“Good. It may feel like you have all the time in the world, but the coming months will go fast, and you must be prepared by the end of this semester. And remember: Potential is meaningless without discipline. Uncontrolled magic is a liability.” She turns my parchment around with one twist of her fingers and slides it toward me. “Write this again. Less emotion, more intention.”
Tryingveryhard not to grit my teeth, I nod and slip the parchment into my bookbag—where about five other drafts of this essay are already waiting.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say as I push to my feet. It’s the end of my school day, and all I want right now is to sink into a deep pool in the bathhouse and scream under the water, where no one can hear me. It’s one of my rituals—and it keeps me from frying anyone with a lightning bolt when I get too pissed off.
“I’m hard on you, Miss Vandermere, because I believe in you,” Professor Azula says when my hand wraps around the door handle. “Don’t forget that.”
A small sigh slips from my lips, and I soften the tension in my shoulders. “I know.”
If only she knew how hard I am on myself.
There’s no comparison.
Chapter 5
Severin
A SLIGHT PRESSURE PULSES IN my temples, where it’s been since my first class of the day. Since Miss Vandermere attempted to derail my lesson with her arguments about movement and control.
I’ve not been able to get it out of my head all day. In my many years teaching, I’ve had a number of difficult students, whether they be the sort who fall asleep in class or those who feel it necessary to question and contradict everything I say. I know how to handle these students, and it’s rare that I allow them to bother me for more than a fleeting second.
Despite my efforts, however, I’ve been unable to call to mind a student who piqued my attention in quite the same way as Miss Vandermere.
Maeve.
Even thinking her name makes me clench my teeth, though I’m not quite sure why. And it’s been many, many years since I was last unsure about my feelings. I’ve spent hundreds of years understanding and controlling them, forcing them intosubmission, keeping them carefully contained. There’s no reason for that to change now.
I must be fatigued from my first day. The castle is loud—much louder than I’m accustomed to—and that’s likely playing a part in my headache as well. I need something strong to drink. And perhaps I can work on the old botany grimoire I’ve been restoring. Rebinding and repairing texts has become somewhat of a hobby of mine over the last fifty years—and Coven Crest’s library has plenty of them, certainly enough to keep me busy this year.
With a plan for my evening, I leave my office—which is still sparsely decorated save for a desk, chair, and empty hearth—and step into the corridor. I slip the heavy brass key into the lock housing and twist it, ensuring the door is locked before I start down the hall.
And almost immediately pause.
Because a student is exiting an office farther down the hall, closing the door behind her without looking back over her shoulder.
And without seeing her face, I know it’s Miss Vandermere.
I don’tneedto see her face; her smell gives her away.
It’s like the scent before a storm, a mix of ozone and the sweetness of fresh air.
Immediately, my fangs ache.
And the desire to drink blood has me reaching inside my vest pocket, where I keep my flask. I pull it out and take a deep swig, my thirst somewhat satisfied as the blood coats my tongue and runs down my throat.
Alwayssomewhat. Never fully. Not since the last time I drank from a live vein, which was years ago now, the last time I took a lover into my bed.
Both are desires that do little but cloud the mind and dull the senses. They don’t serve me.
Miss Vandermere doesn’t seem to notice me. She walks away from me down the hall, her head slightly bowed, a subtle tension in her shoulders. When she passes through a beam of late-afternoon sunlight streaming through a high window, her hair turns a shade of rich purple, reminding me of the clouds at dusk.
A storm witch, I think, remaining where I am as I slide the flask back into my vest pocket.A rare creature indeed.
She makes it to the end of the hallway and steps into the connecting corridor. Still, she doesn’t look back. And I find, foolishly and frighteningly, that I want her to.
I banish that feeling quickly and with severity.
When she’s gone, I take a slow breath, then resume walking down the hall. But her scent lingers here, and it makes me want to reach for my flask again in an oddly uncomfortable way. This castle is full of the smell of blood, so why doesherblood entice me so?
