Page 34 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Thirty-Two

Rose

The soul cakes are running low, which is my excuse when Mrs. Bright passes by with her clipboard and perpetual frown.

“I need to get more from the kitchen,” I tell her, not quite meeting her eyes.

She looks at the platters with obvious disappointment. “The kitchen staff was supposed to prepare more than last year.”

“The shifters are really going at them.” It’s not entirely a lie. A group of them did descend on the table earlier like locusts, though they took one bite each, tossed them in the trash and abandoned the rest. “I’ll be quick.”

She waves me off with an annoyed sigh, already distracted by whatever Thorne’s pointing at near the bonfire, likely some tiny flaw in the decorations that needs immediate fixing.

I don’t go to the kitchen.

The hallways are eerily empty, everyone at the festival or, if they’re not, they’re taking advantage of the distraction to do things they shouldn’t in their dorm rooms.

The library is closed, but the door’s been left unlocked, probably for any professor who needs references for tomorrow’s lessons. I slip inside, breathing in the familiar smell of old paper and wood polish.

It’s completely dark except for the emergency lighting that paints everything in pale blue.

I don’t turn on the main lights, they’ll be too obvious if anyone’s checking, but I don’t need them.

My eyes have gotten good at adjusting, and I’ve noticed that, as my magic unbinds itself more and more, I can use more of my senses.

I wander the stacks at first, not really knowing where I want to start, just knowing that being here is more productive than handing out cupcakes to drunk witches.

I run my fingers along the spines of the books, most of them leather-bound and old.

It’s as if they stopped writing about magic before the 20th century.

Which, I guess makes sense if magic doesn’t change all that much.

The History of Supernatural Contracts. Bloodlines and Bondage: A Study of Hereditary Magic.

The Complete Guide to Breaking Curses, that one looks like it’s been checked out a lot.

But something pulls me toward the back section, the one with books so old they’re kept behind glass. Except tonight, one of the cases is open. Just slightly, like someone forgot to latch it properly.

There’s a book inside that doesn’t look so special.

Brown cover, no title, nothing distinct about it.

But when I pick it up, my blood goes cold.

It’s not cold, exactly. More like… aware.

I swear I can feel a pulse beating through it, matching the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

The mark on my arm flares up, not painful but insistent, like it’s trying to tell me something.

This is it. This is what you need.

The thought doesn’t feel entirely like mine. It’s my voice in my head.

The first page is blank. So is the second. And the third. I keep turning, frustration building, until finally, halfway through the book, text appears as my fingers brush the page. Not printed text, but handwriting that materializes like invisible ink being revealed.

To hide in plain sight, one must shift between what is and what is not.

The next page is a section where the text is in Latin, but there are notes in the margins in English, written in different hands across different time periods. One catches my eye immediately.

“The skill of temporal displacement for purposes of concealment.”

I read further. It’s talking about hiding things not just in space but in time. Shifting them slightly out of sync with reality so they exist in the same location but in a parallel moment. Always there, never there, findable only to those who know how to look.

Another note, in different handwriting: “There it exists between heartbeats, in the space between one second and the next. Physical location is irrelevant if the temporal alignment is changed.”

I shake my head. The words are confusing. But then…

Holy shit.

This is what Soren meant.

Not where, but when.

I flip pages frantically, looking for more, and find a diagram showing the academy grounds, but overlaid with what looks like clock faces, each showing different times. The garden is marked, but so are other locations. The ballroom. The administrative wing. The library itself.

“Temporal anchors,” the text explains. “Where past, present, and potential future overlap. These spaces are ideal for concealing objects of power, as they exist outside normal relation.”

My brain tries to keep up with the text, but if I’m reading this right, the hidden chamber isn’t hidden at all.

It’s here, right here, just not in the same now that I’m in.

It’s tucked between seconds, existing in a moment that never quite arrives.

That’s why I couldn’t find it by searching physically.

I was looking in the right place but the wrong time.

But how do you access something that exists between moments? How do you step sideways through time without actually time traveling?

The next page has the answer, and if my blood went cold before, now it’s roaring like an inferno.

“Blood magic can pierce temporal concealments, as blood exists simultaneously in all moments of its lineage. A bloodmarked witch carries their entire ancestral timeline within their veins. With proper focus and intent, they can reach through their own temporal existence to access hidden moments.”

I’m barely breathing.

There’s a note in the margin, written in darker, less faded ink.

“Not a place, but a moment. The moment that started it all.”

My heart stops. This note is recent. Someone knew I’d find this book. Someone’s guiding me, but who? Not Drake, he’d just tell me. Not Lucien, he already said he couldn’t help me. Soren? Maybe, but this doesn’t feel like him, either.

Footsteps in the hallway make me freeze. Slow, but getting closer. I snap the book shut and shove it into my bag, I’m not leaving this behind, consequences be damned. The footsteps pause outside the library door.

The handle turns.

I duck behind a shelf, pressing myself against the books, trying to breathe silently. The door opens with a quiet creak, and someone steps inside. They don’t turn on the lights either, which means they don’t want to be caught any more than I do.

“I know you’re here, Rose.”

Wickersly’s voice slithers through the darkness.

I’m sure my heart actually stops beating for a very real moment.

She knows. Somehow, she knows.

“Come out,” she continues, her heels clicking on the floor as she moves deeper into the library. “We need to discuss your recent extracurricular activities. Your search for things that don’t want to be found.”

I stay frozen, my breathing shallow. The book in my bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The bloodmark burns so hot it hurts.

“I can make this easy or very, very difficult, Rose.” Wickersly says, and she’s closer now, maybe two aisles over. “But one way or another, you’re coming with me tonight. The Coven would like to speak with you regarding your recent behavior. We have questions.”

I close my eyes, trying to think. There’s a window at the back of this section, but it’s three stories up. The main door is blocked by Wickersly.

Unless…

The book talked about existing between moments. About bloodmarked witches being able to access their temporal existence. What if I could step sideways, just for a second? Just long enough to slip past her?

It’s insane. I have no idea how to do it. But the alternative is letting Wickersly take me to the Coven, and I have a feeling that’s a one-way trip.

“Last chance, Rose,” Wickersly calls out, and now she’s in the next aisle. One more turn and she’ll see me.

I focus on the cold burn of the bloodmark, and think about the space between heartbeats. The pause between breaths. The moment between one second and the next. I try to do what Lucien said, what Soren taught me. I reach out to my magic and I feel it responding.

Something alters.

The world doesn’t change, exactly, but it stutters. Like a record skipping. Wickersly freezes mid-step, her foot hovering above the ground. The dust motes in the air stop moving. Everything stops except me.

I don’t question it. I run.

Past Wickersly’s frozen form, through the library door, down the hallway where the halls are now filled with people who don’t move.

The world is silent except for my ragged breathing as I dodge students, and I briefly take note that one of them is Thorne, but it’s not Thorne from tonight, it’s Thorne wearing that orange sweater and tweed mini skirt from the first committee meeting.

I don’t know how long this will last, but I keep running, running, running.

The moment snaps back like a rubber band when I’m halfway across campus. The world lurches into motion, and I stumble, catching myself against a wall. Behind me, I hear the library’s emergency alarm going off.

Wickersly.

I make it to my dorm room and lock the door, shoving my desk chair under the handle for good measure, but I’m fully aware it won’t stop a witch like Wickersly. My hands shake as I pull out the book, opening it to that crucial page again.

I know how to find the Accord now. Not where, but when. The moment of signing, centuries ago, preserved like a bug in amber, reachable only to someone with the right blood and the right knowledge.

But knowing and doing are different things. And now Wickersly knows I’m looking. The game has changed. The stakes are higher.

I had less than two years to figure this out, and now I’m being actively hunted, which brings the time I have left to pretty much zero.

No pressure.