Page 24 of Escaping Hallow Hill Academy
Its gaping mouth widens and emits a shattering shriek. My mind rushes to find a way out of this, when a body is before me, my glowing sword in hand. The sharp point of it shoves into the monster’s blackened heart.
Sialen wields my sword like it’s an extension of him, of his very soul. With a single jerk of his wrist, he twists the blade, and black liquid bursts across the front of him. It drips down the hilt, hissing away in plumes of smoke. The runes burn brighter, like a cosmos across the sky, and where the pale strands of hair touch the nape of his neck, a bright rune burns like a brand.
Proof that the race of the Sekar lives within him still.
But as quickly as the rune glows red against his skin, it bleeds through it like ink on parchment and blackens like it shouldn’t be there at all.
He turns and stares down at me. Black blood is spattered across his face and lips, and the darkest vile part of my soul wants to reach up and run my fingers across the back of his neck. I want to trace the wound, and taste the death on his tongue.
Because I know just how sweet it will be.
He drops my sword like it burns his palm, and I react on instinct, catching it before it can clatter disgracefully to the ground. My mouth drops open, and there’s so much I want to say, but I can’t form any of my thoughts into words. Not when he’s staring at me like that.
Death brings Sekar together. It’s the sweetest ambrosia to our senses. Even now, my body is humming like my sword, desperate and demanding for a single touch of his skin. It’s a hatred and anger so strong, we can channel it through fucking. It’s like a hypnotizing spell that breaks the minute he opens his fucking mouth.
“Sloppy,” he snaps, breaking me out of my thoughts. “What the fuck was that display? You call yourself a Sekar?” Every word is laced with the strongest venom, and I can’t seem to reply to him.
I look behind him to the thing sprawled across the ground. “What the fuck is that?” I ask, because I know if I snap back, I’ll spew venom of my own. He wants to point fingers? Tell me how I can call myself a Sekar? He can get a fucking mirror. At least my runes don’t bleed through my skin like they don’t fucking belong. At least I haven’t lost my Lady’s favor.
In two prowling steps, he’s bearing down on me with a hard-edged look. His body heat burns into mine. My nerves react, racing though me from the simple closeness of our magic. He growls a low, menacing sound. “Don’t worry about it. Now get your ass back to the Academy.”
In response, I feel the slide of belladonna through my veins. It’s the slightest sliver, enough to render me magicless but not drop in pain. Enough to let me know that someone wants me to obey.
So I do.
* * *
Ilimp towards my room, trying not to wince at the way my wounds tug and pull with each painful step. Day after day I go through this, but tonight it’s worse.
Honestly? Losing my sword again hurts more than this.
Every time I go out to kill, I am allowed a brief moment to hold Damios within my grasp. Just like every time I come back to the Academy, Marcen is there to take it away.
A hole burns its way through my chest every single time I reluctantly hand it over to the warlock, who just stares at me with knowing mockery in his fucking gaze.
Being without it is crippling. More so than the open wounds on my thigh and calf from that weird fucking hybrid thing.
I know I’m dripping blood over their expensive carpets, and I just can’t bring myself to care. Get fucked, headmistress, I think vehemently. Fuck her and her Persian rugs.
Unsteady steps lead me to the housing unit. All is quiet, just like every night I come back. This place is like an academy of assassins.
We hear very little from one another. And I like it that way.
I almost stumble and bite the inside of my cheek to avoid groaning, making a tiny sound. I should be used to pain. I’ve sustained a substantial amount of injuries over the years, but this one feels deep.
My palms meet the wall in my hallway as I try to hold myself upright.
Ma chère?
Ah, fuck.
I push myself away from the surface and whirl, trying to keep my composure as I meet Rueren’s red gaze in the dimly-lit hallway.
“Hey, DeVoure.” I half-ass salute in his direction.
Our relationship . . . it’s weird. It’s a completely weird thing. He blesses me with a range of pet names the same way a father baptizes a child in church. They are all ridiculous and flattering, especially spoken in his fierce tone. Cajun French is what I’ve learned his beautiful accent is.
It shivers through me to hear him say a single word. Even in my current messy state. Sometimes, I even look forward to hearing it. Not that I’d ever fucking admit that, because more often than not, I just want him to leave me the fuck alone.
