Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Rose
The dining hall is practically empty tonight, just me and a couple of staff.
Most of the students fled the academy the minute Yule break started, running home, leaving behind the nightmare that Serpentine Academy has become.
I can’t blame them. If I had somewhere to go, I’d be gone too.
But here I am, stabbing at my pasta, trying to ignore how the massive hall seems designed to remind me just how alone I really am.
With the students whose families pay the bills gone, along with most of the kitchen staff, meals are apparently devolving into whatever can be thrown together with minimal effort.
Tonight’s offering is pasta that’s been boiled until it surrendered all structural integrity, topped with a sauce that might have started life as tomato.
I eat quickly, wanting to be done and back in my room.
Hank peeks out from my pocket, blinking.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “I’m not sharing. This barely qualifies as food.”
He responds with a judgmental “Ribbit.”
I wolf down the rest of my dinner, not bothering to savor what can’t be savored, then grab my tray, and make for the exit, making brief eye contact with the woman mopping the floor. I smile, but she stares right through me.
It’s so strange to see the academy this dead.
No students rushing between classes, no conversations or bursts of laughter.
Outside, snow falls heavily, blanketing the academy grounds in white.
The storm has been building all day, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into a full-on blizzard by the end of it.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the figure waiting by my door until I’m almost on top of him.
“Jesus!” I yelp, startling Hank, who hops off of my shoulder and onto the top of my head.
“Not quite.” Lucien makes a face at the frog I’m currently sporting as a hat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.” He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if he doesn’t have a million better things to do than babysit me during Yule break.
I push open my door, but don’t go in yet. “I’m fine. Just trying to survive a holiday pasta that tasted like it was made by someone who hates both pasta and holidays.”
“The kitchen is understaffed and under-motivated,” Lucien agrees. “I could arrange for something better, if you’d like.”
The offer hangs between us, and I realize he’s waiting for an invitation. I step aside. “Want to come in? I was just going to watch something mindless and eat all the chocolate I’ve been hoarding.”
He enters, his 6’5 frame filling my small room.
Everything about Lucien is precise and elegant, the way he moves, the way he speaks, the way his clothes never seem to wrinkle.
It should make me self-conscious about my own mess, but instead, it’s weirdly nice to be around.
Like at least one of us has their shit together.
“Have you noticed how quiet Jasmine’s been lately?” I ask, kicking off my boots. “It’s almost like she’s gone.”
“She hasn’t been seen for nearly a week. But make no mistake, she’s still here, though no one dares check on her.”
“Can’t blame them. You think she’s planning something?”
“Perhaps. Or it could be as simple as the melancholy the holidays bring for some.”
I stop to think about whether a psycho like Jasmine could possibly get ‘melancholy’.
I flop onto my bed, reaching for the stash of chocolate I keep in my bedside drawer. “Want some?” I offer, holding out a bar.
He shakes his head. “I don’t eat.”
“Right. Vampire thing.” I break off a piece and pop it into my mouth. “So what do you think she’s up to?”
“I think the better question is why you should concern yourself with it.” He fixes me with that intense stare that always makes me feel like he’s reading every thought I’ve ever had. “Enjoy the reprieve while it lasts.”
“Because I have this feeling that we’re in the calm before the storm.” I gesture out the window, where the snow is now coming down so heavily I can barely see the buildings across the quad. “Speaking of storms.”
Before Lucien can respond, there’s a knock at the door, then it swings open to reveal Soren, a bottle in one hand and a dangerous smirk on his face.
“Evening, children. Am I interrupting something wholesome and boring?” He kicks the door shut behind him and holds up the bottle. “I brought supplies for our party.”
“We’re having a party?” I ask, mouth full of chocolate.
“Ribbit?” Hank hops over to us.
Lucien eyes the bottle with disdain. “Where did you get that?”
“Liberated it from Professor Moriaen’s private collection,” Soren says, dropping onto my desk chair. “Don’t worry, he’s been hoarding it for decades. Probably doesn’t even remember he has it.”
“That’s theft,” Lucien points out.
“That’s redistribution of resources,” Soren corrects. “Besides, it’s Yule. Season of giving and all that. I’m giving us the gift of getting tipsy on extraordinarily expensive wine.”
I snort. “And I’m sure Professor Moriaen is thrilled about his contribution to holiday cheer.”
“He left yesterday for his sister’s place. He’ll never know.” Soren winks at me. “Unless you’re planning to rat me out, little witch.”
“My lips are sealed.” I reach for the bottle. “What is this anyway?”
Soren hands it over, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. “Something very old and very potent. Like me.”
I examine the label, faded with age. The bottle itself feels heavy, the glass thick and dark. “Should we be drinking this? It looks like a museum piece.”
“It’s wine, not the Mona Lisa,” Soren says. “Wine is meant to be drunk. Especially during the holidays.”
Lucien moves closer, taking the bottle from me to examine it himself. “This is from the blood moon harvest of 1772. It’s worth more than this entire building.”
“See? A man of taste.” Soren nods approvingly at Lucien. “All the more reason to drink it now, before the world ends or Jasmine emerges from whatever hole she’s crawled into.”
“Do you have something to open it, or are you going to magic the cork out?” I ask.
In answer, Soren produces a corkscrew from his pocket. “I came prepared.”
There’s something surreal about sitting in my dorm room with a vampire and an incubus, about to drink wine older than America, while a blizzard rages outside. It’s as far from normal as you can get, but right now, it feels more familiar than anything else.
The cork comes out with a pop, and immediately the room fills with a rich, earthy scent from the wine. Soren takes a sniff, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs.
“We don’t have glasses,” I point out.
Soren laughs before he takes a swig directly from the bottle, then offers it to me.
I hesitate only a second before accepting.
Our fingers touch again as he passes it, and this time I know it’s deliberate.
The wine is surprisingly smooth, not that I’m a connoisseur.
Tony’s bar didn’t exactly have an upscale clientele.
It’s rich and complex, tasting of dark fruits and spice and other things I can’t name. “That’s... wow.”
“Worth the theft?” Soren asks, grinning.
“Redistribution of resources,” I correct him, passing the bottle to Lucien. “Your turn, Your Lordship.”
Lucien accepts it with obvious reluctance, but he takes a drink. His eyebrows lift slightly, in other words, the Lucien equivalent of jumping up and down with excitement.
“Not bad,” he admits, passing the bottle back to Soren.
“I thought you didn’t eat?” I say.
“I can appreciate the taste, though it does nothing for me. Old habits die hard.”
Soren raises his eyebrows. “Is that so? I always figured you just sat around brooding and drinking the tears of your enemies.”
“I do not brood.” Lucien says, almost primly. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
We pass the bottle between us, and Soren launches into a story about ancient Yule rituals he’s witnessed over the centuries.
“You think modern witches are wild? You should have seen the winter solstice ceremonies in medieval Europe. Naked dancing around bonfires, potions that would make your modern drugs look like sugar pills.” He takes another swig of wine.
“There was this coven in what’s now Germany.
They had a ritual where the high priestess would select a partner for each witch.
The whole night was devoted to, let’s say, honoring the fertility of the earth. ”
I feel heat rising to my cheeks. “You mean they just had a massive orgy?”
“Such a crude word for a sacred ritual,” Soren teases. “But yes. And let me tell you, those witches knew things that would make a succubus blush.”
Lucien sighs. “Must you always reduce everything to sex?”
“I’m an incubus, Lucien. It’s literally what I do.” Soren stretches out, his long legs taking up way too much of my limited floor space. “Besides, Rose isn’t complaining about my stories.”
I’m about to shoot back with something snarky when I feel a familiar coldness wash over me.
Drake materializes beside me on the bed, his hand immediately finding mine.
But something’s different. He’s not the translucent presence I’m used to seeing.
He’s solid and warm. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was almost alive.
His skin has color, his eyes are bright, and when he squeezes my hand, it’s as real as my own.
“Drake,” I grin, unable to hide my surprise and joy.
His smile is soft, just for me. “Hey.”
Soren and Lucien stare, clearly shocked by Drake’s appearance. The ghost they’re used to seeing was a pale imitation of the man now sitting beside me.
“Well, well,” Soren recovers first, tilting his head in appraisal. “Look who’s joining the land of the living. Temporarily, at least.”
Drake ignores him, his attention entirely on me. “You okay?”
I nod, still marveling at how solid he feels. It’s working better than I ever hoped. “I’m good. Great, now that you’re here.”
Soren catches my eye across the room, his expression questioning, but he doesn’t push, just raises the wine bottle in Drake’s direction. “Drink? If you can, that is.”
Drake hesitates, then reaches for the bottle. He takes a small sip, and his eyes widen in surprise. “I can drink it,” he says, sounding almost awed. “It’s incredible.”
“The benefits of having a corporeal form,” Soren observes, watching Drake closely. “However fleeting.”
Lucien remains silent, but his eyes track every movement Drake makes, cataloging the changes, analyzing what they might mean.
Drake passes the bottle back to me, his fingers lingering against mine. “What are we celebrating?”
“Surviving,” I tell him, taking another sip. “And the start of Yule break. And having nowhere else to be.”
“I can think of worse company,” Drake says, his arm slipping around my waist, pulling me closer.