by Rhea Watson
Root Rot Academy
Term 1
Rhea Watson
Copyright 2020 Rhea Watson
Published by Rhea Watson, Amazon Edition. All rights reserved.
License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons or situations is unintentional and coincidental. References or mention of trademarks are not intended to infringe on trademark status. Any trademarks referenced or used is done so with full acknowledgement of trademarked status and their respective owners. The use of any mentioned trademarks is not sponsored or authorized by the trademark owner.
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Paperback ISBN: PENDING
Cover Art: Anika @ Ravenborn Covers
Proofreader: One Love Editing
Content Warning
Please note that the Root Rot trilogy includes content that may not be suitable for all readers. Across all three full-length novels, you’ll find a Why Choose romance, graphic violence, coarse language, and detailed steamy, steamy steam.
Contents
1. Alecto
2. Bjorn
3. Alecto
4. Alecto
5. Alecto
6. Gavriel
7. Jack
8. Alecto
9. Bjorn
10. Alecto
11. Alecto
12. Gavriel
13. Alecto
14. Bjorn
15. Jack
16. Alecto
17. Gavriel
18. Jack
19. Alecto
20. Bjorn
21. Gavriel
22. Alecto
23. Jack
24. Bjorn
25. Jack
26. Alecto
27. Gavriel
28. Bjorn
29. Gavriel
30. Alecto
Coming Soon!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedicated to crisp autumns and dark Samhains.
1
Alecto
“Headmaster Clemonte apologizes for not being here to welcome you personally—”
“Oh, that’s totally fine,” I babbled, nerves manifesting in a ditzy giggle and a flouncy wave of my hand. The waspish witch in front of me pressed her lips together in a thin line, hazel-grey eyes narrowing over her clipboard. Right. Probably shouldn’t interrupt. But, seriously, who expected the headmaster of a supernatural academy to greet them at the front door? When I had arrived for my last position at Glencrest Prep, home to the pampered teen offspring of Canada’s witch and warlock elite, I had been expected to find my way around with a map and a welcome letter.
No one there bothered with newbies, and given its subpar reputation in the academy community, I’d honestly expected the same treatment—or worse—at a reform school.
“We’ve had an influx of new staff this year,” the witch continued, nudging her half-moon spectacles up her thin nose, then peering down at her clipboard. “Naturally, he is showing some of the more experienced staff around. Name?”
Was my age supposed to be a detriment? Headmaster Jack Clemonte was the youngest headmaster at any supernatural academy, but sure, take a dig at the fact that I was still a year off from thirty. Like that mattered.
“Alecto…” Corwin. My gut bottomed out. Corwin. No. I wasn’t a Corwin anymore—not while I was at Root Rot. Clarke. I’d paid a fortune for that, for Alecto Clarke. Clarke. Clarke, Clarke, Clarke, not Corwin. “Alecto Clarke.”
Oblivious to my flash of panic, the witch sniffed and snapped her fingers, summoning an obnoxious feathery quill and checking off something on the clipboard. When she was through, she murmured a vanishing spell under her breath. Seconds later, the quill and the clipboard disappeared, and she motioned to the soaring structure at her back.
“Miss Clarke, let me be the first to welcome you to Root Rot Reform—” Her face pinched, and she let out a curt breath. “Root Rot Academy.”
Under the new headmaster’s reign, the institution had undergone a rebranding that was the talk of the academic community these last two years; clearly not everyone here was as open to change as the rumors insinuated.
“Thank you.” Functioning solely on anxiety and adrenaline today, I did a stupid little curtsey-bow thing, and the arch of her grey brow had a blush exploding all the way down to my navel. Straightening, I smoothed a hand over my crisp black blazer, my plaid knee-length skirt. While my outfit looked fresh out of this year’s Chanel line-up, the witch in front of me rocked a full tartan sheath and a massive layered black skirt beneath like we were stuck in the Victorian era. Stupid traditional witch fashion—so heavy. Was there a too-tight corset under there, too? Was that why she looked so pissed off—because she couldn’t breathe? “I’m really excited to be here.”
“Hmm.” Another dismissive sniff as she looked me up and down. “We’ll see. My name is Madame Prewett—assistant headmistress, primarily responsible for the academy’s administration. You won’t see much of me beyond today.”
“Oh. Shame.” Thank the gods. This witch—maybe in her late fifties, but given the community’s penchant for anti-aging potions, who knew—radiated impatience, like greeting me was so beneath her; unfortunately, I expected no less in academia. At most places you weren’t worth a second glance unless you had been at this for three decades and possessed the wrinkles and the varicose veins to prove it.
Hardly the best face to slap on the welcome committee. Also a bit of a disappointment that the first witch I met in the highlands, jewel of the Scottish north, sounded like some snooty, posh Londoner.
But never mind. She wasn’t the reason I had taken this job—with its vast pay cut and a ding to my professional resume—at Root Rot Academy.
“Yes, terrible shame,” Madame Prewett drawled. “Follow me inside. We’ll do a quick tour before I drop you off at your flat.”
She pivoted in place, that huge tartan shawl whirling with her, and showed off the tightest bun I’d ever seen on a living person, her greying butterscotch locks aggressively pinned and tacked in place. Quite the contrast to my bouncy mahogany curls—another affront to her senses, probably, something else to dislike about me. Despite the rumors swirling about a progressive young headmaster, academic elitism appeared alive and well at Root Rot.
Doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Might not even be here the full year—
Quieting my inner anxiety monologue, I almost had to sprint to catch up with her, kitten heels clicking crisply over the cobblestone path that led up to the main building. Behind, a soaring wrought iron gate locked us in, the grounds surrounded by stone walls that mirrored the castle itself.
Walls, mind you, not wards—a first in my teaching career, and a surprise at a school exclusively for delinquent teen supers and shifters. Supposedly the whole property had a simple glamor charm cast over it so humans saw the impressive castle, the thick walls, and the iron gates as crumbling ruins. Situated northwest of the city of Thurso, near the coast yet squarely in highland territory, legends told of malicious spirits roaming the shambles of an old Scottish fort, which kept locals at a distance.
A shockingly dense patch of trees stretched along either side of the path, oaks, aspens, hazels, birches, elms, and junipers—to name just a few—mingling and flourishing together in harmony. Rare, to find trees this far north after centuries of deforestation, the ground more suitable for grasses, heather, and shrubs. All beautifu
l in their own way, all useful in my trade, but there was something so soothing about a happy, healthy forest.
The castle itself had been built from native grey stone, bits and pieces forged together with magic fire—vitrified, like many ancient Scottish forts. Beautiful. Raw. Deeply tied to the land, to the roots of its ancestral peoples. The nearer I drew, the stronger the magical aura it gave off.
A gust of cool sea air whipped through the foliage, the lush canopy swaying on either side of me, leaves whooshing, the trees whispering secrets amongst themselves. I folded my arms over my chest and ducked my chin, bracing against the chill. Having lived in a relatively temperate southwestern Canada the last few years, adjusting to the northern tundra would be a challenge. Already I regretted not layering up, my dark grey stockings useless against the breeze, my skirt fluttering up to my thighs as I hurried after Madame Prewett to the main doors.
Towering doors at that, some twenty feet tall—hewn from holm oak trees, if I wasn’t mistaken, and etched with protection runes.
That gave me some pause.
What did we need to arm ourselves against all the way up here—at the ends of the Earth, in the middle of nowhere?
Academies were generally respected in the supernatural community, playing a critical part in our society—a necessary evil not to be toyed with. Not to say there weren’t darker academies for more nefarious arts; Lucifer himself was said to be the sole patron of Darkwell Academy, but, frankly, the academia rumor mill was mostly bullshit.
After tapping a precise pattern over the doors with her wand, Madame Prewett stepped back stiffly, waiting for them to swing inward. I, meanwhile, had somehow got my tiny heel wedged between two cobblestones and faltered, stumbling sideways and dragging all my hovering trunks with me. Fortunately, I was upright by the time she glared over her shoulder, neat and orderly, not a hair out of place, and then let out a soft huff as she beckoned me inside.
Today was going to be a long, exhausting day for a million reasons—but I hadn’t counted the welcome tour as being one of them until now. Did everyone get such a frosty reception, or was I just lucky that way?
The main doors opened into an airy foyer, the exterior stonework carrying inside on the floors, walls, and ceiling. Directly ahead, an arched open doorway showed off a sprawling courtyard, and from a quick glance, I spotted a huge mature corkscrew willow, its branches contorted and twisted, its foliage a brilliant green. Not native to the region, the old man appeared in excellent condition.
Behind me, spanning out on either side of the main doors, hung about a dozen portraits of wizened warlocks, grey and white hair aplenty, and I took a stab in the dark and guessed they were the academy’s former headmasters.
Trunks hovering at my heels, I waited for further instruction from Madame Prewett, but she was already off, blitzing down the leftmost corridor as the main doors lumbered closed.
“Er, where should I…?” I motioned back to my levitating trunks, my entire world packed into six huge containers that had been a bitch to lug all the way up here, forced to rely on squealy-wheeled trollies whenever I was around humans. With yet another unimpressed look, the assistant headmistress stalked back down the hall, zipped around me, then poked her wand at each of my trunks. Without a word, they whizzed to the right and around a corner, gone, presumably, to my new living quarters. Right. I smoothed my curls back with a chuckle. “Wow, you’ll have to teach me that one.”
The witch pinned me with yet another miffed expression, then motioned for me to follow. “Come along, Miss Clarke.”
Nibbling my lower lip, I had to jog to keep pace with her, all the while ignoring the weirdness of hearing that name attached to me. Miss Clarke. I had been Alecto since I was thirteen, then Miss Corwin and Professor Corwin all my adult life, but not here. Here, I had to respond to a stranger’s name, to a family name that wasn’t mine, that had been whipped up by djinn magic—a whole ancestry born from the snap of his fingers.
A necessary evil, unfortunately, that I would just have to get used to.
Since becoming a licensed herbalist at twenty-three, I had worked my way up at various academies from teaching assistant to guest lecturer to outright professor, but Root Rot was probably the biggest and most rustic. Stone as far as the eye could see was broken up by the odd wood beam along the ceiling or around a classroom door. The main building was one big square three stories high and two levels deep, classrooms on the perimeter and connected by corridors around that large courtyard in the middle—the heart of the academy. The second and third floors peered into the meticulous outdoor space through large arched windows, while the main floor let the castle’s occupants walk straight out into the sunshine.
I paused at one of the openings, shocked at the level of care and detail that had gone into the landscaping.
“Are those… bougainvilleas?” It was a rhetorical question; obviously I knew what bougainvillea vines looked like, but I hadn’t expected to find the pink tropical blooms outlining several of the open-air doorways like floral awnings.
“Yes, I believe so,” Madame Prewett said dryly. She scanned the courtyard, her default setting—painfully unenthusiastic—very much engaged, and even crinkled her nose when I dared stroke one of the pretty pink petals nearby. “Headmaster Clemonte insisted we spruce up the grounds during his inaugural year. I imagine you’ll be taking over all—” She gestured dismissively to the courtyard. “—this now.”
“Uh, yeah. I think some grounds maintenance was in the contract.”
My predecessor had an exceptional green thumb, wildflowers woven throughout the space, color splashed around the beautiful curly willows, English ivy creeping up the stone walls. Guilt plucked at my heartstrings, making it difficult to draw a full breath, but I maintained my plastered-on smile—wore my mask as best I could. The only reason I had gone with a thick black blazer was so no one could see me nervous-sweat. If I had thought of it, I would have shoved my hands into a pair of gloves as well, just to hide how they had trembled almost nonstop since I climbed out of bed this morning after the shittiest sleep of my life.
But given the possibilities of today—first impressions at a new job, maybe even meeting him—that was just par for the course.
Although I could have spent a solid hour exploring the courtyard alone, examining every bloom, every willow bud, every blade of grass fighting through the stone tiles, an entire castle awaited Madame Prewett’s brisk introduction, and she seemed keen on getting it over with.
Towers stood at each corner of the main building: three spires for students, one for the staff, which housed our flats, the breakroom, and a few leisure spaces at the very top. Those dedicated to the delinquents sentenced to a stint at Root Rot were broken up by years. First and second years in the southwest tower, ages thirteen to fifteen. Third and fourth years in the northwest tower, ages fifteen to seventeen. Then the oldest of the bunch had a tower all to themselves, able to stay until they were eighteen.
It shocked me that they were each given a room of their own, but I respected the merit in rehabilitation over a prison-style system. Sure, many of my future students had committed petty crimes. They had trouble with their magic, or they shifted without regard for anyone around them. Misfits. Rebels. Angry, angsty teenagers who could be here for a week, a month, a whole term, or all five years, the student body was a transient community.
I pitied those who had a five-year sentence.
No one else wanted them.
No one wanted to deal with them and their issues.
Had my life taken a different path, I could have easily been one of these misfits, angry at the world, rebellious, broken and lost and searching for comfort in all the wrong places.
I hadn’t met any of them yet, but as we power walked outside to the north end of campus, I understood them way better than the spoiled brats I’d suffered at Glencrest Prep the last three years.
“There is your territory,” Madame Prewett mused, thrusting her chin to the right—to t
he most gorgeous sight an herbalist could ever hope to see: down a hill, nestled in a small green valley, sat my greenhouses. Three long rectangles. What appeared to be a very happy vegetable garden outside. A circular glass conservatory tinted green with the life inside. Perfect. Just perfect. It was more than I’d ever been allowed before, and even though I had deeper, darker reasons for taking this job, I planned to make the most of that while I could.
To the left of my domain sat an athletic field, and beyond that, the perimeter wall wrapped around everything, broken only by an iron gate in the far corner.
“The paths outside the gate are generally used by the staff,” the witch beside me said, fussing with her heavy wool shawl as the wind whipped through the grounds. “Some use it for jogging or hiking through the moors… Students who show the correct temperament are also given the digital combination to the lock and may use it to come and go—”
“You let students leave the grounds?” What? Even my pampered charges at Glencrest weren’t allowed out of the ward without a chaperone, but here, literal teen criminals who had no real control over their magic could just… leave?
What universe had I fallen into, because this didn’t align with my reality.
“The land beyond the wall still belongs to Root Rot,” Madame Prewett sneered, but her tone rolled off my back at this point—I had already built up an immunity. “Our property stretches all the way to the coast… But, yes, I also find it strange. Headmaster Clemonte believes that a modicum of trust helps with the reform process.”
