn’s lips thinned, unimpressed, and I sighed dramatically. “Okay, swamp monster? Or—oh!” A little too excited for the night ahead, I did an embarrassing shimmy and hand-flap thing that had Bjorn grinning. “Or, like, ancient sea monster rises from the abyss after we drill too deep into the ocean floor, hell-bent on dominating the land and sea.”
The vampire scoffed, trying to look all serious and failing by a mile. “No. Been done to death, that one.”
“Oh my gods, fussy.” I huffed, racking my mental database for human horror flicks we hadn’t already watched. Many were supernatural in nature—and way off base. But I, like many, loved horror because the hero always made it. Tortured, tormented, beaten, whatever, the sole survivor defeated the Big Bad and went on to live their happily-ever-after, scarred but alive. It was kind of fucked, but I found the whole genre weirdly uplifting. And, you know, humans screwed up us supernatural folk so much that there were guaranteed laughs. “Family moves into a haunted house and at least one of them gets possessed?”
Bjorn shook his thermos at me, its contents sloshing around noisily. “That—that’s the one.”
“Yesssssssssss.” We bumped elbows, his hands too full for one of our usual high fives, and then descended back into the silly, flirty, giggly energy that I should have discouraged.
Instead, I ate it up just as hungrily as he did, conversation drifting toward our options now that we had narrowed down the horror subgenre. Passing by one of the arched doorways to the courtyard, however, someone else caught my eye.
Gavriel.
At least, I assumed it was Gavriel, half the figure’s lean body hidden in the shadows of the gnarled old oak twisting and twining around the center of the courtyard. A telling puff of smoke whooshed from the darkness, confirming my suspicions, and I faltered when a little guilt-bomb detonated in my chest.
Seeing him sitting all alone—again—after our smidgen of bonding on the beach last week sort of… pulled at my stupid heartstrings.
The fae was always alone.
Or with someone he didn’t really talk to, more like flirted at.
And from experience, that existence was a really depressing one.
If I were a better witch, I might have pointed him out to Bjorn; the pair s
eemed to get along, and with Bjorn’s penchant for the lost and lonely, he probably wouldn’t have objected to inviting him along for a movie night.
But a little shared misery on some cold beach wasn’t enough to put Gavriel and me on overly friendly terms.
Besides, I coveted alone time with Bjorn like a dragon hoarded gold. If we weren’t grading or lesson planning in front of the TV in silence, we were all laughter and underhanded compliments and subtle flirtations and the occasional lingering eye contact.
With everything else going on in my life, from Benedict Hammond knowing my coffee order, wanting to know me, to my pet project Alice breaking the rules, all the way over to Jack Clemonte and I chatting BDSM at the risk of both our jobs…
I was allowed to be selfish occasionally and keep Root Rot’s hidden gem all to myself.
So, I carried on without a backward glance, even as a certain silvery fae gaze scorched into my back, and tried my best to let everything else go. Forget the world existed outside the four soundproof walls of our flat.
Embrace a night of horror films and stupid jokes and snuggly blankets and pepperoni pizza.
And above all else: Bjorn.
My vampire. Mine.
Honestly, the rest of them had no idea what they were missing.
7
Gavriel
In a moment of weakness, I wanted that.
Them.
Bjorn and Alecto—what they had.
Laughter and carefree conversation and a constant companion and—
All of it. I wanted all of it, the good, the bad, and the sickeningly sweet.
With my evening pipe near its end, I watched them saunter down the exterior corridor from the shadows of the oak. Watched her bounce at his side, clutching a massive pizza box and sporting an even wider smile, all flirtatious and giggly. Watched Bjorn lap it up, standing tall when he usually hunched, moving slow and confident by her side—accommodating for her shorter legs, totally in her thrall.
The beginnings of love, perhaps.
