Page 122 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

But I've made my decision.

The same fierce protectiveness that drove me into Atticus's trial, into Cassius's mirrors, rises now for Zeke. He might have joined us later, might not carry my mark the way the others do, but that doesn't make him less mine.

I mouth the words with deliberate force, making sure he understands this isn't negotiable:

"You are mine as well. I'm coming for you, Zeke."

His eyes widen with something between shock and... something else. Something softer that we don't have time to explore. His barrier flickers again, weaker now, and I can see him gathering himself for what might be a final stand.

Then the vision shatters.

I come back to myself with violence—gasping, coughing, my body convulsing as it tries to process the sudden return to physical existence. I'm on the floor, though I don't remember falling, surrounded by concerned faces that swim in and out of focus.

"Don't move," Mortimer commands, his hand on my forehead checking for fever that won't be there because this isn't physical ailment.

I push myself up anyway, too quickly, and the room spins with enthusiasm that makes my stomach revolt. Something warm drips from my nose—blood, I realize, tasting copper as it reaches my lips.

"Zeke's in danger."

The words come out rough, urgent, cutting through whatever examination Mortimer was about to perform.

"What kind of danger?" Cassius asks immediately, tactical mind already working through possibilities.

I explain what I saw as quickly as possible—the attacking books, the failing barrier, the fear in eyes that never show fear. With each word, the concern in the room ratchets higher.

Mortimer's frown deepens as he closes his eyes, clearly attempting mental contact.

"I can't reach him at all," he reports after a moment, golden eyes opening with worry that makes my chest tight. "It's not like the trial blocks—those create interference. This is complete silence. Either he's unconscious or something is deliberately severing communication."

The three men exchange looks that carry entire conversations in glances. Then they turn to me with unified certainty.

"We have to go together," Atticus states.

"How?" The frustration makes my voice crack. "I'm the only one who can enter trial rooms. We've established that. Unless you want to wait outside while I?—"

"GREE!"

The interruption comes from Grim, who materializes with unusual fanfare.

He waves his tiny scythe with enthusiasm that would be comical if not for the genuine power radiating from his small form.

We all stare at the miniature reaper, confused by his apparent excitement about our impossible situation.

Then he puffs out his little chest with pride that makes his skull face somehow express smugness despite lacking features capable of expression.

And he blows.

Not air—sparkling dust that erupts from his tiny form in a cloud that engulfs all three men before any of us can react. The dust glitters with colors that shouldn't exist, swirling around them in patterns that hurt to track.

"What—" Cassius starts, then his voice rises an octave. "What the fuck?"

Because he's shrinking.

They all are.

Not gradually but in swift stages—six feet to four feet to two feet to?—

They stop at approximately six inches tall, floating at roughly shoulder height, looking like expensive action figures given life and opinions about their situation.