Page 59 of Gemini Hunted (Dark Witch Academy #5)

Zara

My dragon queen is finally free.

Free to fight.

Free to rage.

Free to reign.

And man, is that girl juiced.

My wings snap open, which would be a really bad move for a bigger dragon in this confined interior space.

But my dragon is still a juvenile, like a bratty teen, which means she’s more than mouthy.

She’s also on the smaller side and super agile.

We pivot on a wingtip toward the Ceres statue and the gleaming golden crescent lying at the statue’s feet.

In the flickering torchlight, jeweled glyphs spiral around the Horn. Those symbols that represent the twelve witching world houses—they’re glowing and pulsing purple with psi fire. Literally dancing around the Horn’s curving length like worshippers in a ritual.

The artifact sings in my ear like an opera diva, an aria soaring with range and power. A coda powerful enough to bring the house down.

ZARINA SELENE, GEMINI QUEEN.

CLAIM.

YOUR.

THRONE.

Oh, hell to the yeah. After years of dodging and running and fighting my fate, I am so totally down with that plan.

Problem is, I’m clearly not the only witch who’s hearing this shit.

Cleo’s already sprinting for the artifact, tossing the Glaive of Wind aside like a crushed beer can at a kegger while she lunges for the big prize.

My jaws part and I roar like blazes, because that is my fucking Horn.

My lightning voice guns my engine and brings kilojoules of voltage crackling up my throat. I dive for my rival with forelegs extended and a bolt of purple lightning forking through my fangs.

The bolt slams into the pyramid floor at Cleo’s heels, hard enough to shatter stone. I’m revving up for the kill shot—even though I still (frustratingly) don’t really wanna kill her—when Cleo cries out and whirls an arm overhead.

A thick column of bespelled water rises from the pool and pours through the air. Funneling straight at me like a firehose.

Because my ex-bestie, like Zephyr, commands elemental Dark Fae witchcraft. And while Zephyr commands the wind…

The element Cleo commands is water.

I’ve seen up close and personal the damage being bitch-slapped by one of her rogue waterspouts can do to a flying dragon. The last one she summoned knocked Vasili’s flying serpent right out of the skies and almost drowned him.

But I’m not having any.

Leaning into my teenage dragon agility, I veer and dive under the water cannon.

Bellowing with rage, I sweep down on Cleo from behind.

She’s diving for the Horn, long legs churning under her short plaid skirt, a silky swath of merlot hair streaming in her wake, when I plow into her like a locomotive.

My forelegs close around Cleo and pluck her from the floor while she howls in protest.

She’s slippery as an eel in my talons, twisting and writhing to free herself from my grip.

But I don’t wait to find out what other deadly spells she’s hiding in her bag of tricks.

I wing across the Vault, the golden walls blurring around me, overfly my ossified kraken’s tortured shape, and drop Cleo’s struggling body directly in the pool.

Cleo’s bloodcurdling scream of terror cuts short with a gurgle as she goes under.

Bugling with satisfaction till the walls ring with my triumph, I pivot in midair and arrow for the Horn.

My dragon just broke free from the cage of my human body. So she’s nowhere near ready to give up her freedom.

But I’m the one running this show.

I’m the fucking queen.

I dive straight for the floor and fiercely will myself bipedal.

I land hard on my own two feet. Running, naked, and human. With a snarling cry that bursts from my throat, I snatch up the glowing Horn—blazing hot enough to burn my fingers. Gasping with pain, I drop the artifact into Ceres’ waiting hand.

A blinding flash of white light dazzles my eyes. Punctuated by a camera shutter’s crisp click.

That shit’s nothing magical. Just the pop of an old-fashioned flashbulb.

Through the silver spots dancing across my vision while I blow on my burned fingers to cool them, I spot a vintage automatic camera, rigged to the wall with a selfie stick and magically triggered to memorialize this moment—the climax of the Dean’s Challenge—on film for the witching world masses.

Like the bloody Hunger Games finale, but with witchcraft.

That’s the flash that just got seen round the world on WNN. Like, we interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special message.

And, of course, I’m nakey.

You know, same as usual whenever I show up on TV.

From the pool behind me, a resonant howl builds. The piercing shriek of a soul in torment. That unholy sound makes my scalp crawl and my eardrums scream.

Sweet bleeding Jesus.

That shriek is literally not human.

Every cell in my body tingles with electric charge. I whip around with my whole heart jammed up against my esophagus.

My eye rivets right on the long snake neck of Cleo’s sea dragon, rising from the pool like a cobra rising from a basket.

Her brilliant crimson ruff writhes in Medusa snakes around her wicked head.

Her fangy jaws leak steam around her scimitar teeth.

Her golden orbs are slitted and glaring with intent.

That powerful column of neck, glittering garnet with dragonscale, spirals from the water and just keeps coming.

Fuck, she’s arrowing straight at me.

I have a split second to wonder whether I’m about to be eaten on live TV, and if that will make Cleo queen, even though she just lost the Dean’s Challenge—

Then her deadly advance falters… slows… as dull gray stone creeps up the ruby scales that sheathe her neck. My ex-BFF roars out a single deafening trumpet that makes the walls ring with despair. Swiftly the crawling gray spreads through her ruff and down her fangy muzzle.

Her eyes are the last thing to ossify, fixed wide and imploring, locked onto my horrified face.

“Cheese on toast,” I whisper into the sudden blistering silence.

I don’t even know how to feel, except grateful to be still breathing. This isn’t the ending I ever wanted for Cleo.

As for Mordred, it’s definitely not the ending I’m gonna settle for.

I’m still staring at my ex-lover’s sea dragon statue, now horribly matching the anguished kraken statue beside her, when that awful silence is shattered by the quiet snick of a lock releasing.

A panel in the wall I didn’t even know was a door swings open.

“That’s one way to disarm an ossification curse,” Nikolai Romanov says calmly, stepping through the gap.

To my complete fucking shock, he’s not even looking at me. He’s turned away to speak over his shoulder to Vasili, my Goblin King, who saunters calmly into the room on his heels.

V’s sharp pale eyes, blazing like the northern lights, lock onto my riveted body. In a single penetrating sweep, he assesses every inch of me for damage—an assessment made easier since I’m, you know, naked.

Having reassured himself that I’m ambulatory, his gaze shoots straight to the Horn and statue behind me.

His sexy-pretty face kindles with a fierce possessive pride.

Then my dominant alpha does something he’s never done before.

For anyone.

V drops gracefully to one knee and says, in a voice that makes the walls sing with triumph, “All hail the Gemini queen.”

Swiftly Nikolai pivots toward me. When he catches sight of Cleo, his coolly controlled face turns white as chalk.

At this exact moment, I don’t give a single shit that I’m standing mother-naked in front of V’s dad and the whole witching world on live TV.

I bolt across the floor with a cry and hurl myself into my Goblin King’s arms.

V’s tall body folds around me and wraps me tightly in his supple strength. My alpha’s delicious scent of caramel and vetiver swamps my senses, laced with that rich note of birchwood that I associate with his mating rut.

I bury my face in his cool slim neck, grip his uniform blazer in both fists, and swallow a whimper against his skin

“Well done you,” V purrs into my hair. “Although rather less fortunate, I see, for the kraken.”

I know right away he doesn’t wanna give anything away that his shithead dad could use against us. Still, his concern for our kraken pours through our mating bond.

Somewhere in the middle of this revolution we’ve been leading, my horrible snake of an alpha seems to have grown an actual heart.

For fuck’s sake, he hisses in my head. Don’t tell anyone.

“Yeah, no.” I struggle to get my shit together in front of his sharp-eyed dad and twist around to shoot our kraken’s ossified form an anxious look. “Mordred couldn’t control his shift. Then he couldn’t speak the counterspell with his, uh, beak.”

“I see,” V says coolly. “How unfortunate.”

Behind his facade of indifference, his face is bleak and desolate.

I tilt back my head, lock onto his baby blues, and whisper, Don’t despair, bad boy. I got a hunch how to fix him.

How? His sharp eyes narrow to search mine.

I’d like to share the deets with him, I really would.

But I don’t wanna lay all my cards on the table with V’s asshole dad right there, somewhere behind me, and hopefully not staring at my bare ass.

If Nikolai has mad telepath skillz in his warlock assassin toolkit, I don’t wanna find out the hard way.

Instead I settle for saying vaguely, “I’ve kinda got an idea what to do about Mordred and his, uh, situation. But I’m gonna need you… and all the guys… with me to make it work.”

“Color me intrigued, Your Majesty,” V murmurs. Driving home his point and reinforcing my claim to the throne with every snaky breath.

Gazing past him at the open door and the empty crypt hallway beyond, I frown. A fresh spurt of alarm kicks my heartbeat into overdrive. “Speaking of which, where is everyone? Ronin and Max and Ash and the whole gang. Is everyone… okay?”

Oh, sweet Mary, Mother of God. What will I do if they’re not?

“Well, they were when I left them.” Deftly V shrugs out of his uniform blazer. “Don’t fret, darling. I daresay they’ll be along. Lucius is bringing them.”

Gently (for him), he wraps his jacket around my naked shoulders. When I shove my arms through the sleeves and button it, I look like a high-class stripper (all I need are platform heels and a briefcase). But at least my boobs and butt and crotch are covered.

I seem to be struggling to string words together, but I manage a few more. “So, um, your father?”

“Indeed.” V’s voice is an absolute study, suspended somewhere between irony and suspicion. “As highly unlikely as it seems, he now appears to be on our side. Or so he claims. Just wait until you hear his proposal.”

In unison, we pivot suspiciously to study the subject of this hurried convo.

Nikolai Romanov stands perfectly still, directly before the sea dragon’s outstretched head, his straight back turned toward us, dark head tilted back to gaze up at her in silence.

Even from behind, he gives Mads Mikkelsen vibes from Casino Royale in a major way .

All that’s missing is an asthma inhaler and an eye that weeps blood.

Like he feels the weight of our stare, Nikolai says into the brittle silence, “Once it’s been triggered, there’s no known counterspell to break an ossification curse.”

At his words, my formerly unpredictable dash of Valyrian foresight starts singing like a glee club. I’ve had my dark suspicions about that gene—foresight—being one of my recessives, along with clairvoyance, that got switched on, back when I claimed the Unseelie Queen’s crown in Avalon.

But now is the moment I finally know for sure.

I fold my arms across my chest for extra decency (since I’m not wearing a bra) and tell Nikolai Romanov, “That’s where you’re wrong, Le Chiffre—wrong about Mordred and Cleo both.

I’m queen of the witching world for a goddamn reason.

Ceres is a fertility goddess. The Horn is a fertility artifact.

I’m fertile as fuck and all my alphas are in rut.

There’s literally one thing, and one thing only, my warlocks and I need to do right now. ”

And my dominant alpha, bless his horrible snaky black heart, picks up what I’m putting down like it’s an Olympic relay and we’ve trained four years with a coach for this shit.

“And I’ll be fucked if I’ll do it with you watching, papochka ,” Vasili says coolly. “Because there are limits, even for despicable me. Clearly—for whatever intriguing reason—you want Cleo back, ambulatory and breathing, even knowing she’ll never be queen.”

“She’s a highly trained agent and a valuable AIB asset,” Nikolai says, dark eyes inscrutable. “Of course I want her back.”

I’m not sure I trust the guy’s reasons, but whatever. Between my foresight and my deep belief in what I need to do to save the witching races from slow extinction, not to mention this quantum superheat I’m still rocking, my mind’s made up.

Vasili hums (that’s him being unpersuaded by his untrustworthy dad, like I am) but keeps right on going.

“As for Zara and myself, we want Mordred. So you’ll need to go somewhere else, along with McSnicker and her menage and anyone else who isn’t in the royal harem who comes blundering along—and let the rest of us start fucking. ”