Page 32 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Thirty

Rose

Three more days pass. You don’t realize how precious, how fleeting time is until yours is limited.

Knowing I have an expiration date, literally, has made me very aware of every hour that passes.

And I’ve gotten no closer to finding the original blood contract.

The only thing I’ve discovered is that rose thorns are vindictive little bastards and that Galanthis the cat has designated my search areas as his personal litter box.

I’ve also had to sit through two more Samhain committee meetings where Thorne debated the merits of apple cider versus hot chocolate for one interminably long hour.

I’m starting to think death by Coven drainage might actually be preferable.

Which is how I find myself standing outside Soren’s classroom at seven in the evening, questioning the decision even as I raise my hand to knock. The hallway is empty, most students at dinner or studying in the library.

The door swings open under my hand, and there he is, sitting at his desk like a normal professor instead of the energy-sucking demon he actually is. He’s organizing papers into neat stacks, and the late evening light streaming through the windows makes his dark hair look like spilled ink.

The bloodmark on my arm starts burning the second I step inside, like it knows I’m about to do something monumentally stupid. I rub at it through my sleeve, which does exactly nothing except make it angrier.

Soren looks up, and his eyes brighten with interest before he carefully shifts his expression into something more neutral. “Rose. What an unexpected pleasure.”

I close the door behind me, lean against it.

“I need your help.” I don’t know if I can trust him.

I mean, I’m sure I probably can’t, and shouldn’t.

But I’m out of options. Drake got me as far as he could, which was as far as he’d gotten in life.

And now I’m stuck. Lucien made it clear he won’t help, none of the other students will give me the time of day, and I don’t think they know anything, anyway. Soren is my last resort.

He sets down his pen with deliberate slowness, leans back in his chair. “And here I thought you’d rather set yourself on fire than ask me for anything.”

“Yeah, well, desperate times.” I push off the door, force myself to walk closer even though every instinct screams at me to run. “You offering or not?”

Instead of the wolfish smile I expect, he gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. Would you like a drink?”

I eye the crystal decanter on his bookshelf suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Whiskey. Very old, very expensive, very good.” He stands, retrieves two rocks glasses without waiting for my answer. “Despite what you might think, I don’t want to poison you.”

“Just psychically violate me in my sleep.”

He pauses mid-pour, then continues, filling both glasses with amber liquid. “Fair point.” He sets one in front of me, returns to his seat without trying to touch me, which is, I’ll admit it, unexpected. Maybe even a little disappointing. “Though I’d argue the violation was wanted, if not mutual.”

Heat floods my face, but I grab the whiskey and take a sip to cover it. It burns going down, and I remember how much I hate whiskey. More of a Long Island Iced Tea kinda girl. “That’s not how consent works, asshole.”

“No,” he agrees, surprising me again. “It’s not.” He takes a sip of his own drink, watches me over the rim. “Which is why I’m keeping my distance now. See? I can learn.”

“Gold star for you.” He is keeping his distance, hands flat on the desk where I can see them, body angled away like he’s deliberately making himself less threatening. It’s weird. I don’t trust it. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the restraint? Why the good behavior? What’s your angle?”

He laughs. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t have one?”

“No.”

“Smart.” He traces patterns on the desk with one finger, not looking at me. “Let’s say I’ve recently been reminded that there are consequences to taking what you want without consideration for the aftermath.”

“Meaning?”

His finger stills. “Meaning I’ve survived by knowing when to push and when to pull back. And right now, Rose Smith, you look like you’re about to shatter into a thousand pieces. I may be a demon, but I’m not interested in feeding on broken things.”

“I’m not broken.”

“No,” he says quietly. “But you’re close. I can taste it on you, the desperation. It’s…” He stops. “Unappetizing.”

I snort. “Sorry my emotional state isn’t seasoned to your liking.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He finally looks at me directly. “When I feed, I take energy, yes. But I also take what you might call essence. Pieces of who someone is. And when someone is as close to breaking as you are right now, those pieces are sharp. They cut both ways.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“More than I’d like.” He shifts in his chair, and I notice the way his hands tense when I lean forward to set down my drink. Still interested, still hungry, but holding it back.

“How does it work? The feeding. Not the dream stuff, I’ve got that firsthand experience, thanks. But the actual process. How much can you take? What are the limits?”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “Think of it like a well, or a spring. Every person has a reservoir of energy. Some deeper than others. When I feed, I’m drawing from that well. Take too little, and it’s barely noticeable. Take too much…”

“They die?”

“Or worse. They live, but empty. Hollow.” His fingers start their tracing again, abstract patterns that might be symbols I don’t know. “It’s why most of us learn control early. A dead food source is a useless food source.”

“How practical.”

“Survival usually is.” He meets my eyes again, holds them. “The subconscious provides a buffer, makes it easier for both parties.”

“Why sex? Why is that the energy you feed from as an incubus?” Until a short time ago I thought that demons and incubi were myths and legends. I want to know what’s real and what’s just made up stuff.

He shrugs. “Because it’s the most potent. The most primal. Fear can be rich, sure, but it’s fleeting. Love is nice, but it’s complicated, layered with other things. Sex is pure, undiluted want. It’s actually the closest humans get to real magic, though they don’t realize it.”

I try to imagine what it would be like to need that, to live on it, to walk into a room and immediately sense who wants what, who needs who, who is dying for a fuck and who’s just pretending. It sounds exhausting. I say as much.

Soren grins. “You have no idea. Most mortals think being an incubus means endless orgies and pleasure. They don’t see the other side of it.”

“Which is?”

“Loneliness. Addiction. Never being able to get close to anyone.” He looks away, swirling the whiskey.

“I fed from someone once, years ago, in a moment of desperate hunger. Took too much, too fast. I still carry pieces of them with me. Their memories, their fears, their loves. They survived, but they were never the same. And neither was I.” He stands up and walks to the window, looking out.

The unexpected confession hangs between us as I watch his reflection, the way his shoulders tense like he’s waiting for judgment.

“That’s why you pulled back,” I say. “In my room. You weren’t just being dramatic. You were actually…”

“Concerned. Yes.” He turns to face me, leans against the windowsill. “You’re more than just a meal, Rose. You’re a feast. And if I’m not careful, we’ll both choke to death on it.”

We stare at each other across the room, and I feel that familiar pull, the one that makes me want to do stupid things like trust him. But I can’t afford trust. Not now.

I drum my fingers on the side of the tumbler, then take a deep breath, steadying myself. Here goes nothing. “The Accord,” I say. “I found out something. Something that could help me.”

I watch his face for any sign that he knows what I’m about to say, but it’s perfectly neutral and Soren’s giving nothing away.

I’m going to live to regret this, I just know it.

But, well, I’m not going to live at all, am I?

Any chance is work taking at this point.

“The original. Not the one everyone knows about, but the contract that started all this. It’s hidden somewhere in the academy. ”

Soren’s eyebrows raise up. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to surprise on his face ever.

“Is it, now?”

“You know about it, don’t you?”

“Knowing about something and knowing where it is are very different things.” But he moves to his bookshelf, runs his fingers along the spines until he finds what he’s looking for.

It’s old, leather-bound, pages yellowed with age.

He sets it on the desk between us, careful not to let our fingers touch when I reach for it. “Page 247.”

I flip through carefully, afraid the ancient pages might crumble.

“‘The nature of willing sacrifice versus coercion,’” I read aloud. “What does that mean?”

“All blood magic requires sacrifice,” he says, returning to his seat. “But there’s a difference between blood freely given and blood taken by force. The Accord, as it stands, walks a very fine line between the two.”

“I didn’t freely give anything. I was marked without my knowledge or consent.”

“No, but your ancestor did. The original witch who signed the Accord, she made that choice. And blood magic, especially generational blood magic, considers that consent enough.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s magic.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t care about modern concepts of individual autonomy. But here’s the interesting part. Look at the next paragraph.”

I read further, squinting at the faded text. “A contract signed under duress or deception may be challenged if proof of coercion can be established.”

“Exactly.”

I look up at him sharply. “You’re saying the original witch was coerced?”

“I’m saying that’s one possibility worth exploring.” He closes the book gently. “The Crescent Moon Coven has always been very careful about their version of history. But there are other versions. Other stories. Other truths.”

“And you know these other truths?”

“I know that nothing is ever as simple as it seems. And I know that the Coven has gone to great lengths to hide the original Accord for a reason.” He stands again, moves to pour himself another drink.

“I also know that asking these questions, pursuing these leads, will paint a target on your back bigger than the one you already have.”

“You know.” Because of course he knows. At this point I’m sure Thorne and Harry probably know, though if they did they would have made it into a meme by now. I don’t bother asking why he didn’t tell me. He’s a demon. Explanation enough. “I’m already marked for death. How much worse can it get?”

“Oh, Rose. You have no idea how much worse it can get.”

The bloodmark throbs again, harder this time, like it’s responding to the conversation. I press my hand against it, feel the heat through my sleeve. “Will you help me?”

He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. Then, finally: “What makes you think I’m not already?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe because I haven’t found anything yet and the clock keeps counting down to my death?”

“Fair.” He returns to his desk, but stays standing, hands braced on the surface. “I can’t help you directly. There are restrictions on my involvement. But I can continue to point you in interesting directions. Share fascinating historical texts. Discuss theoretical possibilities.”

“Why can’t you help directly?”

“Because I’m bound too, in my own way. Not by blood, but by other contracts. Other obligations.” His eyes go completely black for a moment, then return to their normal darkness. “We all have our chains, Rose. Some are just prettier than others.”

“Lucien said something similar.”

“Did he now?” Something sharp enters his voice. “And what else has our vampire prince been telling you?”

“That you’re dangerous. That I shouldn’t trust you. That you’ll drain me dry given half a chance.”

“All true.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I notice that didn’t stop you from coming here.”

“Yeah, well, he also said he couldn’t help me. At least you’re offering something, even if it’s just breadcrumbs.”

“Breadcrumbs can lead you out of the forest. Or deeper into it. Didn’t your mother read you bedtime stories, little Rose?

” He straightens, moves toward the door, a clear dismissal.

“Take the book. Page 384 might also interest you. It discusses the concept of blood debt and how it can be transferred or dissolved.”

I stand, tucking the book under my arm. “This is a weird game you’re playing, Soren.”

“All the best games are.” He opens the door for me, maintains that careful distance. “One more thing. The garden isn’t the only place things can be hidden. Sometimes the best hiding spots are in plain sight, just shifted slightly out of phase.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you might want to reconsider what you’re looking for. Not just where, but when.” His hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching. “Be careful, Rose. There are things moving in the darkness that even I can’t see clearly.”

I want to ask more, but footsteps are in the hallway. We both tense, then relax when they pass by without stopping.

“I should go,” I say.

“Yes. You should.” But he doesn’t move aside immediately. For a moment, we’re close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, smell that expensive cologne he wears. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Rose.”

“Don’t.” I step back. “Whatever you’re about to say or do, don’t. I can’t… I don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.”

Some expression I can’t decipher flashes across his face.

I leave without looking back. I’ve got reading to do and mysteries to solve, and despite everything, I’m not doing it quite as alone as I thought.

It’s not trust. Not really. But it’s something. And right now, something is better than nothing.

Even if that something comes in the form of a dangerously attractive incubus with questionable motives and a talent for speaking in riddles.

I really need to reevaluate my terrible taste in men.