Damelza swayed and twirled around her glittering, obsidian desk that was cobbled with crows’ skulls, clutching a goblet of blood-red wine.
At least, I hoped that it was wine and not blood.
I’d never seen Damelza like this. She looked relaxed and contented.
Had mother ever allowed herself to be laid back when she’d been alone or with her husband? I’d rarely seen her, apart from when she’d visit me in the Bird Turret and then it’d been to inspect my work (and then beat Bryon for my mistakes).
Did everyone have two sides to them? It was a startling thought.
I scrunched up my nose at the stench of garlic that wafted from the shrine of Hecate, which’d been built under the narrow window. On the far wall, a RA crest sparkled along with the scrolling:
Rebel Academy – Blessing the Wicked Since 1870
Lysander struggled out of our tangle on the floor, dragging Willoughby and Midnight after him. He smoothed his uniform with efficient motions and tidied Willoughby’s hair, before standing at parade rest in front of the desk. Midnight dropped to his knees, ducking his head.
I snorted, sprawling on the floor. Damelza licked the wine from her lips.
So, this was how the House of Crows celebrated murdering mages and outwitting their ancestors.
Ah, family.
My eyes narrowed, and my magic sparkled.
Damelza paused mid-swing of her hips, swallowing her mouthful of wine. Instantly, the music fell silent.
Lysander fidgeted, clearing his throat. I couldn’t miss the yearning look that he cast at the Rebel Cup, which was on the desk. The obsidian trophy was in the shape of a dragon. The dragon's tail wound around the cup and back into its mouth.
As a child, I'd witnessed the Cup be presented to the winners of the first week of term every year at the end of the Dragon Polo Tournament. I'd watched in wonder, the way in which the families and professors would look on the winning team with pride. The first time, I hadn’t recognized the emotion, until Byron had explained it to me with a sad smile. No one ever looked at the beautiful boys who I watched from my window like that.
The Princes had won the Cup for the last decade. Had Lysander lived for those fleeting moments of pride from his guardian?
Yet this year, the Immortals had won.
Lysander was right: we'd denied the Princes and broken Midnight's wings in order to save Fox's life. I'd never regret it. But by Hecate, I wouldn't allow it to be for nothing.
I surged up, stalking to stand next to Willoughby. His eyes were frosty pools, as he nodded at me, but his lips curled into a smile. My stomach fluttered, and my neck was suddenly hot.
Frogs and toads, I understood why the Rebels worked so hard to experience pride now.
"You're a cold, heartless Principal," the words tumbled out of my mouth, but no speech could've been more heartfelt, "who cares for nothing but using her students to better the position of her House. Who kisses the feet of her patron and binds her Rebels for him like sacrifices, waiting for the knife—"
Lysander stared at me. "One doesn't believe that a successful softening up strategy," he muttered.
My lips pinched. "I have no intention of softening the truth. Our Principal wouldn't believe me if I did." Damelza cast me a calculating look, before tipping her goblet at me in acknowledgment. "In the witching heavens, I no longer look for kindness but I'd strike a dea—"
Willoughby slammed his hand over my mouth.
"One wishes to buy the lives of the professor and whipping boy." Lysander tilted up his chin. If I hadn't been listening closely to him in shock beneath the warm gag of Willoughby's palm (I couldn't get myself to bite the pale softness of his skin), I'd have miss the slight waver in his voice. This was important to him. "One has sufficient funds in my private account. It’s my personal inheritance, after my parents’ deaths. Take it all, if you desire."
He'd give up everything that he possessed for Fox and Ezekiel?
I stopped squirming, and my breath misted against Willoughby's palm. His other hand rested against the hollow of my back.
The Immortals believed that the Princes were pampered brats, who were spoiled with luxuries. I'd disliked Lysander merely because he was a fae prince like Titus. Yet even though he'd been raised by Titus, Lysander had stormed down to the study to give up all his money to save the man who I loved, and I hadn't even had to ask him.
Would he have told me what he'd given up?
Damelza's smile was sharp. "Princes: they always believe that everything can be bought and sold. Walling up mages is..." She tapped the goblet with her long nails, and her expression became dreamy. "...priceless."
I snarled, wrenching away from Willoughby and leaping over the desk. My black mists swirled around Damelza, knocking the goblet out of her hands. She wailed, as it smashed across her desk, spilling blood-red wine across her papers and piles of books.
My smile was dark and vicious. Take that, witchy bitch.
Had her work been priceless too? I could always hope.
"Those were the files for the tournament!" Damelza screeched. "Do you have no idea how much organization it takes to bring in royalty from across different kingdoms to our academy and entertain them?"
"Sorry, but not sorry," I growled.
Damelza's eyes glittered pink. Then she clicked her fingers.
Willoughby and Lysander howled, clutching their hands and falling to their knees. Midnight whimpered, pressing his forehead to the floor like that would control the pain.
Their brands.
Just like the Immortals who were branded by the Hecate statue in the courtyard with an I, and the whipping boys with an R, the Princes had a P branded to them when they were sorted into their Wing of the Academy. In a way, it was how messages were sent to the students.
It appeared that Damelza wished to send a message now to me.
Startled, I stared between Damelza and the Princes.
“Sorry, but not sorry.” Damelza's shawl of feathers ruffled up, as she pressed me against the desk. "I prefer to rely on more liberal methods of control like my school mottoes and a simple system of punishment and reward. But do you know who you remind me of?"
I blinked. "It's your mother, isn't it? Is that why we have such a complicated relationship? Was she awfully critical because truly I can relate?"
"A mage,” Damelza hissed. “And they need a more direct...stricter...approach. You don't respect me but perhaps, you should realize that I'm in control. The brands do more than link to the wards, ensuring that you students don't leave the grounds." When she leaned closer, her breath gusted across my cheek. "I could kill every single student with a snap of my fingers. So, behave."
My pulse thrashed in my ears.
Sweet Hecate, no...
Every moment that the Membership existed, linking the wards and brands, the Rebels — all of them — were at risk of death. I shuddered because it was like gunpowder had been tied to them, and Damelza could light the fuse with a thought.
She'd been playing with us.
Every trial and game to save our lives had been part of her academy's traditions, but in truth, she could've killed the Rebels.
While the Membership remained, she could still kill them.