Page 12 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)
Guardian's Mercy
~ZEKE~
D arkness.
Not the gentle shadow of night or the cool dimness of a cave. This is absolute void— a thickness that presses against every sense like drowning in liquid obsidian. My eyes open to nothing, the black so complete it makes me question whether I've actually opened them at all.
The weight of it is oppressive.
Each breath requires conscious effort, as if the darkness itself has mass and doesn't want to be displaced by something as trivial as lungs seeking air. It clings to my skin with almost sentient persistence, trying to seep through pores and claim what lies beneath.
I sit up slowly, muscles protesting the movement. Everything feels heavy here—gravity multiplied by some factor that makes even simple actions exhausting. The air (if it can be called that) tastes of burnt copper and frozen starlight, coating my throat with each labored inhalation.
Deep breath in. Hold. Release.
The familiar meditation technique helps center me, pushing back against the oppressive atmosphere. I close my eyes— redundant in this void —and when I open them again, I let my feline nature surface.
My pupils dilate and contract, reshaping from human circles to vertical slits.
The transformation is subtle but profound.
Cat eyes see differently than human ones, detecting variations in darkness that would be invisible to normal vision.
Heat signatures, magical resonance, the faint phosphorescence of living auras—all become visible in graduated shades of gray and silver.
The first thing I see makes my chest tighten with concern.
Mortimer lies perhaps ten feet away, his usually composed form sprawled with unconscious vulnerability. His breathing is shallow, barely visible even to my enhanced sight. The dragon shifter's natural resilience is the only thing keeping him alive—anyone else would have already succumbed.
Nikki is worse. Her Fae nature rebels against this environment with violent rejection.
I can see it in the way her aura flickers, guttering like a candle in a hurricane.
Each breath is a battle her body is slowly losing.
The damage from the guardian fight has compounded with environmental hostility to create a potentially fatal combination.
Atticus sprawls nearest to me, vampire constitution providing marginally better resistance. But even he struggles. His chest rises and falls with irregular rhythm, and the blood that usually flows with supernatural vitality moves sluggishly through his veins.
Their pulses are thready. Weak . Too close to death for comfort.
Movement ahead draws my attention from my unconscious companions.
My enhanced vision picks out a small figure standing perhaps thirty feet away, facing what appears to be a wall of pure magical energy.
The barrier pulses with internal fire, creating the only source of light in this oppressive realm— though calling it light seems generous.
It's more like watching flames through black glass, muted and wrong.
The figure is a child. A boy, no more than six or seven in appearance. But appearance means nothing here.
I rise slowly, careful not to make sudden movements. My motion draws his attention, and he turns to face me with a pout that would be adorable on an actual child.
On this being, it's disconcerting.
He points at me with one small finger, accusation clear in the gesture.
"Feline shifters have been a pain all through the centuries."
His voice carries weight beyond its childish timber. Ancient irritation compressed into a boy's vocal cords. I've heard similar tones from beings who predate human civilization, who watched empires rise and fall with the same mild annoyance most people reserve for seasonal allergies.
I allow myself a small smirk, the expression feeling strange on features tight with environmental stress.
"But you can't deny our loyalty, can you?"
The boy frowns, clearly wanting to argue but unable to dispute the truth.
Cats, for all our perceived independence, are perhaps the most loyal of all shifters when we choose to be. We simply don't give that loyalty easily or often.
When he doesn't immediately respond, I know I've scored a point. He looks away, muttering with childish petulance that doesn't match the ancient calculation in his eyes.
"Why are you an ally to my sister?"
Sister.
The pieces click into place with almost audible precision. This must be Gabriel— the real sibling hidden within Gwenivere. The one who revealed himself before everything went to hell.
The one who warned us, in his own twisted way.
I consider the question carefully. In this place, surrounded by darkness that could crush us all with a thought, honesty seems the only viable currency.
"Gwenivere didn't see me as a tool," I say, letting genuine emotion color my words. "In all my time at the academy, she was the first to look at me and see a person rather than a useful ability to be exploited."
The memories surface unbidden. Years of being passed between powerful beings, each one seeing only what I could do for them. Transformation here, information there.
Always the tool and never the craftsman. Until her…
"She offered friendship. Companionship. Not because of how I could be deemed useful in a realm of wicked survival, but simply because she thought I deserved it." I meet his impossible eyes directly. "So yes, she has earned the righteousness of my loyalty. Which is why I will stand by her side."
Child Gabriel tilts his head, considering.
When he speaks, his question cuts to the heart of something I've already considered and dismissed.
"Even if she ends up being the villain in this story?"
My smile comes easier this time, carrying a truth that surprises even me.
"It would be nice to see the villain win for once, don't you think?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us voice.
How many stories end with the hero triumphant and the complex, damaged antagonist destroyed? How many times have we watched someone labeled 'evil' fall because they couldn't fit into neat moral categories?
Gabriel huffs, the sound perfectly childish despite the ancient mind behind it.
"I don't like you."
My smile widens.
"I guess that's good. It means you see I'm not making tales to appease you."
Something shifts in his expression— surprise, perhaps, or reluctant respect. He huffs again, then snaps his fingers with casual authority.
The effect is immediate and profound.
A bubble of different energy surges outward from his small form, pushing back the oppressive darkness like oil repelling water. The boundary is visible to my enhanced sight—a sphere of lesser shadow that allows something closer to normal existence within its borders.
The moment it encompasses my companions, they react.
Gasps and groans fill the air as they can finally breathe without the crushing weight of absolute darkness trying to fill their lungs. It's like watching people surface from too long underwater, desperate and grateful for something as simple as breathable atmosphere.
"My sister is with the annoying boyfriend," Gabriel announces, his tone suggesting this is both information and complaint.
I process this, mind automatically categorizing our group to determine who he means.
Cassius, obviously.
He's the only one not present, the only one who?—
"Hold on a damn minute."
Atticus is the first to wake fully, pushing himself up on one elbow before pausing to cough. Even that simple action seems to exhaust him, but vampire pride won't let him stay down.
"I'm totally her boyfriend."
The protest is so perfectly Atticus— indignant, possessive, and slightly petulant —that I have to suppress a laugh. Even near death, he can't stand the thought of someone else claiming Gwenivere.
Gabriel looks at him with an expression of profound disappointment, as if Atticus's very existence is a personal failing of the universe.
"A being of darkness who can barely stay awake is more of a slave than one worthy to love my sister."
The dismissal is so complete, so casually devastating, that Atticus actually sputters. I've seen him face down ancient vampires and emerge victorious, but apparently, a judgmental six-year-old is his weakness.
"You better be the younger brother," Atticus manages, struggling to his feet with determination that would be admirable if it wasn't so clearly taxing him, "so I can beat you up!"
Child Gabriel's smirk is pure predatory amusement. He doesn't need to say anything—the expression alone conveys how utterly unconcerned he is by the threat.
Movement to my left draws my attention as Mortimer and Nikki begin stirring. The dragon shifter is first to achieve something like alertness, sitting up with careful movements that suggest everything hurts.
"I feel like shit," Nikki announces, her voice rough but wonderfully alive.
Mortimer sits back, cracking his neck with a sound that makes me wince. His golden eyes scan our surroundings with scholarly assessment, cataloging details even while clearly suffering.
"The plague of darkness," he says, and there's something like awe in his tone. "It hasn't been used in decades. Most thought the technique lost."
He turns his attention to Gabriel, academic curiosity overriding caution.
"What are you protecting us from?"
"Protection?" Nikki's voice carries understandable confusion. "We almost died."
I feel compelled to interject, understanding clicking into place as I process what we're experiencing versus what we could be experiencing.
"Mortimer is right," I say, drawing their attention. "Without this barrier—" I gesture to the bubble of lesser darkness surrounding us, "—we would have been swallowed whole. Consumed. We'd be one with the darkness itself by now."
The distinction might seem semantic, but it's crucial. Death is one thing. Absorption into primordial void is something else entirely. One ends existence. The other erases the very concept that you ever existed at all.