Page 30 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

Unwelcome Reunions

~GWENIEVERE~

M y eyes open slowly, consciousness returning in layers like sediment settling after disturbance.

The first thing I register is warmth—not the oppressive heat of the Infernal Realm but something gentler. Body heat. The steady rise and fall of breathing beneath my cheek. The particular comfort of being held while sleeping, safe enough to let guard down completely.

I'm in someone's lap.

The realization brings full awareness crashing back. I shift slightly, tilting my head to see who's served as my pillow during this unexpected rest.

Mortimer.

The dragon shifter sits with his back against a formation of crystallized shadow, legs extended to accommodate my curled form.

His eyes are closed, those scholarly glasses sitting low on his nose as if he'd been reading before sleep claimed him.

His breathing is deep and even, the particular rhythm of someone drifting between true sleep and watchful rest.

Surprise ripples through me. Not that Mortimer would offer comfort—he's shown consistent kindness despite his academic demeanor. But that I'd accept it unconsciously, that my sleeping self trusted him enough to remain vulnerable in his care.

I lift my head slightly, careful not to wake him, and scan our surroundings.

We're still in the dark oasis—that strange pocket of relative safety in the hostile realm.

But something has changed.

The quality of light is different, shadows dancing with less malevolence and more... anticipation? As if the realm itself knows we're close to our destination and has pulled back its claws, for now.

The others are scattered around in various states of rest.

Atticus sprawls on his back with vampire grace that makes even unconsciousness look deliberate. His arms pillow his head, the pose relaxed in a way I rarely see from him. The constant tension of maintaining control has eased in sleep, revealing someone younger beneath the centuries of experience.

Cassius has constructed his own furniture from shadows—a pillar of dark tendrils that supports him upright even in sleep.

The shadows move with subtle life, adjusting to his unconscious shifts, cradling him with the particular care of power serving its master.

His face is peaceful, the careful control that usually masks his emotions completely absent.

Nikolai perches on his side, one elbow supporting his head in a position that will definitely cause cramping when he wakes.

Even in sleep, he maintains that in-between state—not fully relaxed, ready to shift or flee at the first sign of danger.

The vulnerability of earlier has been packed away, replaced by the armor of constant vigilance.

Zeke is in cat form.

The sight stops my scan, fascination overriding other observations.

I've seen him shift before, but never had the chance to really look.

His feline form is magnificent—pure black fur that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a void in the shape of a cat.

He's larger than a standard house cat but smaller than the wild cats, perfectly sized for both stealth and combat.

His tail moves lazily from side to side, the only motion in his otherwise still form. The movement is hypnotic, measuring time in sweeps that don't quite match any rhythm I can identify.

He must be awake.

The thought comes with certainty. Cats don't sleep like other creatures—they rest while remaining aware, one part of consciousness always monitoring for threat or opportunity.

My small movements haven't prompted any reaction, but that doesn't mean he hasn't noticed.

More likely, he's catalogued me as non-threat and chosen not to waste energy responding.

That's when I realize the most significant change: I'm no longer in child form.

My hands are adult-sized again. My legs extend properly.

The strange dissociation of being mentally adult while physically child has resolved back into alignment.

The relief is profound—not that the child form was unbearable, but the constant translation between what my mind wanted and what my body could do was exhausting.

We must be at the end of the trial somehow.

The third key retrieved, the guardian role fulfilled, the requirements met.

We've acquired more than I expected—not just keys but understanding.

About the realms, the academies, the waters that divide and connect them.

About each other, bonds tested and strengthened through trials that should have broken us.

I rest my head back down, not wanting to disturb the others yet.

They must be exhausted from saving me. The water, the barrier, my near-drowning, then managing a child who carried adult power but not adult sense—it all would have drained them. The least I can do is let them rejuvenate a bit longer, gathering strength for whatever comes next.

Because none of us know what will happen when we reach the official gates of Year Three.

Will it be calmer build like Year Two? Classes woven with unexpected challenges, time to breathe between catastrophes? Or will it be mayhem like Year One, trial after trial designed to break those not strong enough to survive?

The uncertainty gnaws at me as I close my eyes, trying to find that peaceful drift back toward sleep.

Maybe just a few more minutes of rest before we have to face?—

Footsteps.

Not the subtle movement of someone trying to remain unnoticed, but deliberate steps. Multiple sets. A group approaching with the particular confidence of those who either don't fear discovery or actively want to be noticed.

My eyes snap open to find Mortimer already awake, his gaze fixed on the source of the sound. His eyes are changing—the warm gold shifting into something more primal. Vertical slits replace round pupils, dragon nature rising to the surface in response to potential threat.

"Mortimer?" I croak, my voice rough from sleep and probably from all that water I swallowed earlier.

He strokes my forehead very gently, the gesture more parental than romantic. His voice is soft but carries warning.

"You should remain calm until we figure out what they want."

They.

The pronoun makes my skin prickle. Not someone but a group. And from Mortimer's tone, not a friendly one.

I sit up slowly, his hand falling away as I position myself to see the approaching figures. The motion is careful—not wanting to appear aggressive but needing to assess the threat.

The moment my eyes land on the leader of the group, fury replaces caution.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan, the sound carrying enough volume to serve as alarm clock for the others.

Cassius and Atticus both open their eyes with the instant alertness of those accustomed to danger. No drowsy transition from sleep to waking—just immediate readiness for whatever threat prompted my reaction.

Nikolai stirs more slowly, eventually opening one eye to peer at the disturbance. The casual assessment changes to rigid attention the moment he processes who approaches.

Zeke remains apparently unbothered, tail still moving in that lazy rhythm. But I know better than to mistake stillness for ignorance. He's aware. Watching. Waiting.

We all rise as recognition fully settles. Mortimer first, scholarly dignity intact despite the situation. Cassius next, shadows already coiling with protective intent. Atticus moves with vampire grace to a position that allows both defense and offense. Nikolai?—

Nikolai freezes.

The change in him is immediate and devastating.

All the confidence built through our trials, all the acceptance found in shadow blankets and whispered forgiveness—it evaporates like morning dew touched by flame.

His body language shifts from capable warrior to cornered prey, shoulders hunching as if to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target.

I see why immediately.

Cassius moves to stand directly in front of Nikolai, a wall of shadow and deadly intent. The protective gesture is deliberate, unmistakable. He's claiming Nikolai as under his protection, warning off threat before it can materialize.

But I know who approaches. Know why Nikolai has retreated into himself. Know exactly what memories are surfacing to destroy his hard-won peace.

Damien.

The memory crashes through me with enough force to trigger physical reaction.

I'm on my feet before conscious thought, protective fury transforming me from tired traveler to weapon aimed at threat.

He arranged it.

The mockery that became torment. The public humiliation designed not just to hurt but to destroy.

The systematic destruction of someone whose only crime was existing in a form others couldn't accept.

He orchestrated it all with the particular cruelty of those who find entertainment in others' agony.

And he hurt Nikki.

Not Nikolai— though the pain translates through both forms. He hurt the part of them that was already vulnerable, already questioning their right to exist. Turned uncertainty into shame, doubt into self-hatred, confusion into conviction that the world would be better without them in it.

The fury that rises in me has nothing to do with ancestral rage against Fae. This is personal. Protective. The particular rage that comes from seeing someone you care about threatened by someone who's already proven they'll follow through on implicit threats.

Zeke's eyes open slightly, feline attention finally drawn by the electric tension building in the air.

He watches me stomp forward, fury probably visible in every line of my body.

Cassius's tendrils catch me before I can close the distance, shadow-binding that's gentle but unmovable. He's protecting me from myself, from the consequences of attacking before understanding the full situation.