Page 10 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One
But my vampire nature, suppressed for so long under glamours and necessity for so many months, rises up like a tide.
The part of me that's all predator and hungry recognizes the power in the room, sees the threat and the challenge, and wants to answer it with violence.
To prove I’m not simply weak prey that can be discarded without a fight…
Mortimer's pale eyes study my face with clinical fascination. His thumb brushes just beneath my lip where I know my fangs are now fully extended.
Then he leans close, his breath ghosting across my ear as he whispers three words that shatter what remains of my control.
"Are you thirsty, Wicked Queen?"
He sets me ablaze as that last strand of resistance snaps.
2
THE REAPER'S REVELATION
~MORTIMER~
Magic has a scent.
Most don't realize this fundamental truth, but when you've spent centuries walking the line between life and death, you learn to recognize the subtle fragrances of power.
Forest magic smells of moss after rain.
Fae energy carries notes of honey and steel.
Vampire power reeks of copper and midnight air.
But this girl...this fascinating creature before me...her magic smells…impossible. A tantalizing mixture of so much mystery and vibrant uncertainty, that combined invites an allure like no other.
The instant my fingers touched her chin, I knew something was different. The glamour that fooled the others was nothing but a gossamer veil to my eyes – death magic sees through all illusions, after all.
And what I saw beneath that veil left me breathless.
Her hair cascades like fresh snow in winter, so purely white it seems to capture and hold what little light remains in the room.
Yet at the roots, there's the faintest hint of gold, as if sunshine is trying to break through a blizzard. It's the kind of rare coloring that speaks of old magic, of bloodlines that trace back to the first dawn of our kind.
Her skin, naturally peachy in tone, has now taken on an alabaster quality that only comes with the surge of vampire blood. The transformation would be jarring on most, but on her, it creates an ethereal effect. Only the slightest flush remains in her cheeks, a whisper of color that proves she's still partly mortal.
Those lips though –they're cardinal red, like fresh blood on new-fallen snow— and currently pulled back to reveal lengthening fangs that shouldn't exist in one so young.
But it's not just her appearance that fascinates me.
It's the way the school's ancient magic seems to have wrapped around her like a second skin.
I can see it now, threads of power that shouldn't exist outside the wards themselves, somehow woven into her very being. They pulse in time with her heartbeat, creating patterns I've never seen in all my centuries of studying the dark arts.
The school has chosen her…
I realize with growing amazement, and yet there’s so much uncertainty.
But why? And how?
A drop of blood falls from her nose, marking time like a crimson hourglass.
Sunrise approaches, and with it,death– at least, according to the ancient laws that govern this place.