Page 49 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

The thought arrives with exhaustion that drops me to my knees.

Not just physical tiredness but something deeper—the particular depletion that comes from spending life force rather than just magic.

I can feel it, the hollow space where my eighth life used to reside, burnt out like a candle that gave everything to keep burning just a little longer.

Gwenievere is beside me instantly, her hands on my shoulders, checking for injuries with desperation that makes my chest tight.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? The books?—"

"Gone," I manage, voice rough from screaming I don't remember doing. "You destroyed them."

" We destroyed them," she corrects firmly. "Your frost was essential. Without it?—"

She stops mid-sentence, her eyes widening as she looks at me.

Really looks at me.

"You're fading."

The words are soft, horrified, and completely accurate.

I look down at my hands to find them translucent, the particular transparency that comes when a cat is between lives. I can see through my flesh to the floor beneath, and that floor is becoming more visible with each passing second.

"I think—" My voice cracks, and I have to swallow before continuing. "I think I used up a life."

The admission comes with exhaustion that makes even words feel too heavy.

"Eight left," I continue, trying for casual despite the situation. "Which is fine. Most cats only get nine anyway, and I've been lucky to?—"

"But you're fading," Gwenievere interrupts, and there are tears in her impossible eyes. "Why are you fading if you have eight lives left?"

The answer hurts more than the dying did.

"Because I'll forget," I tell her, and now my own eyes are burning with tears I refuse to let fall.

"When we die in spaces like this—between dimensions, between realities—the transfer isn't clean.

I'll wake up in my next life, but I won't remember this one.

Won't remember the trials, the Academy.. ."

My voice breaks completely.

"Won't remember you."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence that's worse than death.

I see the impact hit her—the way her face crumbles, the way her hands tighten on my shoulders as if she can hold me in existence through grip alone.

"No," she says, and it's not denial but declaration. "No, there has to be something?—"

"A bond."

Mortimer's voice is tiny but carries scholarly certainty. He hovers near her shoulder, miniaturized but no less intelligent for his reduced size.

"A blood bond would anchor his consciousness, create a connection that transcends dimensional death."

"You don't have to," I tell Gwenievere immediately. "You already have four bonds, and adding another?—"

"Do you want to forget her?"

Atticus's question cuts through my protests with vampire directness.

I look at him—tiny, floating, but still managing to convey aristocratic judgment in miniature form. Then, at Gwenievere, whose eyes hold desperation that matches my own.

"No," I whisper, and the tears finally fall. "No, I don't want to forget."

They run down my cheeks in streams that feel like admitting defeat and accepting salvation simultaneously. I've never cried in front of others— cats have pride, after all —but pride seems insignificant compared to the possibility of losing these memories.

"Then do it," Cassius says from her other shoulder, his tiny form managing to project authority despite its size. "If you're both willing."

Gwenievere nods immediately, no hesitation, no doubt.

"Where?" she asks me, already reaching for my fading form. "Where should I?—"

I lift my hand—what remains of it, translucent and growing more so with each second. The gesture is instinctive, offering what would be a paw in my feline form. The soft pad between thumb and forefinger, where transformation happens, where human becomes cat and cat becomes human.

She understands immediately.

Her fangs extend with the particular grace of vampire transformation, and she takes my offered hand with gentleness that contrasts the urgency of our situation. When her teeth pierce the flesh, it doesn't hurt.

It burns, but with frost.

Like ice formed from starlight, like frost patterns on windows that look into other dimensions. The sensation spreads from the bite through my entire being—what remains of it—with speed that speaks of desperation rather than patience.

She drinks deeply, and I feel each pull not just in my hand but in my soul. This is different from normal feeding—she's not just taking blood but taking essence , the fundamental stuff that makes me me across all nine lives.

The blood that flows into her carries everything—every life, every death, every moment of existence across centuries of being guide and guardian. It's too much, too fast, too concentrated with magical potential accumulated across multiple incarnations.

Through our forming bond, I feel her reaction.

The blood hits her system like liquid lightning. Her own magic convulses, trying to process power that's fundamentally different from anything she's encountered. Dragon fire, Duskwalker shadow, vampire vitae—these are all singular powers, even if combined.

But feline blood, especially from one of my lineage, carries multiplicity itself.

We are not one thing but many things simultaneously.

We are alive and dead, here and there, now and then.

We exist in superposition until observed, and even then, we maintain uncertainty about which state we truly occupy.

All of that floods into Gwenievere with each swallow, and I watch her eyes dilate with more than hunger. This is overload, system shock, the particular danger of taking too much too fast.

"Stop," I try to say, but my voice is barely a whisper. "You need to stop before?—"

She doesn't stop.

If anything, she drinks deeper, desperation overriding caution. I understand why—I'm still fading, the translucency spreading despite the bond forming. She's trying to anchor me through sheer force of will, pulling me back from the edge through consumption.

It takes both Mortimer and Atticus to pull her away.

Even miniaturized, they manage it through combined effort—Mortimer's dragon strength and Atticus's vampire speed working together to break her grip on my hand. She fights them for a moment, fangs bared, eyes wild with hunger that's more than physical.

"What happened?" Cassius demands as I suddenly solidify.

The fading stops—no, reverses. My flesh becomes opaque again, details returning like picture coming into focus.

The hollow space where my eighth life burned out fills with something different—not a new life but a shared one, connected to Gwenievere through blood that now runs through both our veins.

I sigh with relief that comes from every cell simultaneously.

"Feline blood is very potent with magic," I explain, watching Gwenievere carefully as she processes what she's consumed. "Especially from someone with high divination power like mine. It's... extremely addictive."

Her eyes are still dilated, but awareness is returning. The wild hunger is fading, replaced by confusion and something like awe.

"The blood could have been feeding off your magic while heightening it," I continue, needing her and the others to understand what just happened. "Creating a feedback loop that would have drained you while overwhelming your system."

"But…I'm okay?" she asks, voice slightly slurred but improving.

"You'll be okay," I assure her, and secretly reassure myself that I’m not only alive, but so is she. I won’t forget her. "You just need to rest for a bit. Let your system process what you've taken in."

"That's nice," a new voice says, dry and unimpressed, "but we don't have time for that."

We all turn— those of us capable of turning —toward the source.

Gabriel stands in the doorway of what used to be my trial space. Not child-Gabriel but adult-Gabriel, arms crossed, dressed in leather that matches Gwenievere's uniform but styled differently. More masculine, more military, more designed for war than trials.

His impossible eyes—mirror of his sister's but somehow completely different—scan our group with an assessment that misses nothing. The miniaturized men. Grim is floating protectively. Me, solid again but clearly exhausted. Gwenievere, blood-drunk on feline magic.

“Gabriel?” We all manage to say, but I guess there’s no time to ask how he manifested.

"Nikki's in danger," he states, and there's something in his voice that transcends his usual disdain for the Fae.

This is personal.

This is urgent.

This is Gabriel actually caring about something other than his own situation.

The implications of that make everyone freeze—even time seems to pause, uncertain how to process Gabriel showing genuine concern for the Fae who our shared body instinctively rejects.

"Where?" Gwenievere asks, already pushing herself to standing despite the obvious effort it costs.

"The temporal maze," Gabriel responds. "The very center, where all times converge. And if we don't reach her soon?—"

He doesn't finish.

He doesn't need to.

"We need to go," I say, forcing myself upright despite exhaustion that makes existence feel negotiable. "Now."

As the others rush to the door, I offer to help Gwenievere out, holding her weight as she needs a bit more time to adjust to the new flowing blood that’s infused with feline essence.

“Thank you,” I quietly whisper, the two of us sharing a look before she gives the sweetest smile.

“I’d never abandon you, Zeke,” she assures me, like a promise she wouldn’t dare break. “Never.”

My smile is just as genuine.

I found someone who wants me to stick around…