Page 21 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Confrontations In The Wicked Hallway

~GWENIVERE~

T he corridors of Faerie Wicked Academy pulse with energy that feels simultaneously familiar and foreign.

Unlike the main academy's stark architectural precision, these hallways curve organically, the walls shimmering with subtle iridescence that changes depending on the viewing angle.

Golden veins trace complex patterns through marble floors, forming what appear to be dormant spell circuits that activate briefly when stepped upon, then fade back to quiescence.

I stride purposefully toward the cafeteria, already anticipating the reunion with my bond mates.

After this morning's class with Professor Eternalis, I'm eager to share observations about Year Two's apparent curriculum differences – particularly the advanced nature of materials being covered in what should be introductory sessions.

The consistent footsteps shadowing mine for the past three corridors finally draw my attention.

I glance back, unsurprised to find Zeke trailing several paces behind. He startles slightly when our eyes meet, his slender frame tensing as if expecting reprimand for his persistence.

The reaction triggers an unexpected twinge of sympathy beneath my carefully maintained Gabriel facade.

Jeez…

"You don't have to follow me everywhere just because we seem to have the same schedule," I inform him, slowing my pace enough for him to catch up. "I already have a team I'll be eating with, so you can go with your usual group."

His expression – a curious blend of resignation and embarrassment – makes something in my chest tighten uncomfortably.

"I don't have anyone to sit with," he admits softly, those extraordinary eyes lowering to study the intricate floor patterns with sudden fascination.

Now that we're standing in the more generous lighting of the main corridor, I can better appreciate the unusual coloration of his irises – not quite green or gold, but something between, with subtle striations that shift like sunlight through a forest canopy. The effect is hypnotic and distinctly non-human, further evidence of whatever unique paranormal classification he belongs to.

More concerning is the realization that he isn't carrying any food or even reaching for a wallet to purchase lunch.

My gaze moves pointedly to his empty hands.

"Are you going to buy anything at the café?"

He shakes his head, those remarkable eyes still avoiding direct contact.

"Why not?" I press, curiosity overriding the urge to maintain a disinterested distance. "Even if you're not hungry, you should eat something."

Zeke hesitates, shifting his weight in a motion that carries feline grace despite his evident discomfort. He glances around before responding, voice lowered as if sharing confidential information.

"Purchasing food is very different here," he explains with careful precision. "It requires a special currency that's given based on performance in class. They explained it while you were in the washroom earlier."

I frown, the concept striking me as fundamentally wrong.

"In Faerie…where things should be abundant with how 'rich and perfect' this world supposedly is, they've approved a system where students potentially go hungry based on academic achievement?"

The cruelty of such an arrangement seems particularly pointed when considering Zeke's already too-thin frame. Without a conscious decision, I move us toward one side of the hallway, creating space for other students to pass while continuing our conversation.

"It wasn't always like this," Zeke elaborates, seeming to gain confidence as he shares information rather than personal details. "It's a bit of punishment for Faerie."

"Punishment?" I echo, genuine surprise breaking through my cultivated nonchalance. "For what?"

For beings of perfection, I wonder what they could have done or who did they piss off to suddenly be penalized to do “well” or at least well enough to make money to eat the basic necessity of food.

The question hangs unanswered as sudden laughter erupts from a nearby alcove, drawing both our attention.

A small crowd has gathered, their focus centered on what appears to be a standard bullying scenario – several larger students surrounding a smaller one, their postures radiating predatory satisfaction.

I hesitate, watching rather than immediately intervening.

Unlike the classroom situation, where personal involvement justified response, this scene represents the everyday cruelty that permeates academy life. While part of me instinctively wants to step forward, more pragmatic considerations prevail. I'm not here to be everyone's savior – not when such behavior would inevitably draw attention I can't afford.

As we approach the cafeteria entrance, a strange sense of déjà vu washes over me.

The double doors with their ornate handles suddenly transformed in my mind's eye, overlaid with memories of the main academy's cafeteria where Damien had orchestrated my public humiliation.

The phantom scent of urine rises unbidden, so vivid it triggers an immediate physiological response – mouth drying, pulse-quickening, stomach clenching with remembered shame.

I stop abruptly, turning away from the entrance.

"Where are you going?" Zeke asks, confusion evident in his musical voice.

"Not hungry anymore," I mutter, already moving in the opposite direction.

The collision happens so quickly I barely register movement before impact.

One moment I'm pivoting away from the cafeteria doors, the next I'm crashing into a solid mass that shouldn't have been directly behind me.

Instead of tumbling backward as physics would dictate, I feel unexpected support from behind – Zeke's hands catching my shoulders with surprising strength given his delicate appearance.

The stability he provides requires more effort than his casual touch suggests, his slight frame tensing with exertion.

"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern warming his unusual voice.

"Fine," I respond automatically, regaining my balance while mentally cataloging the unlikely coincidence that placed someone directly in my path during that precise moment of retreat. "I just bumped into someone, thought I was paying attention despite being mentally distracted."

I look up to identify who I've collided with, only to feel cold recognition spreading through my system.

Damien.

The vampire prince looks exactly as I remember, his aristocratic features arranged in expression of perpetual disdain, crimson eyes gleaming with malicious intelligence beneath perfectly styled hair.

He's accompanied by two other males with the unmistakable pallor of vampire lineage, their demeanor suggesting the typical entourage of lesser nobility eager to curry favor.

More interesting is the female standing slightly to his left – not quite part of his group yet clearly associated.

Her appearance strikes a discordant note among the uniformly male vampire contingent. Something about her magical signature registers as fundamentally inconsistent, waves of power emanating from her form that doesn't match pure vampire aura.

My gaze lingers on her, instincts instantly recognizing the truth Damien clearly wants to be obscured – she's a hybrid, just like me.

"Well, if it isn't Gabriel Hawthorne," Damien drawls, voice carrying that particular inflection of aristocracy that somehow transforms simple greeting into an insult. "Where are you off to? Not feeling like being embarrassed a second time around? Or was it third?"

His crew laughs on cue, though the confusion flickering across their faces betrays a lack of context for his taunt. They don't know about the cafeteria incident – this is pure performance for Damien's benefit, establishing dominance in new territory.

I straighten to my full height, my male form providing a slight advantage over Damien's stature.

"Who's the female hybrid?" I counter directly, ignoring his provocation in favor of a more interesting question. The slight widening of his eyes confirms my assessment struck a nerve before his expression smooths into practiced nonchalance.

He glances toward the girl, then back at me, lips curving into a sly grin that fails to reach his eyes.

"Jealous that I found the perfect team so soon?" he asks, deflection transparent in its obviousness. "Don't worry…Raven isn't a hybrid."

His hand settles possessively on the girl's shoulder, the gesture both proprietary and somehow demeaning.

"She's so dedicated to our prevail that she borrowed a dark fae's magic to assist our team in reaching the next phase of entrance in Wicked Academy," he continues, satisfaction evident in his tone. "It's quite commendable. I’m sure you’re playing student and have no clue how to reach Year Three so swiftly as we will be."

If that was the case, he wouldn’t be here trying to taunt me like it’ll get him some sort of reward.

I cross my arms, tilting my head to one side in a deliberate expression of skepticism.

"Do you actually believe such bullshit when her very aura screams hybrid?" The challenge is direct, calculated to potentially create tension between Damien and his new ally.

The girl – Raven – steps forward, dark eyes narrowing as she studies me with surprising intensity.

"Is this your ex?" she asks Damien directly, dismissing me with practiced disdain despite the threat my observation represents.

Damien's laugh carries genuine amusement, suggesting my assessment has struck closer to truth than he'd like to admit.

"Hell no," he responds with exaggerated disgust. "I wouldn't stoop so low for such a hybrid commoner."

Yeah, right. Mad his “friends” got first dibs before he could have a mere shot in trying to be with me.

He leans forward, making elaborate show of sniffing the air around me before recoiling with theatrical revulsion.

"Besides," he continues, gaze shifting to include our growing audience of interested students, "I don't walk around porta-potties."

Motherfucker…

The carefully calculated insult hits its mark, reopening wounds barely beginning to heal. Despite my determination to remain unmoved, I feel the heat rising to my face as students in the hallway begin laughing, the gathering crowd expanding as word spreads of entertaining confrontation.

The memory surfaces with brutal clarity – y ellow liquid soaking my uniform, the stench infiltrating every breath, cameras recording my humiliation while my bond mates watched without intervention.

My hands clench into fists at my sides, magic rising unbidden beneath my skin, blood heating with vampire rage that threatens my carefully constructed composure.

Before I can respond – or lose control – Zeke steps directly between us, his slight form somehow expanding with righteous indignation. Despite barely reaching Damien's shoulder in height, he plants himself firmly in a protective stance, those extraordinary eyes flashing with unexpected intensity.

"It's rather rude to bully someone who didn't provoke you," he states, voice carrying surprising authority despite its musical quality.

Damien's grin widens, predatory anticipation replacing momentary surprise at this unexpected intervention.

"Well, look at this," he says, gaze sweeping over Zeke's slender frame with deliberate assessment. "The frail pipsqueak has some balls."

I expect Zeke to retreat given the obvious threat, but he remains steadfast, his posture suggesting deep-rooted courage I wouldn't have predicted from his previously timid demeanor.

His unwavering protection triggers complex emotions I don't have time to process – appreciation mingled with concern at what this alliance might cost him.

"We should go," I say, placing hand lightly on his shoulder, offering an exit strategy from a rapidly deteriorating situation.

We don’t have time for all this commotion. I need to learn more about this side of the academy, and that won’t be discovered entertaining past baggage.

Zeke nods without looking away from Damien, maintaining eye contact that borders on supernatural challenge.

"Professor Mortimer has summoned us to the library anyway," he states with a calm certainty that takes me by surprise. Before I can question how he knows Mortimer or whether this summons actually exists, Zeke reaches back to grasp my hand.

The touch carries barely any physical strength, yet something in the connection compels me to follow as he begins moving away from Damien's group.

"Running away already?" Damien calls after us, voice pitched to carry through the corridor. "Typical hybrid behavior…all flash, no substance!"

The taunts continue as we create distance, each one designed to provoke a reaction that would justify escalation.

I resist the urge to respond, focusing instead on the curious warmth of Zeke's hand leading me through the crowded hallway with unexpected confidence.

As we turn the corner, I glance back once, my gaze connecting briefly with Raven's. Her dark eyes narrow with calculation rather than the mockery displayed by Damien's other companions. The expression carries weight beyond simple disdain – recognition, perhaps, or assessment that feels strangely personal despite our lack of prior interaction.

My instincts are rarely wrong when it comes to identifying paranormal classifications. She's definitely hybrid, though her specific combination remains unclear.

The more pressing question isn't what she is, but what she wants from Damien – and whether her presence represents simple alliance of convenience or something more strategic in nature.

Weird…

We maintain a brisk pace until reaching a less crowded section of the corridor, where Zeke finally releases my hand, his slender fingers sliding away with reluctance that suggests he found comfort in the connection.

"There's no library summons, is there?" I ask, already knowing the answer from the slight flush rising to his cheeks.

"No," he admits, gaze dropping momentarily before rising to meet mine with surprising directness. "But it seemed better than staying there."

I study him with renewed interest, reassessing initial impressions in light of this unexpected display of protective courage. Despite his seeming frailty, Zeke possesses a core of strength that manifests not in physical power but moral certainty – willingness to stand against obvious threats despite personal risk.

"Why did you do that?" The question emerges before I can consider its implications, curiosity overriding caution.

He blinks, confusion evident in his expression as if the answer should be obvious.

"He was being cruel for no reason," Zeke responds simply. "Someone should say something."

The uncomplicated morality of his statement strikes me with unexpected force. In a world of careful calculation and strategic alliances that define academy life, such a straightforward ethical stance feels almost jarringly pure.

He surely gets bullied all the time but no one is defending him.

"Most people wouldn't put themselves at risk for someone they barely know," I point out, testing his response for hidden motivation.

His gaze remains steady, those remarkable eyes carrying depths I hadn't noticed previously – an old soul looking through a young face, an experience beyond his apparent years.

"Then most people are part of the problem," he states with quiet certainty. “Didn’t stop you from leaving a message for those dudes in class earlier to not bug those you interact with.”

The conviction in his voice suggests personal experience with being on the receiving end of cruelty no one bothered to challenge.

Combined with earlier taunts about the "homeless street cat" and his evident lack of social connections, a concerning picture continues to develop, but the fact he does acknowledge my prior warning to those douches emphasizes that he’s a lot more observant than one would give him credit for.

"You're hungry," he observes unexpectedly, changing subject with casual precision that feels deliberate rather than random. "But you don't want to enter the cafeteria."

The accurate assessment of my state catches me off-guard, my stomach choosing that moment to rumble in confirmation.

Great…

"I know somewhere else we can get food," he continues, eyes brightening with something approaching enthusiasm. "If you don't mind walking a little further."

I hesitate, weighing my desire to rejoin the others against genuine curiosity about this strange boy and what he might reveal about Faerie Academy's inner workings.

The decision crystallizes more quickly than expected.

"Lead the way," I instruct, gesture encompassing the corridor ahead.

Zeke's smile transforms his entire face, momentary joy erasing the habitual wariness that seems etched into his features. The effect is startling in its beauty, like sunshine breaking through persistent storm clouds.

As he guides us through an increasingly complex network of hallways, I study his movements more carefully, noting the subtle grace that defines his every gesture. There's an unmistakable feline quality to his locomotion – precise footfalls that make virtually no sound against marble floors, perfect balance maintained even when turning sharp corners, constant awareness of surroundings that manifests in slight adjustments to avoid collision before other students even register his presence.

His earlier courage in facing Damien seems increasingly remarkable given his evident physical disadvantages. Whatever paranormal classification he belongs to doesn't appear to grant obvious defensive capabilities, making his protection all more meaningful for its potential cost.

We pass through an archway I hadn't noticed previously, the marble transitioning to what appears to be living wood – an enormous tree hollowed and shaped through magic rather than tools, its interior polished to glass-like smoothness while maintaining organic patterns that speak of centuries of growth.

"We're almost there," Zeke assures me, pace quickening with evident anticipation.

The passageway opens into a circular chamber that takes my breath away with unexpected beauty. Enormous skylights form a natural dome overhead, crystal facets directing sunlight into a rainbow array that dances across curved walls. The space feels simultaneously ancient and timeless, power humming through living wood with gentle persistence that suggests a deep connection to Faerie's fundamental essence.

What truly captures my attention, however, is the enormous tree growing in the chamber's center. Unlike the passageway's architectural adaptation, this specimen remains fully alive, its massive trunk wider than three students standing shoulder-to-shoulder, branches extending upward to form a cathedral-like canopy that brushes against the crystal skylights.

Most remarkable are the fruits hanging from its lower branches – not a single type, but dozens of different varieties growing from the same tree in biological impossibility that could only exist through magical intervention. Apples and pears dangle beside exotic specimens I don't immediately recognize, each one perfect in form and vibrant with color that suggests peak ripeness.

"The Abundance Tree," Zeke explains, voice carrying a reverent quality that suggests personal significance beyond mere appreciation. "It's one of the last in Faerie that still produces without restriction."

He approaches the massive trunk with familiar confidence, reaching up to place his palm against rough bark in gesture that seems almost ritualistic. For a brief moment, I swear the entire tree shivers in response, branches swaying despite the absence of breeze within the enclosed chamber.

"We can take what we need," he continues, reaching up to pluck a perfect golden apple from a nearby branch. "But only what we'll actually eat. The tree knows if you're being greedy."

He offers the apple to me with a simple gesture that carries unexpected weight – sharing not just food but a secret place clearly significant to him. I accept with matching solemnity, our fingers brushing briefly in exchange.

The fruit feels unusually warm against my palm as if containing internal sunlight rather than merely reflecting external illumination. When I bite into crisp flesh, the flavor explodes across my tongue with an intensity that borders on overwhelming – sweetness perfectly balanced with tartness, complexity suggesting a dozen subtle notes beneath primary taste.

"This is incredible," I admit between appreciative bites, watching as Zeke selects a small cluster of purple berries for himself. The portion seems inadequate given his evident thinness, but he consumes them with evident enjoyment, each one savored rather than merely eaten.

"The tree provides exactly what your body needs most," he explains, confirming my observation about his minimal selection. "I don't require much physical sustenance."

The statement carries implications I file away for further consideration, another clue to his unusual nature. Instead of pressing directly, I opt for an adjacent approach.

"How did you know about the Nachtlied markings?" I ask, selecting a pear that practically glows with internal light. "That's not common knowledge."

Zeke's expression shifts minutely, caution returning to features that had momentarily relaxed in this sanctuary.

"I observe," he answers after a brief hesitation. "And remember things others don't notice."

His gaze flicks briefly to my neck, the exact location where Cassius's bond mark lies beneath my glamour, then away with deliberate casualness that feels practiced.

"Like the energy patterns on your skin," he continues, voice carefully neutral despite the bombshell contained within simple observation. "They're quite distinctive once you know what to look for."

I nearly choke on a piece of pear, the casual confirmation that he can indeed see through my disguise landing with physical impact.

"Who are you?" I ask directly, abandoning pretense in favor of addressing the growing mystery his existence represents.

Instead of responding immediately, Zeke approaches the tree once more, this time reaching much higher to select what appears to be the perfect peach from the upper branches. The fruit shouldn't be within his reach given his height, yet the tree seems to bend slightly, branch lowering to accommodate his grasp.

When he turns back to me, his expression carries new openness, a decision apparently made during that brief communion with the ancient plant.

"I'm a catalyst," he states simply, offering the peach with an extended hand. "Just like you."

Before I can demand clarification of this cryptic statement, a distant bell chimes through the chamber, its crystalline tone suggesting a transition between class periods rather than an emergency alert.

"We need to go," Zeke says, sudden urgency replacing momentary calm. "If we're late to Professor Valerian's class, there'll be consequences beyond simple demerits."

I accept the peach automatically, its weight surprisingly significant for its relative size, warmth pulsing against my palm like a miniature heartbeat.

Questions crowd my mind, each demanding immediate priority, yet practical considerations prevail. Whatever mysteries Zeke represents, getting answers while accumulating academic penalties won't serve my larger purpose.

"This conversation isn't over," I warn him, tucking peach into my jacket pocket for later examination. "I want actual answers, not cryptic statements."

His smile returns, smaller than before but carrying genuine warmth that feels earned rather than automatically granted.

"I know," he acknowledges, already moving toward the passage leading back to the main corridors. "But first, we really need to avoid Professor Valerian's wrath. Even the Abundance Tree can't protect against that."

From how he’s saying it, the whole school administration won’t protect us from this Professor’s wrath.

I follow with reluctant acceptance, questions temporarily set aside but not forgotten. Zeke represents a puzzle far more complex than initially appeared, his intervention against Damien revealing courage that contradicts his seemingly frail exterior.

More importantly, his ability to perceive through my glamour presents both potential threat and opportunity I can't afford to ignore. If he can see the bond marks and energy patterns beneath my disguise, what else might he perceive that others miss?

Can he really see me as Gwenivere and not as the persona of Gabriel?

Whatever Zeke's true nature, I suspect it connects directly to Elena's dream warning about the cat who would crave my company.

If following her advice means protecting this strange, brave boy who stood between me and danger despite his evident disadvantages, perhaps the path forward isn't as complicated as feared.

Pay mercy to the cat that will crave your company. It will lead you to the next step towards your salvation and allow you to remember what you've obviously forgotten.

The cryptic instruction echoes through my mind as we hurry through winding corridors, Zeke's movements growing increasingly fluid with urgency, that feline grace more pronounced when necessity removes conscious restraint.

He has to be it.

I've found the cat.

Now I just need to discover what forgotten knowledge he's meant to help me remember and how it connects to the chalice that might save Elena before time runs out.

Let’s hope this goes smoothly.