Asher
Thorne speaking anything that remotely sounds like modern English isn’t possible during a recharge.
But last night, we heard him as plain as the screams that had come from Bea.
There’s no reason to ruin the post-harvest surge on a threat long executed.
That’s a discussion for after our families have received their harvest shares next week.
Until then, I have class and a coven council meeting to oversee.
My professor paces the floor of the gallery classroom, his voice projecting up to the row I sit in alone.
The majority of my peers are in the section closest to the door.
Fall break next week has given everyone an itch.
Each one of them is too self-involved to assume our Pulitzer Prize winning instructor is worth their time.
The man is in the running for a Nobel this year, for fuck’s sake.
His burly mustache twitches from side to side as he looks around the room and picks a student to test. “Ms. Beckman, what were Rée’s views on the political ramifications of the revolution of the working class in modern society as he foresaw it?”
This is one of his ways of reinforcing his authority over the class when he feels their attention waning.
A blonde in the front row straightens and clears her throat.
She flips her hair from one shoulder to the other, the side of her neck visible, and I’m reminded of the mark I left in that exact spot last month.
She’d been eyeing me for the first few weeks of class.
Stolen glances, lingering after the class was dismissed until I descended the stairs just so our hands would brush in passing.
It was too easy to corner her in the woman’s bathroom and fuck her in the end stall.
The only surprise was that she knew my name, at least my first, since that’s what she was screaming loud enough for anyone passing to hear.
After several moments of silence, she dives into a half-hearted explanation on the allegory of Paul Rée’s works in philosophy and his days as an author, linking back to the long friendship with Nietzsche that often outshines his work.
Several minutes of rambling and the professor kindly cuts her off and dismisses the class.
“Your term assignments are due in six weeks. That means you must turn in your proposal by Friday. Do not forget unless you intend to fail,” he barks as students shuffle out the door.
The room clears, and I make my way to the courtyard surrounded by a mix of old brick and new stone buildings. The early afternoon sun hits the white exterior of the library as I approach, the refraction warming my face as I walk through front doors.
What is bright and inviting on the outside hides the dark wood and towering shelves of books inside.
Two rows of long oak tables older than half the country lie in the middle of the first floor.
At this time of day, most of the seats are empty, save for a few last-minute cram sessions before early midterm exams.
I walk the aisle between them until I get to a guy who could pass for a student, if not for the flecks of silver at his temples.
His creme-colored button-down is haphazardly tucked into worn gray slacks that aren’t only two sizes too big, but older than I am.
He lifts his chin and the mess of black hair on his brow parts enough that his thin, square glasses catch the glow of the lamp in front of him.
Alric Spelmen-Hawthorne twirls a gold pen between his fingers rhythmically, not missing a beat of the song he is humming when I get closer. His light green eyes follow me as I drop into the chair across from him.
“Morey,” he says in greeting, a crooked grin already tipping his lips. “You don’t look worse for wear. Get your battery recharged without a hitch?”
He fixes me with a bored but knowing look.
“Beatrice?” I guess, and he smiles.
Fox, Thorne, and Maddox wouldn’t tell Alric before discussing it with me. But Beatrice both fears and lusts after him. My best guess is that she’s hoping he’ll give her the same curse he’s bestowed on himself.
“My little bird loves to sing after I let her suck me off.” His head rolls back as his smile widens.
“Well, you know what your grandfather said about crows crying havoc on the slug and snail.” The cryptic warning in my voice only brings out the mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“You’re forgetting that ‘Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies.’ Us lowly commoners covet your weaknesses.” Alric recites another quote from his ancestor, a poet that our coven and the university still honors.
“After the tale she told this morning, I’d love to watch the next time the whole pack of you take her in turn. I won’t even ask to join.”
“Your erectile dysfunction acting up again, old man?” I sneer.
I should have ignored his text this morning.
Meeting with Alric alone always feels like a trap, and depending on his mood, he’ll toy with me before the attack.
What he wants is to agitate me enough to relinquish his share of the magic we harvested before any other families receive theirs.
But convenience and proximity aren’t how the transfers are done, and he knows it.
His airy scoff trails into his retort. “I’ve been fucking longer than you’ve been alive and will be long after you’re gone.”
“Is that a threat or just a reminder?”
My hand clenches under the table. Heat and magic come to the surface and pool at my fingertips. I could smash every solid oak table, bookshelf, and stone pillar in this building without breaking a sweat, but Alric would be left standing—and likely laughing.
“A reminder, of course.” Alric bats his thick lashes and the darkest parts of his demented personality retreat.
He may be immortal—and slowly descending into madness—but he isn’t stupid. Unless he wants to spend the rest of his eternity in some high security underground research facility, he has to play nice with the coven.
The secret offspring and convergence of two of the most powerful families in legacy history should have landed his ass in a position of power, but the demons he conjured trapped him in time. He appears no older than Mads, Thorne, Fox, or me, but it is the same face he’s worn for several decades.
“It must be all that excess magic surging through all those muscles that’s putting you on edge. I would be gracious enough to relieve you of some of that burden.”
My shoulders tighten. “I’m sure Mariana would be happy to hear of your generosity.”
His obedient mask slips back into place.
“No need to show your teeth,” he says, a lazy but amused smile on his face. “I have to prep for my next class. See you at the council meeting tonight.”
Alric grabs up his messenger bag and pulls it over his shoulder. His lips pucker and the tune he was humming resumes in a whistle.
Every ten years, he takes a few semesters off to travel and erase the memory of him on campus.
A plan put in motion by one of his former students—and long-departed coven member.
Unfortunately, he won’t be on his little vacation for another six years so unless I incite some sort of investigation into him, we’re stuck with him.
The thought of locking him up in the manor for a few dozen years has crossed my mind, but tying my life to that responsibility sounds too tedious.
Not to mention that whatever toxic sludge runs through his veins would likely degrade the ancient stone floors if spilled as often as his mouth would warrant it.
Everything about the man is poison. You don’t earn favor with the sort of deities that grant eternal youth unless you have darkness they crave.
The legacies aren’t saints by any means, but the weights placed on us since birth force us to act in the favor of the many.
Our fathers were some of the most powerful coven legacies in over a hundred years.
The elders expected that the four of us would not only match, but surpass their power by now.
The disappointment never goes unnoticed.
Even my mother blames herself for steering me wrong somewhere in my upbringing.
Not enough incessant coddling or private tutors.
Once she went as far as implying my father should come to a harvest ceremony and assist. Edmund Morey had the good sense to shut that peer review down before she could make the suggestion to the other council members.
Those power-hungry crones would have agreed to it with eagerness.
Tension in my shoulders is only relieved when Alric is out of sight, but there’s still a gnawing worry in my gut that could be dulled by talking to Thorne or Maddox.
Alric doesn’t get to them the way he does me or Fox.
The asshole has rooted around like a truffle swine to find our weaknesses and exploits them every chance he gets.
But Maddox is still exhausted from last night, and I’m not sure I’m ready to have a normal conversation with Thorne.
Hale.
Thorne’s voice still rings in my ear. The solitude of the library becomes an echo chamber for the unknown and the impossible. When was the last time the Hale name was mentioned out loud?
When the coven made the decision to disown the family, they were only traced and hunted for two generations before the whole line disappeared from the Northeast territory that our coven has held on to for hundreds of years.
I slip my hand in my pocket and fish out my phone. If I can’t work out my stress with level-headed communication, I will numb my senses with sex. My thumb scrolls through my text threads until I reach the most willing participant for a short-notice fuck.
Asher
I’m coming over.
DTF
I’m not presentable.
Give me an hour.
Asher
I’ll give you ten minutes.
DTF
The door’s unlocked.
Asher
Good girl.