Chapter Three Mallory
“Happy sweet sixteen, McSnicker.” Last year, when we were both freshmen, Ronin Pendragon’s lazy grin would have turned my knees to quivering blobs of jelly.
Even now when I’m completely over him, my former crush looks edible, with a yard of silky black hair spilling around his wicked face.
I’m still so unsettled from everything that just went down on the stairs (including the combustible sight of Draco Mars’ erection, ohmygosh, a hundred percent full frontal for which I was definitely not prepared, that’s why I almost broke my neck!) Consequently, I barely even notice Ronin’s powerful frame, poured into butt-hugging pants and a silky button-down shirt that’s open halfway down his chest to reveal the flaming black dragon inked into his golden skin.
“So, I’m actually twenty.” I focus on Ronin’s words instead of his chest and scare up a wry grin. “But thanks? I mean, for coming to my birthday party.”
“Anytime, love.” He’s not flirting (much), because he talks like that to everyone.
Besides, he’s already turning away from me to toss a gift-wrapped present—too pretty to have been wrapped by anyone other than his new girlfriend—carelessly toward the gift table with the rest of my birthday loot.
Maybe that’s why I never got anywhere with this guy all freshman year, when I was secretly crushing? Because he thought I was fifteen at the time?
Figures.
Those bitchy witches from our rival house at Villa Tiberius say I have the body of a twelve-year-old and hair like carrots. With my frizz and my freckles and my general deficiency in the witchcraft department, I’m the Little Orphan Annie of the Icarus Academy (only taller and with a higher GPA).
But I’m not going to ruin my special night with a pity party.
Not when I’m standing right next to a whole table piled high with actual wrapped presents, which came as another magical surprise (even if a bunch of those presents are repurposed or flat-out gag gifts, because we’re on an island in the Med, hidden behind magical wards, and the supply plane only flies in once a month).
Anyway, I’ve already had the birthday gift of a lifetime, haven’t I?
I watched Jae Labête giving head to Draco Mars.
My gaze drifts away from the forever unattainable Ronin, past his teal-haired punk rock girlfriend Zara who’s adding her own contribution to my gift table and admiring my birthday haul, to the bootleg bar. Back in the last century, between the two Witching World Wars, there used to be a speakeasy down here (centuries after the dungeon was retired). Faded Art Deco frescoes and peeling Prohibition-era posters still cling to the rough stone walls.
Near a flaming oil drum, backlit by a cluster of burning candles under a cobwebby rafter, a jaw-dropping male silhouette catches my eye. Thick arms crossed over broad chest, tight hips sheathed in leather, shitkicker boots spread wide in challenge. Firelight turns a spiky crown of Icelandic hair to silver.
Draco.
That warlock is keeping his distance, thank goodness. But he and Jae followed me right down here. (I mean, they had to be coming to the party anyway of course, but my race’s survival instincts are really well honed, and it felt like they followed me.)
Now, even with the light behind him so I can’t see his face, it feels like Draco’s watching.
And maybe even scowling.
At Ronin.
Does he think I spilled the beans and told Ronin what I saw on the stairs? About their secret relationship which, for whatever reason, Draco and Jae seem determined to keep anyone else from discovering?
Because why else would Draco be watching me?
Suddenly I’m overheated in the middle of this crowded basement, overwhelmed by the waves of sweaty heat rising from the dance floor where half my classmates are writhing in a really X-rated way to the grinding beat. My ears aren’t pointed (luckily, for hiding purposes) thanks to my mixed blood, but I still have enhanced senses. A staccato barrage of death-metal music batters my hyper-acute eardrums. A forest of blazing candles, dripping ribbons of melted wax over every available surface, wavers in my telescopic vision.
Most of the normals can’t smell it, but the musk of my classmates’ sweat and their miasma of mating scents mingles with the metallic tang of old blood and suffering soaked into these ancient stones.
Despite all this sensory overload, it’s the feel of Draco Mars’ glacier-blue gaze sliding down my body, so exposed and unprotected in this borrowed dress, that’s making me shiver like I’m spiking a fever.
If that warlock’s so worried about me spilling his secrets, given his dark reputation and mafia kin, I wonder what he’s capable of doing to keep me silent.
That worry just makes me shiver harder.
Jae Labête slinks up beside Draco like a hunting wolf, beaded braids slithering around his lean frame, a tangle of amulets winking against his tawny chest. Jae’s lost his shirt somewhere… and his shoes… so the firelight laps the dusky nubs of his nipples and the tight ripple of his ribs and the taut plane of his abs.
That feral Cajun is another sight that makes my mouth go dry.
Especially when he slips a longneck beer into Draco’s waiting hand, then trains those golden wolf eyes on me.
You can run, chere. A molten tenor voice, soft with Cajun vowels, drizzles through my mind like honey. We want you to run, oui ? Tonight, Draco and me, we hunt.
Geez Louise. I’m no telepath of any kind, so I have to be imagining that voice in my head.
Right?
It’s winter on this island and bitterly cold, but suddenly I’m sweating in this muggy heat. It’s steamy as a swamp down here in this basement. All those rainwater cisterns in the Roman-era grottoes off the main cavern make the air humid. I can almost smell the mossy green scent of Louisiana bayou—
“Hey, Mal, you okay?” A warm voice (this time a real one) dispels the intense electrical charge I feel building between me and those two guys like a summer storm.
I blink, tear my gaze away from the snare of Jae’s hungry stare, and look into the concerned turquoise eyes of my most famous (or infamous) classmate.
Zara Gemini.
She’s the future queen of the whole witching world, and she knows a lot about electricity herself, because she’s a lightning witch. She’s way stronger than me, even if she’s barely got a handle on all her scary power. She’ll be the first Gemini queen we’ve ever had, the queen who’s supposed to reverse this slow slide to extinction the witching races are facing. She’ll replace the current Aquarius queen who’s old and childless and who pretends the witching world isn’t failing, but who’s still reluctant as heck to step down.
Here’s the thing about Zara. She’s… unconventional. Without even meaning to, she’s polarized this entire Academy. Divided us all right down the middle into two warring camps.
Her allies and her enemies.
Half this school—especially those evil witches in Villa Tiberius who are glaring at her from the bar, all fanatically loyal to the Aquarius queen—they burn to see Zara dead.
But Zara’s always been nice to me, the way no Aquarius never was, and I like her.
So I summon a smile just to keep my friend from worrying. “Oh, sorry, Zara. Yeah, I’m good. Just, um, a little warm.”
“Not surprised. Kinda toasty down here. In more ways than one, right?” Zara’s absolutely gorgeous, all soft curves and lush lips, like a punk rock version of Marilyn Monroe poured into electric blue latex, with lightning bolt earrings flashing platinum in her ears.
She’s gorgeous and she’s famous.
But she’s never been snooty.
Now our future queen glances toward Draco and Jae with her teal brows lifted. Then, with a mischievous grin, she slips me a plastic cup filled with the fruity rum punch they’re serving at the bar.
“Here,” she says dryly. “You look like you need this way more than me.”
I don’t drink much, but the cup is beaded with moisture and deliciously cool in my sweaty palm, the contents chinking with big cubes of ice. So I take a grateful gulp. The tropical sweetness of pineapple and a tart hit of lime, edged with the bite of rum, slides down my dry throat in a cold slick that makes me hum with appreciation.
Right before I sputter and cough, like the lightweight I am.
Guess that drink’s more potent than it tastes.
“Whoa there, careful.” Zara kindly rescues my drink before I spill all over my borrowed dress, which I appreciate.
But she’s distracted herself.
Not by Draco and Jae… who are, for some unknown and deeply unsettling reason, still watching me… but by her own guys.
Our witching world queens are polyamorous.
So Zara’s been building her harem.
She’s only got two of her guys here tonight. One is Ronin—collectively known across this Academy as Sir One and Done (because he’d never go back for seconds) till Zara came along. Once those two met, his bisexual manwhore party days were over. He fell in love and joined her polycule within a matter of hours. Now he channels his legendary libido so he’s only with them.
Zara and her guys.
The five of them, they’re all exclusive.
The other guy in her entourage tonight is our brand-new resident dragon shifter—the Russian, Maxim Rasputin—who’s been causing so many problems for the Dean and who pretty much terrifies the whole school. Now it looks like Maxim might be joining Zara’s harem too. He’s lurking behind her looking sinister, with his long blond hair swept back from his cruel Slavic face, his flaming eyes and slitted pupils fixed on Zara with an unwavering focus that makes the guy look like an obsessed stalker or a serial killer.
Maxim has barely even looked at me all night (which I’m definitely not complaining about, because having Draco and Jae both weirdly fixated on me is more than enough to cope with).
But I notice Zara isn’t protesting that dragon’s possessive hand, planted solidly on her waist.
Now Ronin prowls up alongside, tucks a familiar hand into the dragon’s jeans pocket (right over Max’s tight dragon butt), then loops his other arm around Zara. Maxim firms up his grip on Zara and slides a sidelong look at Ronin that smolders with heat. Suddenly the air is acrid with the cindery brimstone mating scent of aroused dragon.
Wow.
That dragon’s only just enrolled. He snuck after Zara through the magical wards to get here. But, very clearly, if these three aren’t already together, they’re really close to hooking up.
“Enjoy your special night, Hufflepuff.” Ronin gives me another of his sexy grins, but it’s glaringly obvious I’m not the focus of his attention. “Mind if we take our queen off your hands for a bit then?”
“For your information, Ronin, I’m a Gryffindor. Don’t let the last name fool you.” Firmly I turn my gaze away from my former crush and give Zara a wistful smile. “Have fun, you two. Or, should I say, you three? Or five?” (Because she’s also here with the girls from her house—Dez and Racetrack, those two are already dancing—and I’m not sure who’s with who.)
I hesitate, because the air in here’s bristly with aggression and hostility and I feel like I should warn her. But Zara’s way more of a badass than I could ever hope to be. She can take care of herself. She probably doesn’t need my warning.
Still, I decide to warn her anyway.
“Just be careful tonight, okay?” I say softly. “I mean it. That Tiberius gang’s sharpening their knives.”
Maxim’s slitted pupils narrow and he growls in a way I find petrifying. He’s really scary in his dragon form, so I’m worried about setting him off.
But Zara only rolls her pretty eyes at his alpha dragon drama and hands me my drink.
“Thanks, Mal. Enjoy yourself tonight. We definitely plan to.” Zara wraps her arms around Ronin’s neck and the three of them ease onto the dance floor.
I cradle my cup in both hands and sip while I watch them over the rim. On the crowded floor, Zara and Ronin sway in unison with their eyes locked on each other, her arms raised overhead and curvy hips swiveling, Ronin’s hands wrapped possessively around her ass. Maxim sidles up behind Ronin, looking skittish and furtive, and mutters something in his ear.
Whatever Ronin says back is apparently just the thing. The dragon relaxes and nuzzles his face into Ronin’s neck, scenting him and sucking a hickey into his skin.
Clearly approving that entire arrangement, Zara hooks a leg around Ronin and basically starts dry-humping him, right there on the dance floor, while he holds her steady and rocks into her.
Then Maxim slides his hands around Ronin’s waist, and—holy cow!—unzips Ronin’s fly.
Suddenly I realize it’s distinctly possible I’m going to see two dicks in one night. Tonight’s going to be an honest-to-God red letter night. I can hardly wait to write about it in my diary.
Even if I don’t get that special first kiss I’m longing for.
I’m so absorbed watching all this (which probably makes me some kind of voyeur, but after all, they’re doing it right in public) that I’ve been guzzling my rum punch without even noticing. I’ve just realized my cup is empty and my head is swimming when a familiar hit of Mogadon pheromones, spiced with juniper and bergamot, makes my skin tighten and my pulse spike.
Even as a guttural Icelandic mutter hits my ear from behind. “Like to watch, don’t you, hjartfólgin ?”
I suck in a startled breath and drop my cup, which is thankfully empty, or I’d make a huge mess. Before I can catch my breath, two big hands close around my waist and spin me hard away from the heated scene that’s unfolding on the dance floor.
I’m a tall girl, but I still need to tip back my head and look way up to meet Draco’s intense ice-blue glare. A deep furrow digs between his brows. His square jaw is clenched so hard the sinews stand out in his corded neck.
For some reason, very clearly, he’s agitated.
Even pissed.
At me.
But, gosh, I haven’t even done anything. I’d never tell Ronin, or anyone else, Draco’s secret.
My heart leaps into my throat and lodges in my esophagus like a peach pit. My pulse flutters in my veins like a trapped butterfly.
Simultaneously a lean sinewy body, fragrant with moss and patchouli, slinks up behind me. A warm feral breath skids across the back of my neck and hisses in my ear.
Jae Labête .
That shifter isn’t even touching me. Still, somehow, I sense that his werewolf—a rare and dangerous breed I’ve never seen before—is perilously close to rising. Goosebumps race down my arms and my heartbeat trips.
These two warned me to run. They warned me. Now it’s too late.
I didn’t believe their warning.
Now I’m trapped.
“I suggest you forget about watching that fucking Pendragon,” the Icelander snarls down at me, “before I rip that asshole’s dick off. Don’t you want to find out firsthand, Mallory McSnicker, how it feels having two guys like us all to yourself?”