Page 5 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Blood Magic Tainted With Thrill

~ATTICUS~

T ime slows to an excruciating crawl as I watch the volcanic rock consume her.

Gabriel – my Gwenivere, my Queen of Spades – struggles against the writhing vines, her body convulsing with each surge of corrupted energy. The runes beneath her skin flash in desperate defense, ancient symbols of protection fighting a losing battle against invasive magic.

I've witnessed many horrors in my lifetime – created quite a few of them myself – but nothing compares to the helplessness that crushes my chest as I watch her being pulled into that hellish portal.

"Can't... control... it... taking... over... grand prize. Royal... need... throne..." Mortimer's fragmented voice echoes across our mental connection, distorted but recognizable beneath layers of corruption.

Gabriel’s mouth opens in a scream I can't hear, his face contorting with agony as another wave of vines erupts from the rock face. They wrap around his head, obscuring his features, silencing his cries. His body jerks violently, limbs twitching with electrical current as the portal's surface softens, drawing her deeper into the volcanic prison.

Three minutes remain on the countdown.

Four have reached the central platform.

Two will fall.

Something inside me snaps – that final tether of restraint I've maintained since walking out of prison. The careful control that kept my true nature hidden frays, then shatters entirely.

I lunge toward the edge of the platform, calculation replacing emotion as I measure the distance between us. Impossible for an ordinary jump, but I ceased being ordinary the day they locked me away with monsters who taught me their secrets.

Before I can launch myself across the void, movement at the periphery of my vision draws my attention. Shadow tendrils erupt from behind me, shooting past with deadly precision. The darkness streaks across the gap, penetrating the translucent surface of the portal where Gabriel struggles.

The shadows wrap around his neck, arms, waist – tugging against the portal's suction with desperate strength. I follow the tendrils back to their source, finding Cassius with arms extended, face locked in intense concentration.

The Duskwalker prince's shadows form a protective barrier around him, simultaneously shielding him from Mortimer's attacks while he attempts to extract Gwenivere from the portal's grasp.

"I need to get to her," I announce, already calculating the trajectory. "We have to prevent that pillar from consuming her completely."

"For fuck's sake," Nikolai snarls from nearby, golden aura flaring with frustration. "If she's not going to make it, she shouldn't drag us down with her weakness."

My focus shifts, crimson eyes locking onto the Fae prince with murderous intent. The casual dismissal of Gwenivere’s life ignites something primal in my chest – a rage I've kept carefully banked since my release.

"Maybe if you'd stop thinking with your shriveled cock that's been hard since you laid eyes on him," I respond with deadly calm, "you'd stop being a fucking douche, especially considering you allowed Gabriel to be bullied relentlessly for three days straight."

Nikolai's perfect features contort with indignation.

"How the fuck would you know? You weren't part of Wicked Academy."

A cold smile splits my face, the expression carrying none of the humor it mimics.

"The walls have ears, Your Highness . Maybe if you used the brain beneath all that golden hair, you'd realize how many haters dine by your side in this wicked institute that doesn't give a damn if you're royalty."

The Fae prince's aura intensifies, golden light condensing around his hands in preparation for attack. I welcome it, blood singing with anticipation of violence long denied.

"Both of you, shut the fuck up and help!" Cassius snaps, strain evident in his voice as his shadows continue trying to extract Gwenivere from the portal's grip. "I'm not leaving my Queen behind."

"Oh, that's rich," Nikolai scoffs, turning his attention to the Duskwalker. "You're going to play hero when she's unconscious and can't even see what you're doing."

Cassius's shadows writhe with increased agitation, reflecting his barely contained fury.

"WE fucked up by standing back and letting things escalate the way they did," he growls. "If I'd known Damien would pour urine on her as some sick form of humiliation, it never would have happened."

"So you're only realizing this now?" Nikolai counters, incredulity sharpening his tone. "When she's being sucked into an abyss that will probably kill her? Your reaction time is impressively slow for someone with shadow manipulation!"

Their bickering continues as Gwenivere sinks deeper into the portal, only her shoulder and part of her head still visible above the translucent surface. With her obvious unconsciousness and the inability to encourage a continuous flow of magic in such a state, it was only a matter of time before her image as Gabriel would falter.

The countdown continues its merciless progression.

Less than two minutes remaining…

Lysth rises from where he's been tending to Mordax's injuries, his crystalline structure fracturing slightly with movement.

"Nikolai, stop fucking talking and actually use your Fae magic to help!" The sylph's normally melodic voice carries surprising authority. "Pull Gabriel out before they absorb and control him instead of Mortimer!"

As if summoned by his name, the corrupted dragon slams his massive tail against the platform. The impact sends tremors through the obsidian surface, disrupting our balance.

Cassius stumbles forward, momentarily losing concentration as he fights to remain upright.

The portal responds immediately, its suction intensifying with predatory eagerness. The Duskwalker prince curses as he's dragged toward the edge, his shadows stretching to maintain their grip on Gwenivere while simultaneously trying to anchor him to the platform.

I move without conscious thought, my body crossing the distance between us in a blur of trained efficiency. My teeth sink into my own wrist, tearing through flesh with practiced precision.

Blood wells immediately, hot and vibrant against my skin.

With a sharp gesture, I whip my bleeding arm before me. The crimson droplets hang suspended for a heartbeat before igniting with internal fire. Blood magic – one of the forbidden arts I mastered in prison – responds to my command, transforming ordinary fluid into strands of living power.

The blood strings shoot forward, wrapping around Cassius's form in an intricate web of crimson restraint. They pull taut, anchoring him to the platform before he can be dragged any further toward the portal's hungry maw.

"What the—" he begins, silver eyes widening as he takes in the blood-forged bindings now securing him in place.

"Focus on extracting her," I command, maintaining the tension in my magical constructs. "I've got you anchored."

Understanding dawns in his expression.

With renewed concentration, he directs his shadows to strengthen their grip on Gwenivere’s partially submerged form. The darkness coils tighter, pulling with increased determination against the portal's suction.

Slowly, agonizingly, she begins to emerge from the translucent surface. First her shoulders, then the curve of her neck become visible as Cassius's shadows drag her back toward our reality.

"Something's happening," Lysth calls, his crystalline voice fracturing with alarm.

He's right.

As Gwenivere’s form emerges further from the portal, her appearance begins to flicker and shift. The magical glamour maintaining Gabriel's form destabilizes, unable to withstand the corrupted energy coursing through her system.

One moment she appears as Gabriel – the male student with silver hair and masculine features. The next, her true form flashes through – Gwenivere, with softer lines and unmistakably feminine contours.

"What the fuck is going on?" Lysth demands, his crystalline structure refracting light in patterns of confusion and alarm. "Is Gabriel...transforming? I-Into a girl?"

My blood strings tighten, pulling Cassius more securely against the platform as I maintain the anchoring spell.

"Focus on extraction first, questions later," I advise, though I know the sylph's confusion is only beginning.

The truth of Gwenivere’s deception will soon be impossible to conceal. Already her form flickers between identities with increasing frequency, the male glamour failing as her consciousness fades beneath the onslaught of corrupted magic.

Nikolai finally moves to assist, perhaps recognizing the gravity of our situation regardless of his personal feelings. Golden vines materialize from his extended hands, reaching toward Gwenivere’s fluctuating form.

"We'll discuss this later," he declares, gaze flicking toward Lysth. "There's no way whatever this challenge is will absorb Gabriel. He's a hybrid. Mortimer is clearly the stronger asset."

Lysth's crystalline features rearrange themselves into an expression of disbelief.

"If you truly believe that, then you're a blinded Fae who could never rule a throne," he retorts, gathering shards of his own substance in preparation for attack. "You can't even see that he's?—"

The sylph's words cut off abruptly, his crystalline body freezing mid-motion. Confusion ripples across his features before our collective gaze follows the source of his sudden silence.

A blood-crystallized thorn protrudes from Lysth's chest, its surface gleaming with unnatural sharpness. The projectile's origin is unmistakable, though impossible to accept.

Gwenivere – half-extracted from the portal, her form still flickering between identities – stares through half-lidded eyes now completely black while vertical slits of venomous purple become visible in seconds.

Her expression remains vacant, face slack with trance-like absence, yet her hand extends toward Lysth with unmistakable purpose.

"No," I breathe, recognition and denial warring in my chest. I've seen this before – the blank stare, the unnatural pupil formation, the aggressive response to rescue attempts.

Possession.

The portal hasn't been trying to consume her; it's been attempting to reprogram her. Just as the cloud corrupted Mortimer, the volcanic rock has infected Gwenivere with the same malevolent consciousness.

"Drop her!" I shout to Cassius, but the warning comes too late.

Another crystallized thorn materializes from Gwenivere's fingertips, launching toward the Duskwalker prince with deadly intent. Only his shadows' instinctive defense saves him, forming a barrier that the projectile penetrates but cannot pass through completely.

"What's happening to her?" Cassius demands, shadows still maintaining their grip despite the attack.

"Same thing that happened to Mortimer," I explain, blood strings tightening as I reinforce the anchoring spell. "The corruption is spreading. Whatever controls him is trying to claim her too."

As if summoned by our discussion, Mortimer's massive form shifts toward us, those sickening purple eyes focusing on our desperate extraction attempt. His corrupted body blocks part of the countdown – less than a minute remains before whatever fate awaits the two who fail to secure positions on the platform.

"We need to decide," Nikolai states, voice cold with practicality. "Either we pull her onto the platform and deal with her corrupted state, or we let her go and save ourselves."

The calculation in his tone makes my blood boil, but I force emotion aside to focus on our increasingly dire situation. Gwenivere continues her transformation, body flickering between identities as the corruption spreads through her system.

Each manifestation of her true form lasts longer, the glamour weakening by the second.

Lysth staggers backward, crystalline hands wrapped around the blood thorn protruding from his chest. Cracks spread outward from the wound, fracturing his translucent structure with increasing rapidity.

"This isn't right," the sylph gasps, his melodic voice distorting with pain. "Gabriel isn't...this isn't..."

Another blood thorn materializes between Gwenivere’s fingers, her expression still vacant as she prepares to launch it. This time, her aim shifts toward Nikolai, the Fae prince's golden aura apparently drawing the corruption's attention.

"Duck!" I shout, releasing one blood string to form a protective barrier between the Fae and the incoming projectile.

The thorn strikes my hastily formed shield, shattering it but losing momentum in the process. The fragments scatter across the platform, each shard hissing with corrupted energy where it contacts the obsidian surface.

"We can't bring her onto the platform like this," Nikolai argues, golden light intensifying around his hands in preparation for counterattack. "She's already turning against us."

"We're not leaving her," Cassius responds, shadows stretching further to strengthen their hold on Gwenivere’s increasingly unstable form.

Mordax remains unconscious near the barrier leading off the platform, his injured body showing no signs of recovery. Lysth struggles to remain upright, crystalline structure continuing to fracture from the corruption spreading outward from his wound.

The countdown shows twenty seconds remaining.

I make my decision.

"Keep her restrained," I instruct Cassius, approaching the edge of the platform where Gwenivere hangs suspended between salvation and consumption. "I'm going in after her."

"That's suicide," Nikolai objects, though whether from concern or tactical assessment is impossible to determine.

"Probably," I agree, calculating the exact point of entry that will bring me closest to Gwenivere without being immediately consumed by the portal. "But I've survived worse."

Without further hesitation, I leap from the edge, angling my body toward the translucent surface where Gwenivere remains partially submerged. As I approach, I slice my palm open with elongated nails, fresh blood welling to the surface.

Blood magic requires sacrifice – a lways has.

The forbidden art demands payment in vital essence, a principle I learned through brutal experience during my imprisonment. The more powerful the spell, the greater the blood price required.

What I'm about to attempt will cost me dearly, but the alternative is unacceptable.

I strike the portal's surface feet-first, the translucent barrier parting around me like mercury. Immediately, vines erupt to greet my intrusion, reaching for my limbs with hungry determination. I allow them to make contact, using their touch to orient myself within this strange dimensional pocket.

The interior of the portal exists in negative space – not quite our reality, not quite elsewhere. Corrupted energy flows like currents through what appears to be an endless void punctuated by floating fragments of volcanic rock.

At the center of this chaotic environment, Gwenivere hangs suspended, her body completely reverted to its true form as the corruption strips away all pretense and protection.

Her eyes remain black with purple slits, but now I can see the veins beneath her skin darkening as the infection spreads through her system. The runes that once provided protection have inverted, their patterns twisted into channels that guide the corruption rather than repel it.

Outside, the countdown must be approaching zero.

I have seconds, not minutes, to act.

With practiced precision, I slash my other palm, completing the blood circuit necessary for what comes next. The forbidden spell forms in my mind, ancient syllables arranging themselves into patterns of power I shouldn't possess.

These weren't arts taught willingly during my imprisonment. I extracted them from fellow inmates through methods I prefer not to recall – techniques that left me hollow and them, emptier still.

The cost of vengeance always comes due, usually paid in pieces of one's humanity.

“ El Ruke De la Rose Fruitanda!”

As I initiate the spell, it takes form, my blood rises from the wounds, suspended in the strange gravity of the portal's interior. The droplets orbit my hands like tiny planets around twin suns, each one glowing with internal fire as the magic takes hold.

“De La Sonte Le Va Ruin Anatanda!”

The words, when I speak them, feel like razors in my throat – each syllable cutting deeper than the last.

This is old magic, predating most modern paranormal disciplines. Blood arts from before the vampire courts established civilization, before the Fae negotiated treaties with other realms, before Duskwalkers emerged from their ancestral shadows.

This is the magic of survival, of desperation, of refusing to accept defeat even when victory seems impossible.

The orbiting blood droplets accelerate, their glow intensifying as they absorb ambient corrupted energy. The spell creates a purification circuit – my blood serving as both conductor and filter for the infection attempting to claim Gwenivere.

I reach for her, hands extended through the orbiting blood drops. Where they contact the corruption surrounding her, small explosions of light erupt – purification battling infection in miniature warfare.

Her blank eyes find mine, the vertical pupils narrowing further.

Her mouth opens, but the voice that emerges isn't hers.

"Crown...requires...sacrifice..." The words carry the same disjointed quality as Mortimer's corrupted mental communication. "Royal...blood...necessary..."

The countdown outside must have reached zero by now.

Whatever fate awaits those who fail to secure positions on the platform will find us soon. I have seconds, perhaps less, to complete the purification.

With a final surge of effort, I press my bleeding palms directly against Gwenivere’s corrupted runes. The contact completes the circuit, my blood flowing into her veins as the purification spell reaches its crescendo.

Pain erupts through my nervous system – not simply physical agony but something deeper, more fundamental. The corruption fights my interference, retaliating with concentrated attacks against my own life force.

Black veins spread up my arms from the point of contact, the infection attempting to claim me as it has Gwenivere. The purification spell wavers as my concentration fragments under the assault, the carefully constructed magical architecture threatening to collapse.

In that moment of impending failure, I make the final sacrifice the spell requires. Not more blood – I've already given more than most could survive.

Instead, I offer memory.

Specifically, the memory of my transformation – those dark years in prison when I remade myself from victim to avenger. I allow it to thrive on the emotional agony. The negative roots of pain that fought to destroy every ounce of forgiveness I could muster as one still sane despite the obstacles placed against them.

It’s the best counteractive measure.

To use what no longer serves me to benefit the retrieval of the very purpose that kept me going through those agonizing moments of captive despair.

The spell consumes this offering greedily, using the emotional energy contained within those recollections to fuel its final stage.

Light erupts from our point of contact, blinding in its intensity. The corruption recoils, then attacks with renewed ferocity, determined to maintain its hold on Gwenivere’s unconscious form.

The purification wavers, teeters on the edge of collapse...

And tips toward success as Gwenivere’s eyes clear momentarily, purple slits receding as her natural eye color fights to reassert itself.

"Atticus?" Her voice, weak but her own, reaches me through the chaotic energies surrounding us.

"I've got you," I assure her, maintaining the purification circuit despite the corruption's continued assault. "Just stay with me a little longer."

Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as the spell completes its work. The black veins beneath her skin begin to recede, the twisted runes straightening back into their proper protective configurations.

The victory is short-lived.

A massive force slams into the portal from outside – Mortimer's attack, I realize, the corrupted dragon attempting to destroy what he cannot control. The dimensional pocket destabilizes, its translucent surface rippling with increasing violence.

"We need to get out," I tell Gwenivere, supporting her partially purified body as the void around us begins to collapse. "Can you move?"

She nods weakly, though her eyes still show traces of corruption around the edges. The purification isn't complete, but it's progressed far enough to restore some of her autonomy.

The portal's exit seems impossibly distant, the translucent surface contracting as the dimensional pocket begins its final collapse. Outside, I catch glimpses of chaos – Mortimer's corrupted form attacking the platform, Cassius and Nikolai defending against both the dragon and the countdown's expiration.

"Hold onto me," I instruct, gathering Gwenivere’s weakened form against my chest. The movement sends fresh waves of agony through my corrupted arms, but I force the pain aside. "This is going to be unpleasant."

With the last reserves of my strength, I channel the remaining blood magic into a propulsion spell. The forbidden art responds sluggishly, my vital essence dangerously depleted from the purification ritual.

Nevertheless, the spell takes form, power building around us like a compressed spring.

The portal continues its collapse, the void shrinking toward a singular point that will erase anything caught within. We have one chance – a single, desperate attempt to escape before erasure claims us both.

I release the propulsion spell, its energy catapulting us toward the shrinking exit with violent force. The acceleration pins Gwenivere against my chest, her weakened form unable to resist the tremendous pressure.

The platform rushes toward us – or we toward it, perspective becoming meaningless in this collapsing reality. The opening of a red barrier that must be controlled by Mortimer is narrowing with each passing second, our escape window diminishing to a pinpoint of possibility.

We strike the translucent surface at the exact moment of its final contraction.

For one terrible heartbeat, I believe we've failed – that the red barrier cylinder closed in front of instead of around us, sealing our fate in this dimensional trap.

Then reality tears, and we emerge into chaos.

The platform comes into view as we hurtle from the collapsing portal, momentum carrying us toward its obsidian surface. Mortimer's corrupted form dominates the scene, his massive body engaged in combat with Cassius and Nikolai who fight with desperate coordination against his overwhelming power.

The countdown has vanished, replaced by a single glowing word: COMPLETED .

Our trajectory sends us skidding across the platform's surface, my body instinctively curling around Gwenivere to absorb the impact. Pain flares through every nerve ending as corrupted flesh meets obsidian, but I maintain my protective embrace until we finally slide to a stop near the platform's center.

“Ow…” I groan, trying not to acknowledge just how painful all of that was while Gwenivere is still in my grasp. Slowly sitting up is another torture in itself, but I manage it, my senses on point while I quickly scan our surroundings to realize where everyone is.

Lysth stands nearby, his crystalline body showing extensive fracture patterns radiating from the blood thorn still embedded in his chest. His expression shifts between confusion and alarm as he takes in Gwenivere’s true form, now fully visible as the last of her glamour fades.

I’m more confused as to how he’s still alive or in the barrier space, despite the distance.

"A woman?" he manages, crystalline voice fracturing with disbelief. "How is that possible? Wicked Academy doesn't?—"

His observation cuts short as another tremor shakes the platform. Mortimer's massive tail slams into the obsidian surface mere feet from our position, the impact sending cracks spreading outward like a spiderweb.

"Questions later," I growl, struggling to my feet despite the corruption now spreading visibly up my arms. "Survival first, which means we have to get that thing out of your chest without killing you.”

Gwenivere stirs in my grasp, her eyes clearing further as the partial purification continues its work. The corruption hasn't been completely eliminated – traces still darken the veins around her eyes and neck – but its hold has weakened significantly.

"What happened?" she asks, voice rough with pain and disorientation.

"The same thing that happened to Mortimer," I explain, supporting her as she attempts to stand. "The corruption tried to claim you. I interrupted the process."

Her gaze drops to my arms, eyes widening at the sight of black veins spreading beneath my skin. "Atticus, you're infected!"

"A calculated risk," I dismiss, though in truth the corruption burns like acid in my veins. "We need to focus on immediate survival. The trial has concluded, but our dragon friend doesn't seem to care."

As if to emphasize my point, Mortimer releases another roar that shakes the very air around us. The corrupted dragon has cornered Nikolai against the platform's edge, massive jaws snapping mere inches from the Fae prince's golden barrier.

Cassius fights to reach him, shadows lashing out against Mortimer's scaled flanks, but the exhaustion of continuous combat has taken its toll. His attacks lack their earlier precision, his movements slowing as magical reserves approach depletion.

The word COMPLETED continues to glow above the platform, seemingly mocking our ongoing struggle against the corrupted guardian. Whatever the trial's official parameters, they've been met – five survivors have claimed positions on the central platform.

But completion offers no respite from Mortimer's corrupted assault.

"Atticus," Gwenivere clutches my arm, her gaze fixed on the ongoing battle. "We need to help them."

I assess our situation with cold calculation. Gwenivere remains weakened from her partial possession, my own corruption spreading with each passing minute. Lysth can barely stand, his crystalline structure compromised by the blood thorn's lingering effects.

I quickly look to see where Mordax is, but suddenly, he’s nowhere to be found.

Ugh, too much is happening to keep track of everything.

The odds appear insurmountable. But then, impossible odds have never deterred me before.

"Stay behind me," I instruct Gwenivere after I help her up. We’re both unsteady, but despite the amount of blood I’ve lost, I have a better chance of putting up a fight while Gwenivere focuses on recovering.

Stepping forward despite the corruption's burning progress through my system, I grin in excitement, realizing that despite how threatening all of this is, it’s the most thrill I’ve experienced in a long time.

Which makes me far too excited to let myself go.

"This isn't over yet."

Not while I still have blood to spill.