You have one week.
“Need any help?” Thane asks quietly after I show them the message. I shake my head and finish my meal despite my stomach twisting from his implied threat. Luther and Killian share a loaded look while Thane keeps his gaze on me. I know what he’s not asking aloud. Because he knows how unmoored I feel right now, under my outward calm. He knows that my palm is itching to feel the stinging pain of impact on hard flesh, but all I can do is clench my fists under the table, fingers turning white at the pressure.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, attempting to compose myself, but when I open my eyes, the breath seizes in my lungs. Piercing red-brown eyes find mine from across the room and pry apart the hairline crack in the controlled mask my father just opened. And that one, endless moment between heartbeats holds me captive. Then she blinks, and the tether snaps, leaving me breathless as I wrestle with the ruins of my shredded self-control.
Thane frowns, following my gaze, but she’s gone, lost in the throng of students. I look at him, silently pleading for him to understand what just happened, because I sure as fuck don’t. He crooks his eyebrow and my jaw clenches. I look back to where she disappeared, but the scorch marks inside my chest, burning hotter than my power ever could, are the only proof of her existence.
And that makes me furious.
I stand suddenly, ignoring their questioning looks. All at once, I feel too full—my skin stretched thin trying to contain my fire—and empty, the ravenous maw in my chest desperate to devour.
“I’ll see you later,” I announce, and once again the crowd parts for me when I exit the Great Hall, curious looks turning fearful in my wake.
I find the professor hiding in his shabby office ten minutes later. The gormless insult to wielders everywhere has evaded me long enough, and I smirk when the heavy door closes, trapping him in here with me.
“Office hours aren’t until?—”
“I’m not here for office hours, Professor.” He turns to face me and pales instantly.
Spineless.
“Mr. Kovacs,” he sputters, “what can I do for you today?”
“You’ve been ignoring me, Drystan,” I say, stepping further into his office—a predator, playing with his prey. For every step forward, he steps back, eventually bumping into his desk.
“Mr. Kovacs, as I’ve said before, I cannot help you.”
“Hmmm.” I slowly approach him, letting the anticipation and dread build. Ancus Drystan is in his fifties, but his time as Dreadhurst’s advanced Potions professor has not been kind. In the twelve years since his wife divorced him following the revelation of his numerous affairs, he’s lost most of his graying hair, and his face bears the classic signs of alcohol dependency: splotchy cheeks and the deep bruises of exhaustion under his bloodshot eyes.
I wonder how someone could have possibly found him appealing. Perhaps when he was younger—if that someone was deaf, dumb, and blind. Now, he trembles with need for a drink despite the early morning hour, his collar is mussed, tie askew, and his worn polyester sport coat bears more than one mystery stain. Barely coming up to my chin when I close in on him, he trembles, and the scent of his palpable, bitter fear is so thick I can taste it. The gaping maw inside of me screams to consume it all.
“That’s close enough—” he stutters.
“I thought we had an understanding, Drystan.”
“Mr. Kovacs?—”
“How old is your daughter, Drystan? She’d be about what, fifteen years old now?” His eyes widen in shock—turns out he didn’t bury that secret as well as he thought.
“Her mother’s been looking for you. Seems your last few hush money checks have bounced. Instead of going towards the care of your bastard child, you’re drinking down the little money you have left. Unsurprising, considering your ex-wife raked you over the coals in the divorce, not that you didn’t deserve it.” His already splotchy cheeks flush, bloodshot eyes narrowing as my grin grows.
“Mr. Kovacs, I will not be intimidated by a student, no matter who your father is.”
“Let’s be more intentional with our choice of words here, hm? ‘Intimidation’ implies conditional terms. For example, ‘ifyou don’t produce the potion for me by the end of the week,thenI will incinerate your body from the inside out’—that presumes you have a chance to avoid having your bones burnt to ash should you comply.” He chokes on a gasp, trying to put space between us as I loom over him, motioning between us with my finger.
“That’s not what’s happening here. Your compliance is a foregone conclusion. To put it in simple enough terms even you can understand: you will produce the potion one week from today. You will notify me of the status of your progress every day until then.” He blusters, anger and fear warring on his face, but I’m not finished. “Should you fail to produce the potion, there will be consequences. Should the potion prove not viable, there will be consequences. Should you mention this conversation to anyone, or allude in any way to what you are doing and who you are doing it for, there will be consequences.”
“I—do you have any idea the risk?—”
“First, I will ruin you professionally. Headmaster Church might be interested to know one of his professors has a penchantfor fucking and impregnating his students—you and I both know you’re not worth the trouble of defending those charges. Then, I will ruin you personally by facilitating your former victim’s legal motions to take what remains of the pittance your wife left you with. And when you eventually try to run because you’re a craven coward, my familiar will hunt you down, rend your flesh, and shit out your pulverized bones into an unmarked grave. I’ll burn whatever’s left, and your only legacy will be the tragic excuse for DNA that you begat. Am I understood, Drystan?”
The struggle between his sense of self preservation and the remnants of his morals plays out on his face. Just when his shoulders slump in acceptance, the office door swings open, startling us both.
Dark, red-brown eyes widen in surprise and everything besides the fist gripping my chest falls away. She’s maybe a year or two younger than me. Her lean body, wrapped in an ill-fitting uniform, could stand to put on a few pounds, but even from here, her curves are apparent. I see the silver glint of piercings running down her ears through the dark curls that frame her face, where a thin septum ring pierces through her nose. I don’t know where to look, only that I want to commit every inch of her to memory to dissect later.
Her light voice breaks the silence first. “I’m trying to find the headmaster's office…” She trails off, and her eyes narrow when she registers how close the professor and I are. Leaving him forgotten, I slowly make my way to where she stands in the doorway. She looks at Drystan behind me, as if he could help her. He can’t even help himself. I tower over her, but she doesn’t wither. In fact, the closer I get, the more her eyes shine with defiance.
“You’re in the wrong place, pretty bird,” I coo with an edge of malice. Part of me delights at her resolute indignation when I take another step, herding her towards the threshold. As thedistance between us closes, her unique scent permeates the air. The other part of me, the one that’s furious about the foreign sensations she’s awoken, revels in her growing uncertainty.
