Page 68 of Wicked Bonds
The dress in question is something I conjured up an hour ago in desperation, short, black, with strategic cutouts that seemed like a good idea at the time but now feel like I might have gone a little too far. Mrs. Bright’s face when she saw me was something to behold. She’s shooting me disapproving looks from across the room even now, like my hemline is a personal insult.
“Aren’t you supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries?” I ask Soren, stepping back to put some distance between us.
“Probably.” He grins. “But then again. Mixed signals, Rose.”
Before I can respond, a voice like warm honey cuts through the moment. “Oh Rose, don’t you look brave.”
Thorne steps beside us in a floor-length gown in a very pumpkin-y shade of orange, her blonde hair twisted into an elaborate updo with what might be actual diamonds woven through it. She looks like a princess. I look like I’m headed to ladies night at the club. The contrast is not lost on either of us.
“Such an interesting interpretation of formal wear,” she continues, her smile so sweet it could give you a toothache. “I suppose we all have to work with what we have.”
She glides away before I can respond. Soren chuckles beside me.
“She really doesn’t like you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” I head toward the refreshment table, my designated post for the evening. “Don’t you have someone else you can sexually harass?”
He doesn’t answer, just leans forward and plucks an apple from a heaping wooden basket. “You know, in the old days, Samhain was less about decoration and more about blood. Humans would slaughter half their livestock and throw the bones into the bonfire for protection. I like your modern interpretation better.”
“Thanks, I guess.” I grab a cup of cider and pretend to busy myself with arranging napkins, but Soren just stands there, eating the apple and making a show of watching me. The music swells, and the dancing starts, everyone spinning around thebonfire in a prescribed pattern that they all seem to know. Another witch thing I didn’t learn growing up I guess. We didn’t do Samhain, or Litha, or Beltane, and Yule was just Christmas specials on tv, takeout noodles on Christmas Eve, and a present or two at the end of the bed if my mom had been able to find work.
Thorne and her minions take the center, arms linked, the whole thing so perfectly choreographed I almost expect a backup troupe to burst out of the kitchen and join in. I see Harry in a suit that’s a size too tight, but I bet he thinks it shows off his biceps.
The refreshment table is a safer place for me to be. It’s laden with traditional Samhain foods: soul cakes, barmbrack with hidden charms, and colcannon, along with less traditional treats like pumpkin bread, mulled cider, and popcorn balls.
Soren leans across the refreshment table, stealing a slice of pumpkin bread, and studies me. “You’re not drinking,” he observes. “Bad idea. You’ll never survive an academy party sober.”
“I plan to leave as soon as humanly possible.” I start rearranging the apple cider mugs into a neat line, just to have something to do. “I have other things to work on.”
He arches a brow. “Such as?”
“You know what,” I whisper.
“Careful. You’re being watched.” He tips his chin toward the balcony above, where Wickersly stands in her black robes, flanked by two stone-faced faculty. The headmistress’s eyes are fixed on me.
“Don’t you want to go mingle?” I gesture at the room, at the throngs of girls in velvet and satin, all of whom are pretending not to stare at him.
His smile turns hungry. “I could, but I find myself in a monogamous mood tonight. So what are you drinking?”
“Cider,” I say, grabbing a cup from the punch bowl and taking a sip. It’s spiked, obviously, but not enough to take the edge off, which is a shame.
Soren picks up a cup for himself, lifts it in salute, and takes his leave.
Lucien watches him walk away, and I realize he’s been glaring at us the whole time we were talking together.
Twenty minutes later, after enduring the sneers and snickers of my fellow students, along with a few titters as someone whispers ‘Charity Case’ under their breath, I’m ready to set something on fire. Possibly myself. That’s when I feel a familiar chill.
Drake materializes beside me, translucent but still more solid than usual. No one else seems to notice him. He looks at the spread of traditional foods with obvious disgust.
“This looks terrible,” he says.
I glance around, but everyone’s focused on the bonfire where someone’s attempting to divine their future in the flames. “You came.”
His hand finds mine under the table, and I nearly jump at the sensation. His fingers are cold but real, lacing through mine with gentle firmness. “You look miserable.”
“I look like an idiot.” I squeeze his hand, grateful for the anchor. “Thorne’s right. This dress is ridiculous.”
“Thorne’s a bitch.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I actually laugh. “And the dress is incredibly sexy. She’s just jealous she couldn’t pull it off the way you can.”
