Page 33 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Thirty-One

Rose

Every spare moment between classes, I’ve been hunting for that hidden chamber, pressing my palms against walls, standing still in the middle of the quad trying to sense whatever magical vibe might give away the location, reading the book Soren gave me cover to cover.

But the academy keeps its secrets better than a mob boss’s lawyer, and I’ve got nothing to show for my efforts.

Tonight, though, I have to dress up and play pretend.

Tonight is Samhain, and as a member of the decorating committee, my attendance isn’t optional.

The bloodmark burns under my sleeve as I stand outside the ballroom doors, reminding me that my festivals and celebrations will be coming to an end soon.

The doors are thrown wide, and the transformed space is revealed in all its Thorne-approved glory.

The committee really went all out, though I hate to admit it.

The ceiling has been draped in black tulle with orange fairy lights.

Carved jack-o’-lanterns are everywhere, hundreds of them, with faces ranging from devilishly grotesque to blandly sweet.

The walls are draped in black and orange silk that ripples with the slightest breeze, traditional corn dollies hang at intervals, harvest vegetables are heaped high on tables, and dried corn stalks are everywhere, along with hay bales and wooden baskets of bright red apples.

The whole room smells like cinnamon, wood smoke and mulled cider.

In the center of it all, a massive bonfire burns in a giant cauldron, the flames reaching up dangerously close to the tulle-covered ceiling.

Students are already tossing in scraps of paper with wishes for the coming year, according to tradition.

I wonder if “please don’t let the Coven kill me” would work.

Then I see them. Lucien stands near the far wall, and my stupid heart does this painful squeeze thing that I absolutely did not authorize.

He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was painted on, no tie, top button undone in a way that would seem sloppy on some, but on him it just looks sexy.

His dark hair is not a bit out of place, and he’s holding a goblet of something that he’s not drinking, just using as a prop while he surveys the room.

His eyes pass over me without stopping. Not even a glimmer of recognition. Like I’m furniture. Like what happened in his room last week never happened. Like he didn’t have his face between my legs making me call out to a god I don’t believe in.

Cool. That’s cool. I’m totally cool with that.

He’s been avoiding me all week, but I still caught glimpses of him following me in my peripheral.

Yet he would always disappear when I turned my head.

I had wondered if he expected me to go to his room, to knock on the door and beg for him to help me again.

To beg for him to… do something. If he did, he didn’t know a thing about me.

Soren, on the other hand, makes his awareness of me immediately and inappropriately obvious.

He’s lounging against the opposite wall like he’s posing for a cologne ad, wearing black leather pants that should look ridiculous but absolutely don’t—because if anyone can pull of leather pants it’s a demon incubus—and a black shirt that’s unbuttoned enough to be borderline obscene.

When our eyes meet, his lips curve into a smile that promises terrible things.

He pushes off the wall and moves toward me with that predatory prowl that makes everything below the belt clench despite myself.

“Rose,” he says, voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear him over the haunting Celtic music with harps and flutes and drums. “You look absolutely delicious. I could eat you up right here.”

The way he says ‘eat’ makes it clear what he really means. My cheeks heat, and I hate that he can do this to me with just his words.

“That’s harassment,” I inform him, willing my cheeks to return to their normal color.

“Is it?” He circles me slowly, not touching but close enough that I can feel his heat. “I thought it was a compliment. That dress is…” He makes a sound that’s almost a growl. “Perfect.”

The dress in question is something I conjured up an hour ago in desperation, short, black, with strategic cutouts that seemed like a good idea at the time but now feel like I might have gone a little too far.

Mrs. Bright’s face when she saw me was something to behold.

She’s shooting me disapproving looks from across the room even now, like my hemline is a personal insult.

“Aren’t you supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries?” I ask Soren, stepping back to put some distance between us.

“Probably.” He grins. “But then again. Mixed signals, Rose.”

Before I can respond, a voice like warm honey cuts through the moment. “Oh Rose, don’t you look brave.”

Thorne steps beside us in a floor-length gown in a very pumpkin-y shade of orange, her blonde hair twisted into an elaborate updo with what might be actual diamonds woven through it.

She looks like a princess. I look like I’m headed to ladies night at the club.

The contrast is not lost on either of us.

“Such an interesting interpretation of formal wear,” she continues, her smile so sweet it could give you a toothache. “I suppose we all have to work with what we have.”

She glides away before I can respond. Soren chuckles beside me.

“She really doesn’t like you.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” I head toward the refreshment table, my designated post for the evening. “Don’t you have someone else you can sexually harass?”

He doesn’t answer, just leans forward and plucks an apple from a heaping wooden basket.

“You know, in the old days, Samhain was less about decoration and more about blood. Humans would slaughter half their livestock and throw the bones into the bonfire for protection. I like your modern interpretation better.”

“Thanks, I guess.” I grab a cup of cider and pretend to busy myself with arranging napkins, but Soren just stands there, eating the apple and making a show of watching me.

The music swells, and the dancing starts, everyone spinning around the bonfire in a prescribed pattern that they all seem to know.

Another witch thing I didn’t learn growing up I guess.

We didn’t do Samhain, or Litha, or Beltane, and Yule was just Christmas specials on tv, takeout noodles on Christmas Eve, and a present or two at the end of the bed if my mom had been able to find work.

Thorne and her minions take the center, arms linked, the whole thing so perfectly choreographed I almost expect a backup troupe to burst out of the kitchen and join in. I see Harry in a suit that’s a size too tight, but I bet he thinks it shows off his biceps.

The refreshment table is a safer place for me to be. It’s laden with traditional Samhain foods: soul cakes, barmbrack with hidden charms, and colcannon, along with less traditional treats like pumpkin bread, mulled cider, and popcorn balls.

Soren leans across the refreshment table, stealing a slice of pumpkin bread, and studies me. “You’re not drinking,” he observes. “Bad idea. You’ll never survive an academy party sober.”

“I plan to leave as soon as humanly possible.” I start rearranging the apple cider mugs into a neat line, just to have something to do. “I have other things to work on.”

He arches a brow. “Such as?”

“You know what,” I whisper.

“Careful. You’re being watched.” He tips his chin toward the balcony above, where Wickersly stands in her black robes, flanked by two stone-faced faculty. The headmistress’s eyes are fixed on me.

“Don’t you want to go mingle?” I gesture at the room, at the throngs of girls in velvet and satin, all of whom are pretending not to stare at him.

His smile turns hungry. “I could, but I find myself in a monogamous mood tonight. So what are you drinking?”

“Cider,” I say, grabbing a cup from the punch bowl and taking a sip. It’s spiked, obviously, but not enough to take the edge off, which is a shame.

Soren picks up a cup for himself, lifts it in salute, and takes his leave.

Lucien watches him walk away, and I realize he’s been glaring at us the whole time we were talking together.

Twenty minutes later, after enduring the sneers and snickers of my fellow students, along with a few titters as someone whispers ‘Charity Case’ under their breath, I’m ready to set something on fire. Possibly myself. That’s when I feel a familiar chill.

Drake materializes beside me, translucent but still more solid than usual. No one else seems to notice him. He looks at the spread of traditional foods with obvious disgust.

“This looks terrible,” he says.

I glance around, but everyone’s focused on the bonfire where someone’s attempting to divine their future in the flames. “You came.”

His hand finds mine under the table, and I nearly jump at the sensation. His fingers are cold but real, lacing through mine with gentle firmness. “You look miserable.”

“I look like an idiot.” I squeeze his hand, grateful for the anchor. “Thorne’s right. This dress is ridiculous.”

“Thorne’s a bitch.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I actually laugh. “And the dress is incredibly sexy. She’s just jealous she couldn’t pull it off the way you can.”

I don’t believe him, but I appreciate what he’s trying to do.

We stand there, hands clasped hidden beneath the tablecloth, watching the festivities I want no part of. I watch everyone live, laugh and love. They look happy. Carefree. Not a feeling I can say I’ve ever experienced, but it sure looks like fun. I wonder if I’ll get to try it some day.

“Two years isn’t long enough,” Drake says quietly, and I realize he’s been thinking the same thing.

“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and for a moment I can pretend we’re just two normal people at a party, holding hands in secret.

But we’re not. He’s dead, I’m dying, and everyone else is celebrating the thinning veil between life and death like it’s something romantic instead of the razor’s edge I’m balancing on.

“I should go,” Drake says eventually. “Wickersly’s familiar is prowling.”

Sure enough, Galanthis is weaving through the crowd, his yellow eyes scanning faces with unusual interest. Drake’s form starts to fade, but he squeezes my hand once more before disappearing entirely.

And then I’m alone again at the refreshment table, serving soul cakes to people who will outlive me by decades if not centuries, pretending everything’s fine while the bloodmark burns and burns and burns.