Page 12 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Eleven

Rose

By the time supper rolls around, my mark is calmer but my mood is a dumpster fire.

I drift through the halls and the students slide around me, conversations stall whenever I’m in earshot, and the few who do make eye contact do it only to glare.

It’s less ‘mean girls’ and more “small-town quarantine.”

The dining hall is even worse than it was this morning.

It’s packed, loud, and everyone’s got their little clique.

The vampires have staked out the corner near the windows, where it’s dark out now that the sun has set.

The witches occupy the center, laughing over some meme or stupid video on their phones.

Even the ‘other’ crowd, the were-things, elementals, a couple of lesser demons, keep to their own huddle.

I take my tray to the farthest table and pick at my food even though I’m starving. I didn’t want to linger by the food service so I grabbed what was quickest and closest. The chicken nuggets are shaped like bats and taste like cardboard but I eat them anyway. Hunger is a bigger bitch than pride.

Across the room, Thorne and her friends are already gossiping about the class, and me.

I can tell because Thorne’s got her phone out, and she keeps glancing over with a look of smug satisfaction.

There’s a new meme going around, I’m sure, probably my face when I almost set the school on fire.

For a second I fantasize about blowing up the whole cafeteria and just walking out as the ashes rain down.

I manage to choke down a few more nuggets before the pain from the mark starts up again. It’s like my arm is trying to tell me, “Hey, remember you’re cursed? Don’t get comfortable.”

After dinner I have one last class before I can go hide in my room for the weekend.

Alchemy, which seems like it’s basically chemistry for kids with trust funds and magic.

The teacher tells us to pair up. Nobody volunteers to work with me.

Thorne’s in this one too, unfortunately, and her group laughs so hard one of them actually chokes herself.

I end up as a group of one, which honestly, is probably the best possible outcome. Group work can suck my balls.

“Try not to poison yourself,” the teacher says as he hands me a sheet of instructions and three vials labeled with actual skull-and-crossbones stickers.

I run through the steps, and even though I’m half-assing it, the results are good, better than good, actually.

My potion comes out clearer than Thorne’s, whose brew is the color and texture of dog vomit.

But when the teacher comes by to inspect, he sniffs at mine and then shrugs.

“Acceptable, I suppose. Next time, add more finesse.”

“Is that before or after the eye of newt?” I call, but he ignores me.

I finish early, so I take a detour to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and roll up my sleeve.

The mark is still red, the crescent standing out like a glowing sign against my skin.

It throbs with every heartbeat. I dab at it with a wet paper towel, and it stings so bad I almost drop the towel in the toilet.

Just great.

I sit there for a while, staring at the mark and wondering what it means to be “property” of a coven I never signed up for. The only thing that makes me feel better is imagining how annoyed the Headmistress would be if I died of sepsis from her stupid mark before the semester ended.

I head back to my dorm. The hallway is full of the noise of doors slamming, music playing, someone yelling at someone else down the hall. I unlock my door, close it, and sink onto the bed.

The room is cold so I wrap myself in the thin blanket and stare at the ceiling.

My brain won’t shut up. It keeps replaying everything that’s happened since the bar, since getting fired.

I replay reading the letter, the choice I made, that crazy ritual, meeting incubi and vampires, my magic causing explosions when before I couldn’t even cause a bad smell.

Everything goes round and round in my head.

Around midnight, the sounds from the other rooms die down, replaced by the occasional whisper and the distant thump of someone’s music. I lie there, wide awake, unable to quiet the thoughts. For a moment, I think I see the ghost boy from before, Drake, but there’s nothing.

I hug my arms tight and tell myself I don’t care.

But it’s a lie, and I know it.

By three a.m., I give up on sleep and decide to go exploring. I slip on my jeans, open the door, and step into the corridor. The floorboards creak, but no one stirs. The only light is a faint orange glow from the lantern at the end of the hall, the academy’s nod to an EXIT sign requirement.

I climb the stairs to the fourth floor, which is technically off-limits because it’s “under renovation,” but in reality it’s just a dumping ground for broken furniture, out-of-date textbooks, and questionable mattresses. The air up here is musty and stale, and it’s cold, like there’s no heating.

I duck into the old attic, using the light from my phone to guide me past the mountain of discarded desks and boxes.

In the far corner, someone has piled a bunch of old clothes, and a mannequin head that has seen better days.

There’s a broken window with a perfect moon framed in it.

I sit on the windowsill, draw my knees to my chest, and stare out at the night.

After a few minutes, the temperature drops another ten degrees, if that’s possible. That’s my only warning before Drake appears, or more accurately, assembles himself from thin air.

He ‘leans’ against a stack of boxes, arms folded, head cocked. “You know there’s a curfew, right?”

I shrug.

His smile is fleeting, like he’s not used to the muscles required. “Insomnia’s a side effect. The mark doesn’t let you rest until you get used to it.”

I hug my knees tighter, shivering. “You said you were like me. Before.”

Drake’s eyes flicker. “I was. I came here, just like you, signed the Accord, did the rituals. They promised me a place in the world, said it would be different than the outside. They lied.”

“Who killed you?” I ask, because tact has never been my strong suit.

Drake glances out the window, as if the moon might have the answer. “Doesn’t matter now. In the end, it’s always the ones you trust most.” He makes it sound like a joke, but he’s not smiling.

The silence between us is awkward, but not as bad as being alone. I turn the mark on my arm toward him. “Does this ever stop hurting?”

He shakes his head. “You get used to the pain. But it never goes away completely. I’ve been dead for decades and I still feel it sometimes, a phantom pain.”

I want to ask more, but the words won’t come. Instead, I look at his hands.

Maybe he’s reading my mind, because he says, “You want to know if I’m real.”

“I want to know if any of this is real.”

Drake holds out his hand, palm up. His fingers are long and elegant, the edges wavery. I reach out, half-expecting my hand to pass right through this time.

It doesn’t.

The contact is warm, solid, impossible. My skin tingles all the way to my elbow, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

He watches me, not moving. “Most people can’t touch me.”

“I guess I’m not most people.”

His mouth twitches. “I’m beginning to realize that.”

We sit there, holding hands. Two people who don’t know each other, but it’s dark, and it’s late, and sometimes even a stranger is better than being alone,.

For a minute I forget that he’s not alive.

I forget that he’s a ghost, and that I’m supposed to be scared, or anything but relieved to have company.

Drake’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, gentle, almost apologetic. “You should go back to your room. It’s not safe at night.”

I don’t ask why. I already know that here, “safe” is a word without meaning. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

He nods, but his eyes are sad. “I’m always here.”

I let go, and the sense of loss is immediate. I don’t want to leave.

I climb down from the window, brush off my pants, and head for the door. I look back only once, to see Drake still there, translucent now, light filtering through his ghostly body.

Back in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the spot on my palm where Drake’s hand had been.

I should be afraid. I am afraid. But mostly, I’m confused.

I’ve been in this place less than a week and I’ve already formed more dangerous connections than in my whole life.

Lucien, with his unreadable expression and ability to show up wherever I am.

Soren, in that dream with his hands everywhere and no boundaries at all.

And now Drake, who isn’t even alive but feels as real as either of them to me.

It’s too much. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Even if I made it through the gates, the Coven would pull me back, or worse.

Maybe that’s why I wanted to find Drake. He’s as trapped as I am. Worse, because he’s dead.

I lie back and make a mental inventory of my options. Zero. I can’t trust the Coven. I can’t trust my mentor. I can’t trust the faculty, the contracts, or even my own magic. And I sure as hell can’t trust Soren, who’s probably in someone else’s bed right now, siphoning off their dreams.

But the worst part? I can’t trust myself to stop reaching for things that are guaranteed to hurt me.

I touch the mark on my arm. It’s a reminder. A warning.

The sun is coming up soon, and I know I won’t sleep, but I don’t care. I roll onto my side and stare at the window until my eyes burn. If this place wants to break me, it’s going to have to try a lot harder.

I may not be the witch they expected, but I’m the one they got. And I’m still here.

For now.