Page 11 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

No female has survived past dawn within these walls for five centuries, save those who became feeding puppets. The others can't see past her male glamour, but I know the truth.

She has less than an hour unless...

"Let me at him!" Damien snarls, snapping me from my thoughts.

The vampire prince writhes in Nikolai's enchanted vines, which strain and creak with the effort of holding him. His eyes are completely crimson now, reason abandoned to bloodlust. But there's something else there too – recognition of a power that rivals his own.

His vampire nature sees her as an equal, a threat, a challenge to his dominion.

Could she be...?

The thought strikes me like lightning.

There haven't been female royals in the paranormal bloodlines for centuries.

The last one...

I force my mind away from that particular memory.

It's impossible.

And yet...

"The sister," I murmur, pieces starting to click together. "What if she wasn't the target at all? What if this wasn't about saving her, but about bringing this one here?"

Nikolai grunts with effort as he lifts Damien higher into the air, his vines now glowing with emerald fire, fighting off Damien’s supernatural strength.

"A bit busy here, Mortimer! Philosophize later!"

I open my mouth to explain further, but movement catches my eye. In my momentary distraction, I've loosened my grip on Gwenivere.

It's all the opening she needs.

The ropes that bound her – enchanted restraints that should have held an elder vampire – snap like a thread.

She moves with liquid grace, launching herself backward onto the chair she was bound to moments ago. Her crouch is predatory, perfect, limbs coiled with deadly purpose.

Those blood-red eyes lock onto Damien with a singular focus.

She's going to attack him.

I’m realizing far too slow because it’s happening before my eyes.

In this state, she might actually win.

Before I can move to intercept, she springs. Her leap is a thing of brutal beauty, fangs bared, fingers curled into claws.

But she never reaches her target.

Cassius's shadow creature manifests fully, catching her mid-flight in tendrils of living darkness. This is no mere shadow play now – the Duskwalker's power has taken physical form, wrapped around her like midnight made solid.

It's the kind of restraint that brings lesser beings to their knees in terror.

But Gwenivere...she laughs.

The sound sends chills down my spine, and I've walked through the halls of the dead. The manic eeriness is haunting, and it only premeditates what she has brewing in her mind as a form of vengeance.

Slowly, impossibly, she turns her head to face the shadow creature. Her smile is all teeth and madness and ancient power.

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