Fated for Her Wolves - Tara West Page 0,87

into her upper lip hairs. Steam poured out of the troll’s wide nostrils as she glared at Serah from under a unibrow that looked like someone had glued a strip of shag carpet to her forehead. The admissions clerk at the Dame Doublewart’s School for Misfit Witches had to be the ugliest troll in all four realms, and that was saying something, considering the last one she’d had the misfortune of encountering had had a thumb-sized brown wart hanging out of her nostril.

The plaque on her desk announced her name was Lady Hoofenmouth. She wore a huge rock on her bloated wedding finger. Serah didn’t know if she was more shocked that Lady Hoofenmouth was a member of the gentry or that there was another Hoofenmouth.

When the ancient black phone on Lady H’s desk rang obnoxiously, sounding like a bleating, sick cow, the troll picked up the receiver, nostrils flaring, and listened to a shrill voice on the other end.

Grunting, she hung up and gave Serah the once-over. “Seraphina Goldenwand, the headmistress will see you now.”

Serah jumped to her feet, fingering the wand in her pocket and clutching her purse. “Thank you.” Turning up her nose, she walked haughtily past the troll, ignoring the annoying buzzing of Miss Pratt’s wings, who preceded her, as she banged into furniture, trying to keep up.

Once they reached a dark, musty hall, Serah covered her mouth, breathing into her palm while picking up the pace enough to zip past the pixie. This place smelled fouler than a rotting crypt.

“Wait up,” Miss Pratt called, coughing and choking behind her. “Oh, my. This place smells like dragon farts.”

Serah strode straight toward a tall slender woman with a long beak nose and hair pulled back in an austere bun, who glared at them from a doorway at the end of the hall.

“Hello.” She smiled at the woman, not surprised when she didn’t smile back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Serah infused a bit of siren charm into her words, hoping her seductive voice would be hard to resist, then arched back when the woman’s lips twisted into a scowl.

“I’m Dame Doublewart.” Her face was a mask of stone. “Siren charms don’t work on me.” She held the office door open and motioned to a chair in front of a wide, gray desk. “Come in.”

Serah’s eyes widened as she walked past Dame Doublewart. In the magical world, sometimes one’s name was an indication of one’s appearance. Dame Doublewart had no visible warts on her face, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have them somewhere. Her imagination raced with possibilities, most of which made her stomach churn.

“Thank you so much for seeing us.” Miss Pratt’s rapidly buzzing wings ground to a halt when Dame Doublewart held out a staying hand. She dropped to the floor with a squeak and a curse and jutted tiny hands on her hips, glaring at the formidable headmistress.

Dame Doublewart arched a thin brow and scowled down at the purple-haired pixie. “And you are?”

“Penelope Pixiefeather Pratt.” Miss Pratt pulled back narrow shoulders, flashing a triumphant grin. “I’m Lord Goldenwand’s personal assistant.”

Serah fought an eyeroll. She suspected her grandfather’s name didn’t carry much weight with Dame Doublewart.

“Miss Pratt, I don’t believe your name was called.” Dame Doublewart crossed her arms and impatiently tapped her foot.

Miss Pratt’s jaw dropped. “But Serah’s grandfather—”

“Has no influence here.” Dame Doublewart shooed Miss Pratt away as if she was swatting a bug. “Now, if you’d excuse us.”

“Fine,” Miss Pratt huffed, eyes crossing.

Shoo, Serah mouthed, waving Miss Pratt into the musty hall, her grin widening when Dame Doublewart slammed the door in the pixie’s face. She’d never liked Miss Pratt, and not just because she was a whiny, impatient little mouse. Miss Pratt had a habit of shadowing Serah at the most inopportune times and reporting everything back to Grandfather, including the rumors that Serah had slept with every professor at her former school. Miss Pratt was a short snitch with a dragon-sized grudge wedged up her twat.

Looking her over with an assessing glare, Dame Doublewart motioned for Serah to sit.

She sat in a slick, squeaky chair, cringing when it wobbled beneath her. She wasn’t surprised this school couldn’t afford decent furniture, given the condition of the place. The outside had been just as decrepit, a crumbling, gray building located in the heart of an old cemetery. This was a far cry from her last school, which was located at the edge of the beautiful city of Sawran, overlooking a tropical

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