Before I can wade through the mess that has become my mind, Arella looks over and catches my eye. Despite the mask, she seems to recognize me, and she lifts her lips into a smile, revealing her fangs.
Now that I’ve been spotted, I decide I’ve lingered in the doorway for long enough. I weave through the crowded bar, and when I make it to where Arella is standing, she tips her head back and says, “Professor, I thought that was you.”
“So much for the mask.” I lift my hand, catching the attention of the barkeep. “Whiskey. Neat.” My fingers drum the bar top as I wait, and beside me, Arella laughs. I flick a glance at her. “What?”
“You seem... unsettled. It’s refreshing.” She sips her drink, which looks like red wine, and flashes her eyes at me over the lip of the glass. They’re not as bright crimson as they were the last time I saw her, which means some time has passed sinceshe last fed from a live vein. But given the look on her face, I get the feeling she’s hoping to change that. Tonight.
“Refreshing? How so?”
“You’re always so...” She waves a hand through the air, as if searching for the right word. “Rigid. It’s fun to see you out of sorts.”
“I’m not out of sorts,” I say, perhaps too quickly for it to come across as convincing.
“No.” Her voice drops to a low purr. “Of course not.”
The barkeep brings me my whiskey, and I pull the flask from inside my jacket and add one drop of blood—then one more, for good measure. Beside me, Arella smirks.
The first sip of whiskey burns going down my throat, and it sets my senses on high alert. I take one more sip, then lean against the bar, trying to release some of the tension that’s coiled in my muscles.
“So, Professor,” Arella starts, shifting so she’s standing a smidge closer to me. “You teach history, right?”
I nod.
“Why?”
One of my brows arches. “Why?”
She laughs, and the sound is light, softened by the wine. “Yes,why. Of everything you could’ve picked, you chose history. Why?”
For a moment, I consider this. I have many reasons, but what I say aloud is, “Because I’ve lived long enough to know how dangerous it is when we forget what came before us.”
Arella arches a brow and sips her wine. “Are you always so glum, Professor?”
I’m about to answer her when movement over her shoulder catches my eye, drawing my gaze.
A group of women are entering the bar, and from their bright hair—blue, red, and lavender—I gather that they’re witches. Then a fourth woman steps in behind the other three, and my heart slams against my breastbone so hard that it hurts. I subconsciously reach up to touch it.
Even clad in a mask, I’d know her anywhere.
Maeve.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be back at the academy, far away from me, where I can’t act on my desires and make choices that have the potential to get me fired and her expelled.
But I shouldn’t be surprised. Maeve has a way of showing up where I least expect her.
Arella must notice my waning focus, for she turns to glance over her shoulder. When she looks back at me, her lips are pressed into a thoughtful line. “Students of yours?”
My whiskey burns going down as I take a quick sip. I don’t want to give her any reason to think I’m involved with a student. “No. And aren’t these masks supposed to conceal our identities?”
“No,” Arella says, one bare shoulder lifting in a shrug. She’s wearing a yellow dress that accentuates her dark skin, and the straps look thin enough to snap with one finger.
“What purpose do they hold, then?” I’m trying to focus on her, trying not to stare at Maeve, but I can still see her in my periphery as she speaks with the others in her group.
“They’re supposed to give you an opportunity to be someone else for a night, to do things you wouldn’t typically do.”
“Oh?” I take another sip of whiskey. “Like what?”
Arella smiles. “Like this.”
