Page 6 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

Revelations Amid Chaos

~GWENIVERE~

" S tay behind me," Atticus instructs as he helps me to my feet, his corrupted arms visibly darkening with each passing second.

The world tilts dangerously as I straighten, my equilibrium compromised by more than mere physical exhaustion. Something foreign writhes within my consciousness – the remnants of that malevolent entity that nearly claimed me completely.

It scratches at the edges of my mind like a parasite seeking purchase, whispering seductive promises of power if I would only surrender control. The manipulation feels oddly familiar, reminiscent of how Darius would attempt to bend my will to his – soothing words masking violent intent.

But I didn't submit then, and I won't now.

“Queen of Spades.”

Atticus’ voice is softer now, filled with a hint of worry despite the obvious chaos happening around us.

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing my legs to steady despite the corruption still lingering in my system. The magic underestimated me once; it won't get a second chance.

I have to be more careful…

I’ve let my guard down in comparison to the first Trial, which is something I have to ensure doesn’t happen again.

I’m very lucky this didn’t lead to worse consequences.

My immediate surroundings come into sharper focus as my vision clears.

The platform trembles beneath continuous assault from Mortimer's corrupted form. Nikolai maintains his golden barrier against repeated attacks, while Cassius's shadows lash out with diminishing strength, both princes clearly approaching their limits.

But it's Atticus who commands my primary concern.

Black veins spread visibly up his arms, corruption seeping deeper into his system with each heartbeat. He saved me at tremendous personal cost, and now that same infection threatens to claim him instead.

My throat tightens with fear. If the corruption could so easily take hold of me despite my protective runes, what chance does Atticus have? The others may underestimate him, dismissing him as merely Gabriel's unexpected ally, but I know better.

I know what he is, what he's capable of.

Pureblood.

The word carries weight far beyond ordinary vampire lineage – a rare evolutionary branch supposedly extinct for centuries. The abilities that blood contains haven't been seen in generations.

Movement near the platform's edge draws my attention.

Lysth stands there, his crystalline form fractured like glass struck by a hammer – and protruding from his chest, a thick blood crystalline thorn pulses with malevolent energy.

"What the fuck happened to him?" I gasp, horror washing through me at the sight of such violence. The sylph's normally prismatic body appears dull where the corruption spreads from the wound, fractures extending outward like dark veins.

I feel the urgency to help him, but then it’s as if he’s in between the border of protection and outside of it. Atticus sighs, glancing back at the injured sylph.

"You're kind of the culprit there," he says carefully, looking pitifully in Lsyth’s direction, surely feeling the same way that I do in wishing to help him, but wondering how we will do that exactly? "When the corruption had hold of you..."

"That's impossible," I frown, shaking my head. I’ve studied plenty of information in regards to various techniques used by various shifters, witches, and beings in the realms of elemental power and shifter traits. "I can't create blood crystalline constructs. That's..." I pause, the implications suddenly clear. "That's a pureblood ability."

"Yes," Atticus agrees, “It’s most definitely a Pureblood capability that’s usually passed down by generational…” his words measured before he stops mid-sentence.

He turns slowly, crimson eyes widening as he truly looks at me – not with the desperate focus of our rescue mission, but with dawning comprehension.

"What?" I ask, unnerved by his sudden scrutiny.

He doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze drops to my legs, drawing my attention downward as well.

Beneath the shredded remains of my uniform, strange markings flow across my skin like living calligraphy. Unlike the protective runes I've carried since childhood, these patterns pulse with newly awakened power – crimson lines intertwining in designs I've never seen before.

The markings move independently of my will, shifting and repositioning with each of Mortimer's attacks that rock the platform. They respond most dramatically when Cassius and Nikolai come within view, as if recognizing their presence even when I'm not looking directly at them.

"Fuck," I whisper, looking back to Atticus whose expression has transformed from shock to something approaching wonder. "We bonded..."

The realization hits me with physical force. The blood exchange during my rescue didn't just purify the corruption – it created a new connection. A bond like those I share with Cassius and Nikolai, but fundamentally different.

I’m bonded to a Pureblood…

A part of me knows this was the risk we took with him offering me his blood, but I guess because nothing ignited initially, I didn’t click on it.

Or maybe it did but as Gabriel I wouldn’t have initially noticed, especially wearing the new uniform pants…

Worry floods through me. I never intended this – never meant to tie Atticus to me as I'd accidentally done with the other princes, and that could mean he’s also stuck with me, which I wouldn’t necessarily mind if you list on a scale of who’d I’d rather be bonded to for the rest of my life.

However, it doesn’t mean he could like the implications. Would he resent this unexpected connection? Feel trapped by yet another consequence of helping me?

His response is nothing I could have anticipated.

A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, crimson eyes gleaming with something between amusement and pride.

"I always knew I'd be your knight in shining armor, my Queen" he says with startling lightness given our dire circumstances. He spins around with almost gallant flair despite his corrupted state, adding, "Just a bit tainted and deranged, but definitely the whole package."

He’s absolutely insane. He must be…

Yet, his words meshed with acceptance, making my heart swell.

Thank you, Atticus.

I’d be lying if I pretended that his sudden appearance in all of this has eased the odds that may not have worked in my favor.

A groan escapes me, equal parts relief and exasperation.

"Yeah, right," I mutter, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness.

The room tilts sharply, my knees buckling as the corruption surges within me, fighting against Atticus's partial purification.

Before I can collapse, cool arms catch me from behind. Not Atticus – he stands before me, already turning toward the threat Mortimer presents. These arms belong to someone else, someone whose touch carries familiar shadows.

I turn my head, shock paralyzing me momentarily as I find myself gazing into hollow eye sockets set in a face of living darkness.

Grim stands there – not the miniature companion who rode on my shoulder, but a full-sized figure of imposing height. His form remains largely shrouded in darkness, a cape of midnight fabric blending seamlessly with the shadows comprising his body.

His hands should be freezing against my skin, given their ethereal nature, yet they warm perceptibly where they maintain their supportive grip. The sensation is oddly comforting despite its impossibility.

“Grim…” I stare at him in disbelief and then back at Atticus. "How are you doing this?" I whisper, my gaze darting toward Cassius who battles at the platform's edge. The Duskwalker prince's shadows swirl around him, including the distinctive form of his shadow companion – Grim's original manifestation. "Cassius is still using his Duskwalker abilities, which means you're..."

My voice trails off as comprehension dawns. I don’t know if it’s because of the way he smirks in reply or the twinkle of shadows I catch flickering along his aura that makes my brain think far faster than I can comprehend. The impossible pieces arrange themselves into a pattern I should have recognized sooner.

Atticus looks over his shoulder, pride evident in his red eyes. One finger rises to where lips, signaling for silence regarding this revelation.

Can he…copy others’ abilities?

Not just mimic them, but somehow duplicate powers he encounters. The mini version with Grim that led everyone astray in the beginning, to this full-sized manifestation helping me – they're both Grim, yet somehow independent.

The implications stagger me.

Such an ability would be coveted by every faction in the paranormal world, hunted by those who would use it to consolidate power or eliminate rivals. No wonder he's kept his true nature hidden behind the facade of a simple shadow companion.

Before I can process this further, Mortimer's roar shakes the entire platform. The corrupted dragon rises to his full height, purple eyes scanning our scattered group with predatory assessment.

The word COMPLETED continues to glow above his head, a mockery of our ongoing struggle.

"We need to neutralize the corruption so Mortimer comes back," I say, finding my voice despite the shock of multiple revelations. "Not just in him, but in all of us. I’m not sure if this was the original intention of this challenge, but I guess it wouldn’t be surprising."

The Trial in “Year One” had the souls of students stuck with the pillar for decades, so am I really shocked this trial wishes to consume our minds and plague us with darkness?

Nope. Not shocked in the slightest.

Atticus nods, the black veins now reaching his shoulder.

"The purification spell I used on you could work on a larger scale. It wasn’t perfect, but it did enough justice to tug you from the deep depths of it," he suggests, "but it would require more power than I can currently channel."

"What about combining our abilities?" I offer, struggling to stand without Grim's support. "If the bond between us works like I think it does, I should be able to supplement your blood magic."

His eyes widen slightly.

"You've never practiced blood magic."

Well…yeah no…

"No," I admit, "but apparently I have natural talent for it,” I say and slowly gesture over to the sylph in still question. “Just ask Lysth."

Using Dark humor in this situation is far too horrendous but ugh. I need to keep my sanity from this maddening craziness of changes and unexpected turmoil somehow.

The crystalline sylph remains at the platform's edge, his fractured form a stark reminder of what the corruption can accomplish even through an unwilling vessel. The blood thorn still protrudes from his chest, pulsing with dark energy that prevents his natural healing from engaging.

I’m unsure if he’s still conscious, his eyes are open. I don’t think he’s dead, but maybe temporarily asleep in a unique state to preserve him long enough for us to interfere. I’m not sure if it’ll give us more time, but if we prioritize helping him first, it could jeopardize everything.

We need to take down Mortimer and bring him back from this tainted state first. Then we can redirect and serve aid.

Hopefully Lysth can survive long enough for us to accomplish that.

There’s also the sticking realization that Mordax isn’t on the platform.

Where did he go?

"It's dangerous," Atticus warns, though I detect a note of consideration beneath his concern. "Blood magic isn't something you improvise."

No shit, Sherlock.

We wouldn’t be playing with blood magic at all if it was my way because everyone smart or absolutely foolish knows that blood anything involves sacrifices, and if you can’t balance the scale in odds that even serve those entities we call upon, it usually ends in disaster.

Trying to lower the chances of impending doom, thank you.

"We don't have many options," I counter, gesturing toward Mortimer's massive form, now advancing on Nikolai's increasingly fragile barrier. "And I'm not watching anyone else get hurt because of me."

The words emerge with unexpected force, carrying the weight of accumulated guilt. I've brought nothing but trouble since infiltrating Wicked Academy – bonds formed without consent, princes turned against each other, and now corruption threatening to claim us all.

But I can also be the solution.

"What do you need me to do?" I ask, determination replacing uncertainty.

We need to get out of this situation quicker so this trial can end…hopefully.

Atticus studies me for a moment, seemingly weighing my resolve against the risks. Whatever he sees in my expression apparently convinces him.

"I need blood freely given," he says finally. "Not taken, not accidentally spilled – deliberately offered for this specific purpose."

"Take mine," I respond without hesitation, extending my wrist.

He shakes his head.

"Mine is already corrupted. Yours is still partly purified." His gaze shifts to Cassius and Nikolai, still battling Mortimer at the platform's edge. "We'll need theirs as well. The bond you share with them creates a circuit we can use to channel the purification."

At least these bonds can be useful for something.

"They're a little busy at the moment," I point out, watching as Cassius barely dodges a swipe from Mortimer's claws. I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge Mortimer's stamina for a “multi-decade” dragon shifter. "And I'm not sure they'll be eager to participate in blood magic."

"They'll help," Atticus interjects as if they really don’t have the privilege to object, which is technically true. "Or they'll watch everyone here succumb to corruption. Not much of a choice."

The confidence in his assessment would be reassuring if not for the grim reality it acknowledges. Corruption spreads through all of us to varying degrees – Atticus and I most visibly, but Lysth's worsening condition suggests the infection can transfer through injury.

"We need to move quickly," I say, noting the darkening veins now visible on my own arms. The purification Atticus performed bought us some time, but the corruption continues its insidious advance. "What's the first step?"

"A circle," he explains, already scanning the platform for an appropriate location. "Blood freely given at cardinal points, with the corrupted subject at the center."

"Mortimer's too large to position properly," I observe, watching the dragon's massive form as it continues its assault.

"We're not starting with him," Atticus clarifies. "He's too far gone for a direct purification. We start with you, then extend the cleansing outward."

The logic makes sense, though the thought of being the ritual's focal point sends a shiver down my spine. Blood magic carries risks beyond the obvious physical danger – ancient taboos exist for reasons often forgotten by modern practitioners.

But what choice do we have?

"Grim," I address the shadow being still supporting me. "Can you get Cassius and Nikolai over here without getting them killed in the process?"

The featureless face somehow manages to convey amusement.

“Greeeeeee.” His response is far deeper in range, but I can see the hints of excitement dancing in those hollow eyes, having new found purpose.

Without further explanation, he releases me, ensuring I can stand on my own before his form dissolves into multiple shadow tendrils. These shoot across the platform with astonishing speed, reassembling behind Mortimer in a towering silhouette that mimics the dragon's own proportions.

The shadow dragon roars – a sound that carries no physical vibration yet somehow penetrates the mind directly. Mortimer whirls toward this new threat, momentarily forgetting his assault on the princes.

In that instant of distraction, two additional shadow tendrils wrap around Cassius and Nikolai, yanking them across the platform toward us before Mortimer can react. They land in undignified heaps near our position, confusion and alarm evident on their faces, though Cassius seems to recover in a flash compared to Nikolai’s dubious expression that I dare admit is funny to see on the usual face of absolute perfection.

"What the—" Nikolai begins, golden aura flaring defensively.

"No time," Atticus cuts him off, already drawing a complex pattern on the obsidian surface using blood from his corrupted arm. "The corruption is spreading. We need to purify it before it claims us all."

I’m unsure if they even know what Atticus is referring to, seeing as I had to be unconscious for a hot minute, but understanding falls upon Cassius’ features as he pays attention to us.

"Blood magic," Cassius observes, shadows coiling protectively around him as he recognizes the ritual's components. "That's forbidden arts."

"So is letting your bond mate get doused in urine while you watch," Atticus retorts, the words emerging like reminding them of their obvious faults and lack of response will lead to their doom. "Yet here we are."

Nikolai flinches as if struck, the first genuine reaction I've seen from him since my public humiliation. The sight should bring satisfaction, but I find only weariness beneath my anger.

He’s all about show anyways. He doesn’t care about what happened…he just needs to project that he’s an asshole. We’re at Wicked Academy, remember?

Despite the obvious reminder, I can acknowledge that Atticus didn’t treat me ill since arriving here. Will it have consequences? I’m not sure, but oddly enough, deep within my heart, I feel even if there was capital punishment for not treating me like a rotting disease, he’d take it with open arms.

Just to not betray me…

"This isn't about retribution," I continue more softly. "It's about survival. Mortimer's corruption is spreading to all of us. You've seen what it did to me, what it's doing to Atticus. We also have to work faster to get Lysth out of his predicament."

“He’s probably dead…” Nikolai grumbles.

“It doesn’t matter,” I hiss. “We should at least try. Its my fault he has a damn blood crystalline in his chest. Not sure what Sylph’s survival rates are with injuries like this but we most certainly can try to assist.”

They exchange looks, clearly knowing I’m not going to take no for an answer even if they try to discard the member whom we’d just met. He aided us in some way to get this far, and half of his body is still in the barrier, so we could have a chance in retrieving him.

"What do you need from us?" Cassius asks finally, shadows settling into more neutral patterns. He catches my gaze, and though it softens a little bit, I try not to show my true emotions in return.

He’s just like Nikolai. Just less vocal. He didn’t interfere, which makes him no different than all the others.

"Blood freely given," Atticus repeats, continuing his work on the ritual circle. The pattern grows increasingly complex – intricate spirals intersecting with angular runes unlike any magical system I've encountered. "And a temporary truce."

A truce?

I’m not expecting that.