The ice crackled across the gym, coating it in a slippery skin like an ice-rink. Delicate icicles hung from the ceiling, transforming it into a glimmering cave that sparkled in the sun.
It was as beautiful as Willoughby, whose hair had frozen to ice. Yet he hated this side of himself, enough to wish to destroy it.
I would never allow him to.
Ezekiel yelped, as his bare feet burned on the freezing ice. He hopped up and down, before flapping his wings and swooping up to the roof of the gym.
"Stop this travesty at once." Lysander didn't dare leave his corner, but he twisted to glare over his shoulder at the professor. He hugged his wings around himself for warmth. "If you do not, then I shall be the one writing to my uncle. One is under strict instructions not to lie, and I can only spin the truth so far. How would you suggest I creatively hide the fact that you broke the killer loose?"
My eyes narrowed. "Fae may tremble at a little cold, but I don't. I love it."
I strolled towards Willoughby, resting the back of my glove against his cheek. "We don't fear the cold, remember?"
For a moment, Willoughby's eyes cleared, and he blinked. "Magenta...?"
He moved closer; his breath was rapid and his skin was frozen. I brushed my lips against his forehead to warm him up.
But then, his eyes became clouded again and filled with such hate that I recoiled. His lips twisted into a snarl, and his hair coiled like ice snakes.
A shard of ice snapped off the end, accidentally whipping off his long hair and slashing across my throat.
"Valhalla!" Sleipnir hollered. "Stop the spell."
I reached up to my neck: crimson. I stared at my fingers in shock.
Ezekiel stormed towards me, catching me in the sweet fragranced safety of his wings. Yet he’d been the one to cast the spell. It wasn’t Willoughby’s fault. It never had been. “Nightmares end!”
When Bask collapsed, Sleipnir caught him. Willoughby groaned, clutching his head, as he stumbled to his knees. Instantly, the room warmed, and the ice melted to puddles, dripping onto my head and sliding in icy trails down my neck, washing away the streams of blood as if I'd never been cut.
Yet the fiery line, which still stung, told me that I had.
I pressed my palm across my throat like I could hide the evidence. I was an optimistic witch, when I wasn't being forced into marriage, burned alive, or trapped by goddesses.
Ezekiel's wings tightened around me. "Let me see. I can heal you."
"Shouldn't you rather be worrying about the students who you spelled to suffer nightmares?" I shrugged myself out of Ezekiel’s embrace, even though I missed his wings’ softness and the hardness of his chest, which he'd held me against like he was a lover and not a professor.
I nudged Ezekiel towards Willoughby, whose eyes were still dazed.
Willoughby shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Magenta...?"
"She's our Magenta," Sleipnir growled. "The monsters who'd never hurt her."
Sleipnir swept Bask into a bridal carry, ignoring his squeak of protest, before storming towards me and dropping down beside me with Bask on his lap.
Immediately, Bask's mouth was on mine. It was as tender as if it was our first kiss. Bask’s lips pressed to mine, before his tongue swept to encourage my mouth to open to ruby sparkles, which wove his incubus magic thrilling through my blood to heal me. After his passionate Kissing Practice with Sleipnir, which had teased pleasure through all three of us, his magic was powerful.
I shuddered, as Bask’s fingers carded through my hair, before he clutched the back of my head and pulled me into a deeper kiss.
My skin knit, until there was nothing left but a trail of crimson over fresh skin. Then I shivered, as Sleipnir leaned down and licked away the blood. His tongue worked between the pearls to the sensitive skin, and the pulse in my neck fluttered.
"My apologies," Willoughby's voice was tentative and strained. "I warned you that I couldn't control..."
"You could but you chose not to." Ezekiel's voice was harder than I'd yet heard it. "There are no excuses for harming another student. You must be deadly to those who you assassinate, but never to fellow Rebels, even if you believe them to be yourself."
Ezekiel stood, yanking Willoughby with him.
"Now see here…" I leaped up as well, regretfully breaking away from the delicious combination of Bask's lips and Sleipnir's talented tongue.
I tried to catch Willoughby's eye, but his head was ducked and his hair (which had now returned to silky sky-blue), covered his face.
Lysander twirled out of the corner, throwing up his hands. "My royal personage demands to be allowed out of your childish punishment to deal with this." He pointed at Willoughby like he was an out of control troll, rather than an introverted elf (was he playing the Silent Elf game now?), who was standing obediently next to his professor. "Do you wish to line up to allow him to slit your throats or perhaps, to blast us all to ice?"
Lysander stormed to Willoughby, despite the fact that his limp was even worse now, manhandling him to the window; his fingers dug into Willoughby's arms.
Was it wrong that I wished Willoughby's hair to turn to ice and for him to become the storm again? Sweet Hecate, at least long enough to burn Lysander's fingers for daring to touch him like he was his personal prisoner.
"Enough." My magenta lit up the room in my fury. "Stop acting like he's—"
"Dangerous? A killer? The elf who just cut you?" Lysander raised his eyebrow. Yet it was Willoughby who I watched, and he flinched on each word. He didn't, however, defend himself. Instead, his shoulders slumped, and he curled in on himself. I knew that there was no way to hide or disappear. Such things had to be faced. "One would almost believe that you were keen to end up like his father."
Lysander pulled tight a length of silk, which had fallen loose at the neck of Willoughby's suit, during the fight. Willoughby winced, then the life in his eyes died. All of a sudden, he became lost and confused again.
I would not lose him.
I straightened my shoulders, marching up to Lysander, whose eyes widened in alarm. "I shall not allow Willoughby to hurt himself anymore, and I shall not allow anyone else to hurt him either."
Lysander's face paled, before his expression hardened. "You always think so little of me. You forgive and cuddle a killer. But for the sins of my uncle, do I deserve nothing but your contempt and hate?"
Sleipnir sprawled on the floor, running his hand through Bask's hair. "Sounds about right. Oh, and because you're an elitist asshole."
I blinked. Once, that was true. As patron of the academy, Titus had been and still was the reason for the oppression of the Rebels. By trying to force me into marriage with him, he'd caused Robin's death and my own. As trauma went, I believed it perfectly understandable that I’d despised fae.
But not anymore.
"I don't hate you." I patted Lysander on the arm. "I just don't like you."
Bask snickered.
Lysander glared at me. "Was that supposed to make me feel better, witch?"
"Not particularly. Is the way that you're holding Willoughby's arm hard enough to bruise making him feel better?" Lysander dropped Willoughby's arm like it had burned him. Snap my broomstick, I was good. I nodded, with a smile. "See, now I dislike you a little less. I won't stand by, whilst those I..." Mage's balls, had I just been about to say love? "...have responsibility for are shown cruelty."
"My royal personage is his Prefect," Lysander sneered. Then he waved at the Immortals. "Go and be all responsible for those creatures over there. I have my orders for my Wing. I'm taking him outside for some air."