Page 25 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

"The encounter is inevitable," Zeke confirms, expression suggesting a mixture of anticipation and concern regarding this eventual confrontation. "But I believe that happens in Year Four."

"Like a final boss," I whisper, gaming terminology surfacing from memories that continue fading despite desperate attempts to preserve them. The comparison feels oddly appropriate – progression through increasingly challenging levels leading to an ultimate confrontation that determines success or failure within the system's parameters.

Everything suddenly clicks into place – the trials, the advancing Years, the specific challenges each realm presents – all structured like elaborate games with rules, levels, and final objectives.

The realization sends an unexpected thrill of excitement coursing through me, pieces fitting together with satisfying precision that triggers a smile I can't suppress.

Zeke looks confused by my reaction, head tilting slightly in a familiar feline gesture.

"Why are you smiling?"

"This is the most thrilling challenge I've ever embarked on," I admit, enthusiasm genuine despite the objectively terrifying implications of everything we've discovered. "And though I'm struggling to remember all the hobbies I enjoyed, I feel like puzzles and mysteries are probably my favorite."

His confusion transforms to an appreciative smile, recognition lighting those extraordinary eyes with a warmth that feels earned rather than freely given.

"You remind me of my master," he says softly, an unexpected comparison carrying weight that suggests a significant compliment rather than casual observation. "Not the one that discarded me, but long before then."

Curiosity rises at this glimpse into his personal history, previous indication of abandonment is now clarified as subsequent rather than original relationship.

"If you're able to go back to him, would you?" I ask with genuine interest in his answer rather than merely polite conversation.

Zeke nods without hesitation, certainty suggesting a question he's considered extensively rather than the hypothetical newly presented.

"I would return and aim to fulfill my promise of being by his son's side," he states, his response revealing a depth of commitment previously hidden beneath casual demeanor. "Hopefully that son is still alive, and if my service as a familiar is still valid, I'll fulfill the duty of what I promised. For without my original owner, I wouldn't have gotten to witness the good in the world."

The loyalty embedded within this statement strikes me powerfully – commitment maintained despite evident suffering, dedication to promise made seemingly lifetimes ago rather than resentment at circumstances that led to current difficulties.

"So many have treated you poorly, though," I observe, thinking of taunts I've witnessed during our brief time together, evidence of ongoing mistreatment that extends beyond a single incident. "Discarded and abandoned you when you were worthy of going with them, at their side."

He nods, acknowledging neither dismissing valid observation nor accepting it as a reason for bitterness or abandonment of principles.

"Isn't that what's wickedly beautiful about life?" he responds, a question carrying philosophical depth that catches me by surprise.

I frown, genuine confusion at the perspective that seems to find value in suffering that appears objectively unjust.

Noting my reaction, he elaborates, his expression taking on a teaching quality that transforms his youthful features into something carrying wisdom beyond apparent years.

"The premise of Wicked Academy centers around the wrong, evil, and the born beings who want nothing but sadness and mayhem to plague its enemies," he explains, hands gesturing slightly to emphasize key points. "But no one ever centers their focus on the good these lessons deliver. The raw beauty in being greedy and selfish. How sometimes being evil is born from being so damn good in the world, that everyone took advantage of it."

He pauses, gaze shifting to meet mine directly with an intensity that suggests approaching a crucial point rather than mere philosophical musing.

"You're being kind by attending this school with a hidden purpose, yes?" he asks, though the tone suggests already knowing the answer before I provide it.

I nod slowly, truth requiring no elaborate justification or explanation.

"I'm here to retrieve an artifact that will save my sister."

He nods as if confirmation matches expectation rather than reveals new information, gaze lifting toward the ceiling in a gesture that clearly invites me to do the same.

As I follow his direction, the starry decor of shimmering magic above captures my attention – constellations arranged in patterns suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration.

"Did you ever stop and wonder why?" he asks softly, the question hanging between us with a weight that suggests importance beyond simple curiosity. "Why you're going to these lengths to save her."

The inquiry strikes with unexpected force, challenging motivation I've accepted as fundamental rather than requiring justification or examination.

"Because she's of blood," I respond automatically, the answer emerging without conscious thought as if obvious truth requiring no elaboration. "That she's my sister. My twin."

Memory surfaces as I speak, Elena's dream visitation is suddenly relevant to the current discussion. "I did... have a dream of her, saying I need to remember something, but... but either way, it's my duty to save my own."

I turn the question back toward him, curiosity about his perspective genuine rather than merely deflective. "Wouldn't you do the same?"

His smile carries sadness that suggests knowledge too heavy to share completely, an experience beyond what simple words can adequately convey.

"Blood holds plenty of secrets, Gwenivere," he says softly, expression conveying compassion rather than judgment. "But sadly, sometimes blood isn't thicker than water. In some realms, it's so thin of substance, that it simply leads them down a path of regret."

His gaze turns distant, perspective-shifting to what seems more personal reflection than direct advice.

"Cats have no issue with discarding their siblings to set off on their own journey," he continues, his comparison drawn from natural behavior rather than moral judgment. "So it makes me wonder, do you believe your sister is deserving of her sacrifice...or is that a plague she earned?"

The question lands with an unsettling impact, challenging the assumption that has formed the foundation for the entire mission without deliberately undermining it. Not accusation but an invitation to deeper reflection, and examination of motivation beyond surface-level justification I've accepted without question.

Before I can properly formulate my response; a musical chime resonates through the chamber, indicating a time-sensitive development requiring immediate attention. We both turn toward the doorway, where a subtle shimmer signals that the next section has opened. Access is granted to the viewing platform that represents our assignment's objective.

"We should head over to the next checkpoint," Zeke suggests, practical concerns temporarily taking precedence over philosophical exploration that could potentially continue indefinitely. He moves toward the doorway with fluid grace, somehow conveying both efficiency and elegance simultaneously.

Before he can proceed beyond reach, I catch his hand, a question forming that cannot wait despite the assignment's pressing timeline.

"If we fulfill the picture," I ask, reference to the ancient illustration's arrangement clear between us, "where will you go?"

His response carries neither self-pity nor false optimism, just factual acceptance of circumstances as he understands them.

"Once that section is complete... well... Mortimer and I will be left behind," he states simply, a reality acknowledged without emotional embellishment that might invite pity or special consideration.

The casual acceptance of abandonment as an inevitable outcome sends unexpected pain through my chest, rejection of such a conclusion forming before conscious consideration of implications.

"How can I prevent that?" I ask, mind already searching for the potential solution rather than accepting separation as inevitable. Existing relationships provide the potential template for alternative arrangements. "I'm bonded with Cassius, Nikolai, and Atticus, which means we have to stay together because they're bonded with me by blood. Can't that be the same with you?"

Zeke frowns slightly, expression suggesting possibility hadn't occurred to him – or perhaps had been dismissed as improbable without serious consideration. His response carries quiet disbelief that anyone would consider such an arrangement.

"I'm a nobody," he whispers, a statement presented as a simple fact rather than a bid for contradiction or reassurance.

The words trigger an unexpected emotional response, eyes suddenly burning with tears that form without conscious permission. Something about that specific phrase – that exact combination of words delivered with such matter-of-fact acceptance – strikes deeper than mere sympathy for current circumstances.

Memory surfaces with disorienting suddenness – not gradual recollection but a vivid flash that temporarily overwhelms present reality.

I see myself crying, surroundings containing broken items of gold and precious value scattered across the floor. Before me stands a small boy with clenched fists, face contorted with rage and anguish as he screams words that echo through time:

"BUT I'M A NOBODY!"

The child's finger extends toward me, accusation carrying weight beyond his years.

"You'll feel exactly what I've been through. I'll make sure of it, even if I pay the consequences!"

The vision disappears as suddenly as it arrived, leaving momentary disorientation as present reality reasserts itself.

Zeke stands before me, concern evident in his extraordinary eyes as he notes my reaction.

"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine worry replacing the philosophical distance that sometimes characterizes his interactions.

"I just remembered something from my past…I think," I admit, details already fading despite a desperate attempt to preserve them. I push aside confusion to focus on the immediate question that feels increasingly urgent. "But I have a different question."

He waits patiently, attention fully present rather than divided or guarded.

"If I bonded with you to take you with me into Year Three," I begin carefully, implications of my suggestion fully recognized despite desperate hope it might provide a solution to seemingly inevitable separation, "would you hate me?"

His expression shifts to complete disbelief, the concept apparently so far removed from the expected response that it temporarily renders him speechless.

When words finally come, they carry vulnerability typically hidden beneath a calm exterior.

"My Master abandoned me," he whispers, a statement carrying the weight of personal history rather than mere theoretical comparison. "And yet a being who's worthy of great things wishes to claim me like I'm not discarded waste?"

The questioning response carries a mixture of hope and disbelief, a possibility too valuable to immediately accept yet too precious to simply dismiss. I search for words that might bridge the gap between his self-perception and value I've come to recognize during our brief yet significant association.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," I offer softly, the familiar saying carrying depth beyond casual platitude when applied to specific circumstances rather than general principle. "The world deems you worthy by giving you access to things very few can ever witness here at the academy."

I gesture around us, indicating the Stellarum Archive that surrounds us with its impossible architecture and collected knowledge spanning realms.

"The Abundance Tree, being allowed to venture into these parts…it isn't simply because you've been here longer, or else everyone would have the chance," I continue, conviction growing as evidence accumulates within conscious awareness. "It's because you're worthy, and I won't take advantage of you as the school has with you and Mortimer in the matter."

I lean forward slightly, ensuring complete attention to my promise that feels increasingly important to articulate clearly.

"You'll have the freedom to do as you wish, and no obligation to remain with us or me when we 'escape' Wicked Academy," I clarify, boundaries established alongside the opportunity to ensure consent remains genuine rather than coerced through desperation or manipulation. "But I'd love for you to come along. If that means bonding with you, so be it."

The impact of these words visibly registers in his expression, emotions typically kept carefully concealed now evident in the slight trembling of his lower lip, brightness gathering in eyes that blink rapidly against forming tears. He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing with the effort required to maintain composure threatened by unexpected kindness.

"I'd be honored," he whispers, head bowing slightly in a gesture that carries formality beyond mere acceptance. Then qualification follows, unexpected concern emerging from nowhere. "Though I'm not really experienced."

The statement requires a moment to properly interpret, confusion clearing as understanding dawns with mortifying clarity.

Experienced? Oh…OH!

Heat rises to my face as I realize a potential misunderstanding regarding the "bonding" process, embarrassment making my voice emerge higher than intended.

"We don't have to do anything romantic, obviously!" I clarify hastily, hands moving in dismissive gestures that probably appear more frantic than reassuring. "But I will need to drink your blood, which... may be an odd sensation, but if we can find the others, they could help with that."

The clarification seems to simultaneously relieve and disappoint him, complex emotions flickering across features before settling into careful neutrality that masks whatever reaction truly manifests beneath surface composure.

The contradiction adds layers to an already complex relationship, suggesting dimensions I hadn't previously considered in our interactions.

Before either of us can address this subtle shift in dynamic, the timepiece chimes another warning – fifteen minutes remaining to complete the assignment and return to Professor Valerian's classroom.

The sound redirects attention to practical concerns that must temporarily take precedence over deeper explorations of personal connections and their implications.

"We should proceed to the viewing platform," Zeke suggests, professional demeanor reasserting itself with visible effort. "The aerial perspective will be optimal for just under five minutes before lighting conditions shift."

I nod agreement, recognizing the necessity of completing the immediate task while mentally filing away important conversation to be resumed when circumstances permit fuller exploration of both bonding possibilities and their implications for our respective futures.

As we leave the room, a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

"Little Mouse."

I pause, looking back to see Cassius standing in the ornate corridor, his tall form silhouetted against the Archive's ambient light. And beside him – Atticus, crimson eyes gleaming with his characteristic mix of amusement and intensity.

Relief and joy surge through me with such unexpected force that I can't help rushing toward them, wrapping each in a tight embrace that communicates what words cannot fully express.

"I haven't seen you for a whole day, but it feels like eons," I confess, the strange temporal distortion of our separation more disorienting than expected despite such a relatively brief parting by ordinary measurement.

Cassius and Atticus exchange a meaningful look, some silent communication passing between them that heightens my curiosity.

"Well, it could be exactly that," Cassius replies, shadows coiling slightly with his evident concern. "Because it's technically been two months in Faerie Wicked."

My eyes widen at this confirmation of what Zeke and I had just discussed – the accelerated time distortion affecting our perception of reality within this realm.

"How did you figure it out?" I ask, wondering what triggered their realization when most students apparently remain oblivious to the temporal deception.

"We were mid-class when they dropped the bomb," Atticus explains with characteristic directness. "And basically, we now have to locate a throne room of some sort that's outside on the campus to complete our task for class."

I turn toward Zeke, who has approached quietly to stand behind me, maintaining a respectful distance while still clearly aligned with my position.

"The throne we just saw in the book – is it on Wicked Academy grounds? Particularly in the Faerie realm?" I ask, the connection between ancient illustration and current assignment suddenly crystallizing with startling clarity.

Zeke appears uncharacteristically hesitant to answer, his extraordinary eyes shifting to look past me with a subtle wariness I haven't witnessed in him before.

Following his gaze, I turn to find both Cassius and Atticus directing unmistakable death glares toward my new companion.

I groan in exasperation, recognizing possessive territorialism for exactly what it is.

"Stop it," I admonish them firmly. "He's a cat shifter familiar who I've partnered with in class. We didn't do anything funky, so stop being douches."

Cassius merely shrugs, shadows settling into a slightly less aggressive configuration while still maintaining alert vigilance. Atticus, however, leans forward with a predatory smile that manages to be both charming and threatening simultaneously.

"Are you sure?" he asks, crimson eyes fixed on Zeke rather than me despite addressing the question in my direction. "Because your magic certainly likes him."

"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely confused by this cryptic assessment.

"Your auras are practically dancing in the same rhythm," Atticus elaborates, expression suggesting this observation carries significance beyond mere magical coincidence.

"How can you see that?" I question, curious about his ability that extends beyond normal vampire perception.

"I learned in the depths of prison," he answers with a casual reference to an experience that would traumatize most beings into permanent psychological damage. His tone suggests simple skill acquisition rather than a survival mechanism developed through unimaginable circumstances.

Zeke frowns, assessment shifting from wary caution to something approaching genuine curiosity.

"Which prison was it?" he asks a question carrying weight beyond casual inquiry. "What floor?"

"None of your concern and the bottom one," Atticus responds, smile transforming into something darker as he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me against him with casual strength that brooks no resistance. His grip isn't painful but clearly communicates possession as he gives Zeke a sinister grin that reveals just a hint of lengthened fangs. "Why? Frightened of a cynical pureblood who wouldn't mind ripping your head off?"

Protective instinct flares instantly – not for myself but for Zeke, whose already difficult circumstances don't need additional complication from a territorial vampire with an apparently ancient lineage.

"He doesn't mean that," I state firmly, using leverage to deliver a precise kick backward into Atticus's sensitive anatomy. Right into his balls. His grunt and subsequent creative cursing confirm an effective connection as I push away from his slackened grip. "He's just being a possessive ass. Ignore him."

I turn to Zeke with an apologetic expression, embarrassment warring with concern over his potential reaction to this display of aggressive territorialism.

"Do purebloods and felines not get along?" I ask, seeking context for interaction that seems to carry historical significance beyond the immediate personalities involved.

To my surprise, Zeke appears more amused than frightened; a slight smirk forming that transforms his usually serious features into something approaching mischievous delight.

"Familiars don't normally get along with purebloods," he explains with a casual confidence that suggests knowledge gained through experience rather than mere academic understanding. "They're extremely possessive if they meet someone on the same level of power as them."

This assessment causes an immediate shift in the group dynamic, my own shocked expression mirrored in Cassius's suddenly heightened attention.

"Are you more powerful than Atticus?" Cassius asks directly, shadows coiling with renewed interest as he reassesses the slender cat-boy with a fresh perspective.

Instead of answering directly, Zeke simply shrugs with elegant dismissal of the question that somehow manages to be neither confirmation nor denial while implying both simultaneously.

He spins with characteristic grace, redirecting conversation with practiced ease.

"If we need to find the throne for your assignment, we may have to group up together to hit two birds with one stone," he suggests, with practical focus replacing philosophical discussion with a smooth transition that nonetheless leaves the previous question hanging unresolved. "But we're going to need Mortimer, who's waiting up ahead."

Atticus snarls audibly, discomfort from my kick apparently forgotten in the face of new irritation.

"How the hell does he know Mortimer?"

Cassius's expression suggests a similar question though voiced with more restraint, silver eyes narrowing slightly as he reassesses Zeke with increased wariness.

"They can communicate somehow because they're both familiars, in a way," I explain, sharing understanding gained through previous conversations without revealing specifics that might violate Zeke's confidences.

"Mortimer is a dragon shifter," Cassius counters immediately, shadows shifting with slight agitation that suggests genuine confusion rather than mere contradiction. "Not a familiar."

"Dragons need riders to reach their full capacity of strength and dominance in any aspect of their life," Zeke calls back without turning, voice carrying easily despite increasing distance as he continues leading us forward. "Meaning they need a master, a rider, a being that gives them purpose. Why do you think most dragons live in the depths of kingdoms? It’s because their masters are rulers that give them purpose."

This explanation lands with a surprising impact, a paradigm shift regarding Mortimer's true nature and position within the academy hierarchy requiring mental adjustment from all of us.

Atticus's expression suggests thoughtful recalculation rather than dismissal, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as he intertwines his fingers with mine, guiding me forward as he and Cassius move to follow Zeke's lead.

The rearrangement places me between them, surrounded by protectiveness that feels simultaneously comforting and slightly stifling given the recent independence experienced during their absence.

"Is that why your group calls him a pet?" Atticus asks after several moments of silent progress, the question directed primarily at Cassius despite ostensibly addressing both of us.

Cassius sighs, shadows shifting in what I've come to recognize as an expression of discomfort with the topic that triggers genuine regret rather than mere social awkwardness.

"Not really," he admits, honesty apparently valued above self-justification or revisionist explanation. "We used it more as a term to taunt him because we were just being asses and hated our predicament. We weren't really acknowledging his potential feelings or the association of him being a familiar."

The admission carries weight of genuine remorse, Cassius's growth since our first meeting is evident in his willingness to acknowledge past failings without defensive rationalization. The change reinforces the connection between us, the bond mark at my neck warming slightly with appreciation for this evidence of evolving character.

"Where's Nikolai?" I ask, suddenly realizing that our group remains incomplete despite the unexpected reunion with two bond mates.

Cassius's expression shifts to something more complicated, shadows coiling more tightly around his shoulders in response to evident discomfort with the question.

"We sent him ahead," he explains after a brief hesitation that suggests reluctance rather than deliberate withholding. "He's obviously the only Fae in our group that can locate where the throne is because it should call only to royalty, but..."

"What's wrong?" I prompt when he trails off, concern immediately given unusual reticence from a normally forthright Duskwalker prince.

Cassius glances toward Atticus, some silent communication passing between them that further heightens my curiosity about whatever they're reluctant to share.

Atticus rolls his eyes dramatically, exasperation evident in an expressive gesture that somehow manages to combine aristocratic disdain with street-level impatience.

"He was getting bullied earlier by other Fae," he mutters, reluctance suggesting information shared only because withholding it has become more troublesome than revelation. "Many Fae really seem to dislike Nikolai, but we can't grasp why."

The statement carries implications beyond mere social difficulties, suggesting deeper issues within Fae hierarchy that potentially connect to Nikolai's transformation and strange reception within the Faerie realm. Rather than speculating without sufficient information, I turn to the most knowledgeable source available.

"Zeke?" I call, question embedded within a simple address requiring no elaboration between us given the growing understanding that has developed through our interactions.

He stops, turning to face our approaching group with an expression that suggests comprehension of unspoken inquiry.

His extraordinary eyes meet mine directly, assessment apparently confirming his decision to share knowledge that might otherwise remain carefully guarded.

"Some royals are born destined to become grand beings of authority," he begins the explanation carrying a cadence of ancient understanding rather than a mere personal perspective. "Those are individuals for whom the world itself will shift in their favor if it means them claiming the throne they're destined to sit upon."

He pauses, head shaking slowly in a gesture that communicates both regret and resignation regarding what follows.

"And then there are those who steal what is not meant to be theirs, conceal the truth to dwell in lies, and are forced to carry the consequences until they're willing to confess their sins and obtain redemption," he continues, assessment carrying the weight of judgment without personal malice. "Until then, let them carry their cross."

"Indeed," a familiar scholarly voice confirms from ahead, Mortimer's unexpected appearance completing our expanding group. His expression carries troubled gravity that suggests developments beyond mere academic concern. "We have more grave problems."

The announcement lands with ominous weight, Mortimer's typically composed demeanor showing subtle cracks that hint at genuinely concerning developments rather than merely challenging academic circumstances.

"What problems?" I ask directly, cutting through potential diplomatic evasion with a characteristic focus on essential information rather than social niceties.

Mortimer's expression shifts to something approaching approval, scholarly assessment apparently recognizing the value of directness in current circumstances despite a usual preference for a more nuanced approach to information sharing.

"The Seven have arrived," he states simply, each word carrying weight beyond the ordinary announcement. "And they've brought the Headmaster."