Page 107 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

Bullshit bullshit bullshit, my mind sings cheerily.

She hesitates, then sniffs the cup.

Professor Danton, who oversees the sparring yard, accepts a cup with weary gratitude, her severe features softening briefly. She downs the brew without making a face, then accepts another.

Behind me, Madame Perfinette’s voice cracks across the courtyard.

“Kira Marsh!”

We all flinch, even Danton. It does not matter. I’ve used my precious minute to look past the sparring circle towards the squat old tower at the edge of the yard, drinking the sight in with hungry eyes.

That is where the weapons are kept. My heart lifts at the sight of it, then sinks just as quickly. The tower has no proper windows, only two narrow slits. The door is thick oak banded in black iron, locked with three separate mechanisms and marked with warding sigils that make the air shimmer faintly around them.

Inside I can see swords. Battle axes. Bows. Daggers. Enough steel to start and finish a rebellion.

It’s a treasure trove, and yet completely useless to me.

Madame Perfinette practically drags me back to Etiquette by the ear, where she fails me for the tea and gives me a second detention. I have not even served my first.

Naturally, while she is lecturing me on standards, composure, and the sacred bond between civilisation and properly strained leaves, I steal a silver letter opener from her desk.

It slides nicely into the inside pocket of my blazer.

It’s a far cry from a dagger, but pointed enough to take an eye out.

I’ll soon put it to the test.

Friday brings detention.

Professor Parna waits for me in the Potions laboratory wearing a tired smile. His wispy hair is in disarray, his lacy cuffs stained with something resembling mustard. He does not look cruel, which immediately makes me suspicious.

“Ah, Miss Marsh,” he says. “Come in. Come in. Professor Marmala tells me you require a little quiet labour.”

As expected, he sets me to scrubbing cauldrons.

It is boring, filthy work. Dried potion clings to the cast iron in stubborn crusts of green, brown, and one memorable shade of purple that makes my eyes water. Professor Parna oversees me for the first ten minutes with polite concern, then seems satisfied I am unlikely to cause trouble and goes to his desk to grade papers.

“Sir, are there any other tools I can use to clean?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.

“Tools?”

“Knives. Scrapers. Anything sharp enough to remove this sludge.”

“Ah.” He wanders back over briefly to peer into the cauldron I am struggling to clean. “No, no. Elbow grease will do.”

Right.

He asks me questions as I work. Where did I grow up? What sort of estate? Did my parents serve in the household too? Were there other wolf children? How had my education been arranged before my arrival?

Every question forces me to recount the false life I have been inventing since I arrived. I improvise details, but relax a little when I realise from Professor Parna’s distracted nods and repetitive questions that he is not truly absorbing my answers. He is only asking to make me feel less miserable about detention.

Huh.

Who would have thought there would be another decent person in this place besides Professor Marmala? Even if both of them inexplicably turn a blind eye to everything that goes on here.

I begin asking Professor Parna questions too—about potions.

He does not seem to mind that I am not one of his students. If anything, he brightens. Within minutes, he has abandoned his papers and is on his feet, explaining the difference between suspensions and infusions, pulling down textbooks to show me diagrams, rummaging through drawers distractedly, then forgetting why he opened them. He speaks with his back to me, utterly absorbed, one finger running along the spines of his precious shelves of jars.