Chapter Seven: Prejudice
Ashton POV
I stifle my yawn.
Honestly, being awake during the day is fatigue-inducing. I should be glad though—unlike most vampires my age, the sun doesn't burn me to ash. Perks of being a half-blood, I guess.
As a third year, I've been roped into lecturing combat class. That's a generous word. What I actually do is make sure the first and second years don't die. And if someone calls a duel to the death—which happens more than it should—I serve as a witness and cleanup crew.
I lean against the stone wall, arms folded, eyes tracking the current chaos. A vampire and a large werewolf are tearing at each other on the dueling platform like rabid beasts.
The vampire is fast, but too cocky. I can see the moment his arrogance costs him—he overextends, and the wolf clamps down hard.
A wet crunch.
The vampire's hand is ripped clean off.
Ow. That's gonna hurt.
I sigh and step forward. Reattachment has to happen within the first few minutes. Wait too long, and the body will begin healing without it. Then you're just one hand down for eternity. Messy.
The wolf doesn't seem interested in stopping, even as blood sprays across the stone floor.
Typical.
I leap onto the platform in one swift motion, landing between the two of them.
"Enough!" I bark.
My voice echoes, calm but absolute. Both creatures hesitate.
The vampire stumbles back, clutching his stump. The wolf snarls, teeth still bared, but backs off with a growl.
I glance down at the severed hand.
Still twitching.
Good.
I toss it at the vampire. "Hold it tight. Try not to bleed out."
He mutters something under his breath and staggers off the platform.
I roll my eyes and wipe a fleck of blood off the sleeve of my black compression shirt. That's when I turn around.
There's literally nothing to teach in combat arts. If there is, I don't care. I'm just doing this for extra credit because the second-year professor is extremely lazy.
And that's when I see it.
The only splash of color in the sea of gray and black. Sure, there's the occasional navy or steel blue, but pink?
That must be the infamous Arabella Solstice. She's been the talk of the school, and not in a good way. Rumors say she's a spoiled princess, a walking scandal.
I look at her and can't help the scowl that creeps up. She does look the part—rich, high-maintenance, with the kind of body sculpted by luxury and genetics.
"Miss Solstice," I call.
She walks over to the platform, utterly unbothered.
"Yeah?" she replies, voice light.
"I take it you've just joined us."
She tilts her head, ponytail swishing. A pink piece holds it in place. Of course.
"I'm sure you've heard, apart from the occasional sparring session, this class isn't something to worry about," I say.
She just looks at me with those big honey-gold eyes, blank but too knowing.
"But I'm obligated to know your level. I don't know whether you're qualified to be here."
"Surely I must be, seeing as to how the administration put me as second year," she says, blinking slowly. She's beautiful. Infuriatingly so.
"I am merely double checking," I say with a shrug.
"Hmmmn… okay." Her eyes narrow as she studies me. "What are the rules? Who am I sparring? Can I use a weapon seeing as to how most people here are vampires and wolves?"
She's got a point. Magicians usually skip this class. And the fae? They don't bother with us at all.
"Me. I need to assess your level. You can use a weapon and come at me full force—as if you're trying to kill me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure I can handle it."
She shrugs. "If you say so."
I take a step back. She pulls out her pink hairpiece—a useless little accessory, I assume.
Until it shimmers.
In a blink, the hairpiece twists in her hand, transforming into a silver dagger.
She dashes forward.
Fast.
Too fast.
I shift sideways, ready to counter. But she's already in motion again. The dagger morphs mid-swing—no, not a dagger anymore.
It's a metal bat.
CRACK.
I fly across the platform.
Pain flares along my ribs as I slam into the far wall. I grunt and slide down, stunned.
She twirls the bat in her hand before it melts back into that innocent-looking hairpin. She walks toward me, hips swaying with obnoxious confidence.
"Did I pass?" she asks, batting her lashes.
I cough, breathless.
What the fuck?