Of Witches and Queens: a Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance: Pandemonium Academy Royals, #4

By Mona Black

My witchy cousin has grabbed my four boys and put them under an enchantment that won't let them think straight or remember what has happened before.

Worst still, she hurts them when they think of me.

How am I ever going to break the spell and set them free? How can I stop her before it's too late?

Finding an ally in the Academy is hard work. Training my own newfound powers even more so. I have to hope that I can use my magic to fight my cousin and save my boys. I'd do anything for them.

Only so far nothing seems to be working.

As the Golden Moon event approaches, the night of her dangerous ritual that will allow her to link to all four elements and become the most powerful witch in the world, I feel despair swamp me. How can I fight such magic? How can I win this fight?

But the boys are also fighting back in every way they can and together we will find a way. There has to be a happy ending, because love is the most powerful magic of all and my boys and I have it in spades…

 

*OF WITCHES AND QUEENS is a full-length paranormal reverse harem romance, meaning the main character has more than one love interest. This is the final book in the series. For TW, look inside the book. There are mm scenes. For 18+ only.

This book uses alternating points of view – one boy point of view chapter for every two of the heroine.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Wing Press
• Release date: Oct 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393122005

Book preview

2

MIA

Sindri is already sitting in Art class when I enter. My heart beats harder when I take my seat as near to him as possible. I’m three desks away and it feels like miles between us. I’m trying not to take it personally that he chose a seat with no free space nearby, preventing me from getting any closer.

A defensive wall. It’s almost funny. Does the enchantment get the boys to try and keep away from me? Is it a new layer of magic over the rotten core of the first one?

Fine. Then I’ll take new measures, too. Dropping my backpack on my seat, I walk over to him.

The teacher clears his throat. Miss Apollinari. Please, sit down. Now is not the time to chat.

Just one second, I murmur and stop in front of Sindri. Sin.

He doesn’t even lift his eyes to me. Go away, he says quietly.

I want to talk to you.

Tough. I don’t want to talk to you, so… He’s drawing something. Doodling, really, in one corner of the page. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. His chest is rising and falling unevenly. Bug off.

After class, Sin, please. There is something I need to ask you.

I… can’t. His jaw is clenched tight. His hand skids on the page, then presses the pencil so hard into the page that the tip breaks.

What are you drawing?

Nothing. Gritted out.

In a tangle of thorns and roses, I recognize a scrawl of words. I turn so I can see it from his perspective and⁠—

—and there is my name, made up of twisted branches. Below he’s written the word Almaya. He always called me that in the days and weeks before Ophelia’s arrival.

"What does almaya mean?" I whisper.

His eyes finally lift to mine, haunted and dark. "It means beloved," he says, then blinks as if startled by his own reply.

My heart is in my throat. Sin…

"Just… go," he says, his voice ragged.

Miss Apollinari… The teacher comes to loom over us. Take your seat. I won’t repeat myself. Your seat or the Headmaster’s office. Your choice.

You’re supposed to draw me, Sin, I say, the words coming without planning or direction. Remember? For our joint project.

Miss Apollinari, the teacher says.

With a huff, I return to my seat, my mind spinning. My hands shake as I take out my art pad and my pencils. Turning the pages, I find my drawing of him. Trail my fingers over it, smudging the edges a little. He’s sprawled on the armchair in his room, wearing low-slung pants, his chest bare, his eyes half-closed. I’m no great artist but I remember that day in his room, his sharp, ambivalent words, the way he’d looked at me.

Why did he write my name?

Beloved.

I shiver. What does it mean that he was doing this? Does it mean anything? Was he fighting the enchantment? Is the enchantment weak and he wasn’t focused on anything in particular?

Making out, according to Ashton, weakens the spell, though the spell can tell when one’s attention is on me in particular and yanks on their magic.

I listen with half an ear to the teacher explaining what we’re supposed to do and make a bad job out of it as I can’t make myself concentrate—because a thought has hit me and this class is testing my patience. It seems to never end.

The moment the bell rings, Ophelia appears at the door, as if by magic, to collect her boy toy. Oh, what a surprise. Just like with Emrys, Sindri gets up, gathers his things, grabs his backpack and goes to her without a backward glance.

I glower at her, taking in the items on her person that she collected from my boys to better control them—Emrys’ dangling earring and Sindri’s ceremonial silver hoop on her ears, Ashton’s ring on her thumb, Jason’s leather bracelet on her wrist.

Thief, I whisper. In every sense.

I don’t know if she hears me. Taking Sindri’s hand, she turns her back to me and they head out.

I want to throw my backpack at her and scream until the windows shatter. My skin feels too hot. It’s damn hard to sit there and watch them go. A feeling is rising inside me, a furious whirlwind with nowhere to go. It spreads out, and the desks start to screech, sliding away from me. I…

Mia, the teacher says and the whirlwind starts to fray. Slowly I turn toward him, my heart pounding in my ears.

Yes?

I’ll be expecting your joint project with Sindri by the end of the week. You’re already behind. Don’t fail a class that’s supposed to be easy.

I’ll remind him again, I whisper and the desks stop moving. I turn back to look at them.

Did they move? It’s hard to tell. Did anyone notice? I’ve barely discovered magic and my lineage and I’m already frustrated by my lack of knowledge and experience. Father—my uncle, in fact—had said they’d wanted to protect me from magic—but how can you protect someone from what’s in their blood? Why let me remain ignorant when instead they could have taught me how to use my power properly?

I need to learn how to use magic, how to control it. But who could teach me?

Instead of heading to my next class after art, I go back to the classroom where we just had Lit class, where Emrys was collected by his jailer.

I have this thought lodged in my mind and I need to double-check.

I mean, no way, right? I’m making up a story in my mind that isn’t real. So what if Sindri wrote my name and that word—beloved, oh God—in his art pad? He was probably absent-minded. It doesn’t mean anything.

But I can’t wipe out of my mind the way Emrys had been bent over his desk, looking like he was carving something into the wood.

What if he was?

The classroom is thankfully empty. I walk over to the desk Emrys had occupied and stop. There, on the surface, two words have been carved.

‘Dancing Angel.’

He’s called me that a couple of times.

I sit heavily in the chair where he’d sat earlier and rest my hand over the words. My head’s reeling. Is this for real? Can I trust it? Are the boys really fighting her enchantment? Is it a message for me, or is it only an absent-minded game, an action with no meaning?

Frowning, I press the pads of my fingers against the grooves in the wood. I think of Ophelia standing at the door of the classroom, beckoning, of the boys leaving without a backward glance. Her control over them is immense. But I’m missing something, something about this picture of Ophelia at the door, and it’s bothering me.

What I need is to test my theory, see more evidence of it. If I’m right, it will happen again. And then I will think of a course of action.

So, I head to my next class, and then the next, because I don’t share all my classes with the boys. In the last one of the day, though, the French class, I see Jason.

My breath leaves me at the sight of him. God, why is it so hard to see them and not be able to go put my arms around them, ask them about their day?

He’s sitting kind of hunched over in his seat. They all sit like that now where before they liked to sprawl, take up space. It’s as if they are in pain, or in fear of their lives. It makes my heart hurt to see them like that. The fall of his dirty blond hair hides his eyes, but his mouth is thin and his lips cracked. There’s a smudge on his jaw that I ache to brush with my fingers.

The teacher walks in and the class begins. Not that I’m paying any attention. I’m distracted and impatient to find out if I’m right, to see if Jason will leave me a message, too.

Wake up, everyone! The teacher claps her hands. "Allez! What’s wrong with youth today?"

Lots. Preach, lady. And God, this class will never end. Time is getting slower and slower. It’s as if I’ve been hit with another time spell. The minutes drag. The seconds stall.

Also, I seem to have forgotten all my French. The teacher is very ennuyée with me—that means royally pissed off, by the way. I know because she explains it to me. Apparently, I need to get my cul on the siège and get some étudier done—that is, get my ass on the seat and study.

Roger that.

I’m now at the opposite end of the rope I held this morning. I’m thrilled to see Jason but I can’t wait for the class to end and for him to go so that I can check his desk for any clue.

Finally, finally the bell rings and immediately the door opens, Ophelia appearing in the opening.

How unexpected.

I wonder if she lurks outside, playing games on her phone while waiting for one of her pets to finish class.

Unsurprised, I see Jason gather his stuff and go to her, no backward glances, no deviation.

And of course it all smacks of magic, this utter obedience, this single-mindedness. Why is she picking them up? What for? How does she manage? The boys have different classes at the same time, don’t they? Unless she made them change their schedule, so she has time to go from one class to the other to get them.

I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s organized.

Unlike me. And it chafes. I need to get my ducks in a row, decide how to stop her. But first… I have to hurry because students are waiting outside. Another class is about to start. I hurry over to Jason’s desk, excited, my heart racing, though I don’t recall seeing him do anything out of the ordinary. He took some notes and kept quiet.

And there is nothing—on his desk, on his seat. Nothing scribbled, nothing carved.

Nothing.

Disappointment chokes me. There goes my theory. Just wishful thinking, I guess. Though of course two out of three is not bad. I need to have patience, wait a few days, maybe Jason will leave me something, too.

Only I don’t have days to wait for my name to be scrawled on a desk. The Golden Moon is coming up and I need to find a solution.

Turning away, I’m about to go when something on the floor by the desk draws my eye. A wadded-up piece of paper. Is it Jason’s? I unfold it and stare at something scrawled in the middle. It doesn’t look like a word, more like weird symbols.

I take it with me anyway. I need to find a book on symbols. I stuff the paper in my pocket and go. There’s also History class. Let’s see what happens there.

To my relief, Ashton doesn’t skip History class. He sits at the back, though, so that I have to turn in my seat to check him over. I hadn’t seen him since that awful moment at the lake when I realized Ophelia had gotten to him, too.

He looks pale like the others—then again, he’s a vampire. Hard to tell from across the classroom if he looks particularly worse for the wear today or not. Still, I can’t help myself, taking in his tousled black hair, the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the breadth of his shoulders stretching his usual gray T-shirt.

He’s not looking at me.

None of them do anymore. Is that part of the enchantment? Is it an indirect effect, making them resent me or find me uninteresting? Is it some sense of self-preservation—does she jolt them through the spell, as if with a cattle prod, if they so much as lay eyes on me?

I’m annoyed. I shouldn’t be annoyed at them, I know that. Her magic is crazy strong and it caught them when they were at their most vulnerable, like she so openly bragged to me. So blaming them for not fighting it harder, for not succeeding in resisting it is stupid.

Maybe I’m not as much annoyed as sad and frustrated and missing them so badly. Missing what we had. How can I be feeling this way? What we had lasted a couple of weeks at best.

Time has the same toffee-like quality it had during the last class—stretching and stretching and never-ending. Ashton is quiet, and I can see the worry in the teacher’s eyes. His star student has been out of it for days now.

The class is a recap of what was said in previous lessons and again it goes over my head. I keep finding excuses to turn around and look at Ashton. Is he writing anything? Doing anything unusual?

He’s probably taking notes. He’s a fastidious note-taker, his handwriting precise and clear, almost as if printed on the page, his points bulleted and numbered, titles and subtitles marking every section. I know because I’ve sat beside him a few times.

I wonder how his brother is doing. If the enchantment lets Ash worry about that, if it lets him grieve and rant and make plans to go visit him again, or if it has taken all his free will and real emotions away, at least temporarily.

Are their real selves locked behind a transparent wall, aware and observing what is happening, yet unable to act? Or rather, as it appears to be, most of the time they don’t realize they are enchanted, thinking they know exactly what is going on, the enchantment acting like an invisible hand, directing their thoughts and actions? Like a parasite, I think disgusted, wrapped around their minds, controlling them.

Ashton. The teacher turns to him. When did the last Golden Moon event happen?

The class turns toward Ash who lifts his head for the first time since he entered the classroom and blinks at the teacher. His eyes look bruised all around, dark circles framing them like a robber’s mask.

I don’t know. His voice is quiet and empty of any emotion.

Ashton, the teacher tries again. What is going on with you? You replied to this very question a week ago. You know the answer.

Ashton only gazes back at the teacher impassively, saying nothing more.

A lot can happen in a week, I think. A lot can happen in a day.

You come and talk to me in the afternoon, the teacher says, frowning. We’ll figure this out, whatever is bothering you.

Ashton has bowed his head again, scribbling away in his notebook, black hair hiding his face, broad shoulders slightly hunched. No reply seems to be forthcoming.

Two students on the other side of me are whispering about drugs and how Ashton must be falling down a rabbit hole because his brother is in the hospital, and who knows if the brother is also into drugs?

Good God. The gossip mill is running at full speed.

The teacher approaches my desk so I turn forward and sit up straight, waiting for his reprimand, but his gaze goes from me to Ashton and back, as if he’s calculating the distance between us in his head—and not only the physical one.

Miss Apollinari, he says after a long moment, you will have to pass your notes to Ashton since he has fallen behind.

I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t take notes and what notes I take are crappy at best, but he still has that pensive look on his face. Of course.

Good. He’s an exceptional student but we all need a helping hand from time to time.

Is he actually urging me to check on Ash, make sure he’s okay? I wish I could tell him it’s not that simple. Maybe he heard the rumors, too. Maybe he’s afraid that Ashton is depressed and falling into drugs and he hopes I can stop him from destroying himself.

Passing him my scribbled notes on the history of the magical races won’t miraculously free him from Ophelia’s yoke, though.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. I have to physically restrain myself from turning to look at Ashton again, clenching the edge of the desk until I think the shape of it must have been imprinted in my palms forever. The bell ringing is my salvation, a breath of air after spending way too long underwater.

Everyone is on their feet, notebooks and books thrown into backpacks, everyone talking at once, making plans while the teacher tries in vain to speak over them and tell them about homework.

I take my time getting up, carefully placing my notebook and pen inside my bag, turning to glance at Ashton who has already packed up everything, his gray gaze on the door.

I follow his line of sight—and there she is, my dark mirroring, my grinning reflection.

Come, Ashton. Don’t leave a girl waiting. She crooks her finger at him, all cutesy and flirty, all wrong and twisted.

And he goes, his gaze fixed on her, his steps measured, letting her take his hand and lead him out.

Swallowing down sourness at the wrongness of this, I head to his desk. Don’t let it get to you, I tell myself. You have a goal, a new goal, and that’s to save those boys from her, to stop whatever she’s planning. You can do this.

However improbable it sounds.

I don’t see it at first. Of course Ashton wouldn’t carve words in his desk, that’s not his style, unlike Emrys’. He’s also not one for drawing and doodling. I look under his desk and there’s a small rolled-up piece of paper stuck there, in a crack in the plywood.

My breath catching in my chest, I pull it free and unroll it.

‘These violent delights have violent ends.’ Only this one line. A quote. Not my name, but a line he quoted to me when he was talking of love.

Of loving me. And not deserving it.

I clutch the paper in my hand and with the other draw out the scrunched-up paper I found below Jason’s desk. This can’t be a coincidence. Jason’s must be a message, too. I only have to decipher it.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, I tell myself, trying to calm my racing heart. The mind plays tricks sometimes, gives directions to our hands that bypass conscious thought—but isn’t that even more significant? Ophelia’s enchantment seems to control the conscious part of their brain—a continuous litany of ‘I love Ophelia, she’s the best, she wants the best for me’ but it can’t really make them love her. Love is complex, right? Was Ashton the one who said it? It’s made up of affection and familiarity, lust and excitement. It’s a deeper connection. You can’t force that. You can only convince someone that it’s there.

It’s as if, deep inside, the boys know it’s not real. A small flame, defying the bitter wind. And I’m going to fan it in all and every way I can.

I turn to go and stop in my tracks, cold all over. Wait… What if this is part of Ophelia’s plan? Make me believe the boys still care about me? Can this plot get any more twisted? I feel like I’m losing my mind.

No, I tell myself. That would be too convoluted. And to what end? What use would it be if I believed it?

Could she rope me in, too, drain me? I’m not an elemental. But most witches have a dominant element, right? And I’m not the Queen so I must have one, too. I wonder what it is, and if Ophelia wants it for herself.

Can I trust these little messages? Can I let myself believe that it’s a sign of resistance, not a part of her master plan to take over the world?

Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that I have no choice but to believe that the boys are fighting back. When you’re falling into the void, you’d grab any handhold you might find, even if there’s a chance it might break and let you fall all the way to the bottom.

3

ASHTON

C ome, she says and I follow, content to give her what she wants from me. Her hair is long and dark, her hand small in mine, her voice soft as she repeats my name, and with every repetition calm spreads through me, my thoughts settling into the placidness of a lake, its waters opaque, the worries and concerns sinking into the deep, leaving small questions floating.

Will we eat? Will she let me see the others? Will she kiss me?

Another thought tries to intrude. I see a rolled-up piece of paper in my hand and I open my fingers, stare at my empty palm. I frown, wince as a sting is delivered to my magic and it travels through my body like a drop of poison, making old wounds and bruises ache.

Ashton, look at me. She takes my other hand, too, so now she’s holding both in hers. We’ve stopped behind the refectory, where there are only trees and no people in sight, and she’s smiling at me. How was your day?

I’m still frowning, though the image of the rolled-up piece of paper starts to slip from my mind. Good.

Anything exciting happen?

I shake my head.

All boring, huh? she whispers. Don’t worry, we’ll have fun together. Smile for me?

The corners of my mouth tug up.

She nods. Much better. I hate to see you displeased. Was the teacher a bitch?

He was worried that I’m lagging behind.

Oh. Boo-hoo. He’s not the one who has to spend his every free minute working to control the flares of magic, is he?

No, I say because a pull on my magic tells me it’s the right answer.

That’s right. You and me, baby. We’ll change the world.

I’m drowning in her dark gaze which reminds me of another—and fuck, there’s another sting, another wince—and then she’s kissing me, her mouth soft, her taste bitter and unfamiliar. I try to pull back and this time the prod on my magic makes me groan.

Her hands release mine only to cup my cheeks, fingertips pressing into my cheekbones, and her mouth sucks on mine, darkening my last thoughts. The ache flows through me, again and again, pulling on my magic, my element, pulling the water from my body, from my power, draining me. And yet I can’t move away, don’t want to, my hands coming to rest over hers, and I’m kissing her back, letting her have all she wants from me.

I belong to Ophelia. She came to help us. She came to save us. All she asks of me belongs to her. My life doesn’t matter. She’s doing this for all of us.

She’s the one I want, the one I need. She’s the one…

After an eternity, she breaks the kiss and smiles at me. Dazed, I gaze back, my knees weak and my pulse deafening in my ears. Her hands drop from my face to my shoulders. Something familiar about her face makes its way through my clouded-over thoughts, something I keep forgetting over and over when it’s damn important, and…

Say my name, she says. Say my name, Ashton.

Mia? I whisper.

Wrong answer. Her face twists into something ugly as she draws her hand back and slaps me. The pull on my magic this time sends me to my knees. Never, she says, ever mention her name again. I see that there’s some more disciplining I need to do…

I don’t know what time of the day it is, though outside my window it’s dark. When did night fall? I blink and start to turn, freezing as pain jolts me. There’s no specific part of me that hurts—or doesn’t—though there doesn’t seem to be a source for it, an open wound or bruise. It’s an all-encompassing ache, gripping me from head to toe.

What the hell happened?

Try to remember, I tell myself, sitting up carefully, biting down on a moan. You have to remember. Your memory is slipping.

I was in class. And then…

A girl with long dark hair.

A rolled-up piece of paper.

A kiss.

Who did I kiss? What hurt me like this? I feel as if a truck rolled over me, my magic flaring like a river overflowing its banks, rivulets drenching the air, calling the animal in me.

Ophelia. I kissed Ophelia—she kissed me—her hands pressing on my face, her magic pulling on mine⁠—

Bile rises in my throat. I push myself to get up, to walk to the window and back, restless, shaking, my anger rising and falling like a wave crashing against a wall. What the fuck is going on with me?

Why am I with Ophelia? Why do I let her kiss me?

A yank on my already frayed magic makes me stagger, grab the headboard for support. Because you love her, a voice in my head tells me and strangely it doesn’t sound like mine. She is the one you want, the one you trust. Your savior.

Right. Right…

A bang sends my room door shaking in its hinges and I jerk. Goddamn, I need to get my wits together.

Fuck off! I snap.

Ash, open the door.

"Emrys?" I blink. Why would Emrys be banging on my door? Did something bad happen? I should be worried about something, a whisper tells me, about someone, but I can’t remember who.

It’s enough to get me moving, though. I open the door—it was unlocked, strangely, and I can’t recall how I got into my room, into my bed—and stare at the demon boy. He’s leaning against the wall by the door, his spiky hair defiantly high, that thin braid resting against his temple, his corded neck. It draws my eyes to his shoulders, the muscular arms folded over his broad chest, the long, strong lines of his body.

There you are, he says, breaking me out of my contemplation.

Rys. What are you doing here?

You resisted her enchantment, he says, tipping his head back, gazing at me from under his lashes. They’re ridiculously long for such a bad-ass boy. His dark eyes glimmer.

I rub at my forehead, phantom pain chasing its way through my veins. What enchantment?

He tsks, pushes off the wall, and stalks past me into my room. We have to talk.

I follow him back inside stiffly, close the door and lean on it. Talk about what?

The enchantment. He stops beside my desk and turns to face me. Lock the door.

There is no enchantment. I’d have sensed it. Who would put one on me anyway?

"Not only on you. On us."

Us? Who would do that?

Ophelia.

I scoff. "Why would she? I⁠—"

Listen, man, he says, "you’re the newest addition to her collection. She’s probably paying more attention to you right now, until