Page 114 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Cassius and Atticus exchange a meaningful look, some silent communication passing between them that heightens my curiosity.

"Well, it could be exactly that," Cassius replies, shadows coiling slightly with his evident concern. "Because it's technically been two months in Faerie Wicked."

My eyes widen at this confirmation of what Zeke and I had just discussed – the accelerated time distortion affecting our perception of reality within this realm.

"How did you figure it out?" I ask, wondering what triggered their realization when most students apparently remain oblivious to the temporal deception.

"We were mid-class when they dropped the bomb," Atticus explains with characteristic directness. "And basically, we nowhave to locate a throne room of some sort that's outside on the campus to complete our task for class."

I turn toward Zeke, who has approached quietly to stand behind me, maintaining a respectful distance while still clearly aligned with my position.

"The throne we just saw in the book – is it on Wicked Academy grounds? Particularly in the Faerie realm?" I ask, the connection between ancient illustration and current assignment suddenly crystallizing with startling clarity.

Zeke appears uncharacteristically hesitant to answer, his extraordinary eyes shifting to look past me with a subtle wariness I haven't witnessed in him before.

Following his gaze, I turn to find both Cassius and Atticus directing unmistakable death glares toward my new companion.

I groan in exasperation, recognizing possessive territorialism for exactly what it is.

"Stop it," I admonish them firmly. "He's a cat shifter familiar who I've partnered with in class. We didn't do anything funky, so stop being douches."

Cassius merely shrugs, shadows settling into a slightly less aggressive configuration while still maintaining alert vigilance. Atticus, however, leans forward with a predatory smile that manages to be both charming and threatening simultaneously.

"Are you sure?" he asks, crimson eyes fixed on Zeke rather than me despite addressing the question in my direction. "Because your magic certainly likes him."

"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely confused by this cryptic assessment.

"Your auras are practically dancing in the same rhythm," Atticus elaborates, expression suggesting this observation carries significance beyond mere magical coincidence.

"How can you see that?" I question, curious about his ability that extends beyond normal vampire perception.

"I learned in the depths of prison," he answers with a casual reference to an experience that would traumatize most beings into permanent psychological damage. His tone suggests simple skill acquisition rather than a survival mechanism developed through unimaginable circumstances.

Zeke frowns, assessment shifting from wary caution to something approaching genuine curiosity.

"Which prison was it?" he asks a question carrying weight beyond casual inquiry. "What floor?"

"None of your concern and the bottom one," Atticus responds, smile transforming into something darker as he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me against him with casual strength that brooks no resistance. His grip isn't painful but clearly communicates possession as he gives Zeke a sinister grin that reveals just a hint of lengthened fangs. "Why? Frightened of a cynical pureblood who wouldn't mind ripping your head off?"

Protective instinct flares instantly – not for myself but for Zeke, whose already difficult circumstances don't need additional complication from a territorial vampire with an apparently ancient lineage.

"He doesn't mean that," I state firmly, using leverage to deliver a precise kick backward into Atticus's sensitive anatomy.Right into his balls.His grunt and subsequent creative cursing confirm an effective connection as I push away from his slackened grip. "He's just being a possessive ass. Ignore him."

I turn to Zeke with an apologetic expression, embarrassment warring with concern over his potential reaction to this display of aggressive territorialism.

"Do purebloods and felines not get along?" I ask, seeking context for interaction that seems to carry historical significance beyond the immediate personalities involved.

To my surprise, Zeke appears more amused than frightened; a slight smirk forming that transforms his usually serious features into something approaching mischievous delight.

"Familiars don't normally get along with purebloods," he explains with a casual confidence that suggests knowledge gained through experience rather than mere academic understanding. "They're extremely possessive if they meet someone on the same level of power as them."

This assessment causes an immediate shift in the group dynamic, my own shocked expression mirrored in Cassius's suddenly heightened attention.

"Are you more powerful than Atticus?" Cassius asks directly, shadows coiling with renewed interest as he reassesses the slender cat-boy with a fresh perspective.

Instead of answering directly, Zeke simply shrugs with elegant dismissal of the question that somehow manages to be neither confirmation nor denial while implying both simultaneously.

He spins with characteristic grace, redirecting conversation with practiced ease.

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