25. Caine

25

CAINE

My jaw clenches as I stare at the Nathaniel-shaped hole in Violet's wall. Frost spreads from my feet, creeping across the floor in delicate, angry patterns. I haven't felt this helpless, this utterly useless, since my father's last training session.

The sound of rapid footsteps echoes down the hallway moments before Professor Blackthorne bursts into the room, his usual composure completely shattered.

"What in the daylight hours happened here?" he thunders, taking in the destruction: the frozen wall, the shattered desk, the hole that leads to the outside. His eyes land on each of us. Violet, in her mysteriously summoned white dress, Flint, Thorne, and I are healed but looking the worst for wear, sartorially speaking.

"Nathaniel," Violet explains, but Blackthorne cuts her off with a raised hand.

"Stop." His voice is deadly quiet now, which is somehow worse than the shouting. "Let me see if I understand this correctly. The four of you were in this room - which, need I remind you, is a single-occupancy bedroom - when you should be sleeping, and Violet's homicidal sire shows up, and instead of alerting the staff, you decided to take him on yourselves?"

Put like that, it does sound rather stupid.

"There wasn't time," Thorne tries to argue. "He appeared out of nowhere?—"

"Silence!" Blackthorne's power ripples through the room, making the remaining intact items rattle. "Do you have any idea what could have happened? What nearly did happen? Look at yourselves!"

I shift uncomfortably as he is right, but he also isn't listening. If we'd had time to call for someone, we would have.

"Furthermore," he continues, "the amount of raw power that was just unleashed in this room could have brought down half the academy. We have wards in place for a reason, protocols for exactly this type of situation!"

"Sir," Violet steps forward, "it was my fault. I?—"

"Oh, it absolutely was not just your fault, Miss Violet. All four of you are equally responsible for this catastrophe, which could have harmed other students, and all four of you will face the consequences."

Flint groans. "Please, not the bats!"

Blackthorne's eyes narrow dangerously. "No bats. Detention. Some of you, starting immediately. "

"But sir," Thorne protests, "we need to prepare for the ritual?—"

"What you need," Blackthorne interrupts, "is to learn that actions have consequences. Mr Caine, you will clean the dining hall—without magick—now between night and day shifts."

I open my mouth to protest, but one look at his expression changes my mind.

"Mr Flint, you will assist Madam Thornheart in the infirmary, dealing with whatever delightful ailments our younger day students manage to inflict upon themselves."

Flint looks like he might be sick.

"Mr Thorne," he continues, "you will help Professor Graves catalogue the entirety of the restricted section. By hand."

Thorne actually pales at that. The restricted section is notorious for its size and magickally enhanced chaos.

"And you, Miss Violet," he fixes Violet with a stern look, "will go to bed, to sleep , and when you wake up, you will practise your new powers with Amara until she tells me you are capable of controlling yourself!"

"But—" we all start to protest simultaneously.

"Would anyone like to make it a week?"

We shut up.

"Mr Caine, the dining hall awaits."

"Fine." I avoid eye contact with the others, knowing it will just make things so much worse. I trudge off, thinking Violet got off lightly compared to the rest of us. Poor Flint has it the worst. First bats and now first-aid. Those young witches are arrogant until they nearly blow their hands off, and then it's all tears and blood everywhere. I snicker despite my own situation. Turning my cane into a broom as I enter the empty dining hall, I start sweeping.

My father would be appalled if he saw me now, but that almost makes it worth it.

Almost.

"Fucking Nathaniel," I mutter, attacking a particularly stubborn bit of dried food with more force than necessary. "I want Violet to kick your arse so hard…"

The broom handle creaks in protest as ice starts to form around my grip. I force myself to take a deep breath, releasing my hold on my power before I freeze the entire hall.

Truth be told, though, it's not really the cleaning that's bothering me. It's the helplessness I felt during the fight. All my years of training, all my father's brutal lessons, all of my immense power, and what good did it do? Nathaniel swatted us aside like we were nothing more than annoying insects.

I move methodically down the long rows of tables, sweeping crumbs and debris into neat piles. There's something almost meditative about the repetitive motion, though I'd rather die than admit it.

Next time will be different.

Because there will be a next time. Nathaniel made that clear enough. He won't stop coming for Violet and won't stop trying to claim what he believes is his .

But next time , she won't be sired to him anymore, and she can stake him hard while we watch.

The thought makes my cock go hard. I wonder if she would let me claim her next to his ashes as a massive fuck you to him.

I move to the next table, this one bearing the scars of countless student meals. Food stains, carved initials, even what appears to be some intriguing looking scorch marks from some failed magickal experiment. Under normal circumstances, the cleaning staff would handle this with magick, but Blackthorne was very specific about doing this the mundane way.

As I clean, I think about all the ways I wish I could hurt him but can't. My imagination runs wild, and I grin ferally at some of the more violent ways I would like to inflict on him.

The pile of debris grows as I work my way through the hall. Despite my initial resentment, I find myself taking pride in doing the job properly. Each table I clean is spotless, each floor section I scrub is gleaming. If I'm going to be forced to do manual labour, I'm fucking well going to excel at it.

The hours pass as I work, my thoughts alternating between plotting revenge against Nathaniel and satisfying my unexpected perfectionist tendencies with the cleaning. By the time I reach the last table, the dining hall looks better than it probably has in years.

I step back to survey my work, turning the broom back to my cane and leaning on it. Not a crumb or stain in sight. Even the scorch marks are gone, though that might have involved a tiny bit of ice magick. However, I'm sure Blackthorne will overlook it for the betterment of the academy's property.

"Well done, Mr Caine."

I turn around to find Blackthorne standing in the doorway, examining my handiwork with an approving eye.

"Sir," I acknowledge stiffly.

"You know," he says conversationally, walking into the hall, "when I assigned these detentions, I had specific reasons for each of you."

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

He runs a finger along one of the gleaming tables. "You need to learn that not everything is about power and control. Sometimes the simple tasks, done well, can be just as satisfying as grand displays of magick."

I blink, surprised by his insight.

"I noticed you didn't try to cheat," he continues. "Well, except for those scorch marks, but I'll overlook that. You took a menial task and turned it into an exercise in precision and excellence."

"I just didn't want to have to do it twice," I mutter, uncomfortable with his analysis.

He smiles knowingly. "Of course. Well, regardless of your motivation, the result is impressive. Perhaps there's hope for you yet."

Before I can respond to that cryptic comment, he turns to leave. At the door, he pauses.

"Oh, and Mr Caine? Next time that vampire even breathes in MistHallow air, I suggest you call me immediately. Say my name, I'll know."

I purse my lips as I take that in. "Does that mean you always know?"

He smiles. It's slow, secretive and makes him look less stern professor headmaster, more total vampire mage badass.

He disappears before I can say anything else, leaving me alone in my spotless dining hall.

I look around one last time, allowing myself a small smile of satisfaction. Yes, the task was beneath me. Yes, I'm still furious about Nathaniel. But there's something to be said for a job well done, even if that job is just sweeping floors. Also, I will murder anyone on the spot who dares to undo my handiwork. That thought alone is enough to please me.

Though perhaps, I think as I take one last look at my immaculate dining hall, not all lessons need to involve pain and power. Sometimes, they can come from something as simple as a broom and a bit of honest work.

But I'll never tell Blackthorne he was right about that.