Rebel Academy: Crush

Chapter Eight FOX

I slumped in the corner of the Memory Theater, trying not to remember that the last time I'd been here, I'd transformed into my cat form, almost pooped (in my hedgehog form), and revealed my worst memory to the entire class.

Wow, good times.

Being sent to a coven-run academy...okay, prison...as a magical son born to witch parents, this term had been just as terrifying as I'd expected. Only, I'd also met my first ever friends and the woman who'd kissed and made love to me like I wasn't a shimage and she was a witch — Magenta.

Magenta’s Soul and magic wound around mine in the same way as her fingers wound around my wrist, stroking across the brand that still burned like it'd been held against a snowman's face, until the snowman had melted.

The murder of a snowman was a tragic crime.

The room was thick with the scent of burning sage. My skin crawled at the oppressively dark magic, which nipped at my throat like it was trying to devour me.

I pushed down the urge to bite back.

Even though the tiered black seats of the Memory Theater were hidden in shadow, I was still wearing my pajamas like the other Immortals. I'd always hoped that my first slumber party would include more pillow fights, a midnight feast, and porn. My cousin Aquilo had once whispered to me about watching his sister through the crack of their interjoining bedroom doors, passing around a stash of porn at a slumber party. As the son in a witch household, he hadn’t been invited, although since the porn had run with a Witches Are the Kinkiest theme that was definitely better than Aquilo self-combusting from blushes. His descriptions, however, still provided some of my best Wank Bank Fantasies.

There was nothing like blushes combined with porn.

Bask slouched with his feet up on the seats below. His dark hair fell across his eyes.

How did he make it look like a fashion statement: sexy night chic...?

I bit my lip. My feline side struggled inside me to dive across Magenta and snuggle in Bask’s lap. Okay, I hold my paws up, snuggle was a useful euphemism for the many fun things that’d lead to the Death of a Fox if Damelza swept in and caught us.

When Bask caught me eying his lap and definitely not his hard dick in his silk pajamas, his gaze became half-lidded, and he winked.

I expected Sleipnir, who was sprawled in the seat next to him, to laugh, but he appeared frozen. His jaw was clenched. Only Mist's muzzle poked out of his pocket, and Mist was suspiciously silent.

Sleipnir stared at Willoughby who was just as frozen. Willoughby stood in a spotlight on the stage.

By my prickles, I knew what it felt like to be abandoned in that light.

I swallowed, pulling my hand away from Magenta to wrap my arms around my middle. I shook my head to shut out the ghostly memory of "It's a Wonderful World".

Were the witches truly playing the song again or was my mind playing tricks?

Last time, it'd been me standing in the same place as Willoughby. I shivered, forcing away the memory of my sister and her cruel friends. I couldn’t lose myself in a time when I'd been desperate for someone to save me.

Except, they never had.

When I tipped back my head, I blinked up at the words that swirled in and out of focus on the ceiling:

Share our pasts in order to move forward as one together.

I sighed. Was there an Anti-Motivational Hex, which could shove these sayings one word at a time up Damelza's ass?

That'd be brilliant. Although, also paradoxical because to me that'd be super motivational.

Then the words slipped back, as if underneath the waters of a pool, and new ones formed.

Magenta gasped. "Sweet Hecate, have they not hurt him enough?"

My brow furrowed. "Geralt of Rivia? Oscar Wilde? Quasimodo? Wait, please tell me they have those three together trapped in the academy…"

Magenta's black mists flicked me in warning. "Would it be an awful imposition to ask you to read?"

I stared up at the ceiling and the curling letters:

I screwed shut my eyes. I didn't want to read any more of the letter from Willoughby's prick of a brother, which Damelza had already used to shame him once.

Who wrote in that way to their own brother?

It was bad enough that Mr. Nosy Incubus had read his diary. I should copy Bask and curse him to blurt out every time he had a sexy thought. Except, then he'd never stop talking, and we'd never get any work done.

Actually, that sounded good.

At last, the black mists tapped me again, and I opened my eyes to look down at Willoughby.

I thought that he'd be shaking or furious. Instead, he was pale and shell-shocked. He looked lost in his own world. He'd never seemed small before, but he did alone on that stage in his silk suit. His hair was loose of his ribbons, tumbling around his face.

His eyes were glazed.

Did he know what was happening?

I only just restrained myself from jumping onto the stage with Willoughby. I was one protective kitty when someone was hurt by their family or witches. If my lovers wanted to claim this Prince (who joined in with my banter, which was always a plus), then I didn't care what brand a Hecate statue burned onto him.

After all, she'd branded me with R for a Random whipping boy, which was simply rude. Luckily, I didn't have a complex.

"You know this Love an Elf Plan?" Sleipnir hissed, leaning over Bask. Magenta arched her brow. "I'm kind of thinking it'll be more dangerous than the mission on Friday. Look at the letter." When he gestured at the ceiling, I winced. I'd rather not, cheers. "How did we all get distracted by his lullabies and hair?"

Bask sighed. "But such pretty hair."

"He's a murderer and a traitor. He tried to take over his own kingdom." Mist's eyes were wide and his ears pinned, as he pawed at Sleipnir's pocket. "Do you know how many centuries my dad and me were hunted by our enemies? But this one," his gaze darted to Willoughby, "is bad like...a pretty Stalin."

Bask stiffened. "Take that back or from tomorrow morning, your socks will be perpetually damp."

I shuddered. Bask's curses were terrifying but also, if anyone deserved damp socks, it was Sleipnir after calling Willoughby that.

Sleipnir blanched but raised his chin in defiance.

Magenta blinked. "Who?"

Of course, she was a Victorian who'd been burned alive and then trapped as a ghost in a tree. I allowed myself a moment to mentally rub my hands gleefully. What could I convince her had happened in the last century...? Hmm, I’d begin with the Third World War that was started by a genetically modified zombie hamster, which would be particularly fun since she didn’t even know about the first two wars…

"He means a pretty Nero,” I explained, polishing my halo for not pulling out the zombie hamster just yet. “Since I was once Nero in a past life (emperor, charioteer, and fiddler as Rome burned), I can tell you that he's wrong."

Bask glared at Sleipnir. "His kingdom thinks that he's a monster. You're not a monster." Sleipnir flinched. "What if the Prince also isn't?"

When Magenta traced her fingers across her black pearl choker, I wet my lips, wishing that those soft fingers were tracing my skin with such careful deliberation. "He's the Princes' weakest link. Nero or monster, he's also mine."

"Midnight doesn't want to be a whipping boy," I ventured. In fact, neither did I. Whipping didn't exactly sell it, nor did being the guinea pig for testing potions or having hexes thrown at me. "He can be my special project."

Magenta smiled. "I believe that he already is."

I flushed. Yeah, he was my knight, I was his king, and Magenta would be his queen. The vampire had said that to me like wedding vows.

Did that make me a vampire bride?

Sleipnir snorted. "Lysander's haughty ass will never turn."

I glanced across at the pink seats, as the theatre was arranged like a chessboard, and Lysander who sat alone. Midnight knelt on the floor, and I couldn't see more than the curve of his pale back.

Lysander's emerald hair, which hung to his waist, had been caught back. His large eyes gleamed in the dim light. His golden wings were folded back. Just for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine that he wasn't a princely sized prick, and to see just how beautiful his alabaster skin was, as well as how dangerous a warrior he looked even sitting stiffly in his seat.

Perhaps, it wasn't healthy to have a thing for predators. But I couldn't help thinking how much I'd love to hunt alongside him. Then I sighed because he'd be more likely to kick my foxy ass flying into a snowbank.

Lysander was still wearing his smart black trousers and blazer with the P crest embroidered in silk to one side. His silk shirt hung open, revealing tantalizing glimpses of his collarbone. Did the Princes sleep in their uniforms? I bet that they lay ram-rod straight in their blazers like they were in the army.

Beetles and slugs, that was depressing.

Despite all the Princes' luxuries (and I swore on my whiskers that I'd find a way to bust open their private larder and lavish the treats on my lovers), I'd rather wake up in the East Wing in the tangled mess of the Immortals' arms, even with Bask half smothering me like a limpet, Magenta's cold breath tickling my neck, and Sleipnir sleep talking.

I'd never known that you could dirty talk in your sleep. I could never look at a banana in the same way…or eat one.

Magenta assessed Lysander. "Maybe there's more to both his haughty self and his ass than his fear of Titus and his search for redemption. When the fae finds himself alone and divided from the other Princes, then he'll know how I felt. It's remarkable how it forces you to grow up. He'll have to choose either to rebel or to run into the arms of his oppressors."

"Since you're here now...?" I cocked my head.

Magenta's grin was wicked. "I rebelled."

In a flurry of feathers, Damelza appeared on the stage. The light glistened off her hair, until it appeared like polished silver. Her dress swooshed across the floor, as she swept towards Willoughby. Yet there was a gleam in her eyes like she was a zookeeper circling a witch-eating lion.

That’d be brilliant.

Instead, she was a prick of a Principal, prowling around an elf, who was humming the Lion King’s “Circle of Life”. Weirdly, none of that struck me as odd anymore or that an elf would find Disney show tunes a comforting retreat from the upcoming violation of his mind.

I knew what it was like to stand shaking in the spotlight because a spell was about to rip open your mind for everyone to see.

I should’ve tried belting out “Bare Necessities” (okay, so I might also know the dance, since I forced Aquilo to watch it with me one summer…don’t judge this dancing cat). Except, that would’ve led the rest of the Immortals to jump on me and not in the sexy way.

Damelza rolled her eyes. “You’re playing the ignore me game, are you? After your atrocious behavior over your brother, the king’s letter, you’re in dire need of this discipline. Perhaps, I should set the mood.”

Then she glanced significantly at the ceiling.

When The Automatic’s raucous “Monster” burst out, with its stomping lyrics and screaming guitar, I startled. So, this theater was alive the same as the Rebel Café with its mischievous AI, Serenity.

The only difference was that the Memory Theater was a prick.

When Willoughby broke off humming and flinched, Damelza’s eyes glittered with malicious amusement. Yet my hands clenched because Sleipnir had flinched too.

No way on my whiffling nose would Damelza torment Willoughby like she had me.

“Wow, I’d forgotten just how motivational you were,” I gritted out. “Do you run self-esteem seminars too? Classes to Boost Confidence? Wait, I was wrong, this is your romantic mood setting, right? Pan knows, I’m feeling pressured in an inappropriate way right now.” Bad mouth…stop talking…that’s enough…stop while you’re behind. “Why don’t we all just go back to our separate beds, before I report you?”

Whoops.

Bask snickered.

Damelza peered at me. So, that was what it felt like to be a mouse, before the bird of prey swoops. I swallowed.

“I’m sorry that mages are so easily turned on by rock music.” Her lips pinched. “Please do report me to Bacchus.”

I eyed her warily. I’d fallen into this trap before. “Really? She won’t transfigure me into a footstool?”

Damelza shook her head.

“Pomeranian?”

“Certainly not.”

I started to ease myself out of my seat. Why were the others not moving? “Well, good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the witches bite…” I cut off on a choked gurgle, as feathered straps shot out, binding each of the Rebels and me to our seats.

I winced, as the straps cut into my thighs.

Damelza adjusted the feather behind her ear. “Bacchus will, however, transfigure you into a wine rack. She’s keen to try out the spell. Can you imagine what it’d feel like to have wine bottles inserted into you?”

I paled, and every part of me clenched in sympathy. “Hey, have you been sneaking looks at my Wank Fantasies?”

Damelza’s cheek twitched. “Do you know why witches hate boastful mages?”

“Dick envy? Our perfect skin? Institutionalized sexism?”

“Because they’re liars.” When I dropped my gaze, her smile widened. “They wear masks to hide how wicked they are.” When she gripped Willoughby by the shoulder, he finally focused on her, panicked. Yet his gaze flicked to me first.

Was that surprised gratitude?

“Remain silent if you wish, Crush. The Memory Theater’s most delightful quality is that the student doesn’t need to speak to reveal himself. There’s no chance of him lying. The spell shows the truth, as every Rebel relives your memory alongside you.”

Finally, Willoughby shook his head in distress. His hands curled and uncurled compulsively at his sides. “Let me suffer this, if I must. But alone.” His anguished gaze darted to Magenta. Perhaps, she was right that he loved her. “I refuse to play with an audience.”

Damelza’s grin was dark and dangerous. “Isn’t that lucky then because this isn’t a game.”

Damelza spun Willoughby to face the back wall of the theater, which was lit with a kaleidoscope of projected images. They were the memories of every student who’d faced this trial before.

Great Pan, there I was too, kneeling up on the mattress in the window of the attic.

My palms became sweaty, and my sight blurred. I shook.

I didn’t need wine bottles inserted inside me, the Memory Theater had already inserted its claws…tentacles…okay, I didn’t know what it’d used, but the experience had hurt.

I was going to hurl.

Then Magenta clasped my hand, and her magic sparkled across mine. I leaned into her side. Slowly, my heartbeat slowed.

My shame was trapped in the academy. My nightmare. But I wasn’t trapped in the attic anymore. I’d got out, and I was with Magenta now.

Us Immortals would crack open this academy, until each Rebel’s life, which had been caught in that kaleidoscope for over a century, could bleed out.

Every Rebel would be free.

Yet first, Willoughby had to face his nightmare.