Rebel Academy: Curse

Chapter Twelve MAGENTA

A long time ago, Robin and I had promised to love each other always. Now that us Immortals had won the Dragon Polo Tournament, I could honor that love by saving my second shimage lover from the same death in the walls of the castle.

Sweet Hecate, let Fox still be breathing…allow the spell to release him…believe that he wasn’t an enemy to me or any witch, simply because he was a mage…

Were any of us Immortals and Princes rivals anymore?

I landed Sleipnir in front of the castle gates. His fur beneath me was hot, warming me against the freezing night, and I wound my fingers through his mane that’d shimmered to aquamarine. His feathered wings beat fiercely.

He was a beauty and a marvel.

My monster.

Sleipnir thrummed with the same joy that vibrated through me.

The outlines of the score sparkled and died in the sky:

Mist floated down from the castle gates, kicking his legs and neighing. He shook his mane in victory, before landing on Sleipnir’s shoulder like a mascot.

I valued my witchy behind too much to ever call him that, of course.

My grin was decidedly wicked, but a tournament with flaming phoenixes, dragon derring-do, and the wild storms spoke to my Wickedly Charmed magic. And that was true witchcraft: raw and elemental.

I was born to raise the winds and drive the snow.

My magic swirled around me, as whirlwind eddies blasted out in celebration.

In a sudden spray of glitter, Sleipnir transformed back, and I squawked, as I found my legs squeezed around his waist. He tumbled onto his hands and knees.

Well, that was pleasant way to ride him as well.

“What a comfortable seat you make.” I bounced up and down.

Warmth curled through me, at the same time as I laughed, flushing. Sleipnir chuckled, dropping onto his front and then rolling around to pin me in the snow. His eyes were wide with exhilaration and pleasure, as his hard prick pressed against my hip. He smelled like hot pebbles under the sun, and heat washed off him, cocooning me against the cold.

He’d protect me from anything.

Frogs and toads, like this I could forget the bitches and bastards on their dragon thrones who were watching us.

Perhaps, seeing our love would make them vomit into their hot chocolates?

Ah, innocent hope.

Thump — the ground shook next to my head.

Rayn landed, and snow exploded into the air like it’d been blasted by landmines. He stalked closer and then his golden wing lifted towards us. Bask slid down the wing like it was a ride with a whoop.

Witching heavens, he’d truly taken to whooping.

Then Bask leapt on top of Sleipnir and me, tumbling us over. I spat out mouthfuls of snow.

“Incubus attack.” Sleipnir caught Bask around the middle, dragging him into a hug.

“Watch the bosoms.” I readjusted my corset, patting my bosoms, consolingly. “They’re bouncy but not balls. Although, if you imagine that they’re as sensitive as your balls, then perhaps you’d have more respect for them.”

“Sorry,” Bask whispered.

Was he shaking from joy, excitement, or…?

Crack my broomstick, had I been too harsh on the whole bosom issue?

I stroked my hand through Bask’s hair because touch both fed an incubus and told them that you loved them, along with them knowing that they pleased you. It was biologically bred into them and then conditioned in their training.

The succubi were more ruthless than witches.

“Your performance in the tournament was outstanding, and you protected our whipping boy. It pleased me, just like you shall forever. Don’t doubt it.” I slipped my hand down Bask’s back, caressing circles between his shoulder blades. “You flew with courage and strength. Didn’t you feel the connection between us all? We belong together and even our magic, the world, and the Fates can’t deny it.”

“Please,” Bask’s voice was hoarse. He raised his head; his eyes gleamed like he was holding back tears. “Pet me.”

Instantly, Sleipnir kissed Bask, winding his arms around him and crushing their bodies together like he was trying to make Bask a part of himself, just like his tattooed brothers were.

That way at least Bask would be safe.

I tightened my hand in Bask’s hair, before kissing down his pale neck. I needed this: to devour his coco and almond on each swipe of my tongue, nibble, and bite harder, until he arched and moaned in ecstasy.

Bask’s pleasure had called to me when I’d been trapped in Hecate’s Tree. His obsessive love, when I’d been nothing but an echoed memory from the past, had driven the other Immortals to resurrect me. Yet how could I save him now?

Bask was still shaking.

Sleipnir pulled away from the kiss in an attempt to study Bask’s face, but Bask burrowed down instead, hiding against his shoulder and clasping Sleipnir’s coat hard between his hands.

Sleipnir and I exchanged a concerned glance. Then Sleipnir’s expression darkened, and his hair shaded to red. Mist poked his head out of his pocket with a furious snort, pointing over at the platform with his hoof.

When I twisted around, I met the Duchess’ appraising stare. She studied our tumbled embrace with contempt. Then a smug smile crept across her face.

Cold washed over me.

Hecate’s tit, no…

Bask was shaking because he knew.

I’d won my own freedom. Bask had saved Fox. But Bask had lost his freedom and life to the Duchess and he hadn’t said a word. All he’d wanted was one last pet because he loved us, and we loved him.

Heavens above, how I loved him…like I could curse worlds to perpetual winters if only it’d save him from the Succubi Court. Like I could curse myself to frozen eternities.

I stilled. That bitch who hid her cruelty behind her pretty face thought that she could steal my lover tonight.

Not a chance on my witchy behind.

My magic sparked, flashing through my eyes. I directed my determination and that single thought — you won’t take my lover — right at the Duchess.

The Duchess’ eyes widened. Her hands clenched the throne’s armrests. I smirked, snapping my pink around her, scrawling across both her cheeks:

A visitor to an academy should always wear the correctly labeled badge.

Professor Bacchus snorted and then pretended that her laugh had been a cough.

Pocus, Bacchus’ familiar, was wrapped around her shoulders in cat form like a scarf. His sleek black fur glimmered, and his pentacle collar glittered at his neck. Bacchus only transformed him as a punishment because he hated it. I’d learned from Sleipnir and Fox that transformations should never be forced on a shifter.

Although, considering that Bacchus kept her cute cat familiar naked when he was in his Halfling form, perhaps she allowed him his fur now as defense against the cold.

After all, why would she stroke a familiar who she was punishing, until he purred with a beautiful rumbling rasp that made me want to tickle him under the chin?

The Duchess froze, shaking with her desperation to claw away the words, but her hands didn’t leave their death hold on the armrests.

I wasn’t certain whether to admire her self-control or be worried by her stubbornness.

I’d made my point.

All of a sudden, a popular song that was like an orgasm of guitars, piano, and drums (my witchy behind had never heard such an unholy mix), exploded with a triumphant chanting about both champions and losers. I supposed that we were both at the same time.

Ambrose truly was the Irony Fae.

Yet there was one side in this tournament who were nothing but losers.

Guilt squirmed in my guts (and in this tight corset, I didn’t have room for guilt bloating). By winning, I’d forced the Princes to lose and their stakes were just as serious as my own.

I glanced across at the Princes, who huddled in front of the gates like they hoped to be forgotten. I smirked at the memory of how they’d tumbled from the dragons’ back onto their behinds, and Lysander’s outraged expression.

Oh, there went the guilt bloating again.

Lysander’s head was ducked, and his hair covered his face. It was so unlike him that my chest ached. Willoughby’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

When Lysander raised his head, and his gaze met mine, I couldn’t hold back my gasp. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his expression was bleaker than I’d ever seen.

Destroyed.

“I never meant it. I threatened it, but I didn’t...” Sleipnir’s voice shook. “We wrecked him…”

“I’m Magenta, this is my academy, and you’re all my Rebels. That fae will be ours, and he shall be unwrecked at our hand.” I pushed myself out of the tangle of my lovers and to my feet, brushing the snow off my dress.

You must look your best before going into battle.

When I lifted my chin, Lysander’s eyes widened, as if he thought that I was about to fight him. Whereas in fact, I was about to go into battle for him.

Sleipnir slouched up next to me, and Bask still clung to him.

Willoughby and Lysander exchanged a glance, before straightening their shoulders and marching towards us.

Lysander stiffly held out his hand. “Well played.”

I stared at him. I didn’t associate good sportsmanship with fae.

But then, I’d never…cared…for a fae, either. My younger self would consider this modern world as crazy as me.

Willoughby’s lips twitched. “It’s customary, I believe, to shake it.”

Bask let go of Sleipnir to snatch Lysander’s hand and kiss its back like Lysander was a maiden.

I sighed. “How romantic.”

Lysander’s lips curled, and he dragged his hand back, batting Bask away. I forgave Lysander everything in that moment for the laugh he’d drawn from Bask.

For helping him to forget…

“What exemplary manners.” I patted Lysander on the head. “I expected you Princes to pitch a tantrum and kick snow on us with your stompy feet.”

“Stompy feet?” Willoughby mouthed.

Lysander’s smile was slow and so delicious that warmth curled through me. “Why would my noble self do that? One likes you Immortals, or with your startlingly poor observational skills, did you fail to notice?”

I shuddered at the way that he drew out like, as if he was sucking each of us with his tongue. My heart beat rapidly against my ribcage, and my mouth became dry. Black cats, I wanted him. I almost missed the insult (although, I was beginning to see that it was the Princes’ brand of banter), wrapped in the compliment.

Almost.

Yet when I met his dancing eyes, I couldn’t hold back my own smile because that bleak, destroyed expression had been driven away.

What wouldn’t I do to rescue him from such hurt?

Sleipnir shrugged. “Hey, that’s lucky, since we like you.”

Sleipnir tongued like in revenge but this time, as if he was tonguing the head of Lysander’s prick.

Lysander staggered back a step, and Willoughby caught him.

Never take on Sleipnir in a Banter Battle.

“To the Immortals, victors of the Dragon Polo Tournament!” Fireworks exploded in the sky, and Ambrose fluttered down to land between us like a golden eagle. He held the obsidian Rebel Cup. He smiled, beating his wings in joy, rather than agitation. Sweet Hecate, was his normal rage because of his misery? “On my feathers, it’s my honor to announce that they’re double champions of both the Rebel Cup and the tournament. It’s time to present the Rebel Cup.”

Ambrose held out the huge cup, which was shaped like a dragon. The dragon’s tail wound around the trophy and back into its mouth. Lysander’s yearning as he stared at it was physically painful.

I wished that he'd been able to have this moment.

Lysander’s fingers clenched at his sides like he was forcing himself not to snatch the cup.

As a child, I’d watched from the Bird Turret, as the trophy had been presented below in the grounds to different teams. I’d known how much it mattered to the Princes. Yet to me, it held no more meaning than one of Juni’s Privilege Points. It was the carrot, rather than the stick to keep us students behaving and compliant.

I needed the Princes to understand how hollow trophies, awards, shiny gold stars (or much as I hated to admit it, a Prefect’s title), as well as their cruel families’ approval truly was.

Damelza clicked her fingers. Midnight rose from behind her throne.

I bit my lip hard. All this time he’d been forced to kneel in the shadows. How terrible it must’ve been to watch our contest in the skies, when his own life was staked on it…and the Princes had lost.

Damelza bustled over to Ambrose, while Midnight prowled at her side, despite the fact that his broken wings were still strapped down with leather and his feet looked like they'd been frozen to blue blocks. I winced. When he shivered, even his poor cock and balls shook. It was admirable that they hadn't retreated inside his body to escape the cold. When Damelza once more pointed at her feet and Midnight began to kneel, Lysander let out a hiss of frustration, clutching Midnight by the shoulder.

Midnight's startled gaze met his. Then Lysander shrugged off his luxurious cashmere coat and laid it on the slushy ground, before gently pushing Midnight onto it.

Cauldrons and potions, that was gentlemanly.

I recognized the look in Midnight's eyes as he looked up at Lysander. What was it called again?

Oh yes, adoration.

My chest was tight. I'd judged both Lysander and Midnight, but perhaps, Midnight had always been the one with the power, despite being the whipping boy.

Sleipnir tilted his head, studying them speculatively.

Lysander clasped his hands behind his back, standing guard over Midnight. Willoughby stalked to join him.

Damelza pursed her lips, as she scanned their united group. They truly were a team even in defeat. Then her lips became even more prune like, as she looked between the cup and us Immortals.

"Now, Professor Ambrose, there's no need for all this pomp. How about I take that trophy for safe keeping?" When she grabbed the Rebel Cup, Ambrose didn't let go. Damelza's eyes glittered pink, and her feathers ruffled up. "I'm your Principal. I run this school. Have you forgotten Ezekiel or your son?"

"Nay, never. I don't forget my place here or your threats to Ty." Ambrose pulled the trophy closer to his chest, curling his wings around himself and trapping Damelza in a mockery of a lover's embrace. Damelza reddened, scrabbling at his chest with one hand and holding onto the trophy with the other. Bask giggled and when he caught Willoughby's eye, Willoughby’s lips quirked into an answering smile. "The Immortals fought and risked their lives for this trophy. They earned it, and by my wings, they shall have it."

Sleipnir disentangled himself from Bask, before prowling to Ambrose all deadly god, as fury snapped in his eyes. He thrust his hand into the struggle of professors, curling it around the dragon's tail. Then he yanked, pulling out the Rebel Cup, before holding it above his head.

Sleipnir shot a glance at Bask and me; it spoke of such pain and love that it stole my breath. "This is for Fox."

"Fox," Bask and I whispered together.

I didn't expect the Princes to echo us; shivers ran down my spine.

Damelza stumbled back from Ambrose, rubbing a feather away from her nose and sneezing. She smoothed down her dress in quick, sharp motions.

"What a pity that Confess can't hear your touching tribute, but then, the castle walls are pretty thick. On the other hand, it's effective insulation against the cold." She waved her hand dismissively at the trophy like she hadn't just been trying to wrestle it from her own professor. "Don't lose it."

I wet my dry lips. "Free Fox and the professor from the walls before they... We won, just...please."

"Mother," Juni called, "time is an issue, wouldn't you agree?"

Damelza ignored her daughter, scrutinizing me, instead. "How delightful that I've discovered how to make you beg, and I didn't even have to cast a Make Them My Bitch Hex. Do you imagine that the House of Crows act in such a way? Your mother would be so proud. Do you know what you sound like?"

"A lover?" I gritted out.

"A friend?" Sleipnir added.

"Someone with a heart?" Bask guessed.

"A witch who's forgotten our traditions." She glanced over her shoulder at the academy's guests. She was putting on a performance no different to the tournament. She was a prisoner of their patronage, just as the Rebel professors and students were prisoners of the House of Crows. "Allow me to remind you of the importance of families and not disappointing them."

I steeled myself to look at Titus. I clenched my hands, and my nails bit into my palms.

Titus sprawled in his seat, tapping his elegant fingers on his thigh. He watched us like it was an insignificant drama put on for his amusement. When his half-lidded gaze met mine, smoldering and dark, I felt dirty.

It didn't matter that his beauty glowed in the night’s gloom. So did his predatory danger.

I expected Titus to join us as the academy's patron, but it was Darby who leapt from his throne with indecent enthusiasm. Willoughby stiffened, only shuffling forward reluctantly, when Damelza crooked her finger.

Darby's sorcery crackled and smarted across my own. He strutted towards Willoughby, whose look was agonizingly hopeful.

I pressed my nails harder into my palm.

Don't hurt, reject, crush him...

But I knew that he would because I wasn't blinded by love.

How could Willoughby still love his brother?

Yet I was an only child. Perhaps, I could never understand Willoughby’s closeness to his brother. I could tell that despite all, Willoughby still missed his family.

I ached for what he'd lost and had yet to grieve.

"Brother..." Willoughby breathed.

"Silence, killer," Darby commanded. Willoughby jerked like he'd been struck. Then he gasped, clutching at his neck, as the cursed silk wound higher around his throat. "I'm your king, and you're nothing but a prisoner who should long ago have been executed."

Willoughby's face crumpled, before he forced himself to blank his expression.

My magic wove out, stroking down his sides, and he leaned into the caress. When I slipped my mists higher to tug at the silk to loosen it, Damelza tutted in disapproval.

"I would like to remind my more ill-disciplined students," Damelza's gaze met mine, as she raised her finger and thumb, "that I have the power to activate the brands in a second. So, best of behavior in front of our guests, hmm?"

I nodded, swallowing.

She could torture or kill all of the Rebels with a click of her fingers. Loving the Rebels meant letting them suffer.

Witching heavens, how could I bear this?

Because they did.

I tilted up my chin, donning the same shuttered mask as Willoughby. "I'm nothing but the model of the perfect student."

Bacchus rolled her eyes.

Darby held out a strand of his long hair to Willoughby. "Kiss the crystals of your rightful king."

Willoughby blanched.

I'd spank that brat's behind with my broomstick, until he wasn't even able to sit on his brother's throne again...

With a tenderness that Darby hadn't been expecting, rather than a shamed humiliation, Willoughby drew a crystal to his lips and kissed it. "Forgive me, brother. I've paid penance and I shall for as long as you need it. All I ask is...forgive me."

Darby wrenched back, but his wide eyes met his brother's gleaming ones; he raised a shaking hand to push his hair behind his ear. "I told you not to shame us, monster." Sleipnir flinched at the same time as Willoughby, before storming towards Darby and swinging the Rebel Cup like a club. This time, it was Lysander holding him back with a restraining hand on his elbow. "How was this performance supposed to impress me? You were warned to win every tournament, prize, and trial. Was this a rebellion? Do you wish to make your penance even harder on yourself?" His expression became ravenous, as if feeding from Willoughby's quickening breath. "Have your dreams been sweet, Dark Elf?"

"Enough," Lysander bit out. "As Prefect, the failing is mine and not Crush's. I take full responsibility."

He shrank, as Titus' expression darkened.

Damelza's smile became sly. "Well, my favorite Rebel Motto is: Share both in the winning and the losing. Don't worry, there's enough punishment to go around. Now, it's late, I'm bored, and we have either a rescue mission ahead of us or two corpses to bury so..." She pulled out from her shawl a black crystal vial and passed it to Willoughby. "The stakes for you was the loss of your magical healing power. Bottoms up."

"You'd bet with mother's gift?" Darby demanded. "You truly are a changeling.”

Willoughby's hand shook, as he raised the vial to his lips. "Since I'm not your brother, why should you care?"

My mists coiled out, stopping the venomous potion that'd steal away the magical power, which meant everything to Willoughby. It was the only thing that he had left of the Other World, from which he'd been banished.

"On my bouncy bosoms, I shan't allow this." Why was I shaking worse than Willoughby? "What do you want? What can I do or...?"

"No more deals," Willoughby's voice was low and intense. "I'm sacrificing not for the academy but for those I love. It's honorable."

"He's right," Lysander said. "Don't involve yourself in princely affairs. Not now that your whipping boy is safe."

Bask slipped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. I needed the comforting feel of him, and knew that he was as desperate for the touch as well.

My magic smarted, twisting and torn apart that my lovers were in danger, and I couldn't protect them.

Yet.

Breaking this curse would set us free, and destroy those who'd trapped us.

Willoughby glanced around at Midnight. "Before you take this from me, let me heal my whipping boy’s wings."

Damelza shook her head.

Willoughby's shoulders hunched, and his knuckles tightened until they were white around the vial.

"Drink." Darby arched his brow. "Or are you still such a traitor that you'll disobey your king's direct order?" He circled Willoughby, and my breath caught. His hand hovered over the back of Willoughby’s neck, and the silk tightened again. "Perhaps," he whispered, "you wish to kill me too and take the throne?"

Willoughby closed his eyes. "I'm not...I'd never... You'll never forgive me for killing father, will you?"

He downed the potion, hurling the empty vial away into the shadows.

Then he dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach. He gritted his teeth, hissing in pain. When my own magic wound around me, I could feel it: the magic dying inside him.

It was worse than death.

Tears chased silently down Willoughby’s cheeks.

It was too much.

I dived on Willoughby at the same time as Bask fell to his knees next to him. When Bask flung his arms around Willoughby’s neck, Willoughby turned his head against Bask’s shoulder, and I stroked his hair.

"If you desire it, I'll heal Midnight," Bask promised. "Don't cry. If I'm not...taken... I promise, I'll try..."

Willoughby nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Damelza rubbed her hands together like she was satisfied with handing out a detention. "Of course, the whipping boy. This one should interest you, Duchess. Weren't you intrigued by how I tamed my students? He'll suffer the Sleep Deprivation Hex."

Before I could even shield him with my magic, Damelza shot a shower of crows' feathers cascading across Midnight like the reverse of the Sandman. Midnight keened, and Lysander rubbed across his shoulders.

Titus' lips quirked in amusement.

The Duchess inclined her head with affected boredom. "More spells, of course."

"My, you'd almost think that this was a coven," Damelza drawled. "And a hex, rather than a spell. He can't fall asleep now."

"For how long?"

"That depends how long he takes to go crazy or kill himself, I suppose. In Hecate's name, Bacchus why don't you make it this term's SHP experiment?"

Pocus abruptly stopped purring, and his eyes narrowed.

"How inventive." Bacchus’ eyes swirled amber. "One whipping boy, no sleep, observe the outcome."

Pocus hissed in distress. I suspected that as a fellow vampire, who’d been transformed into a familiar just like my crows had, he was fiercely protective of Midnight.

Did he love him, despite being bound to Bacchus?

To my surprise, the Duchess straightened in her chair, and her mouth tightened into a moue of distaste. "In my culture, we train the beautiful. We don't kill them, even the freaks." Willoughby and I tightened our hold on Bask, as she raked her gaze over him. "Isn't your whipping boy too delicious to waste?"

Damelza huffed. "He's a vampire. They're already a waste."

This time, it was Sleipnir holding Lysander back by his wings.

Except, then Damelza's gaze slid to Lysander and with a single slash of her finger through the air, a D burned itself onto his forehead. Lysander yowled, and Sleipnir dragged him tightly to his chest.

Don't let Damelza do this. Not with Titus watching. Wasn't it enough?

Titus no longer looked amused. "What's the meaning of this?"

Damelza looked smug. Was this punishment as much a sneaky revenge on Titus as Lysander?

"I don't have to worry about losing the Princes' whipping boy to madness because I've gained a Dunce." Damelza was enjoying this. "And as you know, a Dunce is like a whipping boy but with even less rights. Who'd have guessed that our patron's own ward would ever be reduced so low?"

Titus was ashen with fury. He stood with a repressed rage that trembled through his wings, then he prowled to the castle gates.

"Follow me, boy," he barked at Lysander without looking around.

Lysander bit his lip, avoiding out gazes but turned on his heel and followed his uncle. I wanted so much to walk with him and face Titus at his side or at least not to watch and listen. But despite the snow and the winds that drove harder and faster in my distress, there was nothing but silence and the hissed conversation between Titus and Lysander.

"You bring shame on me, your kingdom, and all Unseelie." Titus towered over Lysander who stood military straight, unflinching. "Your whipping boy will die for your failure, and you wear the mark of your disgrace for all to see. Do you think I shall ever let you home after humiliating me like this? You're worthless."

Titus slapped Lysander across the cheek with a crisp smack.

The sudden violence shocked me, and Bask gasped.

Yet it hadn't shocked Lysander. He hadn't even tried to move away.

I'd known.

Of course, I'd heard the unspoken truth of his guardian's harshness in Lysander’s inability to understand Ambrose's kindness to his son, or his admission that he'd been beaten since he could fly or...so many other fragments that build up to this single moment, and I saw it...

Lysander's life in the Fae Court must've been as brutal as Robin's had been as a mage in the Rebel Academy. It didn't matter that one was a prince and one an orphan. I hadn't been able to save Robin but I would save Lysander because I could see now that uncle and nephew were together how utterly ridiculous it'd been to imagine that they were anything alike.

Witnessing brutality was so much worse than guessing it in theory. My eyes burned with tears. Willoughby's understanding gaze met mine.

But I didn’t need compassion. As Flair would say, I needed a fucking great kick up the arse.

When Titus raised his hand to strike Lysander for a second time, Lysander didn’t move. But I sure as black cats did.

I unraveled myself in a blink of a witch’s eye, and rematerialized next to Lysander. The pink hand print on his cheek that painted him with his guardian’s displeasure, spurred me to wrap my mists around Titus’ wrist and tug.

Titus grimaced. “Is this your traditional greeting? Should I be flattered?”

My eyes flashed. “That’s the last thing you should be, but the rules of polite society dictate that you may continue in your delusion.” I coiled my mists more firmly around his wrist. “Never raise your hand to Lysander. Never again.”

Titus’s gaze didn’t waver from mine, then he gave a tight smile. “This is the first time that we meet, since you stand me up at our wedding, and already you command me. You’re precisely as I’ve always imagined.”

That didn’t sound like a good thing.

I tilted my head. “How interesting. Because you’re precisely how I’ve always imagined, which is why I refused to be forced into a marriage with you.”

Titus’ eyes flashed, and finally, he lost his cool composure. “May I have my hand back or are you waiting for me to offer it again in marriage?”

My mists dropped his wrist like it was toxic.

“How gracious of you to free me,” Titus said, drily.

When I glanced sideways at Lysander, I caught his expression as he studied me underneath his eyelashes. It was the same one that I’d earlier seen on Midnight’s face: adoration.

I flushed. Bask’s worship of me was easy because he lived to love. Yet for Lysander, it meant renouncing everything that he was.

Was now the time to panic that I wouldn’t do well under pressure?

Titus glanced between Lysander and me. “My ward is failing.” His words were clipped and sharp. “You need more effective — harsher — methods to motivate him, Damelza. You have my permission to no longer pamper the brat.”

“And mine with…the elf from my kingdom,” Darby added far too gleefully.

Would his prick fall off if the word brother passed his lips?

Juni’s expression became stony. “As the Princes’ Tutor, I can assure you both that the Princes work tirelessly at bettering themselves, behave with decorum, and are a credit to—”

Darby’s snort was not at all kingly. “Willoughby is a monster. A killer isn’t a credit to anyone.”

Willoughby’s shoulder’s slumped.

“Hey, as the resident monster, objection.” Sleipnir raised the Rebel Cup above his head. “I produce Exhibit A.”

Juni hid her laugh in her palm.

“Then let them all have a final chance to prove their worth.” Titus’ smile was shark sharp. What had I missed? Why did I feel like all of us had walked straight into a trap that Titus had spun all along? And this is what happened when your professor for Strategy was walled up alive. “Surely, you wish to redeem yourself?”

Lysander nodded, mechanically.

“Splendid.” When Titus clapped his hands together, we all jumped. “Then we have gathered here a Duchess, your humble patron and prince,” I didn’t even attempt to hide my laugh at the humble, especially when it tightened Titus’ mouth into a tight line of annoyance, “and how impressive, even a king.” Darby preened, entirely missing Titus’ mocking tone. “How about you put on a musical performance to delight us on Monday night?”

When I’d been expecting a public flogging, an evening of song and entertainment sounded delightful and yet once again, as if Titus was springing a trap.

“A magical tribute to Gilbert and Sullivan under the Comic Opera Hex, where we can’t stop singing until we’ve completed all fourteen operettas from start to finish, even the ghastly Princess Ida?” I gasped.

“I didn’t mean that sort of…”

“Don’t tell me you intend to force us to recreate Wagner’s The Ring cycle without a break?” I held my hand to my chest in horror. “You brute!”

Titus’ wings stretched out in a display of dominance (or simply to stop me talking). “A normal, average, performance on instruments to accompany the Enchanted Ball.”

Well, that was one way to silence me. I gaped at him, frozen.

Everything returned to that one night. I’d prayed to be saved, and I’d lost everything.

Please, don’t take me back there…

But I knew that I’d never left, not truly.

Yet there was something in Titus’ eyes, which made me shudder, because I could tell that he’d never left either.

We’d both lived in the shadow of that night and our choices. The ghosts had haunted us.

I shook my head.

Titus expression, however, was steely. “A recreation of that night would be nostalgic, don’t you think? But this time, the witch won’t stand me up.” His smile was all teeth. “If I’m pleased, as patron, I’ll extend the same luxuries to the Immortals as I do the Princes. I like to help, where I can. But if I’m disappointed and feel that the students aren’t attempting to become reformed,” he sighed, as if personally hurt at the thought, “then the Immortals will become the Princes’ whipping boys and that includes you.” Why did he look suddenly so wistful? Then his gaze became flinty. “Don’t you have a whipping boy of your own to pull from the walls? Go and save him. I’d be most put out if our long-awaited reunion was ruined by your grief over a dead mage.”