Page 12 of Wicked Bonds
He’s standing a little too close, and his smile says he’s here to make trouble, and if he can’t find any, he’ll make it up as he goes along.
I’m too tired for this, but apparently there’s no exiting the circus tonight.
“You’re not a vampire,” I say, “and you’re not a witch.”
He leans in until his words are only for me. “Would you believe me if I said I could be your dream come true?”
What kind of professor speaks to his student like that? “I’d believe anything at this point,” I say, but what I really mean is, I’d believe he was the devil himself if he told me with that smile.
He shrugs, pleased. “Incubus. But I’m also teaching one of your classes. You’ll find I’m very hands on.”
I snort, which is not the reaction he’s going for, but he looks delighted. “Of course you are.” I rack my brain for anything I know about incubi, which is pretty much just that the plural of incubus is, in fact, incubi. And something about how they feed on sex.
He tilts his head like he’s waiting for me to ask what that entails, but I just cross my arms and glare at him. Somewhere in there, I remember Lucien’s warning to approach with caution.
“Call on me if you ever… need anything.” The pause is deliberate, and I don’t miss the way his eyes slither down my body, then up. It’s not subtle, but it’s not gross, either. It’s a fine line, but he’s walking it with style. “The true education at the Serpentine Academy is not found in classrooms.” His smile is casual but calculated, like a cat toying with a mouse it’s pretending to let escape. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”
I’m about to deliver a reply, but he’s already gliding away, leaving behind a whiff of brimstone.
Six
Drake
I’m restless tonight, haunting the empty halls like a cliche poltergeist. I try not to linger in the West Wing, too many memories. I prefer the dormitories. The girls there tend toward insomnia, and they’re more interesting to watch since they’re awake.
But tonight, I’m drawn to the new arrival’s room.
She’s awake, no surprise there. The ritual mark will do that, it will burn her skin from the inside, etch the blood pact into her nerve endings, remind her every waking moment that she belongs to someone else. To them. The mark is a kind of branding, but more elegant than that. I run my own finger along the invisible scar that would be on my arm, if I still had an arm to feel. The old familiar ache is there.
She’s trying to cool the mark under the tap running cold water, like it’s a bad sunburn and not witchcraft. She’s huddled over the basin, shivering, lips pressed together in a thin line. Herhair’s unbound this time, falling around her face and over her shoulders. The effect is distracting.
She senses me before she sees me.
That’s new.
She stiffens, but she keeps the arm with the mark under the running water.
“Don’t you people ask to be invited in?” she says, but she doesn’t look up.
“We generally don’t consider ourselves ‘people,’” I reply. “And you’re not supposed to be able to see me at all, unless I want you to.”
She glances up, unimpressed, then fixes her stare back on the angry crescent embedded in her skin. It’s still wet, but the surrounding skin has started to blister in a way that makes my old death wound itch sympathetically.
“I’m full of surprises,” she mutters.
I don’t disagree. This girl barely blinks at finding a ghost in her bathroom. Most students scream, or run, or at minimum have the decency to look terrified. She just keeps her arm under the water like I’m an annoying roommate who forgot to knock.
I’ve haunted these halls for decades. I’ve watched countless witches arrive, all wide-eyed and scared when they catch their first glimpse of me. They clutch their protection charms, mutter banishing spells, sometimes even throw salt, which does absolutely nothing.
But the new girl? She’s annoyed. Like I’ve interrupted her evening skincare routine.
I watch her for a moment, feeling the urge to pace, but I’ve learned that humans interpret spectral restlessness as a threat. “You won’t be able to cool it off. The burn isn’t physical.”
I drift closer, but stop before her bed. “You should let it air out. The ritual wants you to see it. To acknowledge what you are now.”
She gives me a look. “What am I?”
I weigh my answer. “You’re property,” I say, and watch her face. “But not in a way you think. The Accord is complicated. Your bloodline bound itself to the Coven, centuries ago. This is just a payment.”
