Page 35 of Bonds of Blood
I rolled my eyes and smiled. Him and his selective understanding of language. I herded them out the door, giving our bedchambers a last fond glance before I turned the key.
Ourbedchambers, right there at the Wispwood. Gods, it was good to be home.
18
Another handfulof ivory dice clattered onto the table, three of them landing on sixes. The numbers burned bright with hellfire. A tiny demon — okay, it was Cutler — rushed forward to check them. He rubbed his hands and cackled, almost tripping over the dice on his way.
“That means you have to drink again, Namirah!”
And so we chanted, “Drink, drink, drink,” as we’d chanted over the last dozen or so rounds. Namirah pawed at her cocktail, only taking small sips for her punishment, because for whatever mysterious reason, most of the triple-sixes kept landing during her turns. Cutler’s devilish little drinking game had filled the poor woman to capacity.
Maybe she shouldn’t have bragged about having an iron stomach at the start of the night. No one but Cutler could figure out the rules of his game. And Namirah was way too sloshed to notice that the dice were rigged, which was just as well. She might have transformed into a lioness to eat Cutler in one bite otherwise.
Satchel and Ember had lost interest in the game long ago — and gotten lost in the process, too. The pair were nowhere in sight, probably having zipped right out of Bruna’s office to go make out in a more private corner of the castle. They deserved it, too. Nothing like a little bit of frisky fun to celebrate actually surviving another evil magical threat.
My father, in this case, who Dr. Fang thoroughly skewered in between cocktails at Bruna’s impromptu bar. She was fun to hang out with when she wasn’t ranting at me about lessons or sending me mixed signals about summoning. And she got along great with the group, too, trading teacherly war stories with Bruna or discussing the strange flora and fauna of the cosmos with Sylvain.
Sylvain who — bless him — was holding my hand under the table, his body blistering hot from all the cocktails he’d imbibed, and the rest of him just as blistering hot as usual. To me, at least. The boy could hold his liquor, all right. Something to do with his fae constitution, perhaps, how they were built differently than humans.
Bruna certainly wasn’t pulling punches with her cocktails in any case. I’d had something in every color of the rainbow, plus something black as ink that tasted sweet and spicy and kicked like a damn mule. It was soothing, watching her mix her drinks as deftly as she brewed her potions, flipping bottles and shot glasses like an expert bartender.
But three hours at the Bruna Hernandez speakeasy were three hours plenty, and it was time for me and Sylvain to get a little private time of our own. I said my goodbyes and pulled her in for a tight hug, savoring the flowery scent of her hair.
“Thank you. For everything. I love you so much.”
“Um, okay.” Bruna pulled away with a lopsided smile and a puzzled expression. “I’ll see you in the morning like always, you weirdo.”
“Right. Of course you will. Tell Namirah I said good night, won’t you?”
She crossed her arms and frowned. “Tell her yourself. Right now Lady Holds-Her-Liquor hates me because I said I was cutting her off.”
I leaned in and tapped her on the shoulder. “Namirah. Hey, Namirah. If you transformed into a hawk right now, what would happen to all the alcohol in your system? Does it get synthesized differently or do you just instantly puke your guts out, but in bird form?”
“Kill you,” she mumbled, holding her head in her hands. “Kill you where you stand, Locke.”
“I love you too. Night, Dr. Fang. Cutler, you’ll take care of her, won’t you?”
Dr. Fang waved me off, lips too busy chugging down another beer. Cutler clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, fine. Fun’s over, N. I’ll go fetch you some coffee from the kitchens.” He gathered his dice up into his arms and vanished in a puff of smoke.
And that was our cue to vanish, too, heading back to our bedchambers through the shortest possible route. I giggled as we stumbled through the gloom of the castle, Sylvain still holding my hand, the pair of us burning hot. Gods, how I would have loved to stop in the darkest alcove, kiss him hard on the mouth, let him have his wicked way with me and my —
“Oh. Locke. Look at you, gallivanting around the castle this late at night.”
My mood withered on the spot at the sound of Evander Skink’s voice. He was coming the opposite way, hair a bedraggled mess, clothes in disarray. Well, at least someone was having some handsy fun in the dark.
Seriously, it was a wonder the academy hadn’t devolved into total collegiate debauchery after all the hubbub in the Spire of Radiance. I could definitely hear distant laughter and noises of merriment, other students throwing their own parties to celebrate the Wispwood’s victory against Baylor Wilde.
“We were just heading to our bedchambers,” I said, pushing past Evander. “Come on, Sylvain.”
A hand tugged on the back of my shirt. I froze in place. It wasn’t like Evander to get so physical.
“Locke. A quick word, if you will? And sorry, Sylvain. I’d like to have this conversation in private.”
Ever the charmer, ever polite, Sylvain bent his body into a deep, flourishing bow. “But of course. I’ll see you in our chambers, Lochlann.”
“See you in our chambers,” I repeated, my face already falling into wrinkled distaste, my arms already crossed. “What’s this about, Skink?”
