Chapter 39
Severin
THE SUN IS SETTING EARLIER every day as we trudge closer to winter, and the castle feels the change.
My apartment is cold again when I arrive back from my classes despite me having lit a fire this morning.
As I remove my jacket and reach to hang it up on the coatrack, I notice something—or rather the lack of something.
One of my gold cuff links is missing.
I immediately scan the floor by my boots, looking for a glimmer in the early-evening light coming through my window.
I remember clearly putting my cuff links on this morning, so if it’s not here, that means I lost it somewhere in the castle today.
It could be in my classroom, my office, or any one of the many corridors I walk through over the course of the day.
When my search around the apartment entryway turns up empty-handed, I let out a sigh and mumble, “Fuck.”
That’s my only good pair. And now I’m going to need a new set. There’s no way I’m walking into class tomorrow with one shirt cuff billowing open or rolled up to my elbow.
With a hot flare of irritation, I put my jacket back on, then leave the apartment yet again.
I ride along in the horse-drawn carriage, watching out the window as the sun sinks closer to the horizon.
Leaving the academy, I was fortunate to catch a driver who was about to return to Wysteria.
This’ll save me a significant amount of time.
Maybe I’ll even get back to the academy with enough time left this evening to continue my work on the restoration of the old botany grimoire.
It’s been coming along slowly, mostly because of—
As soon as Maeve crosses my mind, I feel that tug in my chest, the same one that lingered throughout my entire lecture in Dangerous Magic Across Time this morning.
And now that I’ve noticed it and am paying closer attention, it feels like the thread is .
. . stretching, thinning, like saltwater taffy pulled too long.
But it doesn’t snap, even as the carriage takes me farther and farther from campus.
It sits there in my chest, quieter now, but still present. My fingers rise, pressing into my breastbone through my jacket and waistcoat. And I find my eyes narrowing against the falling light.
“These would look exquisite on you,” the owner of the Brass Mirror says.
He holds a pair of cuff links up in the candlelight flickering from the overhead chandelier, and the metal gleams. “Come, let’s put them on.
” He holds out a hand, but I hesitate. One of his brows arches in the corner, and his lips pull back on one side, revealing a fang.
“Really, Professor? I’m not going to bite. ”
I furrow my brow, then sigh and hold out my arms. The clothier removes the one golden cuff link I still have left, then slips the new pair into the cuffs and fastens them.
“There. Much better.” He steps back and nods for me to take a look.
The new cuff links are of a high quality, though I still find myself disappointed that I lost one. I’ve had my old pair for decades, and there’s still a simmering annoyance in me for having carelessly lost one.
“These are acceptable,” I tell the man.
“Acceptable,” he mumbles, arching a sharp brow at me. “Really, Professor, you can be quite heartless.”
My gaze flicks to his, questioning.
“You are the professor Arella told me about, are you not?” he says as he moves behind the front counter and rings up my purchase at the cash register. His eyes—red, like mine—flick up to meet my gaze. “So far as I know, Coven Crest only has one vampire professor.”
I approach the front counter slowly. Wysteria is not a small city, but with few vampire inhabitants, it feels like everyone knows everyone. “You know Arella?”
“Of course.” He slips my old cuff link into a small fabric pouch with a drawstring mouth and hands it back to me. I feel better having it in my possession once again. “And she had much to say about you after Samhain.”
Samhain. The night I left her standing at the bar, mid-sentence, when I saw that human dancing with Maeve, putting his hands all over her. And I’ve not seen Arella since.
I suppose I have an apology to deliver.
And there’s no better time than now to do so.
“Do you know where I might find her?” I ask the clothier as I hand him the eldertokens I owe.
“At this hour? She’ll still be at the Crimson Cask. Late-night customers, you know.”
I nod once. “Thank you, Mister . . . ?”
“Winston,” the man says. “And I thank you for your patronage, Professor. I do hope to see you again soon.” He smiles, his fangs showing just beneath his upper lip. “Tell Arella I say hello.”
I exit the Brass Mirror and step out into the crisp evening air. The sun has fully set now, and Wysteria is bathed in golden light from the flickering lanterns and lampposts lining the cobblestone sidewalks and shop fronts.
Before I can stop myself, I start down the walkway toward the Crimson Cask.
I’ve not had to refill my blood supply recently, and even now, as I approach the blood bank and step inside, I don’t feel the familiar incessant thirst clawing at my throat.
Instead, I feel content. And content is something I haven’t been in a very long time.
The door closes behind me, and my eyes adjust quickly to the dim interior light. One candle flickers in a holder on the front desk, but vampire eyes have keen night vision, and I’m able to see clearly as the door to the back opens and Arella steps through, wearing a smile.
Until she sees me.
The smile falters, then vanishes altogether as the door swishes closed behind her.
“Mr. D’Arques,” she says, no warmth in her tone. “What can I do for you?”
I don’t bother with dancing around it. “I owe you an apology.”
The guarded look in her crimson eyes softens, just a fraction. She moves toward the front desk, then places her hands flat on the wood, leveling a look at me. “What for?”
Sighing, I step forward. “For leaving you mid-conversation on Samhain. That was discourteous of me.” I hold her gaze. “I apologize.”
Arella stares at me for a long moment, standing so still that even without the crimson sheen to her eyes, it would be obvious that she’s not human.
“Who is she?” she asks. “The woman you left with.”
At my sides, I curl my fingers into fists.
That thread is still present in my chest, less noticeable now, but very much connected.
How do I explain who she is? She’s my student, yes. But she’s so much more than that. She’s the one I think of when I’m falling asleep and my first thought upon waking. She’s the only face I look for when I move through Coven Crest’s halls. She’s . . .
I find myself at a loss for words.
Arella huffs out a quiet laugh, then sighs. “Well, you look well fed. Is that why you haven’t been around?”
I flex my jaw and nod once.
“I’m surprised.” She crosses her arms. “You’re not one to feed loosely.” Her crimson gaze is sharp and assessing. “I take it that witch means more to you than you’re letting on.” She lifts her nose and takes a breath. “Is that her I smell on you?”
Her question makes tension coil in my shoulders.
Maeve’s scent shouldn’t linger on me; I made sure to scrub every inch of my skin when I returned from our night at the inn together. But perhaps it’s Maeve’s blood she smells, for I know it’s still inside me, feeding me, sustaining me.
Placating the predator inside me.
“Yes.”
Arella makes a thoughtful sound. “It must’ve been a feast. You feel calmer. Not so . . . sharp.”
I squeeze my fists at my sides. Hearing Arella speak of Maeve makes heat build inside me. But then there’s that tug in my chest, like a whisper against the edges of my awareness, and it softens the irritation, smoothing out my reaction.
Not so sharp. Perhaps she’s right.
Arella’s gaze narrows. “There’s something else too.” She comes out from behind the desk and approaches me where I stand. Her red eyes catch the candlelight as she leans in close, rising onto the tips of her toes to bring her nose close to my neck.
My skin prickles at her proximity, but not in the way it may have in the past. Now, it feels wrong, like only one woman should be this close to me.
After drawing a breath, Arella pulls back to look at me. “You smell like a storm.”
A tingle runs the length of my spine.
“Like you got caught in lightning,” she clarifies, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes narrow. “She’s a storm witch?”
I don’t reply. But I suppose that’s answer enough.
“It smells like you’re carrying her magic in your veins.”
Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes, and I try to ignore the way my stomach tightens. “That’s not possible.”
I’ve been alive for 333 years. I’ve fed from all manner of magical beings. But their magic has never transferred to me. That’s not how feeding works.
“Isn’t it?” Arella tips her head at me, her red lips pressing into a firm line.
“I’ve handled blood for over a century. Human, shifter, witch.
” She watches me for a long moment, as if she can see something in my eyes that I can’t see in myself.
“Elemental magic is different though. It carries residue. Most of it dissipates after leaving the body, but . . .” She scents the air again.
“Hers hasn’t. Like you carry it with you now. ”
Her words unsettle me.
Because I know something is different. I’ve known since the moment I drew Maeve’s blood into my mouth. But I don’t have the words to describe it. All I have is this feeling in my chest, like someone else’s heart is beating alongside mine.
I’m not yet sure whether it’s comforting or unsettling. Perhaps a bit of both.
I shift back from Arella, putting a bit more distance between us. She seems to pick up on the subtle cue, for her eyes flicker with a mix of hurt and anger before she masks it and steps away.
“Apology accepted,” she says as she turns and walks back behind the desk. “It’s not like I’m in love with you, Professor.” The smile she levels at me is sharp. “It was one kiss. No harm done.”
Her mouth says one thing, but her eyes say something else, even if she is trying to disguise the hurt there. But there’s nothing further I can do. Because I belong to another now.
I meant what I told Maeve that night after feeding on her.
I’m yours now, furtuna mea. Until you no longer want me. I’m yours.
I draw myself up. “Good night, Arella.”
She tips her head, still smiling. “Good night, Professor.”
Outside, I breathe in the crisp autumn air, and there’s a scent to it now that promises of our first snow. Winter is creeping in one gust of wind at a time.
As I start toward the carriage depot, intending to hire a driver to return me to the academy, I feel once more for that tug in my chest, the beat of a heart that isn’t mine. And when I find it, lingering just beneath my breast bone, I realize I have no idea what it is.
Or what the hell I’m going to do about it.