Page 3 of Blood Legacy (Eternal Descent (MistHallow Academy) #1)

3

LUKE

The clock on my office wall ticks steadily, marking time relentlessly. It’s an ancient timepiece; one I acquired from a clockmaker in Vienna two centuries ago. Despite its age, it functions perfectly, requiring only occasional maintenance.

If only the rest of my existence were so orderly.

I sit at my desk, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds of MistHallow. Moonlight cascades across the pristine white blanket, turning it silver. From this vantage point, I can see students traversing the paths between buildings, some hurrying to evening classes, others returning to their rooms for the night.

My thoughts are flooded with Gaida Aragon. The name alone is enough to trigger a tension headache. She’s testing me, pushing boundaries to see how far I’ll bend before I break. It’s a dangerous game she’s playing, one that has become increasingly difficult to ignore.

In fifteen centuries, I’ve encountered countless individuals who believed themselves above the rules. Kings, emperors, and self-proclaimed gods all eventually learned the limitations of their power. Yet none have managed to provoke me quite like this vampire with her fiery attitude and calculated defiance.

The way those blue eyes challenged me, the scent of her arousal hitting my senses, was almost more than I could stand. The subtle shifts in her posture designed to draw my gaze to the curve of her neck, the line of her thigh.

I’m not oblivious to her intentions. How could I be? She’s hardly subtle.

What troubles me is not her interest, I’ve had countless students over the years interested in me, but my reaction to it is troublesome.

Not only is she a student. She is twenty-one years old. Twenty-fucking-one. I growl low as the thought of it makes me go back on the lessons my sire taught me all those centuries ago. Never swear. Never lose control. Never show your real hand. Never let them see you with your guard down. Even now, away from the oppressive lessons, centuries on, it was beaten so hard into me, I retain the way he wanted me to be. Civilised. Elegant. Proper.

And now the daughter of Aurelius Aragon, one of the most powerful and volatile vampires in the Vampire Council—a man who once decimated an entire coven for a perceived slight against his honour—is unravelling my strength of will, my restraint, simply by looking at me with those deep blue eyes.

I am the Headmaster of this institution. A position that is new, but one that demands absolute propriety and professional detachment.

The rules are clear. The boundaries are non-negotiable.

So why does my mind keep returning to the flash of defiance in her eyes? The subtle curve of her lips when she thinks she’s won a point in our verbal sparring? The graceful movement of her body as she stormed from my office?

I need to regain control of this situation before it spirals any further.

I’ve grounded her and assigned a curfew. A temporary solution at best, but it establishes boundaries. Distance. Structure. All things that have served me well over the centuries.

Rising from my desk, I move to the liquor cabinet concealed behind a bookshelf. With a wave of my hand, the enchanted panel slides open, revealing a collection of blood wines aged to perfection. I select a particularly rare vintage, decanted from a Venetian nobleman’s final breath some six centuries ago.

The crystal glass feels cool against my fingers as I pour a modest measure. I take a small sip, allowing the memories to wash over me.

Venice. 1487. A simpler time, when my existence was unencumbered by administrative duties and unruly students with fire in their veins.

Sitting at my desk again, I lean back in my chair. A soft scraping sound from outside my door interrupts my reverie. The subtle shifting of stone against stone that most would miss entirely.

The heavy oak door swings open. Beyond the threshold sits one of the stone gargoyles that sit high on the buildings of MistHallow and have for centuries. They are my eyes and ears around this place. Its wings fold awkwardly against its back as it lumbers into my office.

“Where is she?” I ask quietly.

“She is in the Blood Bar.”

Of course she is.

I suppress the flash of anger that threatens to disrupt my carefully maintained composure. Miss Aragon’s deliberate disobedience is exactly what she wants me to focus on. A reaction is precisely what she’s seeking.

“Thank you,” I say to the gargoyle, who nods once before retreating, stone claws clicking against the corridor floor.

Rising slowly, I know what I’m about to do is probably the single most stupid thing I’ve ever done.

Before I can reconsider, I access the space between worlds, using the magick from my mage side before I was turned. The retention of it is rare. I know of one other who keeps this magick in his blood. It makes me powerful, dangerous, sought after.

I close my eyes, focusing on the Blood Bar.

I land outside the double front doors. Snow falls silently around me as music pulses inside. I straighten my suit jacket, brush the snow from my shoulders, and approach the double doors. With a subtle gesture, I send a pulse of magick that throws them open with more force than is strictly necessary. They slam against the interior walls with a bang that silences the music instantly.

The scene inside freezes. About a dozen students turn as one, their expressions shifting from surprise to alarm as they register my presence.

Gaida is dancing on top of the bar, her hips still swaying even as the music is cut off, the bottle of Blood Beer pressed to her lips.

My gaze shrewdly takes in Dante DuLoc. His hand is wrapped possessively around her ankle.

For a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, I simply observe the scene. Something primal and ancient stirs deep in the space that I no longer allow to see the light of day. It’s a territorial instinct. The sight of another vampire, particularly a male of significant bloodline, touching her with such familiarity provokes a reaction I’m entirely unprepared for.

Mine.

The thought crashes through my consciousness with such force that it takes every shred of willpower I possess, not to stagger under the weight of it.

She is not mine. She is a student. A responsibility. Nothing more.

I mask my internal turmoil with centuries of skilful control, letting only the appropriate degree of administrative disapproval show on my face.

“Out,” I say quietly.

The single word carries enough power to set the entire room in motion. Students scramble for the exit, some not even bothering to collect their belongings. Grim, the bartender, slips into the back, quickly escaping my wrath.

Only two figures remain motionless amidst the chaos: Gaida, still on top of the bar, and Dante, with his hand still on her ankle. His eyes meet mine with a calculation that suggests he’s weighing his options. Testing boundaries, much like the woman above him.

“Mr DuLoc,” I say, my voice carrying easily across the now-empty space. “I believe I was clear.”

After a moment that verges on insolence, he removes his hand from Gaida’s ankle and rises smoothly from his seat. “Sir,” he acknowledges with a slight inclination of his head. Not quite a bow, but not quite defiance either.

He glances up at Gaida. Something passes between them, a silent communication I cannot decipher. Then he turns and walks toward the exit, passing close enough that I catch the scent of human blood running through his veins. On an ordinary day, I would have him in my office so fast that his head would spin for defying the Academy rules of no human blood on site.

But clearly, today is no ordinary day.

When the door closes behind him, I’m left alone with Miss Aragon watching me with an expression caught between defiance and triumph.

“Luke,” she says, her voice slightly slurred, but my name on her lips sends a bolt of lust straight to my cock. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Get down.”

She smiles, deliberately slow, as she places the bottle on the bar. “Make me.”

The challenge hangs in the air between us. Two paths diverge before me: I can either maintain professional distance or engage in this dangerous game she’s determined to play.

In fifteen centuries, I’ve learned when to hold my ground and when a tactical retreat is wiser. This situation calls for neither.

With a swift gesture, I summon the magick that has been my birthright for millennia. It responds instantly, crackling around my fingers like lightning contained. Space bends to my will, but this time, I extend the field to include her.

Her eyes widen in surprise as reality shifts. The Blood Bar dissolves around us to be replaced by her bedroom. The transit is instantaneous but clearly disorienting for her, especially given the amount of alcohol she’s consumed.

She sways dangerously, her complexion shifting from flushed to alarmingly pale. Recognition dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by urgency.

Before I can speak, she lurches toward the bathroom, surprisingly graceful despite her condition. The sound of retching follows moments later.

I roll my eyes. Youths and their incapacity to handle alcohol.

I should leave. Protocol dictates I should assign additional punishment for her defiance and exit immediately. That would be the proper course of action.

Instead, I move towards the bathroom door. Inside, Gaida kneels before the toilet, her body heaving as the Blood Beer makes its violent exit. Her long dark hair hangs dangerously close to the bowl.

With a sigh that carries the weight of questionable decisions, I enter the bathroom. Gathering her hair in one hand, I hold it back from her face as she throws up until there is nothing left.

She groans miserably, clearly too focused on her immediate discomfort to register the impropriety of this situation.

I conjure a glass of water and offer it to her. “Small sips,” I instruct. “Blood Beer dehydrates even born vampires.”

She accepts the glass without argument, her usual defiance temporarily subdued by physical discomfort. As she drinks, I take the opportunity to observe her private space.

The bathroom is luxurious by student standards, a privilege of her bloodline and status. Marble countertops, a clawfoot tub large enough for two, and products that cost more than most professors earn in a month.

“Feel better?” I ask when she finally sets the empty glass aside.

She nods weakly, then looks up at me with confusion clouding her eyes. “Why are you being nice to me? Shouldn’t you be... I don’t know, adding to my punishment instead of holding back my hair while I throw up my stomach lining?”

It’s a fair question, one I’m not entirely sure I have an answer for.

“I think you’ve been punished enough for tonight,” I reply, helping her to her feet. “Though we will certainly discuss your deliberate defiance of curfew tomorrow.”

She sways slightly, and without thinking, I place a steadying hand at her waist. The contact, even through the fabric of her dress, sends an unwelcome jolt through my system. I remove my hand as though burned.

“You should rest,” I say, taking a step back to establish appropriate distance. “We’ll continue this conversation when you’re sober.”

She studies me with surprising intensity for someone who was violently ill moments ago. “You came yourself.”

“Obviously.”

A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Why?”

The direct question catches me off guard. Why indeed? Why risk impropriety and gossip by personally retrieving a wayward student? Why transport us directly into her room rather than outside the door?

Because the thought of another professor escorting her was unacceptable. Because the image of Dante DuLoc’s hand on her ankle provoked a reaction I refuse to name. Because in fifteen centuries, I’ve never encountered anyone quite like Gaida Aragon.

None of these are answers I can give her.

“The reason is irrelevant,” I say instead. “What matters is that you deliberately disobeyed direct instructions.”

“And yet here you are.” Her perceptiveness is inconvenient, especially now. “That seems relevant to me.”

I straighten my suit jacket, retreating behind formality. “Get some rest, Miss Aragon. You have classes in the morning, which I expect you to attend regardless of how you feel.”

She takes a step toward me, closing the distance I’ve tried to establish. Even dishevelled and pale from being ill, there’s something magnetic about her presence, a gravity that threatens to pull me into her orbit. For the first time in as long as I can remember, my gaze drops to her neck, and the pulse beating erratically at her throat. I want to rip it open and drink from her until there is nothing left and then revive her with my blood so that I can do it again.

“You can pretend all you want, Sir,” she says, her voice low and intimate. “But we both know there’s something happening here.”

For a dangerous moment, I allow myself to truly look at her. Not as a student or a responsibility, but as the woman she is. Fierce. Intelligent. Unapologetically herself in a world that demands conformity. In different circumstances, in a different lifetime perhaps...

No. That line of thinking leads nowhere productive.

“The only thing happening here, is that you’re testing boundaries that exist for good reason. Boundaries that will remain intact regardless of your efforts to undermine them.”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” she challenges, steadier on her feet now than I expected. Her pure blood vampirism must be burning through the alcohol-induced dehydration quicker than most.

Rather than answer, I move toward her bathroom door. “Goodnight, Miss Aragon.”

“Luke,” she says, using my given name again.

I freeze, my hand on the doorknob. The single syllable affects me more than it should, spoken in her voice, in the privacy of her room.

“Don’t,” I warn, not turning to face her, allowing myself this one moment in time to shut this down directly.

“What are you afraid of?” she asks, moving closer behind me. “That you might actually feel something? That the great Luke Blackthorn might have emotions underneath all that control?”

I turn, finding her much closer than expected, close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes, smell the lingering scent of Blood Beer beneath her expensive perfume.

“You would do well to remember that I am your Headmaster, not your peer. Professional boundaries exist for a reason, Miss Aragon.”

“Gaida,” she corrects, echoing our earlier exchange.

“Goodnight, Miss Aragon,” I say again, before vanishing from sight.

“Goodnight, Luke.”

Her words echo through time and space, hitting me in the chest with the force of a dragon in full flight.

Alone in my bedroom, the Headmaster’s suite at the top of the staff quarters building, I sit heavily on the enormous four-poster bed, troubled by this evening. Troubled by my reaction to seeing her with Dante DuLoc. The possessive instinct that flared when I saw his hand on her ankle was entirely inappropriate, yet undeniably real.

In my lifetime, I’ve learned to control every aspect of my existence. Emotions. Hunger. Power. Control.

Yet one stubborn, brilliant, infuriating young vampire threatens to unravel that control with a single look, a spoken word, a deliberate challenge.

Rising, I strip off, meticulously placing my suit jacket on a hanger and the white shirt in the laundry hamper. Crossing over to the antique bureau in the far corner of the dark, medieval-style room, I open the top drawer and pull out the short whip.

Discipline.

My sire’s voice echoes in my mind. Discipline is the cornerstone of every immortal life. Without it, we devolve into beasts.

I slide the short leather whip between my fingers, feeling its weight. This ritual has kept me anchored through centuries, through wars, plagues, and the rise and fall of empires.

With seasoned movements, I lower myself into supplication and strike my back, feeling the sting of leather against my skin.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The pain centres me and reminds me of who I am and what I must be.

The physical pain is fleeting, barely registering against the accumulated suffering of fifteen centuries. But the ritual itself, the act of self-discipline, serves its purpose.

I am the Headmaster of MistHallow Academy, and I will not allow a twenty-one-year-old student to destabilise everything I’ve built.