Page 3 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Lysithea

A dvanced Vocal Magic is a bore. Mostly because I can’t use my full power here.

I have to temper it down, which is exhausting.

I always get paired with a banshee because there is no one else of my species who can even begin to keep up.

The water sirens are weaker even than the banshees.

Inhaling deeply, closing my eyes and trying not to think too hard about the creeps that were watching me in the dining hall earlier, I exhale on a low-pitched hum.

The banshee shrieks, and my eyes fly open.

She convulses on the floor, a thin line of red running from her nose to her top lip. Her voice, a thing of prophetic terror, has turned inward, tearing her apart, trying to contain the echo of mine. She collapses fully, limbs twitching, a low whimper escaping her bloodied mouth.

No one rushes to help.

Professor Morgan approaches her body with the detached curiosity of a biologist examining a particularly interesting insect.

He pulls a small notebook from his robes and scribbles, his quill scratching furiously against the parchment.

“Incredible resonance feedback,” he mutters, his eyes gleaming.

“The harmonic dissonance creates a feedback loop targeting the weaker vocal structure. Fascinating.”

A familiar coldness settles in my stomach.

It’s not guilt. I burned that out of myself years ago.

It’s the weary resignation of being a walking catastrophe.

The other students in the lecture hall scramble back, their chairs scraping against the stone floor.

Their fear is a tangible thing, a wave of cold air that washes over me. A contagion in a simple black dress.

Professor Morgan looks up from his notes, his gaze meeting mine. There’s no censure in his eyes, only a disturbing academic hunger. “Miss Lysithea, your control has improved, but the inherent destructive potential remains. We will need to adjust your curriculum.”

Adjust my curriculum. A euphemism for finding new ways to make me even more dangerous.

“Class dismissed.”

Two orderlies in grey robes enter the lecture hall. They lift the still-twitching banshee onto a floating stretcher and carry her away without a word. No one asks if she will be okay. No one cares. Weakness is a liability, and at DarkHallow, liabilities are discarded.

I gather my books as the stares of the other students burn holes in my back.

Their fear is thick enough to taste, a bitter metallic tang on my tongue.

I can feel it now, more than ever. Not just them.

In the observation gallery above, several senior staff members watch me, their faces impassive masks.

Professor Nightshade is among them, a specialist whose classes I have never taken. Her presence makes the air feel thin.

As I pass a group of fourth-year students waiting in the doorway to enter. None of them move. Their smiles are wicked, sharp, and I have two choices. Stay where I am until they move, or push my way through.

They are the year above me, older and supposedly more advanced in their training. They either don’t know what I can do, or they don’t care. I’m going for the latter. They think they are more powerful than me. I guess there is one way to find out.

I move forward. When they tighten their huddle, I know this is going to end badly. Not for me but for them.

One girl reaches out and shoves my shoulder. “Watch where you’re going, bitch,” she hisses.

A guy kicks my ankles and hisses. “Are you trying to trip me up, cunt?”

The word hangs in the air, a crude, ugly thing. My magic coils, tightening like an angry serpent. I don’t need to look at them. I can feel their smirks, their casual cruelty born of pack mentality. It’s a mistake. A fatal one.

I don’t even think about it. The power just answers. A single, sharp note escapes my lips, perfectly pitched to the resonant frequency of human bone.

The guy who kicked me screams first. A wet, tearing sound as the bones in his shins splinter. The girl who shoved me clutches her arm, her face a mask of agony as her radius and ulna snap with an audible crack. The others stumble back, their bravado evaporating into shock.

That’s right, bitches.

I step through the opening they’ve created, not looking back at the whimpering, broken figures on the floor. They’ll heal almost instantly, just like everyone else in this damned place. But the satisfaction I have curves my lips up.

Part of me knows I should surrender to the darkness.

This kind of power is intoxicating. The lack of consequences is a rush that makes my clit twitch.

I’m not wrestled to the ground and restrained; I simply walk away.

It’s hardly me keeping a low profile, but maybe the grand design isn’t going to allow that.

I head for the library, the one place that holds answers, even if I haven’t found all of them yet.

They’re there. Its entrance is a massive archway carved with runes that twist menacingly, guarding the knowledge within.

The air inside is heavy with the scent of old parchment and dormant magic.

Most records of Nox Sirens are gone, I think they’ve deliberately been erased from history.

But this library has layers, secrets hidden within secrets.

I navigate the labyrinthine shelves, my shadows stretching ahead of me, testing the air.

They recoil from certain sections, warning me of protective wards designed to repel those without sufficient dark intent.

But my intent knows no light. I’m drawn to one of the forbidden alcoves where a single, unmarked tome is bound in flayed skin.

When I touch it, the text on the pages forms words in a demonic language I am only vaguely familiar with.

The words I understand burn themselves into my mind, tales of power, of bindings, of a crown.

Before I can read more, I sense a presence.

I slam the book shut and turn, but there’s no one there.

Still, the feeling lingers. Watched. Hunted.

The words disappear to reveal blank pages again.

I slide the book back into its place. My shadows flatten against the shelves, trying to merge with the darkness, trying to make me disappear. But it’s too late. I’m already seen.

I walk out of the alcove, every muscle tensed for an attack that doesn’t come. The feeling of eyes on me is a physical pressure, an invisible hand on the back of my neck. It follows me through the labyrinth of shelves, past tomes that whisper curses as I pass.

This isn’t random. The three watchers in the dining hall, the senior staff observing my class, and the bullies in the corridor are all connected. A coordinated effort. They are testing my limits, pushing my buttons, cataloguing my reactions.

I am a specimen. A key. Someone is getting ready to turn me into a lock. The library doors swing shut behind me with a boom that echoes like a closing cage. There is no escape. There is only the hunt, and the sickening realisation that I am, and have always been, the prey of a much bigger threat.