Page 153 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

A hiss escapes as my body goes rigid at the unexpected touch, instincts screaming danger even as the embrace tightens.My hands are forced upward, the flames extinguishing as my concentration breaks.

Through the lingering stench of urine and decay, a new scent hits my nostrils – something soft and sweet that feels impossible in this moment of despair.

I think I must be hallucinating it, this smell of red spider lilies. The symbolism of those flowers haunts me – death, reincarnation, and lost memories finding their way home.

Their meaning feels darkly appropriate as I stand here, moments away from letting the flames consume everything I am.

I have no choice but to look in the mirror, and what I see – or rather, don't see – makes my blood run cold.

There's no reflection of whoever holds me, just empty space where a person should be.

The sight terrifies me because even summoned ghosts should cast reflections. The dead may be invisible to mortal eyes, but mirrors always show their true nature.

Only one type of paranormal being shouldn't have a reflection, and the only reason it doesn't affect me is because I've buried that part of myself so deeply that even the supernatural rules have lost their hold.

My vampire nature is locked away so completely that mirrors still capture my form, even when they should show nothing but void.

As everything begins to click into place, that sweet aroma overwhelming my senses, my eyes widen with dawning recognition. Doubt and realization wage war in my mind as I process what this means – who this must be.

This has to be a joke, some cruel trick of fate.

Maybe the flames already took me…

That this is just another form of torture in whatever afterlife I've earned.

Despite my fear of more disappointment, of having hope crushed one final time, I force myself to look behind me.

To face the truth I never thought would be possible.

And there he stands – the last person I ever expected to see again.

Tears flood my eyes instantly, spilling over before I can stop them. My lips tremble as they part to whisper a name I never thought I'd speak again:

"Atticus?"

He stares at me, not ashamed of the tears forming in his eyes despite how different he looks from the boy I remember.

Gone is "Chubby Atti" with his nerdy glasses who waddled around the village while others whispered how hopeless he was.

The transformation is striking – this isn't the same person who found me that day, discarded like garbage in that warehouse.

But his essence, his soul, remains unchanged from the boy who lifted me from my puddle of shame and wrapped me in the biggest towels he could find.

The one who promised vengeance with such conviction, even though no one would have believed him capable of it. We'd all underestimated him then – this supposedly harmless, overweight boy making grand declarations of revenge.

But his words hadn't been empty.

They'd been filled with a resolve that still sends shivers down my spine when I remember what followed.

Which means he should still be in prison.

The realization hits me hard.

His presence here is impossible – he should be locked away for what he did to Darius and his coven. The brutality of his revenge had shocked even the most hardened vampires, leading to a sentence that should have kept him contained for centuries.

So why is he here?

Why now, when I'm about to end it all?

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