Page 20 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Blood Roses And Fabled Warnings

~GWENIVERE~

T he classroom is structured in an ascending semicircle, each row of polished obsidian desks rising higher than the one before, creating an amphitheater-like arrangement that ensures perfect visibility no matter where students choose to sit.

The space blends aesthetic beauty with practical functionality in a way only Faerie architecture seems to manage — gold and silver inlays trace magical circuits throughout the obsidian surfaces, pulsing with subtle energy that enhances learning capacity while simultaneously reinforcing protective wards.

The ceiling deserves its own scholarly appreciation.

Rather than mundane plaster or even enchanted glass, it's comprised of what appears to be living night sky, constellations shifting in slow, deliberate patterns that correspond to magical classifications being discussed.

When Professor Eternalis mentioned blood magic, the stars rearranged into the ancient symbol for life essence, glittering crimson at their centers rather than the typical white-blue.

I'm currently reclined in my seat with practiced nonchalance, Gabriel's form comfortable and familiar after the transition through Mortimer's impressively efficient wards.

Despite appearing to pay minimal attention, I'm absorbing every word Professor Eternalis offers, though the subject matter — Elemental Blood Magic Theory — covers territory I've already explored through necessity rather than academic pursuit.

"The fundamental principle," Professor Eternalis emphasizes, chalk tapping against the board with precise rhythm that somehow enhances retention, "is that blood carries memory beyond mere genetic coding. Each droplet contains impressions of experiences, magical exposure, and inherent abilities that can be manipulated through proper formula application."

Her mismatched eyes — one blood-red, the other swirling violet — sweep across the classroom with penetrating assessment that makes several students shift uncomfortably.

When that gaze passes over me, I maintain a casual posture while offering a subtle nod of understanding that acknowledges her points without revealing just how intimately I understand these principles.

Necessity taught me blood magic basics long before formal education — survival required it when facing Darius and his coven when trying to portray good potential “wife” material.

Later, watching Atticus manipulate blood with casual mastery during our trial showed me how elementary my understanding remains despite practical application.

Mini Grim perches on my shoulder, his tiny skull-like visage currently engaged in what appears to be a deliberate staring contest with the student occupying the desk beside mine.

The shadow being occasionally shifts position, hollow eyes never breaking contact with my neighbor, who seems simultaneously fascinated and unnerved by the scrutiny.

This desk-mate has spent the entirety of our ninety-minute class alternating between staring at me and hastily looking away whenever I show signs of noticing.

Unlike the aggressive attention I typically receive from other students — suspicion or resentment from those who sense my hybrid nature despite Gabriel's convincing glamour — his attention carries a different quality. There's curiosity there, certainly, but also something like appreciation that makes maintaining my disinterested facade slightly more challenging than usual.

Professor Eternalis turns to the massive blackboard that spans the entire front wall, beginning to draw an elaborate circular pattern in chalk that glows with faint luminescence when applied to the enchanted surface.

The design appears to be a modified blood ritual containment circle, though certain elements suggest applications I haven't encountered before.

With her attention focused elsewhere, I take the opportunity to properly observe my persistent admirer.

He's slender, almost delicately built, though not in the aristocratic way that marks Fae nobility. There's something slightly off about his proportions — not unpleasant, merely unusual.

He seems thin to the point of concern, bones visible at wrists and collarbones despite the academy uniform being designed to flatter all body types.

The word "sickly" comes to mind, though he doesn't exhibit typical signs of illness. His skin maintains a healthy glow despite its pallor, and his movements, while contained, suggest wiry strength rather than weakness. It's more as if he's naturally meant to be slim but hasn't been eating properly, his frame somehow compressed beneath clothes that hang slightly too large, suggesting recent weight loss.

His scent is what truly captures my attention.

My vampire aspects provide enhanced olfactory sensitivity, and this boy smells unlike any paranormal classification I've encountered. Floral notes dominate — not perfume or soap, but something organic and inherent to his being. Wild roses, night-blooming jasmine, and something earthier beneath, like fertile soil after spring rain.

The combination should feel feminine, yet somehow it presents as purely masculine on him, complementing rather than contradicting his evident maleness. The paradox is intriguing in ways I hadn't expected, making me wonder exactly what paranormal classification he belongs to.

He's turned his attention to the board now, apparently genuinely interested in the blood circle Professor Eternalis is constructing. For the first time since class began, he's actually taking notes rather than stealing glances in my direction.

His pencil moves across paper with surprising elegance, each stroke precise despite the complexity of the diagram being reproduced.

I lean slightly to glimpse his work, curious whether his academic focus matches the intensity of his previous attention. The motion brings me closer to him, our shoulders nearly touching as I peer toward his notebook.

The sudden sensation of cold water drenching my entire upper body sends shock racing through my system.

For one disorienting moment, I'm transported back to the cafeteria, to Damien's cruel "prank" that triggered memories of Darius's warehouse torture. The flashback lasts only milliseconds before rational mind reasserts control, but leaves my heart racing with adrenaline response.

Laughter erupts around us, the cruel sound confirming this wasn't accidental spillage but deliberate attack.

My desk-mate has received similar drenching, water soaking through his oversized uniform to plaster fabric against his thin frame. The expression of resigned acceptance on his face suggests this isn't the first time he's been targeted.

"C'mon, Hawthorne," calls a voice from several rows above. "I thought you had faster reflexes. Aren't you supposed to be the school's favorite?"

Guess my reputation from “above” already made it down here to Faerie version of Wicked Academy.

The taunt carries notes of both jealousy and disdain, suggesting a complicated history I'm not yet privy to, but I’m sure my sudden presence next to my neighbor somehow contributes to this ironic need to bully us both. My neighbor doesn't respond, his attention focused on the now-soaked notebook before him.

His fingers hover above the sodden paper, disappointment evident in the slight droop of his shoulders.

Another voice joins the mockery, this one carrying aristocratic inflection that immediately reminds me of Nikolai at his most insufferable, but the tone fails in delivering enough masculine depth for my liking.

"Crazy how some hybrid can be allowed to chill in our world of perfection as if he's on the same level as our perfected beings."

The direct reference to my mixed heritage sends quiet alarm through my system.

"And he has to sit next to that freak homeless street cat," adds another student, this insult clearly directed at my drenched companion. “We should be thankful he’s not stinking up the classroom.”

Odd commentary when he actually smells nice.

The cruelty in their voices, the casual way they dispense humiliation as entertainment, sends anger simmering beneath my careful composure. I've been on the receiving end of such treatment too recently to dismiss its impact, regardless of whether I'm the primary target or merely collateral damage in an attack aimed at my neighboring partner.

I glance down at Mini Grim, who's looking particularly pitiful as water drips through his shadowy form. His tiny rain cloud, usually just an aesthetic manifestation of his Duskwalker nature, has turned darker grey, small lightning bolts flickering through its vaporous edges as if threatening a storm of retribution.

"Sorry, Grim," I apologize, reaching up to gently pat his drenched skull. With a casual snap of my fingers, I direct a stream of warm air toward the little shadow being. "Let me fix that."

Unfortunately, I misjudge the intensity. The magical wind catches Mini Grim's diminutive form, sending him soaring upward with squeak of surprise. His tiny limbs windmill frantically as he's tossed several feet above my head, rain cloud trailing behind him like a comet's tail.

"Oops," I mutter, immediately adjusting the spell's strength to a more appropriate level. "Too strong. My bad."

Beside me, my neighbor stares mournfully at his ruined notebook.

"That was my only one," he says softly, voice carrying musical quality that catches me by surprise. There's no accusation in his tone, merely statement of fact made more poignant by apparent resignation to his situation.

Something about his acceptance of this casual cruelty triggers a protective instinct I hadn't expected to feel for a stranger. With a slight sigh that's more for show than genuine reluctance, I pick up my own notebook — enchanted to resist damage from elements, courtesy of precautions I'd taken after the cafeteria incident — and pass it to him.

"Here," I offer with casual shrug that belies the deliberate kindness. "You can use mine. Unlike your obviously inferior clothing, my notebook is waterproof."

The surprised gratitude that flashes across his features makes something in my chest tighten unexpectedly. It's such a simple gesture, yet his reaction suggests meaningful kindness is a rare occurrence in his experience.

From behind us comes renewed mockery, several voices joining in chorus of derision aimed at both my generosity and our bedraggled appearances.

Rather than engage directly, I stand with deliberate calm, beginning to wring water from my sodden uniform jacket.

"Is there a matter that cannot be resolved?" Professor Eternalis asks without turning from her diagram, her voice carrying a perfect blend of authority and disinterest that suggests this behavior, while noted, isn't unusual enough to warrant interrupting her lesson.

"No problem at all, Professor," I respond casually, continuing to squeeze excess moisture from my clothing. "Just a little impromptu demonstration of fluid dynamics."

Her shoulders shift slightly in what might be suppressed amusement, though she merely continues her careful construction of the blood circle's outer containment ring.

With calculated indifference to our audience, I begin unbuttoning my uniform shirt, revealing the white undershirt beneath that has, unfortunately, become completely transparent when soaked. Gabriel's physique is deliberately impressive — not bulky like a bodybuilder but defined with lean muscle that suggests both strength and speed.

The display causes immediate reaction throughout the classroom.

Several female students — Faerie Academy being notably different from main Wicked Academy in its inclusion of women as students rather than merely staff — make appreciative sounds that range from quiet sighs to more dramatic squeals.

The male contingent seems divided between renewed hostility and reluctant respect, their expressions suggesting my physical presentation contradicts whatever narrative they'd constructed about the "hybrid" in their midst.

"What's wrong?" I ask with deliberate innocence, directing the question toward the original instigators. "Didn't think I had muscles or a six-pack? I actually work out when I feel like it." I allow a hint of my natural cocky confidence to color my tone, embracing a slightly cockier persona than I might normally project. "I probably sound like a cocky bastard, but whatever."

My neighbor’s observation catches me completely off-guard.

"You don't have any magical tattoos," he notes, eyes tracing my exposed torso with scholarly interest rather than the appreciation evident from others.

The comment presents a peculiar challenge.

I shouldn't have visible magical markings since I’m not trying to show the ones I have as Gwenivere, those unique displays of powerful runes remain hidden beneath the glamour. Yet, my neighbor’s specific phrasing suggests he's seeing absence where something should be present rather than simply making casual observation.

I snap my fingers, creating a more controlled stream of heated air that lifts my removed clothing into a gentle cyclone.

Mini Grim, having recovered from his earlier misadventure, now surfs atop visible air currents with tiny shadow feet balanced on shadowed surfboard, his skull-face conveying such ridiculous joy that I find myself smirking despite the situation.

"I have magical markings," I clarify, meeting my neighbor’s curious gaze. "They're more like runes and symbols, but they remain hidden most of the time."

"No, I mean like Nachtlied markings," he specifies, using the exact term Cassius had used to describe his Duskwalker tattoos. "The ones created with special ink from Duskwalker realms."

The specificity of his knowledge raises several questions at once.

Nachtlied markings aren't common knowledge outside Duskwalker circles, their properties and creation methods typically guarded with typical paranoid secrecy the shadow-aligned paranormals maintain.

Cassius explained a little bit at breakfast today, but I still don’t know enough about them to be confident of why they would be a popular choice to get.

"No, not those," I acknowledge, curiosity piqued despite myself. "Though should I get some? You think I have the right energy wavelength for them?"

His reply sends an unexpected intrigue through me.

"You do," he confirms with quiet certainty. "Or at least, it matches the energy signature coming from the mark on your neck."

My hand rises instinctively to touch the spot where Cassius's bond mark rests beneath my glamour. The location shouldn't be visible, the mark itself disguised by the same magic that transforms my entire appearance.

Yet, my mysterious neighbor speaks as if he can see it clearly, can detect its magical resonance despite the layers of concealment.

"Has everyone finished copying the magic circle displayed?" Professor Eternalis inquires, finally turning from her completed diagram that now covers the entire blackboard in glowing, intricate pattern. "Given the volume of discussion, I assume you've all captured every detail with perfect accuracy."

The question prompts immediate scramble among students who'd been more focused on the drama unfolding in our row than the actual lesson content. The stranger next to me looks momentarily panicked, glancing between his ruined notebook and the complex diagram he'd been genuinely attempting to record.

"I'll copy it and share with you," he offers quietly, gesturing to my still-dry notebook in his possession. "Since it's your notebook and all."

I shrug with affected nonchalance, continuing to focus on drying my undershirt through controlled application of warm air currents.

"Hurry up, then," I instruct, tone deliberately casual despite growing curiosity about this strange classmate. "So I can finish drying my clothes and work on yours."

He hunches slightly over the notebook, his pencil moving with surprising speed across the paper. As he works, I notice a subtle tremor in his hands that suggests physical strain beyond normal fatigue.

"I don't have the confidence to strip like that," he comments without looking up, voice barely audible over the general classroom noise. "My body isn't...nice like yours."

The vulnerable admission carries weight beyond simple comparison.

There's something in his tone that suggests deeper insecurity, a history of judgment or cruelty that's left a lasting impression. Combined with the earlier taunts about "homeless street cat" and his obviously undernourished frame, a concerning picture begins to form.

I give him a measuring look before making a decision that's equal parts impulse and calculated response to the earlier attacks. With deliberate precision, I snap my fingers, channeling magic into a controlled burst of warm, soothing air that wraps around him like a gentle blanket.

The interior current remains gentle, carefully calibrated to dry his clothes without causing discomfort. The exterior boundary, however, I intentionally strengthen to hurricane force, directing it specifically toward the five male students who'd instigated the water attack.

The effect is immediate and immensely satisfying.

All five go flying from their seats, tumbling backward with startled shouts as papers explode into academic confetti, raining down throughout the classroom in impromptu celebratory display.

My neighbor blinks repeatedly, clearly stunned by both the gentle warmth surrounding him and the chaos unfolding among his tormentors.

His wide-eyed amazement suggests he's unaccustomed to anyone intervening on his behalf, much less with such decisive — and admittedly theatrical — retribution.

Mini Grim completes the performance perfectly, floating down from his aerial surfing adventure with tiny shadow parachute deployed, landing delicately atop my head. The shadow being strikes a dramatic pose, hollow glowing eyes somehow conveying tremendous satisfaction with this turn of events.

"There," I announce with casual shrug. "You're toasty dry. Finish writing the notes." I gather my now-dried clothing, straightening Gabriel's uniform with precise movements that suggest complete unconcern for the disruption I've caused. "I need to piss."

Professor Eternalis watches this entire display with an expression that mingles professional disapproval with what might be slight admiration for the magical control demonstrated.

As I move toward the door, she clears her throat with deliberate emphasis.

"Before you excuse yourself, perhaps you might demonstrate understanding of today's material, Hawthorne," she suggests, voice carrying an edge that makes other students lean forward in anticipation of my academic humiliation. "Explain the purpose of the quaternary containment ring in blood magic circles and why the northern quadrant requires additional reinforcement."

The question is specifically designed to identify students who've been paying attention versus those merely present in body but not mind. The answer isn't explicitly stated in today's lecture but must be derived from principles discussed and diagram displayed—a perfect trap for the inattentive.

Instead of a verbal response, I decide a demonstration more effectively answers both her question and the underlying challenge to my academic standing.

I bite my finger with casual precision, my sharpened fangs descending swiftly, breaking skin just enough to draw a steady flow of blood without causing excessive damage. With a snap of my fingers, I direct the blood droplets into a calculated pattern, watching with satisfaction as they remain suspended in air before me.

With a simple twist of wrist, I send my blood racing throughout the classroom in precise replication of the diagram Professor Eternalis spent thirty minutes constructing — but with a significant difference.

Where her chalk drawing remained a flat representation, my blood creation exists in three dimensions, each layer hovering at different heights to demonstrate the spatial relationships that make blood magic particularly potent.

The suspended droplets pulse with internal light as they form a perfect quaternary containment ring, the northern quadrant visibly reinforced with additional blood strands woven through the basic structure. Then, with final flourish that goes beyond her question, I trigger cascading transformation throughout the entire construct.

Where each blood droplet intersects with another, a perfect blood-red rose blossoms into existence, petals unfurling with impossible delicacy until the entire classroom is decorated with floating crimson flowers, their sweet metallic scent filling the air with heady perfume that carries notes of both beauty and warning.

The display leaves every student speechless, their expressions ranging from obvious envy to genuine awe at a demonstration that exceeds graduate-level work, much less second-year expectations. Even Professor Eternalis appears momentarily surprised before the professional mask reasserts itself.

I pause at the doorway, turning back to deliver a final message not to our instructor but to the now-silent classroom at large.

"I'm a dangerous wizard to mess with," I state with quiet certainty that carries more weight than shouted threat ever could. "Remember that the next time you try to bully me or anyone associated with me."

I deliberately linger my gaze on my neighbor, ensuring everyone understands the protection I've just extended includes him specifically.

The message couldn't be clearer if I'd written it in blood alongside the roses still floating throughout the classroom.

Guess I should learn his name.

"Name,” I ask him, which makes his eyes widen with both fright and confusion.

“Uh…Z-Zeke.”

“Hmm.” Not a bad name. “Gabriel,” I introduce and spin away. “Get back to work.”

With that declaration hanging in the air as potently as the crimson blooms, I exit the classroom, leaving stunned silence in my wake.