Root Rot Academy: Term 3

by Rhea Watson

  I snorted, heat blossoming in my belly despite the sarcasm rolling off my tongue. “While I’m beyond flattered you would both commit homicide for me, I have to sort this out myself.” I held up a hand when they both protested, hearts in the right place—and on the cusp of overstepping some murky boundaries. “Seriously. I’ve decided I want him to rot in a jail cell for the rest of his miserable life. If I can get him to confess again, I’m golden. I’ll carry a recorder, because he just loved rubbing my face in the fact—”

  “Elskling, he won’t make the same mistake twice,” Bjorn told me, his lightly accented rumble gentle and sweet as he hacked my burgeoning plan off at the knees. “You need to act before he absconds.”

  “And why, exactly, would he leave?” Gavriel hoisted his finger. “First, he’s clearly got Prewett’s protection now—I mean, they were practically playing footsies at that meeting.”

  Bjorn shook his head. “But—”

  “Second,” the fae pressed, adding another finger, “the ward is going up tomorrow—his ward, even if it’s got a bit of me in it. No one knows he’s here. No one knows he murdered two people, what, twenty-six years ago?” He bulldozed over me when my lips parted, about to argue my case. “I’m sorry, fury, but your evidence is rather thin without the djinn here to back you. It’s your word against his, and the legal system is a tangled web of inadequacy.”

  Arms crossed, I glared at the shadowy horizon again. “Fair.”

  “Plus, if you accuse him of anything, people will say you’re just trying to shift the blame off Jack.”

  I scoffed, pinning him with an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, but what? Why would they think that?”

  Much to my surprise—and annoyance—Gavriel and Bjorn swapped glances, mouths twitching, fighting back smirks, before the vampire with a possessive arm around me chuckled. Heat flared in my cheeks, and I shoved his hand off my thigh.

  “What?”

  “Elskling, I’m sorry,” he murmured, tickling my side so that I squirmed between him and Gavriel, two steely, sturdy thighs nudged up against mine on either side, “but I’m not the only one who notices the way you look at him—or how he looks at you.”

  The heat went nuclear, exploding north and south, every inch of me white-hot with embarrassment. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Dreadfully dull,” Gavriel drawled through another huff of toasted-caramel smoke, “all that angsty longing. Just fuck already.”

  Oh my gods. I’d always thought we were so secretive, our glances fleeting and private and totally unreadable to outsiders. Shit. “I… We… That’s not your—”

  “Wait.” Gavriel turned on me with a savage mirth that had me shrinking into Bjorn’s side. “Have you already fucked him? Deets, fury.”

  Groaning, I buried my face in my hands, the nearly empty beer can still cool as it smacked against my forehead. The pair might have chuckled again, and while I could envision them high-fiving over my crumpled figure, all the teasing, the fun and games, had an expiration—just like my patience. All I wanted was to talk to Jack, and talking about him, even under these circumstances, was just a reminder that I hadn’t been able to check on him. Gavriel and Bjorn were exceptional distractions and perfect sounding boards, but I… I needed Jack’s arms around me.

  I needed to stand in the eye of the storm so everything could well and truly settle.

  I needed to talk about that night with someone who actually understood.

  I needed to…

  Alice.

  I needed to look him in the eye and know if he was disappointed in me for failing—for costing a young, struggling witch her life.

  “Come on, fury,” Gavriel urged as he tugged my hand away. I blinked back a sudden rush of tears and straightened between the pair with a sniffle and a thin smile. The fae, meanwhile, continued to pry, jabbing me with the mouthpiece of his wooden pipe. “Details. Is he as well-endowed as the rumors say?”

  “Gavriel…” His name fell like a warning from Bjorn’s lips, unspoken but glaringly obvious. Back off. “Don’t be vulgar.”

  “This—from a Viking?” The fae scoffed. “Maybe you need a little more vulgar in your life, vampire.”

  By then, Bjorn’s hand had smoothed back across my left thigh, and while Gavriel had mentioned footsies with such disdain a minute ago, there was his foot against mine as they swung in tandem, back and forth, rhythms aligned.

  Gods, when had it gotten so easy to be around them both?

  All these months of trials and tribulations, of friendly conversations and outright shouting matches, culminated in this moment. Ease. Comfort. Security in each other’s company.

  A judgment-free zone with men who made my heart happy.

  Who challenged me and made me think. Who made me laugh and ache and grow.

  Who both sometimes made me want to pull my hair out.

  We always found each other in the end.

  So worth it. All of it. All the ups and downs along the way.

  I’d do it again in a heartbeat if this was the outcome.

  Especially if it meant Gavriel and Bjorn had each other, too. Of all the creatures at this academy, they needed each other just as much as I needed them.

  Only as good as this all felt, there was a piece missing. Did I think Jack was the type to climb onto the roof for a beer and a smoke? No. But Root Rot Academy was where he belonged.

  Here. Not out there. Right fucking here.

  With me.

  And Bjorn, who had always admired him and his philosophy, loyal to his captain.

  Or, I dunno, his jarl? Whatever.

  And then maybe Gavriel, too, who never seemed all that impressed with his reputation—his wealth and family name, his power in the community and professional prestige. All things considered, Jack probably needed someone in his orbit who wasn’t awestruck by him, but who also wouldn’t stab him in the back to get ahead.

  Gavriel cared about his personal issues.

  He never seemed to put much thought into the drama unfolding around him.

  “Ugh, gods, enough, you two. He…” I held up my hands to quiet the bickering pair, holding strong against the weight of their curious stares. “I can’t talk about it.” Silence. I shrugged and sipped the last of my Guinness. “Because we signed a contract.”

  Bjorn’s icy-blond brows just about rocketed off his forehead, and Gavriel sputtered at me, coughing and hacking out his next inhale.

  “To safeguard our jobs and make sure things are all, you know—” I waved my hand to disperse the smoky caramel cloud away from my face. “—consensual and aboveboard. I’ll burst into blood boils—and so will he—if I go into details, so don’t ask.”

  “Consensual, eh?” Gavriel nudged me with his shoulder, wriggling closer—not to cuddle like Bjorn, but to be an obnoxious asshole. “Does that mean—”

  “Blood. Boils,” I gritted out, glaring directly into that grey gaze, so layered and complex, the strands of silver and white extra bright in the moonlight. Gavriel pursed his lips, and I could already see the gears turning in that clever brain, hunting for a loophole. The large, icy hand on my thigh suddenly tightened, Bjorn giving it an affectionate squeeze, his eyes warm and his mouth quirked like he thought all this was hilarious, adorable, or both.

  This side of him shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but the fact that he was a cuddly, touchy-feely Viking vampire definitely threw me for a loop. Now that we had smoothed over last night’s hiccup, he had no problem declaring our shift from friends and roommates to something else entirely for all the castle to see.

  Even though I had told him flat out I didn’t do jealous men, that I wasn’t a one-man witch, I hadn’t been sure what to expect from him once we upped our relationship status. He might have held me like he owned me, and the thought of a centuries-old vampire getting all rough and growly and mine over little ol’ me might have made me weak in the knees, but he had no qualms in sharing my attention with Gavriel.

  Months ago, he p
ulled back because he thought Benedict and I had some fucked-up thing blossoming between us—and only because he thought Ash Cedar was no good for me.

  Because he rubbed Bjorn the wrong way.

  His radar was spot-on, and if he had no problem with Gavriel, that was telling.

  Jack also seemed to meet his standards.

  Oi. I’d never had three men in my orbit before—and I hadn’t exactly been looking for them. It just… happened. Naturally. Organically. Over time, taking as long as it needed to get to a point where I felt safe to peel back a few layers.

  To let them know me.

  Now here we were, coexisting, both men clearly aware the other had a connection with me, and it was still easy.

  Still nice.

  Still—

  “But can you confirm or deny if you’ve fucked him?” Gavriel blurted suddenly, eyes once again alight with fae mischief, a little too giddy to have sniffed out a plausible loophole to the contract’s stipulations.

  That and he was purposefully trying to fluster me.

  Make my heart beat faster.

  Was that for his benefit—or Bjorn’s?

  Huh. I so didn’t approve of them teaming up on me if it was the latter.

  “I can deny that,” I told him without missing a beat. We all stilled, collective breath held as the wind rustled through the swaying tree branches below. Not a single boil. Ugh, thank the gods.

  Gavriel’s features twisted with disbelief, and I shrugged again, using two hands to crush my beer can flat. While we hadn’t done more than what was agreed upon, my spur-of-the-moment kiss still the closest Jack and I had come to anything romantic, I had felt, you know… him. Brushing up against me. Straining under his trousers. Tough to hide that, even fully dressed. Scenes were just as exciting for my Dom as they were for me, and if the rumors said he was substantial below the belt, I could add some credence to them.

  Because…

  Yeah.

  Very substantial.

  Definitely intimidating.

  “Really now,” Gavriel said with a scoff, finally tipping his pipe over and tapping the bowl. “All that and you’re not fucking him?”

  “Technically, no—”

  “But you rather like him, don’t you?” The fae knocked his foot against mine cheekily, and I kicked him hard in return, which made Bjorn chuckle in my ear, his chin settling into the crook of my neck like this was totally normal, natural, just another Sunday night for us three. Gavriel, meanwhile, wouldn’t let this go, once again jabbing my thigh—missing Bjorn’s fingers each time—with his pipe. “Stern and domineering and disgustingly pretentious do it for you, fury?”

  “He’s not pretentious.” He should have been. Jack Clemonte regularly made witch magazines top eligible—filthy rich—bachelor lists, but in my experience with him, he was just… Jack. Sure, he dressed nice, his clothes reeking of coven wealth, and the food he organized for my aftercare always consisted of products with weird French names that I’d never tried before.

  Okay, maybe a little pretentious.

  But I kind of liked that about him.

  “And we are also super off topic,” I added as Gavriel tucked his empty pipe into his suit jacket’s pocket, rocking pastels tonight in a purple coat with tails and eggshell-blue trousers. The bright yellow tie had fortunately found a home in his pocket as well, which left his faded green dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Seriously, it was like Easter had thrown up on him. I’d never met anyone who could pull off so many batshit crazy fashion choices and still look panty-dropping hot. “There’s more important stuff to discuss.”

  Gavriel rolled his eyes, then slumped backward with a long, dramatic groan that screamed boring. Flat on his back, cradled by the curve of the tower roof, he still managed to keep up with my leg, both swinging back and forth, then left and right, over and over again in a way that was almost relaxing.

  It took me a thousand years to nail the waltz footwork, but this?

  This came easy?

  Yeah, that had to mean something.

  “More depressing stuff to discuss,” Bjorn grumbled, chin snuggling deeper into the crook of my neck. I walked my fingertips along his hand on my thigh, leaning into him with a sigh.

  “Yeah, but we need to come up with a game plan.” A million game plans, actually. “Like how to protect our kids from the shitstorm that’s coming.”

  “Agreed.” He brushed a kiss over my temple, the butterflies in my belly fluttering through a Bjorn-inspired ballet.

  “Fury, your more pressing plans should be dealing with Hammond,” Gavriel argued over my shoulder, arms folded under his head, eyes to the sky. “He’s coming for you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I twisted around to look between him and Bjorn, precariously close to where the roof stopped and free fall began. “Look, if either of you have any suggestions that don’t involve his grisly demise, I’m all ears. Because, yeah, it would be super satisfying to kill him, but I don’t think I’m…” My words snagged, the mean-girl voice inside my head hissing weak and pathetic. “I don’t think I’m that witch. I know it’s stupid, but—”

  “Not everyone is a natural killer, elskling,” Bjorn insisted, lips on my neck now. Interest zinged through me with his every word, nipples suddenly pebbling, heart full at his insinuation and core tightening deliciously at his touch.

  “Yes, fine, it takes a special sort of person to become a killer, blah, blah, blah,” Gavriel groused, “but, fury, you need to toughen up a bit, too. If it comes down to his life or yours, you should be ready to take his—no questions asked.”

  “Ugh.” I resisted chucking my crumpled beer can at him—because he was right. Trust Gavriel to pile on the tough love; I’d do the exact same thing if the roles were reversed.

  Attacking Benedict last night had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction. Seeing my mom’s ring in his hand—I’d lost it.

  And now I had a huge welt on my forehead, my cover officially blown.

  Lashing out sans plan didn’t solve anything; it just created more problems.

  The next time I acted, I needed to do so with forethought and intention, not emotion and grief.

  Chilly, I tucked my hands into Bjorn’s sweater sleeves, then cuddled closer to his side—only to still when I spotted a group of silhouettes marching out the castle’s main doors below and headed for the front gates.

  One figure—taller and larger than the rest—took up the helm, moving with a slight limp, while a pair followed close at his heels.

  A third loitered back by the door, watching.

  “Who is that?” I whispered, carefully leaning forward and squinting against the breeze. My heart sank. I knew who that was. I knew it the second I spotted his limp.

  Gavriel sat up beside me, while Bjorn scrutinized the group with a scowl that quickly mirrored mine.

  “That,” the fae drawled, his leg finally out of sync with mine as he shuffled to the edge, “is the warlock you’re not fucking.”

  He then threw himself off the roof and plummeted straight down into the darkness.

  4

  Gavriel

  Alecto’s startled cry followed me into free fall.

  She obviously hadn’t expected anyone to take the leap of faith off the roof tonight—but neither had I. In fact, I still wasn’t sure what the fuck I was doing as I plummeted down the side of the tower, only that I had seen Jack and wanted details. Where was he headed? Why was he slinking off at this hour, surrounded by warlocks I assumed were part of the new regime because I didn’t recognize a single face among them.

  Fare thee well, suit. One of the more obnoxious combinations in my closet ripped noisily as my wings burst forth to blunt my descent. They fluttered free, black as the night and slashed with silvery white. As soon as they straightened, my free fall slowed, and I was able to navigate the sky on an updraft, then a downdraft, streamlining my body for the exact right landing in front of a hobbling Jack Clemonte and his battalion of muscly warlocks.

&nb
sp; Oi.

  Been a while since I’d flown under the influence.

  Tonight’s pipe mixture was just a dessert blend, not overly sweet and barely enough to get you high, but it had a slight sedative effect that made me bolder.

  Made me pushy with Alecto and curious about Jack.

  Wings folded in, I zipped the rest of the way like an arrow, readjusting my position so that I landed on my feet, dramatic and authoritative, hard enough that dust flew up around me and my jacket fluttered like a superhero’s cape. Jack stumbled to a halt about three feet down the cobblestone walkway, shock flashing across his rugged features, and his security escort immediately scrambled for their wands.

  “Gavriel…” Jack shook his head, swathed in the standard black fabric but somehow looking shorter than usual. This had taken from him—the termination, the siren attack. He limped along, sure, due to what I could only assume were the lingering effects of his injuries, but he lacked his usual uppity, ramrod-straight posturing. No luggage, either—just one of his black suits and an oppressive black trench, the warlock like a huge shadow stretching across the grounds as he looked me over hurriedly, brows knit, mouth tight. “What—”

  “That’s it, then?” I demanded, flipping the unfamiliar faces behind him the V when they raised their wands. Two at his back, a third to bring up the rear. I’d have called it a standard formation, but they were missing details flanking the prisoner, along with someone at the helm to catch him if he ran. Fucking try-hard twats. When Jack’s lips parted, I turned my ire on him. “Just leaving us like a fucking… thief in the night? Abandoning your flock to Prewett? No farewell speech, no thanks for putting up with your shit for the last three years?”

  Root Rot Academy’s former headmaster gritted his jaw briefly, rage flashing in eyes that had more complexity than I’d ever given them credit for in the past. Jack Clemonte was a tall, broad, imposing black man—and I had always thought his eyes reflected that. Only tonight, I noted the nuances, the streaks of gold catching in the starlight.