My practice of slowing my mind and observing before acting is one I needed to survive, to make my way in this world without being a danger to those around me. And even now, it helps to calm me.
As I move down the hallway, students notice me, their eyes widening or their mouths opening in expressions ofconfusion or curiosity as they shift to make way for me. Whispers drift in my wake.
“Who’s that?”
“I think he’s the new history professor.”
“Is he a . . .vampire?”
The headmistress warned me that I may be an oddity around here for a while; it seems she was right. But in time, all things lose their shine. And in short order, I’ll no longer be shiny to them, just a stringent history professor who tolerates little and expects much. It’s why Headmistress Moonhart hired me.
I make my way to my classroom, and as soon as I slip through the door and into the quiet of the lecture hall, I’m able to breathe easier, with the loud sounds of the hall muffled through the walls. No students have yet arrived, and I take this moment of alone time to reach into the inside pocket of my vest, where I keep a flask of blood tucked away. Quickly pulling it out, I flip the cap open, then take a deep swig. The blood goes down smooth, calming my nerves, but the taste leaves much to be desired.
No blood bank can ever replicate the flavor of blood straight from the vein, still hot and pulsing with life energy. But it’ll do—I’ve lived primarily off blood donations for many years, and it’s one of many urges I’ve learned to restrain.
I tuck the flask back into my vest, dab my lips with a square of cloth, and then move to the lectern at the front of the class. As soon as I pull my journal out and settle it atop the wooden podium, the door opens, and my first few students trickle in.
As they take their seats, I turn to the blackboard, pick up a fresh stick of chalk, and write my name:Professor Severin D’Arques.
Chapter 3
Maeve
MY FIRST YEAR AT COVEN Crest, I felt like an ant in an anthill, always battling against the current in the crowded halls, hurrying to each class to ensure I wasn’t late. Now, as a fourth-year, everything feels different. I know these halls like I know my own reflection. And instead of getting swept up in the waves of students moving through the corridors, I find the underclassmen flowing aroundme, stepping out of my way as I navigate the castle.
On my way to my first class, I spot a few familiar faces, friends I haven’t seen since last year, and I pause to say hello and catch up. But I pause one too many times, and the clock signaling the start of our class period starts chiming through the halls just as I step into the history wing.
Not a great way to start my year.
I up my pace and arrive at the classroom door just as it’s closing. Quickly, I catch the door with the toe of my boot, preventing it from latching. After a long moment, the door starts to open, and I look up into the faceof—
My heart stutters when I meet his gaze, and for a brief moment, it’s as if the stone drops away from beneath my feet, making my stomach feel like it’s in a free fall.
His eyes are unnaturally, inhumanly dark, like still water on a moonless night. His eyelashes are long and black, his pale skin is flawless, and his mouth—
No.
I immediately stop myself.
Whoever this man is, he looks like a distraction, and that’s the last thing I need this year.
“Pardon me,” I say as he finishes opening the door. Then I ease past him, feeling the other students’ eyes on me while I climb the stairs to an open seat in the lecture hall.
The man closes the door, then moves to the front of the classroom, standing rigidly behind the lectern. On the board behind him is a name:Professor Severin D’Arques.
Oh.
Of course.
He’s our new history professor, the one my stepbrother, Aric, told me about before he packed his bags and moved to Faunwood this past summer. He said his roommate’s great-uncle would be teaching here this year, but I didn’t think he’d look anything likethat.
And I’m definitely not the only one noticing, if the pink cheeks and whispers of the women—and some of the men—around me are any indication. Don’t they know vampires have impeccable hearing? He can probably—
“History is unkind to those who confuse intention with control,” Professor D’Arques begins, and his voice, deep and smooth as fine red wine, makes a bolt of energy tingle along the length of my spine. I force the response down, ignoring it,and reach to pull a fresh notebook out of my bag, then set my quill and inkwell beside it.
“Magic answers intention readily,” Professor D’Arques continues. “That does not mean itsubmitsto it.”
He steps out from behind the lectern, his hands clasped behind his back. The buttons on his crisp gray vest shine in the morning light coming through the classroom’s windows.
