Page 44 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)
Between Pages
~GWENIEVERE~
T he journey back to our original room feels shorter than the trip out, as if the labyrinth recognizes completed trials and smooths the path in acknowledgment.
Atticus leans on me slightly—not enough to impede movement but sufficient to maintain contact, as if letting go might mean losing me again to his personalized nightmare.
The door appears before us with the particular certainty of destination reached rather than found. I push it open, helping Atticus through, and immediately hear Mortimer's voice.
"You made excellent time. The bond must have?—"
He stops mid-sentence as we fully enter, and I watch Atticus's expression shift from exhaustion to complete shock.
"What the fuck?"
The profanity escapes before vampire dignity can catch it, his crimson eyes widening as he takes in Mortimer's transformed appearance.
The young dragon prince stands by the floating window, having clearly been monitoring our approach, and the full impact of his actual appearance hits Atticus like a physical blow.
"You're... young."
"Technically, I'm older than you," Mortimer responds with amusement that makes his golden eyes dance. "But I appreciate the compliment."
Atticus circles him slowly, taking in every detail with the particular intensity of a vampire cataloging potential competition.
The silver-white hair that catches impossible light.
The lean muscle visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt.
The tattoos that shift and breathe with their own life.
The entire package that screams power and beauty in equal measure.
"I'm definitely going to be jealous now," Atticus announces, though his tone carries more theatrical complaint than genuine threat.
"First Cassius with his shadow prince mystique, now you with this ancient dragon prince aesthetic.
What's next, Nikolai reveals he's secretly the most beautiful Fae in existence? "
"Probably," Mortimer responds with perfect seriousness. "Have you seen him in either form? The Fae don't do ugly, even when they're trying to hide."
"And Zeke probably has some devastating feline form we haven't witnessed yet," Atticus continues, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. "I'm surrounded by impossibly attractive men who all want the same woman."
"Your vampire beauty isn't exactly lacking," Mortimer points out, and there's something in his tone that makes Atticus pause. "Centuries of perfection tend to leave their mark."
They look at each other for a moment, and I can practically see the competitive testosterone filling the air like visible fog.
"Okay, stop," I groan, moving between them before this escalates into whatever male dominance ritual they're contemplating. "I don't need you two fighting. Be good."
"We're not fighting," they say in unison, which would be more convincing if they weren't still sizing each other up like predators deciding if the effort of combat is worth the prize.
"We're... assessing," Atticus finishes.
"Evaluating," Mortimer agrees.
"Measuring," Atticus adds with a smirk that shows just a hint of fang.
"Oh my gods, stop," I interrupt before this devolves into increasingly obvious innuendo. "Mortimer, explain the plan while I still have patience for you both."
Mortimer shifts into scholarly mode, though the effect is somewhat undermined by his current appearance. It's hard to take someone seriously as an academic when they look like they should be on the cover of a romance novel titled "The Dragon's Desire" or something equally ridiculous.
"You'll need to seek the remaining companions on your own," he explains, moving toward a floating book that opens itself to reveal what looks like a map that keeps rewriting itself.
"In the meantime, Atticus needs to rest. That blood loss was significant, and he'll need to be at full strength when everyone is retrieved. "
"The labyrinth will get more aggressive as you collect more people," he continues, golden eyes serious despite his otherwise distracting appearance. "It doesn't want to release us—it feeds on isolation, on keeping us trapped in our own mental loops."
Atticus nods, sinking onto the bed with visible relief at being able to rest.
"Be careful," he tells me, reaching out to catch my hand. "But don't hesitate to call for us if you need help. We'll find a way to reach you, heartbeat or not."
The reference to vampire speed makes me smile.
I lean down to kiss him, gentle but thorough, tasting my own blood still on his lips.
"I'll be back with Cassius," I promise. "I have a feeling he's next."
As I move toward the door, Atticus calls out.
"Wait."
He holds out his hand, and shadows gather in his palm—but not his shadows. These are smaller, more playful, carrying the particular energy of something that exists between life and death for fun rather than purpose.
"Grim!"
The tiny reaper materializes with his characteristic "GREE!" sound, tiny scythe spinning in excitement at being summoned. He immediately floats toward me, orbiting my head like a particularly morbid satellite.
"So you're not truly alone," Atticus explains, and the thoughtfulness of it makes my chest tight.
"I'll provide guidance as well," Mortimer adds, tapping his temple. "Mental connection remains stable as long as you don't enter another trial space. I can help navigate, warn of dangers, generally be annoying in your thoughts."
"You're already annoying in my thoughts," I tease, but blow him a kiss to soften it.
Both men watch me leave with expressions that suggest they'd rather be going with me, but we all understand the nature of these trials. Some things have to be faced alone, even when you're never truly alone anymore.
The labyrinth greets me with its impossible architecture, more aggressive now as Mortimer predicted. Stairs build themselves under my feet only to dissolve the moment I step off them. Doors appear in walls that weren't there seconds ago, leading to rooms that exist in dimensions I can't name.
Grim proves surprisingly helpful, his tiny form zipping ahead to check paths, returning with excited "GREE!"s when he finds something interesting or warning "gree..."s when danger lurks.
Turn left at the intersection of astronomy and alchemy, Mortimer guides, his mental voice warm with dragon fire. There's something... odd ahead. Not Cassius, but significant.
The pull isn't toward any of my bonds but something else—a resonance that makes my chest ache with recognition I don't understand. I follow it against better judgment, drawn by instinct older than memory.
The door is different from the others.
Smaller, for one thing. Painted bright yellow with hand-drawn flowers that look like a child's artwork. The handle is lower than standard, positioned for someone much shorter than adult height.
I push it open carefully, Grim hovering at my shoulder with unusual wariness.
The room beyond is a nursery.
But not just any nursery—this is our nursery.
Mine and Gabriel's, from before Elena's jealousy shattered everything. I recognize it with certainty that transcends memory, each detail triggering recognition in parts of me I didn't know existed.
Books float everywhere.
Children's books with bright covers and simple stories, their pages fluttering like butterfly wings. They reorganize themselves as I enter, forming patterns that might be random or might be messages I'm not young enough to understand anymore.
One book floats directly to me, opening itself with purpose.
The pages show illustrations of two children playing—one with a crown of fire, one with a crown of shadows. They're happy in these pictures, laughing and running through halls that look like the Academy before it learned to be wicked.
"This is real," I whisper, understanding hitting like physical force. "This wasn't randomly implemented memory."
The books respond to my realization, more of them opening, showing variations of the same story. Two children who were meant to rule together. Two children who were separated by jealousy. Two children who became one through magic that should have killed them both.
Our memories were shifted, I realize with growing horror. We were merged into one…a spell gone wrong…I didn’t notice because was there anything “wrong” with me.
The thought makes me frown further because that means all this while, Gabriel has been trapped within her.
A larger book floats over, its pages already open to text that rewrites itself as I read:
"Survival is key in a world of cunning destruction, but it starts with understanding herself."
The words vibrate through me with truth that makes my bones ache.
Understanding myself—not just Gwenievere, not just the amalgamation of memories and powers I've become, but the fundamental truth of what I am.
Two souls forced to share space.
Two destinies tangled into one.
Two children who never got to grow up separate.
More books cluster around me, each one offering different pieces of information. Magical theory about soul-merging. Historical accounts of twins who shared power. Warnings about the price of forcing two into one.
Then a magazine floats over—completely out of place among the children's books.
It's open to a specific page, an advertisement for jewelry that should be in a vault somewhere, not casually displayed in glossy print.
The necklace shown is impossibly beautiful—chains of silver and gold twisted together like DNA strands, meeting at a pendant that seems to shift between one shape and two depending on the angle.
The description makes my breath catch:
"The Anima Divide—legendary artifact capable of separating identities when placed in the right hands. Not for sale, merely displayed to show the heights of magical craftsmanship. Currently housed in the Eternal Collection section."
My eyes widen as implications cascade through my thoughts.
This could be it.