Page 12 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

~MORTIMER~

" YOU KISSED HER?"

The collective outburst rings through our new common area, but I maintain my composure, taking another careful sip of my perfectly steeped Earl Grey.

The tea's familiar warmth helps center me as I survey the wards I've spent the last hour meticulously crafting around our living space.

Without official reassurance from the administration — which will surely come during the entry ceremony — I prefer to err on the side of caution after such an unpredictable trial. The magical barriers shimmer faintly at the edges of my perception, a complex web of protection and privacy that should, theoretically, keep our conversations from reaching unwanted ears.

"Yes," I answer simply, appreciating how the bergamot's subtle notes complement the tea's natural astringency. "I had to kiss her to pull her soul and reconstruct her body in the same space-time continuum. It was the only way to initiate the switch before Lysth's attack would have proven fatal."

The explanation, though accurate, does little to soothe the obvious tension radiating from my companions. Particularly from Nikolai—or rather, Nikki, as Gabriel had dubbed her current feminine form with surprising casualness before succumbing to exhaustion.

"You're centuries old," she protests, her golden aura flickering with agitation. "You can't possibly date anyone?—"

"Age isn't necessarily a factor in this instance," Atticus interrupts, his voice carrying unexpected authority. "And it shouldn't be weaponized in some pejorative way when that clearly wasn't Mortimer's intention."

The intervention surprises me — not just the words themselves, but the weight behind them. Not to say no one has come to my defense unless it truly benefits them, but Atticus has no purpose of standing in my steed.

Nevertheless, there's something about how Atticus carries himself, a kind of ancient power that seems at odds with his apparent youth.

Nikki bristles visibly, her transformed features arranging themselves into an expression of pure aristocratic disdain.

"What's your fucking problem?" she demands, golden light gathering around her clenched fists. Silence descends on us as he’s not going to entertain her outburst. I can get why Nikolai is acting rather obnoxiously irritable, especially with his current predicament, but I’m sure Atticus, who doesn’t need to carry sympathy for someone whose practically a stranger, doesn’t give a damn about his circumstances.

"Nothing?" she snaps when Atticus merely raises an eyebrow. "You shouldn't even be interfering because you're a fucking nobody. Between the two of us, I would probably be of better service than the significant douche you are."

The words have barely left her lips when Atticus appears directly in front of her, moving with the kind of speed that makes vampire abilities look sluggish in comparison. Before anyone can react, he upends my entire teapot over her head.

The Earl Grey — still steaming — cascades over Nikki's long golden hair, staining her white shirt and leaving her sputtering in shock. Cassius and I remain perfectly still, equally mortified by this display of casual disrespect toward Fae royalty.

"You—" Nikki rises, literally steaming with rage as her magic flares. Her Fae aura has to be the only layer of protection that saved her from the scoldingly hot liquid that would have peeled off anyone else’s flesh in an instant. "Do you know who the fuck I am?! I'm royal?—"

The word dies in her throat as Atticus's aura suddenly fills the room.

The change is immediate and overwhelming—like watching a predator shed its camouflage to reveal something ancient and terrifying. The very air grows heavy with power that feels older than time itself, forcing Nikki to her knees through sheer magical pressure.

Cassius and I find ourselves similarly immobilized, not by any direct compulsion but by the instinctive recognition of something far more dangerous than we'd imagined. His presence resonates on frequencies that shouldn't exist in our realm, power that feels like it predates the very concept of magical classification.

Atticus tilts his head, studying Nikki with eyes that now burn like fresh blood.

When he speaks, his voice carries harmonics that make reality itself seem to shiver.

"Allow me to properly introduce myself," he says, each word precise and heavy with power. "I am Atticus Bloodweaver, Crown Prince of the Crimson Throne and sole heir to the Shadowheart Dynasty. First of the Eternal Bloodline, bearer of the Mark of the Forgotten, and High Lord of the Crimson Coven."

The titles alone send chills down my spine — not just their grandeur, but the implications they carry. The Shadowheart Dynasty is spoken of only in whispers, a bloodline so ancient and powerful that most believe it mythical. They're said to be the original vampires, those who walked the earth before the great schism that created the modern vampire courts.

Their power is rumored to transcend normal vampire abilities, drawing on magics so old they predate written history. The Crimson Court itself exists more as legend than fact— a gathering of purebloods whose abilities make normal vampire powers look like parlor tricks in comparison.

"Your pathetic attempts at asserting dominance through royal status mean nothing to me," Atticus continues, his voice carrying notes that make my bones vibrate. "I was ancient when your bloodline first learned to harness Fae magic. I watched empires rise and fall while your ancestors were still learning to craft glamours."

The pressure in the room increases, making it difficult to even breathe. Nikki remains on her knees, her golden aura completely overwhelmed by the waves of power rolling off Atticus. Tea drips from her hair, the sight almost comical if not for the deadly serious situation unfolding.

"The Shadowheart Dynasty was sealed away," I manage to say, academic curiosity temporarily overwhelming survival instinct. "The records say they chose voluntary exile after the Great Sundering."

Atticus's lips curve into a smile that holds no warmth.

"History is written by those who fear what they cannot control," he says simply. "The truth, as always, is far more complex."

His gaze returns to Nikki, who seems to be struggling just to remain conscious under the weight of his presence.

"You play at power, little Fae, but you have no concept of true strength. Your courts and their pretty politics are nothing compared to the games played in the eternal dark."

The casual dismissal of Fae authority would normally warrant immediate retaliation, but none of us move. The power radiating from Atticus feels fundamentally different from anything I've encountered in centuries of magical study — purer somehow, more primal, as if he's tapped into something that existed before magic itself was categorized and contained.

"Why would you re-enter this world that doesn’t service you?” I decide to question.

“To service my Queen of Spades,” he announces so casually, and yet it’s so vibrant with the immense force laced in his deep voice. The tone vibrates with empowering force that only continues to fill the room like an endless flood of power and authority. “Prison serviced me well, but it was only a matter of time before my call to return would bring me back to the surface world.”

"So the prison," Cassius says carefully, his shadows writhing with obvious discomfort, "wasn't actually?—"

"A punishment?" Atticus completes the thought, dark amusement coloring his tone. "More like a convenient place to observe while certain pieces moved into position." His gaze shifts meaningfully toward the bedroom where Gwenivere sleeps. "Some games require patience, after all, and what is time when you’re centuries old and can be passed down, host after host?"

The implications send my scholarly mind spinning.

If he's truly who he claims — a prince of the Shadowheart Dynasty — then his presence here carries weight far beyond simple revenge or protection. The ancient bloodlines were known for their ability to see threads of fate and to manipulate destiny itself through careful observation and precise intervention.

Had he known about Gwenivere all along?

Positioned himself to be present when she needed protection most. The tactical brilliance of such a long game makes me reassess everything I thought I understood about recent events.

"How did you end up in prison if that was your intention all along?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me despite the oppressive power still filling the room.

Atticus's expression darkens, though his aura remains steady.

"That story intersects with events that aren't entirely mine to share," he says carefully. "Though given recent circumstances, perhaps some context is necessary."

As Atticus speaks, his voice takes on a darker edge, each word weighted with carefully contained fury.

He describes finding Gwenivere in an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by Darius and his followers who had spent hours systematically breaking her down—first mentally, then physically.

They'd chosen their location carefully, he explains, somewhere the sounds wouldn't carry. Somewhere they could take their time teaching a "hybrid witch" her proper place in vampire society.

The public humiliation had come first—taunts and degradation designed to strip away dignity.

Then water, held under until consciousness began to fade, only to be pulled back for more mockery.

"They made it a game," Atticus says, his crimson eyes burning brighter with each detail. "Placing bets on how long she could hold her breath, wagering on when she'd finally break and beg them to stop. Darius watched it all, smoking his cigarettes and commenting on proper techniques for breaking rebellious spirits."

The methodical nature of their cruelty makes my stomach turn.

These weren't actions of momentary passion or uncontrolled rage. This was calculated torture, designed to leave scars deeper than mere physical wounds.

"When I found her," he continues, his power pulsing with each word, "they had progressed to marking her. Small cuts, precisely placed to spell out 'hybrid' across her ribs. A permanent reminder, they said, of what she was—what she would always be to them."

The parallel to today's cafeteria incident suddenly becomes brutally clear. Damien's "prank" with the urine wasn't just casual cruelty—it had unknowingly replicated elements of her past trauma.

The public nature of the humiliation, the use of liquid as a weapon, the laughter of onlookers who treated her suffering as entertainment... all of it would have triggered memories of that warehouse.

No wonder why she walked away…looking at us with such betrayal when we couldn't intervene.

“Why…” Cassius mutters, drawing our attention to him as he seems conflicted. For obvious reasons.

“If you’re wondering why you’ve never seen those scars it’s because she hides them well enough with magic. A layer that she rarely allows anyone to witness, and for obvious reasons. Don’t need to see something that can constantly trigger a panic attack just with the sight.”

None of us say a word.

"She survived," Atticus states, though his tone suggests this isn't necessarily a comfort. "But survival isn't always mercy. Sometimes it's just the beginning of a different kind of torment…one where every laugh sounds like mockery, every splash of liquid triggers panic, every moment of public vulnerability feels like being back in that warehouse."

His words paint a picture of trauma that extends far beyond that single night, helping me understand why Gwenivere's reaction to the past events seemed so extreme to those who didn't know her history.

It wasn't just about the current humiliation — it was about being forced to relive a nightmare she's spent years trying to overcome.

The scholar in me wants to analyze this, to categorize the psychological implications and study how such trauma affects magical development. But the part of me that's grown to care for her — to see her as more than just another fascinating subject of study — feels something closer to horror at what she endured.

Looking at Nikki's tea-soaked form now, I realize Atticus's choice of retaliation wasn't random. He's making a point about power and vulnerability, about how quickly the mighty can be brought low by something as simple as unwanted liquid.

No wonder Gwenivere reacted so strongly.

Atticus turns back to Nikki, who still kneels before him.

With deliberate slowness, he reaches out, using one elongated nail to lift her chin. Tea continues to drip from her golden hair, each drop hitting the floor with what feels like ominous finality.

"Would you like to know what justice looks like, little Fae?" he asks, his voice carrying harmonics that make reality itself shiver. "What true punishment looks like when someone truly powerful decides to protect what's theirs?"

He describes entering the warehouse after finding Gwenivere, how he appeared to them first as merely "Chubby Atti" — the harmless, overweight boy everyone underestimated.

They laughed at him, he recalls, amused by his declarations of vengeance.

"The thing about ancient blood," he explains, casually examining his lengthening nails, "is that it remembers. Centuries of torture techniques, passed down through genetic memory. Every method of prolonging pain that humanity and paranormal kind have ever devised, stored in our very essence."

He started with Darius's followers, he tells us.

Made their leader watch as he systematically broke each one. Not just physically—that would have been too simple. He broke them mentally first, using abilities that predate modern magic to trap them in endless loops of their worst fears.

"I made them experience every moment of terror they'd inflicted on others," he says, something ancient and terrible gleaming in his eyes. "Not just with Gwenivere, but with every victim they'd ever tormented. But they experienced it from the victim's perspective, feeling every ounce of fear, every moment of helplessness."

“When I finally allowed them physical death,” he continued, “it wasn't swift. I made each one last precisely as long as they'd tormented Gwenivere, matching their suffering to their crimes with mathematical precision.”

I try to ignore how my stomach seems to flip at the explained implications, already knowing how merciless Purebloods normally are.

"As for Darius," Atticus's smile carries no warmth, "he required special attention. You see, he'd made the mistake of claiming ownership over something that was already mine. My Queen of Spades, marked by fate long before he dared lay hands on her."

He describes how he took Darius apart — not just physically, but magically. Stripped away his powers layer by layer, forcing him to feel the true vulnerability of his victims.

Made him watch as his coven was systematically destroyed, unable to do anything but observe their destruction.

"The authorities found him weeks later," Atticus states, watching Nikki's face pale further. "Or rather, they found what was left of him. Enough to imprison, enough to suffer, but no longer the proud vampire prince who thought he could break my Queen."

Now that explains it, recalling an incident that was discussed in public records.

"The newspapers called it a massacre," I recall quietly. "Said it was one of the most vicious attacks in vampire history." Death is an obvious trajectory in our world of paranormal beings, but this one was so unique and obviously targeted that it got people talking.

"Oh, that wasn't the attack," Atticus corrects, his tone almost gentle. "That was merely the prologue. True suffering is what came after…what continues even now in the deepest cells of that prison. Where ancient magic ensures he relives every moment of torment he inflicted on others, over and over, for all eternity."

Cassius's shadows writhe with obvious discomfort. Even his Duskwalker abilities, so attuned to darkness and death, seem disturbed by the level of calculated vengeance Atticus describes.

"You see," Atticus continues, reaching out to catch a drop of tea as it falls from Nikki's hair, "when you harm what belongs to ancient blood, the consequences extend beyond mere death. We believe in messages that echo through generations, ensuring that none dare repeat such offenses."

His gaze sweeps over us all, carrying weight that feels like judgment from something far older than mere vampiric royalty.

"Remember that the next time you consider allowing harm to come to my Queen. What happened in the cafeteria may seem trivial compared to Darius's crimes, but the principle remains the same."

He lets the tea drop fall, watching it splatter against the floor.

"I protect what's mine. The only question is whether you'll prove worthy allies in that protection, or if you'll join the ranks of those who learned too late what it means to cross ancient blood."

The silence that follows feels heavy with implications. None of us doubt the truth of his words — the power radiating from him carries too much weight for deception. This is what true vengeance looks like when wielded by beings old enough to have perfected its application.

And somehow, this creature of ancient power and calculated retribution has chosen our Gwenivere as his Queen.

"Even now," Atticus continues, satisfaction coloring his tone, "Darius remains bound in the deepest level of confinement any Paranormal Prison has ever constructed. His suffering serves as a reminder that some lines should never be crossed."

For the first time in centuries, I feel my jaw actually slacken in shock. Beside me, Nikki's eyes have widened with genuine fear, her golden aura dimming further under the weight of Atticus's dark satisfaction.

"But that's not even the most interesting part," he continues, finally releasing Nikki's chin. "You see, my bond with Gwenivere isn't new. We were first connected the day I saved her from Darius's cruelty. I simply allowed that bond to lie dormant, knowing it would reignite and blossom into something far more significant when the time was right."

Wait a minute…

Something clicks in my mind now that its clear he’s also bonded to her.

"When she said she was royalty..." I whisper, pieces clicking into place with dizzying speed.

"That's what she meant," Atticus confirms with a predatory grin. "Well, to a hidden degree. My Queen shares her own secrets, but as of now, it seems Mortimer is in the lead for being a reasonable enough elite within Wicked Academy to uphold such information."

He pauses, turning that unnerving gaze toward Cassius.

"You're almost there," he adds almost casually, "but until Gwenivere fully forgives your lack of action in the cafeteria, you're still on the shit list."

The way Cassius swallows hard — a Duskwalker prince showing visible fear —says more about Atticus's true nature than any titles or displays of power could.

"So this entire time," I say slowly, trying to process the magnitude of what we're learning, "you've been orchestrating events from behind the scenes. Using Grim's form to observe, to guide things toward some predetermined outcome."

"Predetermined implies lack of choice," Atticus corrects, moving to pour himself a fresh cup of tea as if he hadn't just revealed earth-shattering truths. "I simply ensured the pieces were in place when they needed to be. Gwenivere's choices remained her own. That was essential."

"Essential for what?" Nikki manages to ask, though her voice trembles slightly.

His smile carries centuries of secrets.

"For becoming who she was always meant to be. The transformation has already begun, though none of you seem to have noticed the signs."

"Signs?" I lean forward, unable to contain my academic interest despite the tension still thick in the air.

"Her magical signature has been shifting," he explains, sipping his tea with perfect poise. "Becoming more refined, more... pure. The trial merely accelerated what was already in motion."

The implications stagger me. If what he's suggesting is true— if Gwenivere is undergoing some sort of fundamental magical evolution as a hybrid—then everything we thought we understood about her needs reassessment.

"That's why you allowed the bonds with Cassius and Nikolai to form," I realize aloud. "They're part of whatever transformation you're facilitating."

"Very good, scholar," Atticus praises, though the words carry a hint of condescension. "Though I suspect even you haven't grasped the full scope of what's unfolding."

"And what exactly is unfolding?" Cassius asks, his shadows coiling tighter with obvious unease.

"The rise of a Queen who will reshape the very foundations of paranormal society," Atticus states simply, as if discussing weather rather than world-altering prophecy. "But first, she needs to survive Wicked Academy, which is why I've finally stepped out of the shadows to be by my Queen’s side as a King would."

His gaze sweeps over us all, holding weighted judgement that he’s proven is being assessed by something far more ancient than normal vampiric royalty..

"The question now is whether you'll prove worthy allies in what's to come, or if you'll allow petty jealousies and political games to blind you to the greater purpose at hand."

The words hang in the air like a challenge — or perhaps a threat.

Even Nikki, still dripping tea and clearly shaken by everything she's learned, seems to be processing the gravity of our situation.

"None of this explains why you chose prison as your observation point," I point out, trying to maintain some scholarly objectivity amid these revelations.

Atticus sets his teacup down with deliberate care.

"Think of it as a strategic position," he says. "The lowest levels of Paranormal Prison exist outside normal magical jurisdiction. The wards there are...different. Ancient. They allowed me to access certain abilities that might have drawn unwanted attention elsewhere."

"Like the ability to project your consciousness through Grim," Cassius concludes, earning an approving nod.

"Among other things," Atticus confirms. "Though I suspect we'll all be discovering new abilities as events unfold. Particularly you, little Fae," he adds, smirking at Nikki. "Your current form isn't just the academy's doing—it's preparation."

"Preparation for what?" she demands, though her tone lacks its usual imperious edge.

"For understanding perspectives you've never had to consider," he answers cryptically. "After all, how can you properly serve a Queen if you've never experienced what it means to be female in a world designed by male power?"

The question strikes with unsettling precision, making even me reassess certain long-held assumptions.

"Are you suggesting Wicked Academy is punishing me specifically?" Nikki demands, trying to reclaim some dignity despite her tea-soaked state.