Page 7 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Three (The Paranormal Elites of Wicked Academy #3)

His answer is simple . Devastating. But delivered with a satisfaction that transforms the words from revelation to victory.

"My twin."

The words hang between us, weighted with implications that rewrite everything we thought we understood. But there's a glitter in his eyes— anticipation. He's waiting for our reactions. Feeding on them.

Twin…meaning her sister? Or is he a brother?

The ground shudders with renewed violence before anyone can respond.

Convenient timing. Too convenient.

"The third guardian stirs," the volcanic glass beast rumbles from where it still kneels, its voice carrying warning. "The Warden of Bones awakens. Master, if your companions are to survive, they must be prepared for what comes next."

Gabriel straightens, vulnerability passing too quickly. A mask removed rather than emotion overcome.

"Then we prepare. All of us. Together."

He looks at me, and for a moment I see—something. Not my Little Mouse beneath the mantle of Infernal royalty. Something else wearing her face.

Something that knows I'm watching and finds it amusing.

My shadows coil tighter, responding to instinct older than thought.

Predator recognizing predator.

"Even if it means breaking every rule this realm holds sacred?" I ask, testing. Probing for reactions.

His smile is beautiful. Dangerous. And completely wrong. Too many teeth visible.

Gwenivere's smiles are precious because they're rare—this is performance art.

"Especially then."

Nikki's unconscious form presents our immediate challenge. She's dead weight, her Fae body rejecting this realm even in unconsciousness. Every breath rattles with fluid—blood in the lungs, getting worse. Moving her in this state will slow us critically. Risk finishing what her injuries started.

"I can help," Zeke volunteers, clearly reading out minds, moving closer to her still form. His approach carries that feline grace, but there's calculation in his extraordinary eyes. "If you'll permit me."

"What are you suggesting?" Atticus asks, still cradling her with vampire strength that's beginning to show strain. A tremor in his left bicep—minor, but growing. Even vampire endurance has limits.

Zeke's extraordinary eyes flicker with ancient knowledge.

The vertical pupils dilate and contract in pattern suggesting deep magical assessment.

"Transformation. Temporary, reversible, but practical.

" He looks to me, then Gabriel. "I can shift her into a cat.

Easier to carry, less strain on her system. "

"Do it," Gabriel says before anyone else can respond.

Too quick. No hesitation. No consideration.

The Gabriel I know— the real one, Gwenivere in her male form —would have hesitated. Would have asked about consent, worried about Nikki's dignity. This is command without compassion.

I want to argue, but we’re not blessed with time in the slightest.

Zeke's magic unfolds with delicate precision.

Not the brute force transformation of typical shifter magic, but something far more elegant.

Power flows from his hands in visible streams—gold threading through silver, weaving patterns that hurt to look at directly.

The magic smells of moonlight and ancient forests, carrying weight of authority that speaks to bloodlines older than recorded history.

Nikki's form shimmers, reality bending around her as fundamental nature shifts.

The transformation happens in layers—first her essence condensing, then physical form following.

Bones restructure with sounds like wind chimes.

Muscle and organ compact with mathematical precision.

Her golden hair becomes silver fur that catches the hellish light.

When it completes, a small cat rests where Nikki once lay. Persian breed, if I'm not mistaken. Elegant even in this reduced form. Her breathing immediately eases—the smaller lungs handling damage better than human-sized organs.

"I'll create a carrier," Mortimer offers, scholarly pride overcoming his injuries.

He's still favoring his left side where the serpent's attack left its mark, but his hands move in precise patterns.

Magic weaves itself into tangible form—threads of starlight pulled from impossibly distant sources, scales manifesting from pure will.

The resulting pouch defies easy description.

It appears woven from dragon scales, but the scales themselves seem made of compressed galaxies—points of light swirling within each hexagonal segment.

The fabric (if it can be called that) ripples with its own gravity field, creating a pocket dimension that will protect its contents from any environmental hazard.

Atticus carefully places the cat-Nikki into the carrier, movements gentle despite vampire strength. The pouch seals itself, adjusting to her small form. Mortimer slings it across his chest with practiced motion, the strap configuring itself for optimal weight distribution.

"The third guardian," Atticus says, crimson eyes scanning the path ahead. His pupils are dilated—blood loss from the wounds making him hunger. Dangerous combination. "What should we expect?"

"Death," Gabriel responds flatly. "Or worse."

The casual delivery makes my shadows writhe with agitation. Too comfortable with the concept. Too... anticipatory. Like discussing dinner plans rather than potential annihilation.

Gwenivere faces death with defiance or determination.

This is almost eager.

"We need a different approach," I state, but my focus remains on Gabriel.

Every detail cataloged, analyzed, compared.

The way he stands—weight distributed 60/40 instead of Gwenivere's typical 55/45.

How his breathing pattern has shifted by precisely 3.

7 seconds—chest expansion reduced by 2.1 centimeters.

The angle of his head—tilted right instead of left when thinking.

Details. Always in the details. "But first?—"

My shadows move without conscious command.

Training, instinct, and growing certainty combining into action faster than thought.

Dark tendrils erupt from my form, transforming mid-flight.

Not simple extensions of will but weapons—blades of condensed void that exist in the spaces between reality.

Each one honed to atomic sharpness, positioned with surgical precision.

They form a crown of death around Gabriel's throat. Thirty-seven individual points, each hovering exactly one millimeter from skin. Close enough that his pulse creates tiny air currents that disturb their edges. Close enough that a deep breath would mean death.

"Cassius!" Atticus snarls, vampire speed bringing him halfway to intervention before he registers my complete calm. His momentum arrests with visible effort, muscles bunching as he fights his own velocity. "What the fuck are you doing? This is hardly the time for?—"

"It's time," Mortimer interrupts, scholarly assessment replacing shock.

His stance shifts—no longer casual observer but potential combatant.

Dragon instincts awakening. "Past time, actually.

" He crosses his arms, studying Gabriel with new intensity.

Golden eyes narrow as he catalogs the same discrepancies I've been tracking.

"You've noticed it too, haven't you, Atticus? Gabriel is... different."

Zeke sighs, the sound carrying weight of confirmed suspicions. He'd known. Of course he'd known. Cat senses perceive things others miss. "The dual aura. I wondered when someone would address it."

Gabriel— or whoever wears his face —smirks.

The expression is pure arrogance, completely at odds with my Little Mouse's usual defiance. The muscle groups engaged are wrong—using zygomaticus minor instead of major. Creating cruelty instead of mirth.

"Didn't think you lot would be so intuitive. Especially when I've stayed quiet all this while."

He pauses, meeting my gaze directly. The gold veining through silver eyes pulses with amused malice. I count the pulse rate—different from Gwenivere's by thirteen beats per minute. Faster. Excited.

"Even during those annoyingly intimate moments with my sister." His tongue clicks against teeth in disgust. The sound is wet, deliberately crude. "Revolting to be forced to 'participate,' but I suppose silent cheerleading is my strong suit."

The words make the taste in my mouth go sour. Sister. Participate. The implications cascade through recent memory—every kiss, every touch, every moment of vulnerability now tainted by the knowledge of an audience we never knew existed.

"Sister?" Atticus's voice drops to dangerous registers. The vampire's control frays at edges, fangs extending involuntarily. "What do you mean, sister?"

Zeke's musical voice carries reluctant understanding.

"I knew there was another presence, but what an odd predicament of confrontation." His tail—when did that manifest?—lashes once before stilling. "The magical signature makes sense now. Not split but doubled. Layered."

"Who are you?" Mortimer asks the essential question, scholarly directness cutting through growing tension. But his hands are glowing with pre-cast dragon fire, ready to strike.

The being wearing Gabriel's face executes a mocking bow, uncaring how shadow-tips pierce throat-skin with the movement. Tiny beads of blood well up—not red but gold-tinged crimson. Royal blood. True heir blood. The scent fills the air with copper and burnt roses.

" Gabriel Elias Hawthorne-Voss," he declares with theatrical precision.

Each syllable enuncia ted like a spell. " Firstborn heir of the Infernal Academy.

Crown Prince of the Forgotten Throne. Warden of the Crimson Gates.

" The smirk widens, revealing canines slightly longer than they should be.

"And apparently, unwilling time-share partner in this delightful flesh-prison.

Should I continue my list of credentials? "