Page 6 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Five

Rose

I’m not saying the Serpentine Academy’s main hall has seen a public execution or two for sure, but it definitely has public execution energy.

I stand dead center, ringed by other students.

Most are witches, but there’s a sprinkling of ‘other’, judging by the fangs, the faint waterlogged smell of one pale girl, the guy in the back whose shadow does not agree to stay attached.

They all watch me with the same hopeful malice of piranhas underneath a sinking boat.

At the front, Lucien, posture perfect, hair like a shampoo commercial for the damned. Next to him is Soren, and behind them, Headmistress Wickersly, who has the vibe of a high-end dominatrix and the resting bitch face to match.

The headmistress lifts her hand. The crowd hushes. “Miss Smith, please step forward.”

I’m already as forward as it gets, but I shuffle across the marble floor an inch anyway, my sneakers making decidedly un-magical squeaks. Every eye follows.

The student body is arrayed around the perimeter of the Great Hall, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and buzzing with barely suppressed glee.

Most are in black. A few wear deep red, which apparently marks them as the in-crowd.

There’s a definite lack of diversity in the hair and skin color, and the crowd gets blonder and blonder as I scan the line.

“Rose Smith,” says Wickersly, “you are bound by tradition, oath and by blood. Do you understand the nature of this obligation?”

I glance over her shoulder at the banner hanging behind the Coven, a crescent moon, silver on black.

“I was not aware I had a choice,” I say, because if you can’t sass your way out of a supernatural contract, why did you even get up today?

The crowd snickers, then hushes again when the headmistress’s eyes sweep the room like she can stop your heart by looking at you too hard. She’s a witch, so maybe she can.

Lucien’s face betrays nothing. Soren gives me a slow, two-thumbs-up that is equal parts supportive and sarcastic. His mouth curls at the corner, like he’s rooting for me to get vaporized but also wants to see if I can survive it.

Headmistress Wickersly stretches a hand toward me. She’s not making a show of it, but the pressure is there, like a tide rising, threatening to drown me if I don’t keep my head above water.

“Step up,” she says, and the crowd leans in, eager for blood or spectacle.

I plant my feet and look her right in the eye. Let’s get this over with.

She nods once and begins the ritual.

Wickersly raises both hands, palms up. The air tastes strange, like I’ve been licking batteries. Her voice is quiet, but it carries across the space.

“Rose Smith. Do you accept the honor and the responsibility of becoming a student of the Serpentine Academy?”

I swallow, suddenly aware that the hair on my arms is lifting, every cell in my body ready to sprint for the door. “Fine. I accept.”

The headmistress turns her right palm up to the ceiling. “The blood.”

Lucien steps forward, producing a ceremonial dagger that is black and etched with runes that glow red. He offers it to me hilt-first.

I hesitate, then quickly grab the handle, pricking my index finger on a hidden barb. Bastard .

A single drop wells up, dark and beading. A Coven member holds my hand over the shallow bowl another witch presents. The drop lands and blooms out in the swirling amethyst purple liquid.

“And now,” she says, “you are marked for the Coven, Rose Smith.”

Something snaps. The crowd shuffles, half of them startled by the force of it. I feel a line of fire crawl up my arm, racing for my shoulder, then up my neck and across my cheekbone. I want to scream, so I grit my teeth and pretend this isn’t the worst pain I’ve ever felt.

The headmistress barely looks at me. “Let it be marked.”

I don’t see the blood at first. I feel the burn, before my brain can finish the alert. It’s like a panic attack, but then it gets worse, like a damn breaking.

The pain goes from sharp to horrifying to everything. I double over, clutching my hand, and the crowd oohs in that way that means they hope I’ll puke or faint. The headmistress doesn’t move, just waits, eyes blank.

Magic escapes out of me, a spark that jumps from my fingers and scorches a thread line across the marble.

I see it, a tiny black scorching snake, and then the world tips and I’m on my knees.

My vision goes black, but I keep my head up, because if I pass out in front of these assholes, I might as well give up now.

The magic surges again, threatening to break me open. My knees buckle, and Lucien’s arm clamps around my waist, with his chest pressed flush against my back, solid, inescapable.

“Breathe,” he murmured. His lips brushed the outside of my ear as he leans too close. The crowd rustles with whispers, but I can’t tell if they’re reacting to the ritual or the vampire pinning me in place.

Heat licks through my belly, traitorous, dizzying. I hate him for it. I hate myself more for wanting him to hold tighter, the only sliver of comfort I have right now. I choke in a breath.

It hurts. I want it to stop hurting.

“Focus on me,” Lucien says.

He says it like there’s a switch somewhere in my guts I can flip, like pain is just an attitude you can adjust.

I lean my head back, trying to do as he says.

His eyes are not human. I mean, I knew that, but now it’s obvious.

They’re a flat, bottomless red, sucking all the light out of the room.

“You’re doing fine,” he says, the words for me but the smile for the audience.

I hate him, but I cling to the sound of it, the way it breaks through the pain.

For half a second, there’s something almost sympathetic there. Almost.

Wickersly claps her hands once, the sound a crack like lightning. “That concludes the ritual,” Wickersly says, voice flat. She sounds bored, but I see her knuckles tense around the bowl.

I’m still on my knees, shaking, but the agony is already fading. In its place is a rush, a sizzle of energy that feels like drinking a thousand energy drinks and then jumping into an icy lake in the middle of January. I think I might actually black out, but I don’t.

I look at my hand. Across my palm, where the blade nicked me, the blood has dried in a precise, crescent-shaped line. It’s mirrored on my forearm, an angry red mark. A tattoo.

The fuckers branded me.

“You may rise.”

I do, using Lucien’s arm as a crutch.

Lucien’s eyes glance at the mark, then to my face, and I don’t like the look of pity I see there. “You did well. It doesn’t always go so smoothly.”

“That was smooth?” My voice sounds like I swallowed razor blades.

A second of dead silence, then the crowd comes back to life, one or two clapping, some laughing, most whispering in the way that means nothing good.

I step away from Lucien’s grip, ignoring the way my body wants to collapse again. The students start to break up, a few drifting toward me like sharks smelling blood. I brace for the first comment.

“You didn’t cry,” says a girl with a blonde French braid so tight her eyebrows are halfway up her forehead. Her friends nod, looking me up and down.

“Didn’t know that was an option,” I say.

She blinks, then laughs, baring her teeth. “Don’t die,” Blondie says in a sing-song voice. She leads her trio of baby witches off, their heels clicking rhythmically.

The Headmistress and the other witches of the Crescent Moon Coven retreat to wherever evil cunts go when they’re done torturing people. Lucien is still beside me, but then he’s gone before I can tell him to leave me alone.

Soren is suddenly at my shoulder, grinning. “You took that exceedingly well, Miss Smith.” He’s got the kind of face that could get away with literal murder, and his eyes say he’s never been told no by anyone. I immediately distrust him. “Soren,” he reminds me.

“Soren,” I repeat, “and you are what?” I know he’s not a witch or a vampire, but I can’t quite figure out his nature.

“You seem like a smart girl, Miss Smith. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, eventually.” His voice is smoky and seductive, and I feel something flutter in, well, let’s just say, places. And I’m pretty sure he can tell.

He’s standing a little too close, and his smile says he’s here to make trouble, and if he can’t find any, he’ll make it up as he goes along.

I’m too tired for this, but apparently there’s no exiting the circus tonight.

“You’re not a vampire,” I say, “and you’re not a witch.”

He leans in until his words are only for me. “Would you believe me if I said I could be your dream come true?”

What kind of professor speaks to his student like that? “I’d believe anything at this point,” I say, but what I really mean is, I’d believe he was the devil himself if he told me with that smile.

He shrugs, pleased. “Incubus. But I’m also teaching one of your classes. You’ll find I’m very hands on.”

I snort, which is not the reaction he’s going for, but he looks delighted. “Of course you are.” I rack my brain for anything I know about incubi, which is pretty much just that the plural of incubus is, in fact, incubi. And something about how they feed on sex.

He tilts his head like he’s waiting for me to ask what that entails, but I just cross my arms and glare at him. Somewhere in there, I remember Lucien’s warning to approach with caution.

“Call on me if you ever… need anything.” The pause is deliberate, and I don’t miss the way his eyes slither down my body, then up.

It’s not subtle, but it’s not gross, either.

It’s a fine line, but he’s walking it with style.

“The true education at the Serpentine Academy is not found in classrooms.” His smile is casual but calculated, like a cat toying with a mouse it’s pretending to let escape.

“I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

I’m about to deliver a reply, but he’s already gliding away, leaving behind a whiff of brimstone.