Root Rot Academy: Term 3 Page 21

Only.

  That sad attempt at a silver lining still had me teetering between manic laughter and hysteria whenever I considered it. My headmistress, no matter how temporary her title, had lashed me across the face for protecting a student from a public beating. What twisted reality were we living in? If I didn’t throw on a medicinal balm soon, these scars were with me for life.

  Bjorn insisted they were marks of valor—bravery.

  Sometimes I agreed.

  More often, I considered them marks of stupidity.

  Still, no regrets defending Egbert. Anyone who could stand by and watch a student wail as some macho warlock asshole whipped them ought to take a long hard look in the mirror.

  But even if I didn’t regret standing up for the kid, we were sort of, you know, fucked.

  Over the last three days—the time served only a theory given the lack of windows, based solely on the number of sneaky food deliveries—we floated a few ideas of escape. Bjorn had even suggested I pretend to accept Benedict’s terms just to get out of here, but I refused to leave him. My vampire would eventually warp the bars enough to squish through, but the magical sigils and runes carved into the silver made them more durable, somehow able to withstand his immense strength.

  So, escape was a work in progress, like everything in my life.

  Three days and still no Gavriel, either, which, depending on my mental state, pissed me the fuck off or terrified me beyond belief.

  “Do you hear anything?” I asked, tentatively stretching the stiffness out of my neck and shoulders. Sleeping on the floor blew chunks, and never again would I complain about the firmness of academy-issued mattresses—ever.

  “I hear too much.” Eyes closed, Bjorn wrapped his arms around his folded knees with a frown, ear toward the dark staircase. “It’s… muddled.”

  “Nothing good?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t judge me…” I dragged my sore body up the bars. “But I need to pee.”

  “Yeah, I’d get that out of the way.”

  “Appreciate the support.”

  My bucket was only a quarter of the way full, but my cheeks still burned bright with humiliation as I emptied my bladder. I mean, I probably could have held it, but if shit was hitting the fan, having to pee was literally the last thing I needed to worry about.

  Which ended up being the perfect call, because as soon as I stood and buttoned my faux-leather pants—which felt grossly claustrophobic after wearing them this long—the door at the top of the stairs blew open.

  Wood splintered, scattered bits cascading noisily down the steps, the eruption paired with a symphony of screams and curses and the clatter of kitchenware above. I stilled as magic lit up the narrow stairwell, light and color flashing, flashing, flashing—gone in a hail of gunfire.

  Shitshitshitshit. I scrambled over to Bjorn’s side of the cell, tensed as the vampire shot to his feet and braced for an attack. Battle stance engaged, knees slightly bent, arms flexed, hands in loose fists, he might have looked like sculpted white marble, skin deathly pale and beautifully smooth, but he had a looseness to him that told me he once wore violence like a second skin.

  My vampire soared tall and broad and strong, no longer a professor in tweed but every inch a scrumptious Viking who I wouldn’t want to cross paths with in a dark alley.

  Despite the mounting fear, one look at him sparked desire—this fucked-up need for him to glare me down with the same intensity he watched the stairs.

  It vanished in seconds, of course, extinguished by the storm of boots clomping from the kitchen to the dungeon. Much to my surprise, our invaders looked ordinary enough at first glance, so blasé that I might have mistaken them for humans.

  No mistaking those full black eyes, though.

  Polar opposite of the security warlocks and den mothers, both of whom dressed in full black uniforms, the eight rakishly handsome men who came strolling out of the shadows, armed to the teeth and brandishing pistols, wore jeans. Plaid button-ups. T-shirts. Trendy trainers and leather jackets.

  But their auras…

  A shiver cut down my spine as Bjorn growled low.

  Their auras were suffocating.

  Hell was supposed to be all fire and brimstone; why was it that demons felt like frostbite and misery?

  Magic swelled in my palms, more than ready to blast these creeps into oblivion.

  But the sigils…

  I couldn’t cast in this cell—and not for lack of trying.

  “Fan out, boys,” the ringleader ordered. Tall but svelte with a shock of white hair and olive skin, he was the only one with ghoulish badges stitched into his leather jacket. Five of the eight figures immediately splintered from the group, left and right, stalking through the dungeon and ripping open cell doors, disappearing into shadows. “See if there’s anything of value.”

  Flanked by two cronies—albino twins, judging by the lack of melanin and the near-identical facial features—the ringleader turned his attention to me. Immediately. Even if I couldn’t see his pupil, all their eyes totally overtaken by the demon inside, his scrutiny, his interest, slithered across my flesh like we were the only two people in the world.

  “Hello, girlie,” he purred, head cocked while his companions grinned, all three smiles predatory and cruel. Fuck. “You up for some prison favors?”

  Haunting laughter echoed through the dungeon; it might have only been three demons cackling, but a dozen male voices rained down on me, varying in timbre and pitch, some hisses, others booms.

  Gods, help us.

  The uproar died down when Bjorn hurled himself at his cell door. We figured the hinges were the only weak spot in the silver, and he had already warped them a smidge from past escape attempts. This time, he managed to make the bars groan with two aggressive strikes—

  “Wait your turn, vamp.” And then the ringleader, cool as a fucking cucumber, shot him between the eyes. Crack. I screamed, hands flying to my mouth when Bjorn collapsed.

  It didn’t stop after one shot.

  No, the trio emptied an entire clip into him, six shots per demon, eighteen total, each one making his limp body twitch and jump like an exposed live wire.

  “Stop!” Hot, angry tears spilled down my cheeks, and the demons sniggered when my voice cracked. As they dumped their spent clips and reloaded, I just wanted to disappear. Fall to my knees and dry heave into my hands.

  Blood oozed from the bullet holes riddling Bjorn’s body in dark, thick plumes. Splayed on his back, knees bent at awkward angles, his head lolled to the side—and I sucked in a ragged breath when his fingers slowly curled into his palms.

  Okay. Alive.

  Well, you know.

  Alive by vampire standards.

  “Finally,” the ringleader barked, jolting me back to his disgusting leer, “things get a bit exciting around here.”

  I yelped and ducked for cover as he leveled the gun at my cell and shot the lock keeping me inside. The door blew open and clanged off the bars, but the trio charged inside before I’d managed two miserable steps toward freedom.

  Guns holstered, the demons struck in a flurry of fists and leather. Besides my blitz attack on Benedict, some minimal scuffling with sirens, and the odd drunk-girl shove-fest at a bar in my early twenties, I’d never been in a fight before.

  But after ten long seconds of trying to hide my face from the ringleader’s brass knuckles, I could officially confirm it was nothing like the movies. It wasn’t a choreographed dance—and it definitely wasn’t fair. No one-on-one sparring. They came at me from all sides, someone ripping at my hair, another tearing my sweater, a third sweeping my legs. Sure, I swung out where I could, magic scorching in my veins, but I had no idea if the hits landed.

  There wasn’t time to think or plan.

  “Come on, little hellion,” the ringleader sneered when my spine hit the cobblestones, back taking the brunt of the fall and ribs absorbing a brutal kick. “Let me fe
el your teeth.”

  “Fuck you!” I shrieked it and lashed out, hoping that on my back I could keep them at a distance with arms and legs flailing everywhere, hoping to nail at least one of the bastards in the junk.

  No such luck.

  By the time the albino twins had my arms pinned to the ground, I could barely breathe. Exhaustion made my moves sluggish. Fear left my mind blank. A pitchy whine screeched between my ears, and I barely processed the ringleader straddling my hips. Sure, my knees slammed into his back over and over again, but he didn’t move, just ogled me with the same look in his eye Benedict had as he stripped my armor away in the greenhouse.

  Panting, I stole a glance in Bjorn’s direction. Flopped on his side and facing this horror show, he appeared to be very gradually digging the bullets out of his chest. Really shoving his fingers in there, he winced and grimaced—and growled, the warning totally ignored by my attackers. Blood dribbled from the corner of his lips, and his blinks were slow, weighted, like he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

  The hiss of a zipper tore me back to the ringleader, who already had his belt undone and his silky red briefs exposed.

  His erection impossible to ignore.

  Panic flooded through me—spurred another bout of struggling and flailing and curse-spewing.

  And the trio just laughed, dozens of voices assaulting me from all sides, dripping down the walls and sleuthing under my skin—

  Until twin blades burst through the ringleader’s neck. Slender and smooth and ridiculously sharp, a pair of swords thrust out of his skin, misting me with black blood. The demon gargled, eyes like saucers, and his laughter turned wet and strangled, his jaw dropped and gaping, his fingers fumbling over his zipper.

  Seconds later, the swords sliced outward in one clean sweep.

  Huh. Decapitation.

  Another first.

  His skull toppled to the right, and his headless body crashed onto me, spilling a tidal wave of hot demon blood up my chest and face.

  “Oh, gods, ugh!”

  Through the bloody sheen, I found my savior. Crouched between my legs, lording over the corpse of my would-be rapist: Gavriel of the Ash Court.

  Gavriel of the Ash Court in armor.

  His beautiful, lightweight fae-forged steel armor—smeared in black blood, his eyes murderous and a sword in each hand. As the albino twins released me and scrambled for their guns, he effortlessly reversed his grip on the hilts and struck, catching each demon in the throat. Wings flared, Gavriel was on the bastard to my left in seconds, leaving the right with a blade shoved deep in his neck. Off went the second head, tumbling over the stone floor next to the ringleader’s, followed closely by the third, my fae efficient and ruthless and hot as fuck.

  Hotness only marginally dampened by the fact that I had a dead body on top of me. Gagging, aching all over, I shoved the headless corpse aside, only to have it replaced by Gavriel a beat later. The fae hurled himself on top of me as a hailstorm of bullets blasted in our direction. I squealed, chin tucked and eyes clenched shut. Every bullet landed, and while Gavriel jerked with each hit, they did so with a ping, ricocheting off and slamming into stone.

  Gods, his armor had looked sleek and lightweight, but I could barely breathe with him on top of me, black wings enveloped over us like the domed crest of a ward. It felt like it went on forever, unable to draw breath, slowly and steadily squished into the floor, until the last crack echoed around the dungeon, and then—

  “Fuck, I’m out.”

  “Same.”

  “Reloading!”

  And then he was gone. Gavriel practically floated off me, then zipped around the dungeon to take out the rest of the demonic invaders. This was a dance; my fight had been so heavy and sloppy by comparison. Gavriel glided from demon to demon, swords wielded like extensions of his arms—extensions of himself.

  Flexible at the joints, his bloodied armor protected him from the neck down, hands and feet included, and fit his sleek muscular frame perfectly. While I wished he had taken the same care with his head and face, no demon got even close to the moneymaker. And the lack of a helmet let me… gawk. Shamelessly. Despite the pain, the fear, the numb shock of everything that had gone down in the last ten minutes, I struggled to tear my gaze away from him and his beautiful black wings. He was a vision. A masterpiece.

  Decapitation seemed to be his preferred extermination tactic, and with good reason. Demons could heal, same as shifters, and the only way to truly eliminate them on Earth was to cut off the head.

  Like zombies.

  Ugh.

  With the five remaining demons dispatched, Gavriel eventually stopped in front of Bjorn’s cell, then jammed his swords into the miniscule gap around the door and used like them crowbars to pry the damn thing open. As I perched on my elbows, soaked in demon blood and mind still processing all… this, the fae charged into the unlocked cell, dumped his swords, and knelt at Bjorn’s side. Seconds later, snarls reverberated through the cellblock, and a wave of nausea hit when I spotted those nimble fae fingers digging around inside Bjorn’s chest, then flicking a bullet shard onto the ground before going back for more.

  “W-what the fuck is happening?” I demanded, finally rolling over and staggering to my feet.

  “We seem to be under a bit of an invasion,” Gavriel told me as I lurched out of my cell and rounded into Bjorn’s. He said it like this was one big inconvenience—just a case of same shit, different day. “Someone let the black-eyed bastards through the ward.”

  “What? I—”

  “Started about twenty minutes ago,” the fae continued, speaking over Bjorn’s husky groan as he retrieved a bullet lodged into his collarbone. Stomach stuck in a perpetual loop, I crouched by my vampire’s head, easing it onto my thighs and cradling him throughout the assault. Getting pumped full of bullets was bad enough; having them fished out, one at a time, was just insult to injury. At least I didn’t have to pry the one out of his forehead; he seemed to have dug that out first, the skin nearly healed over, almost flawless again save for the tie-dye splotches of maroon blood everywhere.

  “From what I’ve seen, they’re trying to take students, valuables—” Gavriel’s silvery gaze darted my way. “—professors.”

  “That doesn’t make sense—”

  “T-to sell,” Bjorn clarified through gritted teeth, fangs out and probably desperate for a feast. “Hostage and ransom. Raiding-party tactics.”

  “You would know,” Gavriel muttered with a devilish grin, his cheeks peppered with black dots. How could he make jokes at a time like this?

  How were neither of them in shock?

  How the fuck could they even hold a conversation?

  “But… But the ward,” I babbled, motioning in the general direction of the outside world. “How…?”

  “All security have the tattoo that allows them to open it.” Gavriel sat back on his heels and did a quick sweep of Bjorn’s legs. While bloody, the flesh beneath the holes in his dark jeans was, like his forehead, stitched closed. “Honestly, could be anyone.”

  The fae then dove on Bjorn’s right calf. He stuffed one finger into what looked like the last bullet wound, and I glared at how rough he was doing this, but as soon as the little metal shit clattered on the floor, crushed from the force of burrowing through a vampire, I let it go. Bjorn would heal.

  “There we are—all done,” Gavriel declared, patting Bjorn on the chest, none too gently and right over a tight cluster of eight healing holes. My jaw dropped—those fuckers had tried to shoot a smiley-face into him. The vampire tensed, while the most psychotic among us just chuckled. “Better?”

  My eyes narrowed as I swatted at him. “Gavriel.”

  “Faen i helvete,” Bjorn croaked, lips kicked up and gaze almost affectionate. I glanced between the pair, not an ounce of animosity to be found, and then rolled my eyes.

  Fuck’s sake. Boys.

  “Yes, good.” Gavriel clapped Bjorn on the leg, then shot to his feet. “Channel your
rage, Viking.”

  “Okay, okay, pause.” I braced Bjorn as he slowly sat up, then stretched a supportive arm across his back to help him stay up. “What do we do now?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say we get the fuck out while we can,” Gavriel admitted with a shrug, wiping one sword clean on his armored glove, the steel woven and flexible, before tucking it into a holster somewhere on his back between his wings. He quickly moved on to the other as Bjorn and I frowned at him.

  “But?” the vampire drawled.

  “But…” Second sword sheathed, Gavriel let out a long, dramatic breath and motioned halfheartedly toward the stairs. “I don’t think any of those little buggers deserve to be ransomed by demons.”

  “There we go,” Bjorn muttered with a grin. I added a slow clap for good measure.

  “Look at that… The Tin Man has a heart after all.”

  “Astonishing character growth, old boy—”

  “Fuck you both,” Gavriel growled, a middle finger for each of us. Smirking, I helped Bjorn to his feet as best I could, my vampire more steely and dead-weighty than usual.

  “I’m all right, elskling,” he insisted, planting a quick kiss against my temple before rising to his full height. He rolled his shoulders backward and forward, wincing the whole way through, then cracked his neck loud enough that I swore something broke. “Just give me a minute to finish healing.”

  Bullet rounds and bloody metal shards littered the ground, and after a quick inspection, Gavriel confirmed what I’d been thinking: nothing but standard metals. Lead. Copper. Alloy. Steel.

  No silver. Not a hint of iron in the air aside from that one cell down the way, its bars much darker and clearly designed to detain fae.

  No wood?

  Just… run-of-the-mill bullets?

  Weird.

  “I should find my wand,” I said distractedly, wiping demon blood from my face and neck with my sweater. “Right?”

  “Not necessarily,” Gavriel remarked as he stalked out of the cell, me and Bjorn at his heels. “I mean, you can cast regardless. Seems like a waste of time.”

  “It’s likely in Iris’s office, anyway,” Bjorn added. “Which I imagine is… fortified?”