Page 8 of Academy of the Wicked (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #2)

"It's not strong enough!" Nikolai shouts, strain evident in his voice as the magical structure wavers under Mortimer's assault. "We need more power!"

"Push everything you have into the connection!" Atticus commands, his own beam intensifying as he channels deeper reservoirs of blood magic.

I draw on my newly awakened abilities, feeling the pureblood heritage responding with eager intensity. The markings across my skin pulse with each heartbeat, channeling power into the prison structure with increasing force.

But it's still not enough.

Mortimer's corruption fights our containment with terrifying strength, the cage walls bending inward with each blow from his massive form.

"We're losing him!" Cassius calls, shadows stretching to reinforce his contribution to the prison. Even with Grim's essence pooled at his feet, supplementing his natural abilities, the Duskwalker prince struggles to maintain the necessary output.

Nikolai curses, his perfect composure finally cracking under the strain. \

"I'll have to use more," he mutters, almost to himself. "No choice."

Before I can question his meaning, the Fae prince undergoes a startling transformation. The careful glamour he's maintained since I've known him – the one that presents him as merely an extraordinarily beautiful fae – shatters completely.

Golden light erupts from beneath his skin, not just surrounding him but seeming to pour from within. His hair, already long and lustrous, grows further until it reaches past his waist, the strands moving with independent life like tendrils of living gold. His features sharpen, cheekbones becoming more pronounced, jaw more defined.

Most dramatic are his ears, which elongate dramatically into the pointed shape of pure Fae royalty – not the modest points many Fae display, but the true ancient markers of original bloodlines. They extend outward and upward, at least four inches in length, adorned with what appear to be naturally occurring crystalline formations that catch the light in hypnotic patterns.

Runes materialize across his exposed skin, far more extensive and complex than anything I've witnessed on other Fae.

These aren't tattoos or artificial markings – they seem to emerge from within him, ancient birthright rather than acquired decoration. They spread across his face, neck, and hands in swirling patterns that suggest cosmic forces rather than mere magic.

His eyes transform last, the golden irises expanding until no white remains visible. The pupils elongate into vertical slits reminiscent of a cat's, but more alien in their perfect symmetry.

When he blinks, I catch glimpses of secondary eyelids moving horizontally across those transformed eyes.

"Fuck," Cassius whispers, clearly as stunned by this revelation as I am.

The transformation complete, Nikolai's contribution to the blood prison increases tenfold. His beam of energy thickens dramatically, golden light so intense it's almost painful to look at directly.

The prison walls solidify in response, closing tighter around Mortimer's thrashing form.

"More!" Atticus urges, his own power surging to match Nikolai's increase. "We almost have him!"

I push deeper, drawing on reserves I didn't know I possessed. The markings across my skin burn with the effort, power flowing outward in a torrent that leaves me lightheaded. My vision tunnels slightly, darkness creeping in from the edges as I channel more than my body is prepared to give.

Just a little more...

Mortimer roars again, this one carrying notes of desperation rather than rage. The corruption within him senses its impending containment, fighting with renewed ferocity against our combined assault.

The countdown continues its merciless progression – sixty seconds remaining. Whether it marks the end of the trial or something more ominous remains unclear, but none of us intend to discover the consequences of failure.

"One final push," Atticus calls, his voice strained almost beyond recognition. Black veins have reappeared on his arms, not from corruption this time but from the sheer effort of channeling so much blood magic at once. "Everything you have!"

I close my eyes, reaching deeper than I ever have before. Beyond the vampire, beyond the witch, beyond even the newly awakened aspects of my nature I’ve yet to truly harvest.

The core essence that makes me a unique prize no one is ready to acquire: untouched by classifications or limitations.

Power answers, surging upward from depths I never knew existed. It pours through me like a tidal wave, overwhelming in its intensity yet somehow perfectly controlled. My beam strengthens dramatically, matching Nikolai's golden light and Atticus's crimson power.

The blood prison contracts sharply, walls solidifying into impenetrable barriers around Mortimer's corrupted form. The dragon fights desperately, claws scraping against magical constraints that no longer yield to his strength.

"It's working!" Cassius shouts, his own contribution stabilizing as Grim's pooled essence rises to join the effort.

The five points of our pentagon pulse with synchronized energy, the prison walls contracting further with each beat. Mortimer's massive form begins to shrink within the cage, his corrupted essence compressed by the relentless pressure of our combined magic.

Thirty seconds remain on the countdown.

I push harder, every cell in my body screaming with the effort. Darkness continues to encroach on my vision, the world narrowing to a single point of focus – the corrupted dragon at the center of our magical construct.

So close...

Something shifts behind me – not a physical presence but a disturbance in the magical currents flowing through the platform. Before I can turn to investigate, a hand touches my shoulder with gentle but unmistakable authority.

The world falls away.

One moment I stand on the obsidian platform, channeling every ounce of power I possess into the blood prison. The next, I find myself in a space of absolute white – no walls, no ceiling, no floor, yet somehow solid beneath my feet.

And standing before me, dressed not in scales but in robes of ancient magnificence, is Mortimer.

Not the corrupted dragon we've been fighting, but the scholarly member of the Seven I've come to respect. His human form appears unchanged except for his attire – gone are the academy uniform and wire-rimmed glasses, replaced by ceremonial garments that speak of authority beyond mere academic position.

The robes flow around him like liquid silver, embroidered with draconic symbols that shift and move as if alive. A high collar frames his face, emphasizing the sharpness of his features and the ancient intelligence in his eyes.

Upon his brow sits a circlet of what appears to be obsidian, identical in composition to the platform we were just standing on.

"Mortimer?" I ask, disoriented by the sudden transition. My voice echoes strangely in this white void, each syllable rippling outward like stones thrown into still water. "Where are we?"

"Still in the present timeline," he answers, his voice carrying that familiar scholarly precision despite our surreal surroundings. "I've simply pulled your consciousness aside for a moment, to protect you."

"Protect me?" I frown, trying to make sense of this impossible situation. If this is Mortimer – the real Mortimer – then what is the corrupted dragon we've been fighting? "From what?"

"From what comes next," he says cryptically, studying me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. "Tell me, Gwenivere…what was your true purpose in coming to Wicked Academy?"

The directness of the question catches me off guard.

"The chalice," I answer automatically. “To save my sister. You know this."

"Indeed," he nods slowly. "Though that's true, there's more, isn't there?"

I open my mouth to deny it, but no words come.

What could he possibly mean?

My mission has always been clear – find the chalice, save Elena, leave this place behind. Yet something in his knowing gaze suggests depths to my presence here that I haven't fully acknowledged even to myself.

My silence seems to confirm something for him.

A small smile forms on his lips as he inclines his head slightly.

"The Headmaster must have allowed all of this to manifest for a reason," he muses, almost to himself. "Your infiltration, your bonds with the princes, even the corruption of this trial…all pieces of a larger design."

"What design?" I demand, frustration cutting through my confusion. "I didn't come here to be part of some grand scheme. I came for Elena."

"And yet, here you are," he counters gently. "A woman in an all-male academy, bonded to princes from three different paranormal factions, at the exact moment when changes centuries in the making are finally coming to fruition."

The implications send a chill through me, despite my confidence that I know exactly what my purpose has always been when it comes to Wicked Academy.

Could my presence here be more than coincidence?

Had I been manipulated into coming…

Or was I always meant to arrive at this precise moment?

"I need you to trust me for what comes next," Mortimer continues, taking a step toward me. "You can scold me later, hate me if necessary, but what I'm about to do is essential."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, wariness creeping into my voice. "What comes next?"

"The corruption you've been fighting isn't some random magical mishap," he explains, his expression grave. "It's a test…one final evaluation before advancement to Year Two can be truly granted. The blood prison ritual you're attempting won't contain it because it was never meant to be contained."

"Then what's the solution?" I ask, increasingly aware that time must still be passing in the real world while we converse in this strange white void.

"Absorption and redirection," he answers, stepping closer until barely a foot separates us. "The corruption must be channeled through a vessel strong enough to withstand its influence without succumbing to it."

Understanding dawns with sickening clarity.

"Me. You want to use me as the vessel."

"You're the only one who can withstand it," he confirms. "Your hybrid nature, combined with the three bonds you now carry, creates a unique conduit that can process the corruption without being consumed by it."

"And if I refuse?" I challenge, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"Then the corruption spreads beyond containment, claiming everyone on the platform," he says simply. "Including your bond mates."

The thought of Cassius, Nikolai, and Atticus succumbing to that malevolent influence is enough to make my decision.

Whatever risk this poses to me personally, I can't allow them to fall victim to corruption because of my refusal.

There’s no choice in this matter…

"What do I need to do?" I ask, resignation coloring my tone.

"Nothing," Mortimer answers, moving closer still. "I'll facilitate the transfer. It's not necessarily romantic," he adds, apparently noting my expression, "but this is the only way for my magic to work fast enough through your body."

Before I can properly process his meaning, he leans forward.

His intention becomes clear as his face approaches mine – a kiss, the most direct method of magical transfer between compatible entities.

"Wait—" I begin, but my protest dies as his lips touch mine with the gentlest pressure.

The moment Mortimer's lips touch mine, time seems to suspend itself.

I expect urgency, perhaps even clinical detachment given his explanation – a purely functional transfer of magic rather than genuine affection.

What I experience instead is tenderness so profound it makes my heart ache.

His lips move against mine with exquisite gentleness, as if I'm something infinitely precious and impossibly fragile. There's reverence in his touch, a careful consideration that speaks of someone who understands the value of what he holds.

Not possession but protection, not demand but offering.

I've been kissed plenty times before – passionate embraces from Cassius in the shadow-veiled darkness, golden-tinged exchanges with Nikolai that burned like summer sunlight, even Atticus's recent blood-laced connection that saved me from corruption.

Each carried their own signatures of desire, power, and purpose.

But this... this feels fundamentally sweet with centuries of longing…

Mortimer kisses me like someone handling a priceless artifact made of the thinnest glass – aware that the slightest miscalculation could shatter something irreplaceable. His magic flows between us, ancient draconic energy intertwining with my hybrid essence in patterns that feel like fragments of a language I almost understand.

This is how it feels to be truly cherished, I realize with sudden clarity. Not desired or claimed or even protected – but valued intrinsically for exactly what I am.

The white void around us pulses once, twice – then shatters.

I gasp, lungs heaving as if I've been underwater for minutes rather than seconds. The return to reality is jarring, my senses overwhelmed by sudden input after the pristine emptiness of that strange dimension.

Something is wrong.

Terribly, catastrophically wrong.

Time appears to have slowed to a crawl, the world moving at a fraction of its normal pace. Yet my perceptions remain accelerated, allowing me to register details with hyperaware precision.

Nikolai stands frozen in horror, his transformed Fae features locked in an expression of absolute dread. Golden light still emanates from his extended hands, but the beam connecting to the blood prison flickers erratically, disrupted by whatever has shifted in our ritual.

Cassius appears equally stricken, silver eyes widened beyond anything I've witnessed from the typically stoic Duskwalker. His shadows writhe with agitated frenzy, stretching toward me in what seems like slow-motion desperation.

Atticus's expression hits hardest – pure devastation etched into features normally controlled even in the direst circumstances. His crimson eyes burn with helpless rage, lips parted in what must be a scream I cannot hear through the strange distortion affecting my perception.

All three stare not at me, but through me – their focus fixed on something directly behind where I stand.

Cold realization dawns even before I register the pressure in my chest. With reluctant dread, I lower my gaze.

Protruding from my sternum is a massive black crystalline formation – obsidian-like in appearance but pulsing with malevolent energy I recognize immediately.

Corruption, condensed and weaponized into physical form, has impaled me completely.

Blood pools around the entry point, but not the crimson liquid I expect. Instead, black ichor flows from the wound, thick and viscous like tar. It drips with agonizing slowness to the platform beneath my feet, each drop creating rippling patterns of corruption where it lands.

Pain should be overwhelming, yet I feel strangely detached – as if the crystal has severed not just flesh and bone but my connection to physical sensation itself.

Mortimer's dragon form is nowhere to be seen. The blood prison we worked so desperately to construct stands empty, its barriers still intact but its intended captive vanished without trace.

What happened in those seconds between white void and reality?

An insistent impulse urges me to look behind. Despite the crystalline spear through my chest, I manage to turn my head with glacial slowness, neck muscles moving through molasses as I peer over my shoulder.

The sight freezes whatever warmth remained in my veins.

Lysth stands several yards back, his crystalline form no longer fractured but transformed. Where transparent beauty once dominated his appearance, corruption has infused every facet with midnight darkness. His previously melodic features have twisted into a mask of malicious delight, lips stretched into an impossibly wide grin that defies the structural limitations of his form.

Most damning is his outstretched arm, extended directly toward me – or rather, through me. For his limb has transformed into the very crystalline spear impaling my chest, a perfect extension of his corrupted body that bridges the distance between us.

His laughter, when it comes, seems to bypass my ears entirely, resonating directly within my skull.

"I can't have you remaining in Faerie," he declares, voice deepened to registers that should be impossible for his crystalline physiology. "An abomination like you does not belong."

Faerie? Why would he mention ? —

My confusion compounds as I slowly turn back to face forward. The countdown timer shows just ten seconds remaining, but what captures my attention is the number displayed beneath it.

Seven.

Seven individuals within the boundary.

Mordax is nowhere to be seen, yet he has to be somewhere within the barrier? Potentially hiding to reserve a spot? Lysth is in now…and I…well I’m fucking dying…aren’t I?

Reality seems to stutter, a momentary glitch in whatever flows between dimensions.

I blink, and suddenly find myself positioned differently – standing now at the edge of our pentagonal formation, several yards back from where I stood seconds ago.

Impossible, yet undeniable.

For I can still see myself – or rather, a version of me – impaled on Lysth's crystalline extension. I watch my own face contort with mingled pain and confusion, blood-black tears tracking down increasingly pale cheeks as corruption spreads through my system.

Am I projecting? Dissociating? Dead already? Or maybe I’m a ghost…

No explanations feel adequate for this fracturing of reality. I remain frozen at the Pentagon's edge, watching as my doppelg?nger's knees buckle beneath her. The crystal spear holds her upright even as life visibly drains from her form.

Our eyes meet across the impossible distance – dying self to... whatever I am now. Recognition flashes in her gaze, resignation and resolve mingling in equal measure as her eyelids grow heavy.

"Don't let us perish in vain," she whispers, the words bypassing physical sound to resonate directly in my consciousness.

Even as she speaks, her form begins to disintegrate – not falling or collapsing but actively crumbling like sculpture made of ash. Darkness consumes her from extremities inward, particles dispersing into the charged atmosphere of the platform until nothing remains but floating motes of corruption that slowly settle to the ground.

Lysth's laughter rises in volume and madness as my bond mates stare in horror at the space where my doppelg?nger stood moments ago. Their expressions suggest they witnessed her disintegration as reality rather than the strange projection I perceived.

But if that was real...what am I?

I glance down at my hands, finding them solid yet somehow translucent when viewed from certain angles. I exist in a state between physicality and concept, present yet removed from direct interaction.

Did Mortimer's ritual kiss do something beyond mere magical transfer? It split me somehow – creating the displaced observer I now embody while leaving my physical form vulnerable to Lysth's attack.

My attention returns to the countdown display. The number of individuals remains at seven despite my doppelg?nger's apparent death. This confirms my suspicion that I still register as present, albeit in this altered state.

Lysth's laughter abruptly silences as he draws himself to full height, crystalline form glittering with corruption-infused pride.

"I've fulfilled my purpose to my Lord," he announces, addressing my stunned bond mates who remain locked in the pentagonal formation, their ritual disrupted but its magical structure still intact. "Thanks to my bribed cooperation, I will aid in making him the Pureblood he deserves!"

Pureblood.

The word sends ripples of comprehension through my displaced consciousness. Whoever this "Lord" might be, they covet the rare abilities associated with pureblood vampiric lineage – abilities I apparently possess, though I've never fully understood their origin or extent.

He hired Lysth to try and kill me so they can become a Pureblood. That makes no sense. Wouldn’t they need to be associated with me in some sort of way for it to even be active like that?

I don’t know enough about the origins of Purebloods to even make the right assumption.

Before Lysth can elaborate further, movement flickers at the periphery of my awareness. A dark shape rises behind the corrupted sylph, its form indistinct yet vaguely familiar.