Rebel Academy: Curse

Chapter Seven MAGENTA

I took a deep breath.

I'd promised to breathe for Fox, yet every precious lungful could be one less for Fox in the darkness within the walls of the castle. One less gasp or moment of life.

One less chance to return to me.

I loved Fox with a desperation that ached through my bones and whispered through my Soul.

I needed him.

Yet I'd promised Byron to treat mages as equals and that also meant trusting him. Why couldn't I simply wrap him in the softest candyfloss of my magic and save him from all hurt forever?

What was wrong with such protective love?

After watching barbarity towards the Rebels and their deaths as both a child and for over a hundred years trapped in Hecate's Tree, I had a right for a little anxiety.

I braced myself on the open windowsill of the stone gallery outside Damelza's study. After Fox had been walled up alive (witching heavens, that hurt even to think), my lovers and I had been locked up in the West Wing. Sleipnir had paced furiously from one side of the bedroom to the other, while Bask had curled up underneath the sheets with Nile, until I hadn’t even been able to see the top of his silky head. I alone could break the room's wards, however, to materialize outside the study.

Already, the Membership’s spell was weakening.

But not quickly enough.

Fox believed that he could hang onto life, until we won the Dragon Polo Tournament and weakened the wards enough to free him. As Flair, my crow familiar would say, bollocks with a helping of fuck that.

Watching the gallery wall seal behind Fox was the hardest thing that I've ever endured. It'd been worse than seeing it the first time with Robin, and that’d shattered me into the wickedest witch, who’d cursed an entire academy. Because watching it a second time and knowing how the loss had torn me apart the first time (was still tearing me apart), was the cruelest torture.

I couldn't wait until I’d broken the spell. I wouldn't risk Fox's life or Ezekiel's.

My mother, Henrietta, had insisted that it was impossible to let out a mage, once they'd been put into the walls. But what if that'd been a lie?

Sweet Hecate, don't steal both shimages from me.

My eyes widened, and I swayed. My magic sparkled in a magenta mist around me; it prickled me in distress.

Surely all this couldn't be happening because of something as simple as rivalry? Had I lost my lovers out of a feud like the one that the academy attempted to create between the Princes and Immortals? Did Hecate hate Pan, who blessed the shimages, with such ferocity that she'd murder them to punish Pan?

And I'd been the foolish witch who'd prayed to Hecate to free me from marriage, in order that I could love a shimage. I'd even kissed Robin in her sacred glade beneath her yew tree. Then it'd been Fox's blood that'd resurrected me because shimages were the sacrifice.

Had shimages always been the traditional sacrifice for witches and their god?

A sudden hoarse cawing broke out. Then in a flurry of feathers my two crow familiars, Flair and Echo, landed in the open window. I thrilled that I wasn't alone, sitting down on the sill, before I fell on my face.

I was graceful like that.

My familiars hopped onto my lap.

Flair tipped his head, inspecting me with his sharp gaze. "You look like you've seen a ghost and not our fuckable arses."

Echo rubbed his pink head against me with deep yearning, until I stroked his feathers. He pulsed with my magic, which calmed mine. He let out a series of satisfied, rumbling clicks.

"We missed you," Echo said, quietly. "I was frightened that you wouldn’t come back from the mission. Then you did come back, and the academy’s magic kept us away. But you never tried to find us."

My chest tightened, and I cuddled Echo closer. "I'm sorry."

Flair snapped his bill with an irritated clack. "I don't care a witch’s fuck for sorry. If you're out here, rather than riding your Rebels, then it finally happened. You turned into a zombie, didn't you? I knew that there was no such thing as a Ghost Witch. You're not craving crows’ brains?"

I sighed. "I'm craving spanking a crow."

Flair snorted. "A kinky zombie then."

Echo peered at me, wrapping his wings around me. "Did you forget us like everybody else?"

The mages weren’t the only ones damaged by the witches.

Echo was terrified of being forgotten and alone. It shook me that I couldn’t be certain that when I escaped the academy, the crows would also be able to escape. Yet their magic was woven with mine.

Please, let that be enough.

“I could never forget the most loyal familiar with the unique singing voice,” I insisted. Echo preened. Then I glanced at Flair. “Or his rude twin with the wickedest sense of humor.” Now it was Flair’s turn to preen. “I was merely distracted.”

“Pluck my feathers and call me a bitch, of course you’ve been celebrating that you saved your special mage. Your cock lane has been distracted by his…cock.” Flair winked.

He threw himself onto his back, cycling his legs in what was a remarkably accurate imitation of Fox in his sexy pose.

Had they been playing voyeur?

Of course they had. They were sensual vampires, who’d been transformed into my familiars and then ghosts. Who’d deny them such simple pleasure?

Well, possibly the rest of my lovers…

Perhaps, I should talk to Flair and Echo about not being quite so creatively insulting to them?

Yet I understood being possessive, and my familiars were already sharing me. Politeness would be pushing it.

My smile was tight. “We failed the mission, and he was walled up alive.”

Flair’s legs stopped kicking in the air with comical slowness. He lay on his back, staring at me in shock.

“Well, shit,” he breathed.

I always wished that I had Flair’s succinctness of speech.

Awkwardly, he shuffled back onto his scaly feet.

“He’s your mage,” Echo said, “but if he fades, so will you. We were with you every painful moment after the last one was murdered. As I have Fallen, I thought that I’d lose you.”

“If the world was fair, I’d wear all the Rebels’ balls as baubles.” Flair flapped around my head. “But since you love him… Save him, boss.”

“Save him, save him, save him,” Echo sang in his offkey unique singing voice.

I winced, rubbing my finger over his head, but my eyes flashed, as I glanced at the study door. “On my Wickedly Charmed magic, I swear that I shall try with every last drop of blood.”

“How about just giving it hundred percent effort?” Echo rubbed his head against me.

Despite myself, I smiled, lifting Echo off my lap and onto the sill. “Hundred and ten percent effort and my blood.”

Echo and Flair cawed their satisfaction before swooping out of the window.

“Talking to yourself, witch?” Lysander’s sneering voice called down the corridor. I twirled around in shock. “Are you mad with grief already? Plus, to save your blushes from making such an elementary mistake again, there’s no such thing as a hundred and ten percent.”

Lysander marched towards with me with a stiffness and guarded expression that I now recognized for what it was: a mask.

It wasn’t real.

Was Titus monitoring Lysander in this part of the castle near Damelza’s study more closely than elsewhere?

Even so, such coldness from my fae hurt.

When had Lysander become mine?

Prince Willoughby strode at Lysander’ shoulder and Midnight followed behind. For the first time, I realized that they looked like a team, as much as I was with my lovers. They truly cared for each other.

Prince Willoughby sought out my gaze. His sky-blue eyes that matched his hair, which was snatched back by curling ribbons, were sharp with predatory danger like he was battling to control his deadly power. I didn’t fear him for that because I understood the struggle only too well. The glimmering royal blue silk, which was cursed by his brother, wound around him tighter than I’d ever seen it.

How could he breathe?

I paced in front of Lysander, cupping my hands in front of his nose. “Look, here’s my teacup of care. My word, it’s empty.”

To my surprise, Lysander’s guilty gaze met mine. “My apologies. One…doesn’t handle loss well.”

My expression gentled. “That makes two of us.”

“Three,” Willoughby said, softly. When his hands clasped around mine, caressing along their backs, my skin tingled. “What happened to the whipping boy and professor isn’t worthy. We shall make it right.”

I blinked in confusion. Bonding over Fox’s punishment certainly hadn’t been part of my win over the Princes plan, but I was adaptable.

Was their outrage enough for them to rebel even against their own families and kingdoms?

“Four,” Midnight murmured.

Midnight hunched his shoulders like he expected Lysander to snap at him to silence his tongue, insolent whipping boy.

Perhaps, a week ago he would’ve done. Yet now, Lysander stiffened but he didn’t threaten punishment.

Ah, progress.

Midnight was as beautiful — and naked — as ever. I studied the way that his dark hair fell in waves over his pale skin to his waist. Stars above, did he realize what a perfect frame his hair created for his pretty prick?

Surely, if he’d been carved from marble, his creator would’ve fallen in love with him.

How easy it’d be to love this gentle vampire.

By the anguish in his charcoal eyes, I was certain that Midnight adored Fox. Yet why was he shooting me such quick glances from underneath his eyelashes, as an adorable blush spread across his cheeks?

Then I noticed the way that his ash wings were folded back in a system of leather straps, and I blanched.

Damelza had broken his wings with a hex to punish the Princes for losing the Rebel Cup to the Immortals.

Sweet Hecate, the way that he’d screamed…

How could Damelza not have allowed Willoughby to heal him?

I reached out, stroking Midnight’s cheek, and his eyes widened. “On my word as a witch, I wish that I could’ve saved your wings.”

“My royal personage told you that I was fighting for Midnight’s wings more than once,” Lysander’s voice was cold and hard, “but you wished to save your mage. One shan’t allow that to have been for nothing now because you failed a mission.” Lysander marched to the study door; he vibrated with anger. “Being a Prince means that I take precedence.”

Not on my witchy behind.

When Lysander raised his fist to knock, I melted my legs to mist and floated next to him, brushing his hand out of the way. He hissed in outrage. I rapped on the door loudly enough to wake, well, the dead.

Lysander’s eyes flashed, and I smirked.

When he raised his hand again, I clasped mine around his.

I didn’t think so.

My mists wrapped around Lysander, yanking him back and forth. Willoughby sighed, attempting to dive between us, as Midnight sided with me. The accidental press of his prick, as it hardened from the friction of our scuffle, was pleasant against my hip.

Actually, this was all surprisingly stimulating and exactly what I needed.

Then the door fell open, and we tumbled in a heap into the study.

Haunting, mesmerizing music wound through the study like a victory song. It was the type of popular music that Bask and I should’ve stripped and made sweet love to, but it’d be forever spoiled by the image of Damelza dancing to it like she commanded each note to play.

Damelza swayed and twirled around her glittering, obsidian desk that was cobbled with crows’ skulls, clutching a goblet of blood-red wine.

At least, I hoped that it was wine and not blood.

I’d never seen Damelza like this. She looked relaxed and contented.

Had mother ever allowed herself to be laid back when she’d been alone or with her husband? I’d rarely seen her, apart from when she’d visit me in the Bird Turret and then it’d been to inspect my work (and then beat Bryon for my mistakes).

Did everyone have two sides to them? It was a startling thought.

I scrunched up my nose at the stench of garlic that wafted from the shrine of Hecate, which’d been built under the narrow window. On the far wall, a RA crest sparkled along with the scrolling:

Lysander struggled out of our tangle on the floor, dragging Willoughby and Midnight after him. He smoothed his uniform with efficient motions and tidied Willoughby’s hair, before standing at parade rest in front of the desk. Midnight dropped to his knees, ducking his head.

I snorted, sprawling on the floor. Damelza licked the wine from her lips.

So, this was how the House of Crows celebrated murdering mages and outwitting their ancestors.

Ah, family.

My eyes narrowed, and my magic sparkled.

Damelza paused mid-swing of her hips, swallowing her mouthful of wine. Instantly, the music fell silent.

Lysander fidgeted, clearing his throat. I couldn’t miss the yearning look that he cast at the Rebel Cup, which was on the desk. The obsidian trophy was in the shape of a dragon. The dragon's tail wound around the cup and back into its mouth.

As a child, I'd witnessed the Cup be presented to the winners of the first week of term every year at the end of the Dragon Polo Tournament. I'd watched in wonder, the way in which the families and professors would look on the winning team with pride. The first time, I hadn’t recognized the emotion, until Byron had explained it to me with a sad smile. No one ever looked at the beautiful boys who I watched from my window like that.

The Princes had won the Cup for the last decade. Had Lysander lived for those fleeting moments of pride from his guardian?

Yet this year, the Immortals had won.

Lysander was right: we'd denied the Princes and broken Midnight's wings in order to save Fox's life. I'd never regret it. But by Hecate, I wouldn't allow it to be for nothing.

I surged up, stalking to stand next to Willoughby. His eyes were frosty pools, as he nodded at me, but his lips curled into a smile. My stomach fluttered, and my neck was suddenly hot.

Frogs and toads, I understood why the Rebels worked so hard to experience pride now.

"You're a cold, heartless Principal," the words tumbled out of my mouth, but no speech could've been more heartfelt, "who cares for nothing but using her students to better the position of her House. Who kisses the feet of her patron and binds her Rebels for him like sacrifices, waiting for the knife—"

Lysander stared at me. "One doesn't believe that a successful softening up strategy," he muttered.

My lips pinched. "I have no intention of softening the truth. Our Principal wouldn't believe me if I did." Damelza cast me a calculating look, before tipping her goblet at me in acknowledgment. "In the witching heavens, I no longer look for kindness but I'd strike a dea—"

Willoughby slammed his hand over my mouth.

"One wishes to buy the lives of the professor and whipping boy." Lysander tilted up his chin. If I hadn't been listening closely to him in shock beneath the warm gag of Willoughby's palm (I couldn't get myself to bite the pale softness of his skin), I'd have miss the slight waver in his voice. This was important to him. "One has sufficient funds in my private account. It’s my personal inheritance, after my parents’ deaths. Take it all, if you desire."

He'd give up everything that he possessed for Fox and Ezekiel?

I stopped squirming, and my breath misted against Willoughby's palm. His other hand rested against the hollow of my back.

The Immortals believed that the Princes were pampered brats, who were spoiled with luxuries. I'd disliked Lysander merely because he was a fae prince like Titus. Yet even though he'd been raised by Titus, Lysander had stormed down to the study to give up all his money to save the man who I loved, and I hadn't even had to ask him.

Would he have told me what he'd given up?

Damelza's smile was sharp. "Princes: they always believe that everything can be bought and sold. Walling up mages is..." She tapped the goblet with her long nails, and her expression became dreamy. "...priceless."

I snarled, wrenching away from Willoughby and leaping over the desk. My black mists swirled around Damelza, knocking the goblet out of her hands. She wailed, as it smashed across her desk, spilling blood-red wine across her papers and piles of books.

My smile was dark and vicious. Take that, witchy bitch.

Had her work been priceless too? I could always hope.

"Those were the files for the tournament!" Damelza screeched. "Do you have no idea how much organization it takes to bring in royalty from across different kingdoms to our academy and entertain them?"

"Sorry, but not sorry," I growled.

Damelza's eyes glittered pink. Then she clicked her fingers.

Willoughby and Lysander howled, clutching their hands and falling to their knees. Midnight whimpered, pressing his forehead to the floor like that would control the pain.

Their brands.

Just like the Immortals who were branded by the Hecate statue in the courtyard with an I, and the whipping boys with an R, the Princes had a P branded to them when they were sorted into their Wing of the Academy. In a way, it was how messages were sent to the students.

It appeared that Damelza wished to send a message now to me.

Startled, I stared between Damelza and the Princes.

“Sorry, but not sorry.” Damelza's shawl of feathers ruffled up, as she pressed me against the desk. "I prefer to rely on more liberal methods of control like my school mottoes and a simple system of punishment and reward. But do you know who you remind me of?"

I blinked. "It's your mother, isn't it? Is that why we have such a complicated relationship? Was she awfully critical because truly I can relate?"

"A mage,” Damelza hissed. “And they need a more direct...stricter...approach. You don't respect me but perhaps, you should realize that I'm in control. The brands do more than link to the wards, ensuring that you students don't leave the grounds." When she leaned closer, her breath gusted across my cheek. "I could kill every single student with a snap of my fingers. So, behave."

My pulse thrashed in my ears.

Sweet Hecate, no...

Every moment that the Membership existed, linking the wards and brands, the Rebels — all of them — were at risk of death. I shuddered because it was like gunpowder had been tied to them, and Damelza could light the fuse with a thought.

She'd been playing with us.

Every trial and game to save our lives had been part of her academy's traditions, but in truth, she could've killed the Rebels.

While the Membership remained, she could still kill them.

I glanced over my shoulder at the Princes, as they writhed in agony on the floor. Lysander clutched Midnight's hand, comforting him.

Why did that make me feel even worse?

"Stop it," I whispered.

"When will you start acting like a witch?" Damelza demanded.

"When will you stop hurting the Rebels?"

Damelza snatched me by the hair, pushing me into the red leather chair behind the desk. I'd desired to be seated in Henrietta's throne of power (or at least, that's how I'd imagined it and the leather was certainly as soft as a baby's bottom like I'd always hoped that it would be), but not like this.

"Witches should be leading this coven and not playing house for mages. We're your family. Perhaps, I should've included a class on Magical Heritage and Family Trees." Damelza's nails bit into my shoulder, as she held me down. "My daughter is far from a delight, but even she knows her rightful place. What have you done as Prefect?"

"I won the Rebel Cup.”

"A point to you." She clicked her fingers, and to my relief, the Princes stopped howling in pain. Willoughby patted Lysander's back, before hauling him to his feet, and Midnight pushed himself shakily back to kneel. "It's a pity that you're tainted by obsessive love. Men are breeding stock and pleasure toys like the incubus with the Duchess." Willoughby stiffened; his jaw clenched. "But you died for that unnatural shimage and now here you are, risking yourself for another."

"Oh now," I fluttered my eyelashes, "you're making me blush."

Lysander chuckled. It was deep, rich, and beautiful. I couldn't help the shiver.

Damelza's expression soured. "The answer to both of you is no: I won't let either Professor Ezekiel or the mage out."

I sat up straighter. "Won't rather than can't…?"

I had her.

Her cheek twitched. "Surely, you know that the spell means the wall won't open for the enemy mage once it's sealed, even if I wanted it to and I truly, deeply don't."

"She's playing with words," Willoughby's voice was hard. "My brother was talented at that."

Damelza's smile was sly. "Perhaps, you're not as stupid a monster as your brother says, Crush." Willoughby looked away, and ice tinged the ends of his hair. The temperature in the room became chilly, and my breath ghosted in front of me in mists. "It may be possible for the original witch who cast the spell to open the wall if the mage was never an enemy to witches. After all, it was meant for the punishment of prisoners in the war or as a way to protect our ancestors. If the spell detects that the mage isn't an enemy..."

"Robin wasn't an enemy." My eyes became blurry with tears; I swum in my grief. My guts clenched. If I vomited, I was aiming for Damelza's files. "Mother could've freed him."

The first man who I'd ever loved hadn't needed to die within the walls of the castle. He'd been so gentle that he'd transform into a squirrel and play with the butterflies beneath the trees in the Dead Wood. He'd wouldn't even complain, when I'd cuddle him in his Mr Tailsy form, wrapping his tail around me.

He'd been good, and he'd died for a war that he'd never been part of.

"The Immortals’ whipping boy isn't an enemy to witches," Lysander asserted with haughty confidence. He glanced at me, and there was a surprising amount of understanding in the way that he explained, "As dangerous as it is for him, he's in love with his natural enemy."

Damelza prowled to the shrine, running her fingers across it. "Well, all that remains is our deal."

"Deal?" Lysander and I chorused at the same time.

Damelza arched her brow. "You did come in here expecting to bargain...? I'll have to stagger on with the disappointment that Crown believed that I could be bought, but it’ll be a crushing blow if you both thought that I wouldn’t bargain. All magic must be in balance, but never with money. Who wants to put their hand up to take their place in the walls?"

My head jerked back, and my pink exploded in shocked sparks. Lysander's face was a still mask, however, like he'd been expecting this all along.

Midnight raised his head, looking at me with dark eyes. "I offer my life for my king's. Please accept it, my queen."

On Hecate's tit, such an intensity of love and longing...

But I'd never take another's life. The balance of magic could swivel on my broomstick.

"Hush," Lysander was ashen, as his fingers carded compulsively through Midnight's hair, "certainly not. My royal self demands that honor."

I stared at him in shock. He'd die to save an Immortal?

Before I could open my mouth to tell him that he wouldn't be alone because I'd be with him, Willoughby said in an ethereal voice that shook me with its anguish, "I beg to take the second spot. By my ears, the professor has always helped me to control my darker urges and shown me more kindness than I deserve. I won't allow an innocent to die, when I'm...." Even though he didn't say it I heard it: guilty. I'd worried that he wished to die, and I knew that he hated himself. Now he had the chance to truly hurt himself. His hands clenched into fists. "Will that balance now?"

"For the love of Hecate, stop with the balancing. There are no bloody scales." I slammed my hands on the top of the desk with a resounding crack. Owww... I winced. The princes stared at me, wide-eyed. "Fox would kick my behind if I allowed his favorite elf and well, I'm pretty certain his secret fae crush," Lysander swallowed, flushing, "to die in his place. If you wish to bargain, how about double or nothing? There's still the tournament. How about you set some stakes on that for your amusement?"

Damelza swept closer. "See, it just took some motivation and already you're thinking more like a witch.”

“I’m a wicked witch,” I gritted out. “I’m quite certain that what you crave isn’t more skeletons in your wall but my behind cast out.”

“I’m listening.”

“If the Immortals win, then you free both Ezekiel and Fox, and if we lose then…” My knuckles whitened, as I clawed the desk. “They don’t escape the walls, and I quietly return to Hecate’s Tree.”

I fought to hide the tremors. If I’d been turned a little crazy by over a hundred years trapped in the woods, returning there would break me.

But my lover would be alive.

Damelza’s grin was slow and predatory. “I do adore a compromise. Yet what’s to stop the Princes throwing the tournament?”

She eyed the Princes.

Lysander sniffed. “One would never lower oneself to—"

“If I wanted to listen to lies, I wouldn’t have executed the mage.” When I bristled, Damelza waved her hand in the air. “Possibly executed him. I put too much effort into the tournament for it to fail to be a thrilling event for our patron. So, here’s the stakes. If the Princes lose, then Crown will be marked as Dunce for the rest of the year.”

“How’s that a punishment?” I asked.

“Dunce is lower than a whipping boy.” Lysander’s gaze was studiedly blank, but his cheeks were burning. “It’s a mark of shame that I’d never be able to remove from my record.” He winced. “My guardian would be deeply disappointed in me.”

Damelza snorted. “We haven’t had a public flogging here in a couple of years. It’d liven up the end of the event if Titus disciplined you for our entertainment.”

Lysander turned away his head.

What had I done? To save my Immortals, I had to destroy the Princes.

Yet I loved them too.

“Didn’t you receive the ability to heal through your mother?” Damelza looked at Willoughby with pretend innocence.

Willougby’s despairing gaze met mine, before becoming steely. “In this prison, it’s all I have of her.”

“Then it’s what I’ll take if you don’t try to win. I had considered allowing you to heal Curse’s wings tonight, what a shame if you lose that opportunity.” When Damelza stalked closer to the Princes, I had to force myself not to shoot my magic at her. Only the memory of her threat to kill all the Rebels through the brands kept me back. She was stealing everything from them. “For our vampire…” Damelza tilted her head. “I’ve been longing to try out a Sleep Deprivation Hex.”

Midnight gasped, squeezing shut his eyes and curling his arms around himself.

“No,” Lysander snarled, ducking to cover Midnight with his wings. “Punish me as you will, but to cast such a hex is to condemn my whipping boy to a slow and painful death. No one can survive without sleep.”

“Thank you for permission to punish my own students,” Damelza replied, drily. “It rather sounds to me like you’d better ride your dragons hard then. After all, your families shall be watching.”

I studied the Princes’ pale faces and the way that Willoughby’s eyes became dazed, as if the silk that constricted his body was also now constricting his mind and dragging him deep within himself. I’d witnessed the death of his father in the Memory Theater, and I prayed with everything in me that he wasn’t lost inside that memory.

Were the Princes’ families as dangerous as the academy itself? Had that always been the hidden truth of Rebel Academy?

After all, it was the parents and guardians who signed the Blood Contracts that sentenced the students to their education in this coven-run prison for the bad boys of the supernatural world.

The Princes were as at risk as the Immortals. I had to save and free them. Just as soon as I could persuade them to rebel with us.

Damelza sauntered to the door, swinging it open. The music switched on again, and she hummed to herself with an air of satisfaction.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, go and rest. You need to be sharp for tonight; it’s a deadly game if you don’t concentrate. Remember, you’re representing this academy; I expect your best.” I launched from my chair, but Damelza held up her finger. I stopped, mid-flounce. That ruined my perfectly good dramatic exit. “There’s no backing out of the stakes even if we reverse the spell and…whoops…my muscle-bound Addict Angel and your dishonest mage aren’t alive by the end of tonight. No one’s ever tried to save a mage from inside the walls before. Even I don’t know how long they can survive.”