Page 6 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Lysithea

T he hot water does little to wash away the feeling of being watched, although it helps ease the tension in my muscles after being on edge for the last hour after the confrontation with the Lower-Fourths.

Steam fogs the mirror, hiding my reflection, but I can still feel eyes on my skin.

A phantom touch. My room, my one sanctuary, feels tainted.

Invaded. I know it was one of them. The outliers.

My money is on Verik. He has that casual arrogance that, before all this shit happened, I would’ve been attracted to.

Toxic masculinity is a bit of a turn-on, or it used to be.

I close my eyes and think back to the day three years ago when I was shipped here by the orphanage that housed me.

I scoff. Orphanage. It sounds so Oliver Twist. Maybe it’s not so different.

It wasn’t a place of sanctuary or privilege.

It was a nightmare. A workhouse, where we were used, and most of us abused.

Me most of all. Not to toot my own horn in the I’m-more-traumatised-than-you category, but no one else had a branks, or a scold’s bridle, if you prefer.

No, that was just me. Twenty hours out of twenty four, I was forced into that thing to stop my power.

I was let out of it while I was sleeping, but then I had a guard.

A vicious witch named Clara. I hate her still, and if I ever get out of this place alive, I will hunt her down and strip her skin off inch by inch with my voice, my song, the last thing she will ever hear before her eardrums burst. I bite my tongue to stop the laugh.

It’s wicked, but I don’t give a shit. She was a horror.

She fought against my coming here, but the orphanage’s manager, or whatever the fuck she was, insisted on it.

Applied for me, pushed it through as she pushed me out of the door with nothing but my one white dress and worn boots.

I know why she did it. I was not only a liability but way too much work to handle.

For the first time in a while, I wonder what happened to my parents that I ended up in a place like that.

The Noctis Regnum— the Realm of Night — is a wild and dangerous place.

I have seen the worst of it, and I hope never to again.

But my time is running short here. I have the rest of this year and two more after that before I’m spat out back into the wilderness.

I just hope I can find myself before then.

Find my purpose. Find something, anything , that makes sense about who I am and where I came from.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories. They’re a weakness I can’t afford. Not now.

Shutting the shower off, I grab a towel and dry off, my movements jerky and on edge.

I enter my bedroom with caution. Someone was definitely in here earlier, but they were long gone by the time I returned.

All that tells me is that I need to increase the power behind the wards. Nothing seems out of place.

Opening the wardrobe, I open the drawers and pull out a pair of knickers.

I frown. There is a pair missing. I grimace and roll my eyes.

“Real original, outliers.” This knowledge should scare me, but instead it kind of gives me a thrill.

This was a blatant theft. They knew I would notice.

They’re expecting a response, but the best thing I can do is ignore it.

Ignore them. It will drive them to distraction to know their games aren’t working on me.

I pull the knickers on and reach for a bra and a clean set of combat clothes for my next lesson.

Let them play their games. I’ve survived worse than a knicker-sniffer.

I’ve survived literal hell. Or have I? The fact is well known that Verik is a demon from that particular area, and it brushes up against my conscience.

This is only the beginning of their games.

Before I leave, I run my hands along the doorframe, pushing my power into the wards.

A low hum vibrates through the stone, the air crackling with ozone.

The floating candles down the hall flicker violently.

My sanctuary will not be breached again.

I grab my bag and wrench the door open, ready for whatever fresh hell the academy has cooked up for me.

Physical Combat is my worst class. I’m not good at it. I can rip your insides out from half a mile away with my song, but punching someone in the face gives me the massive ick. And it hurts.

I am magically strong, but physically, not so much.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m weak, it’s more that I really don’t like touching people, and I dislike people touching me more.

It’s a visceral reaction to being held down every day in the workhouse for as long as I can remember, to be tortured with the branks.

The training hall smells of sweat, iron, and old blood.

They call it the Blood Pit, and a pit it is.

Sound-dampened against my magic to a degree, I learned the hard way that I didn’t have the option of using my voice magic to get out of scraps.

It simply sucks it away on the wind before slamming back into me tenfold.

I don’t know where they got this ward from, but by fuck, I’m glad it is limited to only this one room. Guess it was expensive, or something.

The stone floor is scarred with weapon marks and stained with things I try not to identify. The magical cleaning doesn’t exist here by design. The academy wants us to know creatures bled here.

Racks of cruel-looking blades and bludgeons line the walls, each one humming with a faint, malevolent energy.

Professor Starscream stands in the centre of the room, a mountain of scarred muscle and bad intentions. He’s a pit demon, a species known for their love of organised violence. His eyes, small and black like chips of obsidian, sweep over the assembled students.

“Pair up,” he grunts, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floor.

Fuck’s sake. This is another reason why I hate this class. We always have to pair up, turn to the creature on your right and hit them, get in a group and fight until someone bleeds.

As usual, someone finds me almost immediately. A shadow falls over me. I look up. And up. A Minotaur third-year grins down at me, showing off a set of brutally large teeth. Great. Just what I needed.

Vance.

He could squash me under his hoof without even breaking a sweat.

“Today,” Starscream bellows, a vicious smile splitting his face, “we learn a valuable lesson. Disarmament. Your goal is to take your opponent’s weapon. Your opponent’s goal is to break as many of your bones as possible in the process. Begin.”

Vance cracks his knuckles, the sound like rocks grinding together. He chooses a massive, two-handed axe from the rack. I pick a small, simple dagger. It feels cold and useless in my hand, but it’s the only thing I know how to use and that I can actually pick up.

The clang of steel fills the hall as Vance approaches.

He swings the axe in a wide, lazy arc meant to intimidate. I duck under it, the wind of its passage cold against my neck. It smashes into the stone floor, sending a shower of sparks into the air. He’s toying with me. A cat with a mouse it knows it can kill at any moment.

I lunge forward, aiming the dagger for the thick muscle of his thigh. It’s a stupid move, but standing still is stupider. He just laughs, batting my arm away with the back of his hand. The impact sends a shockwave up to my shoulder, and the dagger skitters across the floor, lost in the shadows.

He grabs the front of my oversized black tee, hoisting me off my feet until we’re eye to eye. His breath is hot and smells of coffee and blood. “Now what, little siren?” he rumbles, his grip tightening.

The feel of his hand, the pressure on my chest, the sheer unwanted proximity, makes my skin crawl.

My magic coils in my gut, a serpent of pure rage, but unless I want to end up flat on my back, feeling like I want to die while a Minotaur chops my hands and other extremities off, I have to get out of this using my less-than-brute strength.

“Hands off her, Vance.”

The cool voice comes out of nowhere.

Vance frowns and looks to his left. I follow his gaze and gulp.

Dathan is standing there, looking as cool as a sea cucumber even though he isn’t even in this year, let alone class. His black suit is pristine. His black shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. His expression is completely unruffled, almost bored.

“Yeah?” Vance snaps. “What are you going to do about it if I don’t?”

Dathan doesn’t even look at him. His silver eyes are fixed on me, a slow, savage smile curling his lips. “As much as I’d love to feed on your fear, Vance, you are one of the few who don’t have it. So that leaves a fight until one of us bleeds.”

“Over her?” Vance scoffs, shaking me until my teeth rattle. “Since when do you protect little bitches?”

The entire class is watching now, even Starscream.

“Since now, you overgrown farm animal.”

Vance growls and drops me. I land on my arse with a loud curse.

He roars and charges at Dathan, swinging his axe.

The air whistles. Dathan doesn’t move. He simply stands there, watching the sharpened steel arc towards his head.

Just before it connects, his hand snaps out and he catches the wooden handle.

Vance grunts and tries to yank the axe out of Dathan’s grip, but he can’t.

Dathan has it held solidly. Slowly, he moves it in a downwards arc.

Vance’s muscles bunch as he tries to stop it.

Dathan smiles at me. Sexy, seductive and downright terrifying.

He pulls the axe free from Vance’s grip and swings it, his eyes never leaving mine, into Vance’s chest.

The axe sinks into his sternum with a wet, splintering thud.

Vance lets out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with disbelief as he looks down at the blade buried in his chest. Dathan releases the handle, leaving the weapon protruding like a grotesque trophy.

The Minotaur staggers back a step, his mouth opening and closing, but only a gurgle of blood escapes.

Then he collapses, hitting the stone floor with a boom that shakes the room.

No one moves. The air is thick with shock.

“You’re bleeding. I win,” Dathan says.

Professor Starscream gives a slow, appreciative nod.

Dathan doesn’t even glance at the fallen Minotaur. His silver eyes are still locked on mine, and his smile becomes more sinister. He knows exactly what he did.

He made a statement. A claim.

He takes a step towards me. This wasn’t a rescue. It was a demonstration of ownership, a warning to anyone else who might think of touching me.

He stops a foot away, his shadow falling over me. He smells of night and something ancient, something hungry.

He holds his hand out, and I stare at it from my position, still sprawled out on the floor.