Page 29 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Thunder's Wrath

~GWENIVERE~

T he door clicks shut behind us, marking our return to the normal flow of time.

Atticus's hand fits perfectly in mine, his skin cooler than human temperature but radiating a different kind of warmth that travels through our bond. The connecting mark at my wrist pulses gently, still humming with satisfaction from our recent intimate encounter.

"We should find the others quickly," I say, trying to focus on the mission despite the lingering euphoria clouding my thoughts. "If Mortimer's calculations are correct, we have less than ten minutes to coordinate the aerial perspective with the throne activation."

Atticus nods, crimson eyes scanning the corridor with predatory assessment. "The central observatory should be just beyond?—"

A sharp screech of feedback cuts through the hallway, the sudden noise so jarring that we both instinctively crouch into defensive positions. The intercommunication system—something I didn't even realize existed in the Archive's ancient structure—crackles with static before a voice emerges through the distortion.

"Attention all Academy personnel and students," the announcement begins, the voice carrying authority that somehow manages to feel both ancient and coldly mechanical. "We regret to inform you that there will be a temporary disruption to scheduled activities. A betrayer has been identified among our ranks—one who must be terminated immediately."

My eyes meet Atticus's, confusion mirrored in his crimson gaze. The formal language suggests official Academy business, but something about the phrasing sends a chill down my spine.

"It is a shame to reveal that the Seven are no longer seven in number," the voice continues, artificial regret dripping from every syllable. "One of our esteemed members has attempted to place Wicked Academy in jeopardy, requiring immediate elimination by all means necessary."

"This can't be good," I whisper, tension coiling in my gut like a serpent preparing to strike.

Atticus's expression darkens, fangs partially descending in unconscious response to a perceived threat. "Someone's making a move against?—"

"The following member is no longer recognized as part of the Seven and will be terminated on sight: MORTIMER."

"Fuck!" The curse escapes simultaneously from both our lips, the single word carrying weight beyond mere profanity.

Atticus's grip on my hand tightens to near-painful intensity as he pulls me into motion, our feet barely touching the polished floor as we race down the corridor.

"We need to find him before they do," he growls, voice dropping to that dangerous register that reminds me of what truly lies beneath his controlled exterior.

I match his pace, calling on vampire speed to propel us faster, but something feels wrong. The familiar surge of supernatural acceleration doesn't respond as expected, my body moving quickly but nowhere near the blurred velocity I should be capable of achieving.

"Something's wrong with my abilities," I hiss, frustration mounting as I push harder against whatever invisible force restricts my natural capabilities.

Atticus curses again, more colorfully this time. "Mine too. They've activated some kind of dampening field."

As if in response to our realization, the announcement system crackles once more.

"All shifter and enhanced speed abilities have been temporarily disabled by Academy security protocols," the voice informs with cold satisfaction. "These measures will remain in effect until the traitor has been apprehended."

"They've locked down the entire Academy," Atticus growls, never slowing despite the limitations now imposed on our supernatural capabilities.

My mind races through implications with frantic assessment. If our abilities are suppressed, Mortimer's would be similarly affected. A dragon shifter stripped of transformative capabilities would be vulnerable in ways that make my chest tighten with dread.

"The atrium," I suggest, remembering the massive glass-domed space we'd passed earlier. "If there's a suppression field, it might not extend to exterior spaces. We need height and visibility."

Atticus nods sharply, altering our course without breaking stride. "The eastern stairwell should provide direct access to the roof level."

We burst through polished wooden doors into a spiraling staircase that seems to extend infinitely upward. Without supernatural speed, the climb becomes a brutal test of endurance—hundreds of steps stretching before us like a physical manifestation of odds stacked against our mission.

I take them three at a time, pushing muscles to their human-equivalent maximum, lungs burning with effort that would be unnecessary if my vampire physiology functioned normally. Atticus matches my pace, his expression hardening with each floor we conquer.

The bond mark at my wrist pulses with growing urgency, as if sensing danger I can't yet perceive. The new familiar connection with Zeke similarly tightens, golden threads of magic pulling with directional insistence that suggests he's above us, already at our intended destination.

When we finally burst through the door leading to the roof, cold air slaps against my face with shocking intensity after the Archive's perfect temperature regulation. Dark clouds have gathered since we entered the time bubble, transforming what had been clear skies into ominous storm formation that stretches across the horizon like bruised flesh.

"Gwenivere! Atticus!" Zeke's voice carries across the expansive rooftop, his slender form silhouetted against the darkening sky as he waves frantically from the eastern edge.

We rush toward him, feet pounding against the stone surface with desperate urgency. As we draw closer, his expression becomes visible—fear mixed with determination that suggests situations already deteriorating beyond our worst estimations.

"Look!" He points skyward, those extraordinary eyes wide with obvious alarm.

Following his gesture, I freeze mid-stride, horror washing through my system with paralyzing intensity.

Above us, wings spread against turbulent clouds, Mortimer's draconic form writhes in obvious distress. Gone is the majestic control he'd exhibited during our trial descent—replaced by jerking movements that suggest either injury or some external force manipulating his massive body against his will.

"MORTIMER!" I scream his name with desperate volume, though logic suggests he cannot possibly hear me across such distance.

His answering roar shatters any such doubt, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath our feet with such intensity that small objects begin dancing across the rooftop's surface. The cry carries no words but communicates pain with heartbreaking clarity—a being of ancient dignity reduced to an agonized reaction against forces beyond his control.

"What happened?" Atticus demands, crimson eyes tracking Mortimer's erratic flight pattern with tactical assessment that never completely overrides evident concern.

Zeke's expression carries guilt that suggests personal responsibility despite obvious circumstances beyond his control.

"We were listening to the announcement when something shot into the sky," he explains, words tumbling over each other in uncharacteristic disarray. "It struck him directly, forcing transformation despite the suppression field. Whatever they used specifically targeted his draconic DNA."

Another roar tears through the atmosphere, this one accompanied by jets of flame that illuminate the gathering darkness with brief, terrible beauty. When fire strikes Academy structures, alarms immediately begin wailing, distant screams suggesting students caught in proximity to unexpected destruction.

"They're going to take him down if we don't get him out of the sky," Atticus hisses, assessment carrying no judgment but clear recognition of inevitable consequences. "But he doesn't have a rider."

The statement triggers an immediate connection to the earlier conversation regarding dragons and their fundamental nature—beings who reach their full potential only when paired with a compatible partner who provides a purpose beyond mere existence.

"If I can reach him, I could direct him to the throne!" The idea forms with startling clarity, desperation breeding innovation where careful consideration might suggest impossibility. "You two HAVE to reunite with Cassius, find wherever Nikolai is hiding, and set everything up! I'll bring Mortimer."

"You're not a rider," Zeke objects, concern evident in his musical voice despite obvious recognition of limited alternatives.

"Is anyone in this Academy?" I counter, frustration edging my tone as precious seconds tick away. "If I can just latch onto him somehow, I can use my blood to direct him. It's not a true bond, but it might be enough to guide him where we need him."

Atticus's eyes widen with sudden comprehension. "You're going to use your blood strings as reins to try steering him to us?"

I nod, determination replacing momentary uncertainty. "It's probably our only option right now. I can't form a proper bond with him at this stage, but if we can at least bring him with us out of immediate Academy territory, maybe he can teleport to Year One until we figure out how to properly reunite."

Zeke's extraordinary eyes narrow in concentration, internal calculation clearly weighing probabilities with lightning speed. "It's the only viable approach," he finally agrees, a decision apparently made. "Let's move!"

"Our powers aren't working," Atticus reminds him, practical concern cutting through growing enthusiasm for a half-formed plan.

Zeke's responding smile carries confidence previously hidden beneath a more cautious demeanor. "I can address that limitation now."

Without further explanation, he brings his hands together in a precise clap that reverberates across the rooftop with supernatural resonance. Golden light erupts from his slender form, illuminating the space around us with a radiance that seems to push back the gathering darkness.

The transformation that follows defies ordinary description—not mere physical change but a fundamental alteration of essence made visible. A cape of midnight blackness materializes around his shoulders, flowing from nothingness into a substantial reality that moves with a living purpose rather than merely responding to environmental air currents.

Beneath his feet, a circle of golden light etches itself into stone, ancient runes arranging themselves in patterns suggesting mathematical precision beyond human comprehension. His physical form shifts subtly—ears elongating to delicate points while a tail materializes with casual disregard for biological impossibility.

Most dramatic is the change to his eyes—already extraordinary in their cat-like quality but now transforming completely, vertical pupils expanding within irises that glow with internal luminescence rather than merely reflecting available light.

Magical symbols appear across his exposed skin, runes similar to those marking the circle beneath him but somehow more vital—living language rather than mere inscription. The effect is both beautiful and slightly terrifying, power ancient beyond easy classification suddenly unconstrained by previous limitations.

Almost simultaneously, I feel an answering response within my own body—silver hair lifting from my shoulders as if gravity temporarily suspended its influence, each strand glowing with subtle luminescence that casts pearl-like reflections across nearby surfaces.

"What's happening?" I ask, voice emerging higher than intended as an unexpected sensation ripples through my system—magic responding to stimulus I didn't consciously initiate.

"A benefit of our familiar bond," Zeke explains, voice carrying new resonance that suggests altered vocal apparatus rather than merely changed emotional state. "My abilities have awakened, which activates corresponding enhancement to yours. Your natural capabilities are now approximately tripled in potency."

"That's amazing," I breathe, feeling the truth of his statement as power courses through my system with unprecedented intensity. My elemental affinities—typically requiring a conscious effort to access—now hum at the edges of awareness, eager for application rather than reluctantly responding to deliberate summoning.

"Can I use wind magic to reach Mortimer?" I ask, already formulating a specific approach based on newly accessible power levels.

Zeke nods, though his expression carries caution alongside confirmation. "Possible, yes, but with an important limitation—the further we're separated physically, the weaker your enhanced capabilities become. You need to act immediately before this opportunity diminishes."

Decision crystallizes with absolute certainty. Whatever risks this approach entails can't possibly exceed the consequences of inaction.

As I prepare myself mentally for what comes next, Atticus suddenly grabs me from behind, powerful arms pulling me against his chest with an urgent intensity that suggests fear rather than mere possessiveness.

"What's wrong?" I ask, turning within his embrace to find his expression transformed by emotion rarely displayed so openly.

Instead of answering directly, he captures my mouth in a kiss that communicates everything words might fail to express—fear, determination, respect, and something deeper that makes the bond between us pulse with answering recognition.

"You need to survive this," he says when our lips finally part, voice carrying authority beyond mere request. "If survival means bonding with Mortimer as a last resort, you will do it."

My eyes widen at the unexpected command, recognition dawning that he's invoked something beyond ordinary instruction. "Are you giving me an actual order with your Pureblood abilities?"

"Yes," he admits without hesitation or apology. "If they intend to eliminate Mortimer, they'll employ lethal force without restraint. I've seen what Academy security protocols involve when truly activated. He may consider himself unworthy of salvation, but we all believe he deserves whatever redemption his soul seeks."

Doubt flickers despite my determination. "He'll hate me for forcing a connection against his explicit refusal..."

"No," Atticus corrects with absolute certainty. "He'll hate ME, the Pureblood who compelled you to act against his stated wishes. That hatred I'll gladly bear if it means his survival."

His lips find mine once more, sealing this arrangement with physical confirmation that somehow makes official what might otherwise remain merely a theoretical possibility.

I want to argue further, but another agonized cry from above forces our attention skyward. Mortimer's massive form twists against gathering storm clouds, dark projectiles of concentrated magic surrounding him like predatory insects seeking vulnerable points to deliver a fatal sting.

"You're in so much trouble when we survive this," I hiss at Atticus, frustration momentarily overriding more complex emotions his unexpected command has triggered.

Despite my irritation, I pull him down for one final kiss, mouth pressed against his with a fierce intensity that promises both retribution and reconciliation once the immediate crisis passes.

"And the next time you fuck me senseless," I mutter against his lips, "you're doing it properly, even if that means joining Cassius in the actual act instead of watching from the shadows while stroking your cock."

Surprise flickers across his features before transforming into a delighted grin that somehow manages to combine boyish charm with predatory satisfaction.

"I knew you sensed me, wicked witch," he chuckles, the casual admission confirming suspicions I'd harbored but never directly confronted.

"Whatever," I huff, irritation genuine despite circumstances that should probably preclude such personal considerations.

Turning to Zeke, I find his extraordinary eyes carefully averted, either from politeness or embarrassment at witnessing an exchange clearly not intended for outside observation.

"Be careful," I instruct him, protective instinct rising despite knowing his capabilities likely exceed my own in many respects. "Stay with Cassius or Atticus at all times."

He nods, solemn promises conveyed without the need for verbal confirmation. Before either can offer further instruction or warning, Atticus's hand closes around Zeke's slender wrist, their forms blurring with the sudden return of supernatural speed as they race toward the tower's exterior.

Drawing deep breaths to steady nerves threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained composure, I turn my attention skyward once more. Mortimer's draconic form continues its desperate aerial battle against forces determined to bring him down, each movement more labored than previous as magical attacks gradually undermine his tremendous natural strength.

Calling upon elemental magic newly enhanced through familiar connection, I summon wind with unprecedented ease. The air responds instantly, currents swirling around my feet with an eager intensity that suggests sentient cooperation rather than merely manipulated natural force.

With careful mental direction, I shape these currents into a supporting column that lifts me from the rooftop with surprisingly gentle pressure despite the tremendous power necessary to counteract gravity's persistent pull.

The sensation proves initially disorienting—flying through direct elemental manipulation rather than transformed physiology requires mental adjustment my body struggles to provide in the limited available time.

As I rise higher, attacks previously focused exclusively on Mortimer begin noticing my approach. Dark projectiles of concentrated magical energy—similar to corrupted lightning yet carrying malevolent purpose beyond natural electrical discharge—redirect toward my ascending form with alarming precision.

I dodge the first volley through instinctive reaction rather than calculated evasion, body twisting mid-air with gymnastic flexibility that sends me spiraling away from immediate danger. The movement costs precious altitude, forcing redoubled concentration to regain lost progress toward Mortimer's still-distant form.

The gathering storm intensifies with unnatural speed, clouds darkening from merely ominous gray to nearly pitch black within moments. Lightning flickers within these formations, but the patterns suggest magical manipulation rather than natural atmospheric discharge—too regular, too precisely aimed to represent random electrical activity.

"Not good," I mutter to myself, recognizing the disadvantageous shift in environmental conditions. Water represents my least compatible elemental affinity, flying through a developing thunderstorm consequently combining multiple challenging factors into a potentially deadly equation.

Redoubling efforts, I push wind currents to greater intensity, sacrificing control of precision for raw speed that might reach Mortimer before the storm fully manifests its clearly building potential. The approach succeeds in rapidly decreasing distance but costs maneuverability I desperately need as attacks intensify around us.

A near-miss sizzles past my left ear, magical energy close enough to raise hairs along my neck through proximity rather than actual contact. The attack's heat lingering in the air afterward suggests fatal consequences had it connected directly rather than merely grazing the defensive perimeter.

"MORTIMER!" I scream his name with desperate volume when finally close enough that my voice might potentially carry across intervening space.

The massive dragon shows no sign of recognition, continuing erratic his flight pattern that suggests either inability to perceive my approach or incapacity to respond despite awareness. Either possibility carries concerning implications regarding his current mental state and potential receptivity to attempted assistance.

Without further opportunity for careful consideration, I bite deeply into both wrists simultaneously, vampire fangs easily piercing the skin to release blood prepared for specialized manipulation. With the wind still supporting my altitude, I flick both arms outward with practiced precision, blood responding to mental command with eager intensity.

The crimson strands extend far beyond ordinary physical possibility, their length and structural integrity maintained through magical enhancement rather than mere biological properties. I direct these living chains forward with careful control, using wind currents to prevent them from being whipped into disarray by increasingly turbulent air currents surrounding Mortimer's massive form.

With supernatural speed employed in unconventional aerial application, I manage to position myself ahead of his flight path rather than merely chasing from behind. The maneuver requires precise calculation—too far forward risks missing him completely, while insufficient lead distance might result in a collision rather than controlled interception.

As he approaches, I release prepared blood strings in a calculated pattern, the crimson strands wrapping around his massive neck in multiple supportive loops rather than a single potentially damaging constriction. When adequate attachment seems secured, I pull with careful but firm pressure, signaling my presence through physical contact rather than potentially inaudible vocal communication.

The reaction proves far more dramatic than anticipated. Mortimer's entire body jerks with sudden violence, my massive head whipping sideways with a force that transfers through connected blood strings directly into my much smaller form.

I scream as momentum sends me hurtling toward his armored back, impact driving the air from my lungs despite vampire durability that prevents more serious injury from a collision. Pain radiates through my torso, ribs protesting treatment that would shatter ordinary human bone structure.

"Dammit, Mortimer," I gasp, clinging desperately to blood strings and scale edges to prevent being thrown into empty air by his continued erratic movements.

With determined effort, I begin climbing upward, using natural handholds provided by overlapping scales as an improvised ladder despite their razor-sharp edges slicing into my palms with each new grip. Blood flows freely from these minor injuries, but vampire healing immediately begins addressing damage even as I continue upward progress.

As I crest the highest point along his spine, unexpected discovery temporarily halts my determined advance. Where I expected merely continuing scales, a structure sits secured between massive shoulder blades—a saddle, complete with securing straps and ornamental details suggesting a design specifically intended for draconic physiology.

"That wasn't visible before," I mutter, confusion momentarily overriding immediate practical concerns.

Pushing aside questions for later consideration, I maneuver toward this unexpected equipment with renewed purpose. If a saddle exists, it presumably provides a safer position from which to attempt communication and control than merely clinging to slippery scales.

As I settle into position, another discovery captures immediate attention—dangling from the saddle's forward pommel, an ornate talisman pulses with subtle magical energy. The object combines three distinct gemstones—deep crimson ruby, royal purple amethyst, and perfect amber gold—arranged in a triangular pattern surrounded by intricate metalwork inscribed with runes similar to those manifested during Zeke's transformation.

Without a conscious decision, my blood-soaked hand reaches for this mysterious object, fingers closing around cool surfaces that warm instantly to my touch. The moment blood makes contact with inscribed patterns, runes begin glowing with intense internal light, power activating through either recognition or catalytic properties contained within the vital fluid itself.

"What the—" Words fail as comprehension struggles to match observed phenomena with magical theory containing an adequate explanatory framework.

Booming thunder interrupts incomplete thought, the sound vibrating through Mortimer's massive body with an intensity that suggests direct proximity rather than merely atmospheric disturbance.

"Oh no," I whisper, recognition dawning with horrifying clarity. "MORTIMER!"

Looking upward, my worst fears materialize in visual confirmation. Above us, spanning an impossible distance across a storm-darkened sky, a magical circle materializes with deliberate precision. Unlike constructs magical practitioners might create for beneficial or neutral applications, this formation pulses with corrupted energy clearly intended for destructive purpose.

The pattern contains elements suggesting binding, punishment, and forced manifestation—a trap designed specifically for a being of Mortimer's classification and power level. The complexity and scale indicate preparation extending far beyond the recent decision to eliminate him from the Seven—this represents long-term planning finally reaching the implementation phase rather than a hastily assembled response to an immediate threat.

At the circle's center, a cloaked figure hovers with arms extended upward, palms directed toward the formation's exact middle where energy concentrates with growing intensity. Though distance prevents a clear view of facial features, posture suggests absolute confidence—a practitioner executing carefully prepared work rather than improvising under pressure.

Instinctive recognition of immediate danger triggers a desperate response. Gripping the talisman tightly in both hands, I call upon every protective magical technique acquired through years of hybrid training. Blood magic provides foundation, my freely flowing vital essence eagerly responding to mental direction with unprecedented cooperation.

Power builds between my extended hands, forming a protective bubble intended to encompass Mortimer's entire massive form. The shield grows with encouraging speed, a magical essence responding to desperate need rather than merely technical precision in construction methodology.

As the barrier nears completion, my eyes lift once more toward the figure directing attacks from above. Distance has decreased through Mortimer's continued ascent, allowing a clearer view of our apparent executioner. Recognition strikes with physical force as familiar features become visible beneath a partially lowered hood.

Raven.

The hybrid who accompanies Damien, whose strange energy signature triggered my suspicion during the hallway confrontation. Her expression carries triumphant satisfaction as she observes our desperate countermeasures, lips curved in a smile suggesting absolute certainty regarding the inevitable outcome.

In that terrible moment of recognition, understanding crystallizes with devastating clarity—she never targeted Mortimer at all. His forced transformation and apparent death sentence were merely elaborate mechanisms designed to draw specific prey into optimal positions.

Me.

Our eyes lock across intervening distance, her smile widening with predatory pleasure as she releases gathered power. From the circle's center, corrupted energy manifests as a concentrated lightning bolt—not natural electrical discharge but malevolent force ten times more potent than any atmospheric phenomenon could possibly generate.

The attack strikes with perfect accuracy, Mortimer's desperate evasive movement coming several critical seconds too late. My protective shield, nearly complete but lacking a central keystone that would have sealed its integrity, shatters upon impact. Power intended for destruction flows unimpeded toward its actual intended target.

I hear Mortimer's agonized scream and feel his massive body jerking downward in a desperate attempt to shield me from the attack that's already found its mark. The sensation of corrupted energy flowing through my system defies description—not merely pain but fundamental violation, foreign power rewriting magical structure with malevolent purpose beyond mere destruction.

Consciousness fractures under this assault, perception fragmenting into disconnected impressions that refuse coherent integration.

I see Mortimer's scales directly beneath me and feel the talisman burning against my palm with a desperate attempt to counter corruption flowing through my system.

Voices reach me across impossible distance — Atticus screaming my name, Zeke's musical tones raised in desperate incantation I cannot understand, Cassius's shadows somehow audible despite the distance separating us.

As darkness closes around fragmenting awareness, the initial image resolves with unexpected clarity—Elena's face from my dream visitation, her expression carrying sad acceptance that suggests foreknowledge of this exact moment.

Her lips move in a silent message I cannot quite comprehend before reality dissolves completely.

The world goes black.