Page 133 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"Yes," he admits without hesitation or apology. "If they intend to eliminate Mortimer, they'll employ lethal force without restraint. I've seen what Academy security protocols involve when truly activated. He may consider himself unworthy of salvation, but we all believe he deserves whatever redemption his soul seeks."

Doubt flickers despite my determination. "He'll hate me for forcing a connection against his explicit refusal..."

"No," Atticus corrects with absolute certainty. "He'll hate ME, the Pureblood who compelled you to act against his stated wishes. That hatred I'll gladly bear if it means his survival."

His lips find mine once more, sealing this arrangement with physical confirmation that somehow makes official what might otherwise remain merely a theoretical possibility.

I want to argue further, but another agonized cry from above forces our attention skyward. Mortimer's massive form twists against gathering storm clouds, dark projectiles of concentrated magic surrounding him like predatory insects seeking vulnerable points to deliver a fatal sting.

"You're in so much trouble when we survive this," I hiss at Atticus, frustration momentarily overriding more complex emotions his unexpected command has triggered.

Despite my irritation, I pull him down for one final kiss, mouth pressed against his with a fierce intensity that promises both retribution and reconciliation once the immediate crisis passes.

"And the next time you fuck me senseless," I mutter against his lips, "you're doing it properly, even if that means joining Cassius in the actual act instead of watching from the shadows while stroking your cock."

Surprise flickers across his features before transforming into a delighted grin that somehow manages to combine boyish charm with predatory satisfaction.

"I knew you sensed me, wicked witch," he chuckles, the casual admission confirming suspicions I'd harbored but never directly confronted.

"Whatever," I huff, irritation genuine despite circumstances that should probably preclude such personal considerations.

Turning to Zeke, I find his extraordinary eyes carefully averted, either from politeness or embarrassment at witnessing an exchange clearly not intended for outside observation.

"Be careful," I instruct him, protective instinct rising despite knowing his capabilities likely exceed my own in many respects. "Stay with Cassius or Atticus at all times."

He nods, solemn promises conveyed without the need for verbal confirmation. Before either can offer further instruction or warning, Atticus's hand closes around Zeke's slender wrist, their forms blurring with the sudden return of supernatural speed as they race toward the tower's exterior.

Drawing deep breaths to steady nerves threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained composure, I turn my attention skyward once more. Mortimer's draconic form continues its desperate aerial battle against forces determined to bring him down, each movement more labored than previous as magical attacks gradually undermine his tremendous natural strength.

Calling upon elemental magic newly enhanced through familiar connection, I summon wind with unprecedented ease. The air responds instantly, currents swirling around my feet with an eager intensity that suggests sentient cooperation rather than merely manipulated natural force.

With careful mental direction, I shape these currents into a supporting column that lifts me from the rooftop with surprisingly gentle pressure despite the tremendous power necessary to counteract gravity's persistent pull.

The sensation proves initially disorienting—flying through direct elemental manipulation rather than transformed physiology requires mental adjustment my body struggles to provide in the limited available time.

As I rise higher, attacks previously focused exclusively on Mortimer begin noticing my approach. Dark projectiles of concentrated magical energy—similar to corrupted lightning yet carrying malevolent purpose beyond natural electrical discharge—redirect toward my ascending form with alarming precision.

I dodge the first volley through instinctive reaction rather than calculated evasion, body twisting mid-air with gymnastic flexibility that sends me spiraling away from immediate danger.The movement costs precious altitude, forcing redoubled concentration to regain lost progress toward Mortimer's still-distant form.

The gathering storm intensifies with unnatural speed, clouds darkening from merely ominous gray to nearly pitch black within moments. Lightning flickers within these formations, but the patterns suggest magical manipulation rather than natural atmospheric discharge—too regular, too precisely aimed to represent random electrical activity.

"Not good," I mutter to myself, recognizing the disadvantageous shift in environmental conditions. Water represents my least compatible elemental affinity, flying through a developing thunderstorm consequently combining multiple challenging factors into a potentially deadly equation.

Redoubling efforts, I push wind currents to greater intensity, sacrificing control of precision for raw speed that might reach Mortimer before the storm fully manifests its clearly building potential. The approach succeeds in rapidly decreasing distance but costs maneuverability I desperately need as attacks intensify around us.

A near-miss sizzles past my left ear, magical energy close enough to raise hairs along my neck through proximity rather than actual contact. The attack's heat lingering in the air afterward suggests fatal consequences had it connected directly rather than merely grazing the defensive perimeter.

"MORTIMER!" I scream his name with desperate volume when finally close enough that my voice might potentially carry across intervening space.

The massive dragon shows no sign of recognition, continuing erratic his flight pattern that suggests either inability to perceive my approach or incapacity to respond despite awareness. Either possibility carries concerning implications regarding his current mental state and potential receptivity to attempted assistance.

Without further opportunity for careful consideration, I bite deeply into both wrists simultaneously, vampire fangs easily piercing the skin to release blood prepared for specialized manipulation. With the wind still supporting my altitude, I flick both arms outward with practiced precision, blood responding to mental command with eager intensity.

The crimson strands extend far beyond ordinary physical possibility, their length and structural integrity maintained through magical enhancement rather than mere biological properties. I direct these living chains forward with careful control, using wind currents to prevent them from being whipped into disarray by increasingly turbulent air currents surrounding Mortimer's massive form.

With supernatural speed employed in unconventional aerial application, I manage to position myself ahead of his flight path rather than merely chasing from behind. The maneuver requires precise calculation—too far forward risks missing him completely, while insufficient lead distance might result in a collision rather than controlled interception.

As he approaches, I release prepared blood strings in a calculated pattern, the crimson strands wrapping around his massive neck in multiple supportive loops rather than a single potentially damaging constriction. When adequate attachment seems secured, I pull with careful but firm pressure, signaling my presence through physical contact rather than potentially inaudible vocal communication.

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