I smothered my laugh, but both Fox and Bask couldn’t hide theirs.
Magenta glanced at us uncertainly, until we chorused together, “We hashtag you too.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh, and on all the omens, it was awesome to feel surrounded by joy, mischief, and love.
Loki would’ve been in his prankster element.
Magenta grinned. “I never heard laughter in this castle as a child. I hope that we shall laugh together often.”
Suddenly, the door slammed open, and Lysander barged in with a furious glower. He dragged Prince Willoughby after him by the arm, who managed as always to appear entirely unruffled. Honestly, I’d always thought that it was kind of weird the way that Lysander pulled the elf around like he was his guard or Willoughby was dangerous.
Prince Willoughby always looked dangerous, of course, even though he was smaller than Lysander. It was the way that his sky-blue eyes were predatory with the same struggle for control that I knew lurked in my own. Yet at other times, like now, he’d appear dazed, as if something was keeping him pressed deep inside, crushing him.
Did he even know that he was in the Rebel Academy, rather than free?
Willoughby’s hair was as sky-blue as his eyes; it was snatched back by ribbons that curled like snakes. A royal blue silk wound around him in a military style, binding him. In the light, it glimmered: it was both gossamer light and as constricting as whatever held him inside his mind.
I narrowed my eyes at how hard Lysander’s fingers were biting into Willoughby’s arm. Why was he manhandling the elf, and why did Willoughby not react?
As if he sensed Magenta (and hey, the elf had a dick, I could see the bulge outlined though the thin silk), Willoughby’s gaze sharpened like he was rising from sleep, before he glanced at her and then quickly away.
He’d have to be made from ice not to desire my witch.
Lysander yanked Willoughby after him to the table at the back, shoving him onto a seat hard enough to make me wince, even though Willoughby didn’t.
Fox spun on his stool to stare at Willoughby. “Why don’t you have to wear the uniform?”
“Why’s your whipping boy talking to me?” Willoughby’s voice was regal and ethereal, but it hadn’t sounded like an insult, rather honest curiosity.
Lucky for him, or I’d have been adding it to my Wreck the Princes Fund.
Fox pulled himself up with a shrug. “Because I’m actually the Light Elves’ High Emperor in a very good disguise and you, pointy ears, have just insulted me.”
“I beg your forgiveness.” Willoughby bowed his head. I gaped at him. Was he truly playing along with one of Fox’s lies? The Ice Prince had melted for my mage? “A High Emperor no less? Of course, calling a prince pointy ears is also a serious crime…”
I detected banter. Immortals and Princes fought: we didn’t tease. Maybe I needed to explain that to Fox?
Next to me, Magenta lent on her elbow, cradling her chin on her palm. “Oh, do tell. What’s the penalty?”
Now even our Prefect was in on it? Had they forgotten the Rebel Cup? The generations of rivalry? They hadn’t been here: they hadn’t lost Hector.
“Oi, traitor,” Fox grumbled.
Lysander slammed his fist onto the desk, but Willoughby only arched his perfect eyebrow at the bang. “Why are you conversing with a whipping boy? On my wings, don’t encourage him or them.”
Bask snorted. “Get on with you, he doesn’t need encouragement.” Then his tongue curled behind his teeth. “And you should know that I never do.”
Lysander threw his hands up in exasperation. “Now they all think that they can talk to our royal personages whenever they like.”
Willoughby’s lips twitched, at the same time as Magenta giggled. I didn’t miss the way that he sneaked another glance at her.
“Why are you wearing those bindings?” Magenta leaned across from our desk to point at the silk wrapped around Willoughby, and her stool wobbled. Willoughby drew back like she’d been about to launch an attack. “There’s no need to be bashful. I wear a corset; I know all about clothes that don’t let you breathe.” Then she mock whispered, “Plus, you don’t know how lucky you are not to have to worry about freeing your bosoms.”
Could any of us truly be blamed for the way that our gazes dropped to her gorgeous tits? When I raised my gaze again to meet hers, my dick gave an appreciative twitch, and she smirked like she knew.
“I shall call myself a lucky elf not to have bosoms.” Willoughby’s lips thinned. “But I need this special suit to control—”
“Silence your tongue. You have no need to explain anything to Immortals,” Lysander spat, before glaring at Midnight who’d turned to glance at Magenta over his shoulder. Midnight’s charcoal eyes were suffused with pain from kneeling for so long; his eyelashes were sinfully long. “And you’d better not be picking up bad habits from their whipping boy like moving out of position, as you are now. You’ve earned a punishment tonight.”
Instantly, Midnight turned back to the wall, but he couldn’t still the way that he vibrated with fear. Pocus shot a venomous look at the Princes, before rubbing his soft cat ear against Midnight’s shoulder.
Magenta’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I very much think that he has not.”
Lysander’s smile was sharp. “You have your whipping boy to treat as you wish, fellow Prefect, and I have mine. The other witches expect it to be this way, why are you different?”
“The other witches are bitches,” Magenta snarled, leaping up.
All of a sudden, the room shook, and the roots curled up into a bone-white throne. When I swallowed, and my pulse quickened at the sudden scent of mulled wine, I noticed that Fox looked close to a panic attack. The mage had crouched down as if he was only just stopping himself from transforming into his cat form and hiding underneath the desk.
Honestly, Bacchus made me want to join him.
Branches of purple ivy coiled like sinuous vipers over the edges of the root throne, tangling into the professor, who smoothed down her dress like she hadn’t just transformed out of the foliage.
Instantly, Lysander and Willoughby sat straighter like good little princes.
Bacchus adjusted her moth brooch, and met Magenta’s steady gaze. “An all-powerful immortal follower of Bacchus, actually. But you’re right, I’m just as much a bitch as the others. Please, take your seat.”
Magenta’s mouth hung open. Stunned was a good look on Magenta. Perhaps, I could use my talents to make her look like that in much more fun ways?
I entwined my fingers with hers, gently pulling her back onto her stool.
Bacchus studied the way that our hands were joined. “So, the new witch that I’ve heard so much about has already tamed the monster.”
“He’s not a monster: he’s the mighty son of Loki.” Bask announced, proudly, whilst shooting me a see, I can learn grin.
Bacchus ignored him, tapping her thigh instead. Pocus looked up at her signal, kissing the hollow of Midnight’s back, before crawling with a sexy wiggle of his hips to Bacchus. Her expression softened, as she carded her fingers though his hair, scratching the back of his ear. Pocus purred, nuzzling against her hand.
It didn’t take Heimdall’s sight to see that they loved each other in the same way that I loved the other Immortals. Yet how long had Pocus been her familiar? Had they loved each other for centuries?
If Bacchus could love a Halfling, why did she hate dad and me? Why had she destroyed my brothers’ childhoods along with my own?