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

The Path Forward

~GWENIEVERE~

T he path stretches before us, winding through landscapes that shouldn't exist outside of fever dreams. Ahead lies our starting point – I can sense it, a convergence of magical energy that tugs at my awareness like a beacon in darkness.

My attention shifts to the uniform now clothing my body.

The Year Two attire differs dramatically from the understated elegance of Year One. Leather pants cling to my legs like a second skin, paired with a blazer that's structured yet allows for movement. Golden accents trace the seams, catching the light of the surrounding lava pools with every step.

The environment itself feels like stepping inside a living volcano – gold, orange, and brown hues dominate, with occasional swirls of purple mist shooting from the ground in funnel-shaped vents.

The temperature hovers at the edge of uncomfortable, as if purposely designed to keep us alert.

With a deep breath, I trigger the transformation.

My body shifts, curves flattening, jawline hardening, height increasing slightly. Gabriel emerges where Gwenivere stood moments before, the glamour settling over me like a familiar, if somewhat suffocating, blanket.

Glancing down, I notice I'm still gripping Atticus' hand.

The realization makes me frown – Gabriel, the tough new student making his way through Wicked Academy, shouldn't be holding hands with anyone.

Internally shivering at the haunting laughter that tries to plague me, I shake off the feeling before deciding we shouldn’t really be holding hands. Be “intimate” in any way when this is an apparent trial where anything can be used against us.

I start to pull away, but Atticus simply tightens his hold, his gaze scanning our surroundings with predatory focus, alert for any sign of danger.

Still protective and loyal as ever…

"I don't want you getting bullied," I mutter, eyeing our joined hands with unease. This new trial will surely be as unpredictable as the last and I can’t afford him getting hurt or plagued because I seek his touch, even though I shouldn’t in times like these.

Atticus turns to me, one eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement.

"Let them try and see how far they get."

When I don't respond, he fully faces me, those crimson eyes capturing mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter despite my testosterone self.

"Chubby Atti can handle a few douches with big egos and small cocks," he says with a wink, noticing the dissatisfaction in my expression.

He leans closer, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers.

"Besides, my cock is bigger than both those jerks combined. So let's get this trial over with so you can find out for yourself."

Heat rushes to my face before I can control it. Gabriel shouldn't blush, but here I am, cheeks burning as Atticus pulls back to admire his handiwork, looking tauntingly pleased at my reaction.

It pisses me off enough that I yank my hand free, which only makes him chuckle – a dark, velvet sound that somehow manages to be both comforting and infuriating.

"Don't be in such a sour mood," he teases, sliding his hands into his pockets with casual grace. "It's only going to make you fall for me faster."

"I'm a HE right now," I remind him sharply, "not your Queen of Spades."

"You can be my King of Spades, then," he counters without missing a beat.

"That doesn't exist," I argue, frustration mounting.

"It can if we make it so." His expression turns thoughtful, almost philosophical. "We control these worlds of magic and discovery, after all."

"I hate that you're still a smart bastard," I grumble, looking away to hide the reluctant smile tugging at my lips.

He simply chuckles before reaching for my hand again, his fingers entwining with mine as he takes the lead. The gesture is so casual, so natural, as if we've walked hand-in-hand through a thousand trials before this one.

Whether it be when I was female…or currently as a male…

"They're going to think we're gay," I warn, glancing around nervously despite the current absence of other students.

There’s only a matter of time when we’ll see who has been partnered with us on this next challenge ahead, so contributing to the idea of us being “together” can serve as a disadvantage, especially at this academy that enjoys penalizing anyone who doesn’t fit their perfection box.

Atticus shrugs, unconcerned.

"I don't give a hoot about what anyone thinks," he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that reminds me what he's capable of. "By the end of this, the only ones deserving of thinking will be whoever I deem worthy of continuing to have access to the oxygen we live and breathe on."

The casual way he mentions potential murder should disturb me.

Once, it would have.

Before Darius, before Wicked Academy, before watching my bond mates stand idle while I was humiliated.

Now, it feels like justice waiting to happen.

The pathway narrows as we approach what appears to be the entrance to a cavern. Heat radiates from within, carrying the scent of sulfur and something metallically sweet that makes my vampire senses tingle with recognition.

Blood.

Year Two isn't going to be a gentle introduction, then. Not that I expected anything less from a place called Wicked Academy.

Atticus' hand remains firm in mine, his thumb occasionally brushing across my knuckles in a gesture so subtle most would miss it. But I feel it – the silent reassurance that I'm not facing this alone anymore.

The contrast between now and mere hours ago is staggering.

Then, I stood drenched in humiliation while those who claimed magical bonds with me watched from afar. Now, I walk toward danger with someone who fought his way out of imprisonment just to stand beside me.

Someone who saw me at my very worst and decided I was worth protecting anyway.

The cavern mouth looms closer, its edges lined with what appears to be molten gold. Characters in an ancient language I don't recognize spiral along the archway, glowing with internal fire. Their meaning eludes me, but the power they radiate is unmistakable – this is no ordinary entrance.

This is a threshold.

A boundary between what was and what will be.

"Do you recognize those symbols?" I ask, nodding toward the glowing script.

Atticus studies them for a moment, his expression revealing nothing.

"Old magic," he finally says. "Blood rites from before the vampire courts established their rule of law."

A shiver runs down my spine.

"What do they say?"

His lips curve into a smile that carries no warmth.

"They're a warning. 'Abandon compassion, all ye who enter here. Only the wicked survive what lies beyond.'"

"How fitting," I mutter, eyeing the entrance with renewed wariness.

"Indeed." Atticus squeezes my hand once. "It seems your academy has quite the sense of humor."

My academy. The possessive makes me pause.

This place has never felt like mine – I came here as an intruder, a thief in the night seeking a magical chalice to save my sister. Somehow along the way, I became entangled in its web of power plays and survival games.

Now I'm officially a Year Two student, with a uniform to prove it and trials awaiting my participation. All while maintaining a male disguise that grows both easier and harder to wear with each passing day.

Easier, because practice makes perfect.

Harder, because every moment as Gabriel feels like another opportunity to lose myself.

"Hey." Atticus' voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Where did you go just now?"

It’s amusing how he’s able to read me so easily despite so many years away from one another.

I shake my head.

"Nowhere important. Just...processing."

His gaze sees too much, stripping away pretenses with the same efficiency he once dispatched Darius and his entire coven.

"Liar," he says softly. "But I'll let it slide. For now."

Before I can respond, movement catches my eye.

Figures emerge from the cavern entrance – other students, I realize, dressed in the same Year Two uniform. They move with the cautious confidence of predators in unfamiliar territory, eyeing one another with guarded assessment.

Competition has already begun.

"Looks like we're not the first to arrive," Atticus observes, his posture shifting subtly. To a casual observer, he appears relaxed, maybe even bored. I know better. He's coiling, readying himself for whatever might come.

The approaching students number seven in total – a perfect match for the prophecy's "seven will rise" line. I search their faces, looking for familiar features, for any hint of my former bond mates.

Neither Cassius nor Nikolai appears among them, but a familiar face makes my blood run cold.

Damien.

The vampire prince who doused me in urine now strolls toward us, his crimson eyes widening slightly as he registers our presence.

Specifically, Atticus' presence.

"Well, well," Damien drawls, his gaze flicking between us with calculated interest. "Look who finally decided to join the party. The hybrid. And..." He pauses, studying Atticus with narrowed eyes. "Don't believe we've met."

"We haven't," Atticus confirms, his tone pleasant enough to send warning bells ringing. I recognize that voice – it's the same one he used right before tearing Darius's coven apart member by member. "But I've heard so much about you."

Damien's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"All good things, I hope."

"Quite the contrary," Atticus responds, his thumb still tracing patterns across my knuckles, the gesture more possessive now. "Though I suppose fame and infamy often walk hand in hand."

Something in his tone makes Damien pause, the vampire prince's instincts clearly warning him that the casual-looking man before him is anything but harmless.

Good. Let him feel uncertain for once.

"You're on the hybrid's team?" Damien asks, his gaze dropping to our joined hands with undisguised distaste.

"The hybrid has a name," I interject, finding my voice . Gabriel's voice, lower and rougher than my natural tone . "Or did that urine damage your mental faculties along with your fashion sense?"

Atticus doesn't laugh, but I feel the slight shake of his shoulders that indicates suppressed amusement. The other students hang back, watching our exchange with the wary attention of vultures assessing potential carrion.

Damien's eyes narrow dangerously.

"You've grown bold since acquiring a new...friend." His gaze lingers on Atticus. "Though I wonder how long that will last once your other friends discover your betrayal."

"Betrayal?" I echo, letting genuine confusion color my tone. How did I betray anyone when they sat down and watched me become Wicked Academy’s laughing stock the last three fucking days. "I believe betrayal requires loyalty to begin with. Something distinctly absent when someone stood by watching me get publicly humiliated."

My words hit their mark.

Damien's composure slips for just a moment, revealing something almost like guilt before his aristocratic mask falls back into place.

"Points come at a price," he says dismissively. "Some of us understand the game better than others."

"And some of us," Atticus interjects smoothly, "understand that games have consequences beyond the scoreboard."

The temperature seems to drop despite the surrounding lava fields.

Damien's expression freezes as he finally recognizes the predator standing before him – not in Atticus' appearance, which remains deceptively ordinary, but in the ancient power rolling off him in barely contained waves.

One of the other students, a tall sylph with translucent skin and crystalline hair, steps forward.

"The trial begins soon," he announces, his voice an odd melodic yet cutting sound. "Choose your allies wisely."

His gaze lingers on me, or perhaps on my joined hands with Atticus, before he turns away, heading back toward the cavern entrance. The others follow, Damien included, though he glances back once with an expression I can't quite decipher.

Warning, perhaps. Or calculation.

Either way, I'm beyond caring what Damien thinks or feels.

He’s a traitor just like the others…

"So that's the famous vampire prince," Atticus murmurs once they're out of earshot. "Younger than I expected."

"Younger doesn't mean less dangerous," I remind him.

His smile returns, sharper now.

"Neither does it mean more intelligent. He didn't recognize me."

"Should he have?"

Atticus shrugs, a casual gesture at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"My case was rather famous in certain circles. 'The Butcher of Blackwood Coven' and all that. But I suppose princely education doesn't include recent criminal history."

The cavalier way he references murdering an entire coven should probably disturb me. Perhaps it's a sign of how much I've changed that it instead feels like reassurance.

"Do you think the others will recognize you?" I ask, nodding toward the cavern where the students disappeared.

"Doubtful. My appearance has...evolved since my incarceration." His free hand gestures toward his transformed body, so different from the chubby boy everyone once underestimated. "Prison tends to have that effect."

The casual mention of his imprisonment makes my chest ache with a complicated mix of guilt and gratitude. He sacrificed his freedom for my vengeance, spent years in darkness while I tried to rebuild my life.

And now he's here, risking everything again by allying himself with me.

"You don't have to do this," I say quietly, the words escaping before I can reconsider them. "This isn't your fight. These aren't your enemies."

Atticus stops walking, turning to face me fully.

The lava light casts half his face in shadow, highlighting the dangerous curve of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze.

"They became my enemies the moment they hurt you," he says simply, as if stating an obvious truth like the color of the sky or the wetness of water. "Just as Darius and his friends became my enemies the moment they laid hands on you."

The absolute conviction in his voice makes my throat tight.

"That cost you everything."

"And I'd pay it again," he responds without hesitation. "A thousand times over."

I don't know what to say to that kind of devotion.

It feels both humbling and terrifying to be the focus of such unwavering loyalty.

Atticus seems to sense my discomfort, his expression softening slightly.

"Besides," he adds, his tone lightening, "prison was educational. I learned things there that will prove quite useful in the trials ahead."

"Like what?" I ask, grateful for the shift in conversation. It’s insane to me how he can talk so light-heartedly about something so traumatizingly bound to his experience over the last few years in confinement.

His smile turns enigmatic.

"That's for me to know and you to discover when necessary.” The playfulness in his tone is everything. “Can't reveal all my secrets at once, can I? Where's the mystery in that?"

Despite everything, I find myself smiling back.

I can’t stop myself from smiling genuinely.

"And here I thought we were past playing games with each other."

"Not games," he corrects, his thumb resuming its gentle motion across my knuckles. "Strategy. Year Two isn't going to be forgiving, especially not to those who showed mercy in Year One."

His words remind me of everything at stake – advancement through the academy, finding the chalice for Elena, surviving whatever trials lie ahead.

And now, the added complexity of Atticus' presence, of another bond to navigate alongside those I share with Cassius and Nikolai.

The cavern waits, its entrance aglow with ancient warnings and promises of wickedness. Beyond it lies our future – tests of strength and character, alliances and betrayals, perhaps even death if the prophecy holds true.

Two will fall.

The words echo in my mind, a grim reminder that Year Two won't allow everyone to proceed. Two of us will fail, whether through death or some other, perhaps worse, fate.

I straighten my shoulders, steeling my resolve. Whatever comes next, I face it not as the broken girl Darius left bleeding, nor as the uncertain hybrid who stumbled into bond magic without understanding its consequences.

I face it as Gabriel on the surface, maintaining my disguise in this world of men and monsters. But beneath that, I am Gwenivere, Queen of Spades, with a knight at my side who's proven his loyalty in blood.

"Ready?" Atticus asks, sensing the shift in my demeanor.

"Ready," I confirm, squeezing his hand once before we step forward together, toward the glowing entrance and whatever wickedness waits beyond.