Unfortunately, the words must’ve been written across my face because Lysander stormed out of the middle of the circle, clutching Willoughby by the arm and dragging him to me.
“Why am I spurned, whilst you snuggle up to this other deposed prince?” He shook Willoughby, who didn’t even try to free himself.
“Let Willoughby go, or you shall discover just how far I’m prepared to go for my new snuggle buddy,” my voice was calm, yet my magic whipped around the Bird Turret.
The mural of Hecate’s Tree reached out from the walls. The branches reached to snatch at the fae, curling around his wings and hoisting him into the air.
“Why?” Lysander demanded, struggling. “I thought that you were just arguing against killers?”
Willoughby hung his head, and his hair covered his eyes.
My magic calmed, and the mural slipped back into the wall, dropping Lysander onto his behind with a crack that made me wince.
Cauldrons and broomsticks, all of us in this academy were dangerous, deadly, and broken. Who was I to judge?
I was the wicked witch, after all.
Suddenly, there was a waterfall of crows feathers on the far wall, and Damelza strode through with a flourish. Her hair glistened like it’d been polished, and her dress was ruffled, as if a hundred more crows had been slaughtered to give her the effect.
Adrenaline spiked through me, as my lips pinched. Henrietta had smartened herself up (and Byron and me), whenever there’d been special events with guests. I had the horrid feeling that no dangers inside the academy were as acute as those from the Rebels’ own families.
When Damelza’s critical gaze swept across our tense role-play with a prince on his behind, the word killers ringing in the air, and my own magic still thrumming in the mural, yet rested on Bask… I was certain that knock, knock, the Duchess had arrived.
Bask became ashen, hugging himself because I couldn’t. I bit my lip hard. Willoughby turned to catch my eye, before standing in front of Bask like he could shield him for me.
Like he wasn’t a killer.
When Sleipnir edged to join Willoughby in Bask protection duty so close that their shoulders touched, Willoughby’s eyes widened as if he’d never expected that any Immortal would willingly stand at his side. Perhaps, it was more that he was startled that anyone would risk touching him casually…? Lysander only handled Willoughby like a guard would, pulling him from class to class.
When Fox attempted the same protection of me, my lips twitched. Shimage didn’t beat centuries old Blessedly Charmed witch. Yet it was charming that he wished to be my knight.
I clasped Fox’s hand, tugging him closer to my side; Mist leaped from my shoulder onto his, tossing his mane. “I love you as my equal,” I whispered. “One that I’ll always fight to save.”
Lysander was the only Rebel to be stranded alone. He paled; his eyes were red-rimmed. He pushed himself up, standing under Damelza’s inspection, as if he had an even larger stick up his behind than before.
He truly should get that looked into.
“Well, I’m shocked.” Damelza’s eyes glittered. “You’re supposed to be learning together for excellence, professor. This isn’t Warrior Training. Why’s there brawling and disorder in your class?”
Ezekiel swallowed. He straightened, curling his wings around himself like he could hide.
“It’s just role-play,” he offered with a shaky smile. “It’s not real.”
“Do I need to give your wings the same treatment as Professor Ambrose’s?” Damelza stalked closer.
“It was all part of the lesson,” I insisted.
“Yeah, we love role-play; it’s awesome.” Sleipnir grinned, but Damelza ignored him.
Instead, she turned to Lysander. “As you know, it’s one of your Guardian’s orders that you don’t lie to staff. So, was this lesson controlled?” I frowned, when Damelza’s gaze darted between both Willoughby and me. “You should know how important it is that powers are restrained.”
Like Hecate’s Tree bursting out of a mural…?
Ah, sweet unrestrained magic.
Ezekiel’s shoulders slumped, and his wings drooped like they were already weighted down by chains. If he was relying on Lysander’s good report to avoid Damelza’s punishment, then he had a mage’s hope in witchy hell.
“Ezekiel’s classes are tough,” Lysander’s voice was clipped, and he stared at the far wall, rather than meeting Damelza’s eye. “He finds your weakness and then he pushes at it. The others think that he’s kind and gentle. But my royal self has lived in the Fae Court, and I know how to read predators. For Ezekiel to have survived to become a teacher, he must be ruthless. He’s as much a warrior with manipulation as he is with weapons. Today, he was merely attempting to teach us to face the monsters that haunt us.”
Ezekiel’s violet eyes opened comically large. He burrowed even further into his wings, as if he could hide from Lysander, who’d stripped him bare.
Why had Lysander saved the professor? It was strange to stare at the prince’s pale face and feel a flush of pride.
To my surprise, Damelza’s lips curved into a smile, as she drew out a sky-blue sheet of paper. “I’m delighted that even a shameful Addict Angel can achieve such a report. I’ll add it to your records, professor.” Ezekiel nodded, mechanically. “It’s perfect timing that you’ve been working on the monsters within, when so many of your students are monsters.”
Even though Sleipnir didn’t move, Mist stomped his feet and laid his ears back. I knew that she’d hurt Sleipnir, but it was Willoughby who dived towards her, so fast that she stumbled backward.
“My brother’s letter,” Willoughby demanded with such frosty violence that I shook, “give it to me.”
Well, someone had just shown their regal side.
Damelza’s magic slammed into Willoughby, hurling him through the air. He crashed into Sleipnir, who caught him and helped him back onto his feet.
Damelza stalked towards Willoughby, holding aloft the letter like a standard.
“It’s his letter,” Fox’s voice was tight. I remembered the way that Damelza had forced him to write to Aquilo. “People who mess with other folk’s post are haunted by the spirits of dead postmen. I’d hand it over now if you don’t want to be haunted forever by late mail, sorry, you were out slips, and lost packages. I mean, it’s your call.”
“I’ll risk it.” Damelza broke the seal on the letter with a flourish.
“Let me read it later, if I must,” Willoughby hissed.
“You’d make a king wait?” Damelza arched her brow. “Who do you think you are? Oh yes, the would-be king.”
I studied Willoughby. Had he tried to assassinate his own brother to take the throne? Yet the way that his jaw clenched told me that I was missing something because would an assassin feel such shame?
“Let him read it,” I said, softly. “I don’t need to know what he did to be sentenced here. We’re all Rebels, and that unites us. Call us monsters if you like because I’d claim that name over the bloody House of Crows.”
Damelza drew in a shocked breath, before her eyes flashed pink with fury. “In your first life, you were a sheltered, naïve witch, and now, you believe yourself the wicked witch. But you’ve seen nothing of the true darkness in the supernatural world. I have, and maybe you wouldn’t be so keen to call yourself monster, if you knew what it meant.”