Page 136 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

Me.

I can only gasp in preparation, lungs filling with one final breath as the deadly magic speeds toward me. The world seems to slow, each heartbeat stretching into eternity as deathapproaches from above. And I dare hear my Father scream for the first time—not in anger or disappointment, but in pure, unadulterated terror.

"GABRIEL!"

The raw anguish in his voice is the last thing I register before pain shoots through my entire chest, white-hot agony that obliterates all thought. My body convulses with the force of it, nerves on fire as the magic rips through me. I gasp for breath, darkness crowding the edges of my vision, and then?—

My eyes snap open.

The transition is jarring, memory and present colliding with such force that I can't immediately distinguish between them. All I know is danger—immediate and overwhelming.

I'm in fight or flight in a heartbeat, primal instinct overriding conscious thought. I tackle whoever is on top of me with vampiric speed, sending them right on their back with enough force to crack stone. My fingers extend into lethal claws, prepared to tear through flesh. Magic surges through my system, elemental power responding to survival instinct rather than conscious direction.

Before I can deliver what would certainly be a killing blow, woven words of power force me to stop, freezing my extended nails that are cloaked in so many elements I can't comprehend. Fire, ice, lightning, and shadow all coalesce around my fingers, responding to emotion rather than intent.

"GWENIEVERE STOP!"

My mind registers it as Atticus' command in overwhelming authority, his voice carrying harmonics that bypass conscious thought to resonate directly with the bond we share.

But the control triggers something visceral in me, a rejection of any attempt to limit my actions.

It aggravates me to the core, fury replacing fear as I hiss in the face of the person I've pinned. My eyes burn with wild power,hair floating around my face as if suspended in water, and I notice burning flames surrounding us in a perfect circle as I fight for breath.

Each inhalation feels inadequate, my lungs refusing to expand properly against the panic squeezing my chest.

"Don't touch her," I surprisingly register Professor Eternalis' voice, the calm authority in her tone somehow penetrating the haze of rage and terror.

The wild power pulsing through me wishes to kill everything in my path, to destroy any potential threat before it can harm me. I look into eyes of various shades, reds, and golds, with a hint of flame while those slits are only focused on me.

They don't belong to Professor Eternalis.

They're watching me with careful attention, neither challenging nor submitting, simply observing with ancient patience.

"Gwenivere," the voice speaks slowly, the depths of his voice a rumbling bass that carries centuries of knowledge.

The scales that are retreating back into his naked flesh shimmer with iridescent colors, disappearing beneath human-appearing skin. The sight finally breaks through my panic enough for recognition to dawn —I'm on top of Mortimer.

He's clearly no longer a dragon, now in human form with plenty of wounds along his body, but his focus is on me.

I'm struggling to figure out why one minute he looks like a stranger but the next, he is the scholarly dragon necromancer who'd wished to be left behind.

"Queen of Spades," Atticus' voice is gentler now, in deliberate contrast to the commanding tone he used moments before.

I sense his approach, which has my eyes darting his way, muscles tensing for potential attack.

His hands are up in a universal gesture of non-aggression, proving he's not going to harm me, but my hiss only deepensinto something feral and threatening, while my eyes narrow dangerously.

"You know I'd never hurt you, baby. Breathe."

The endearment, so casually offered despite my obvious danger, penetrates some of the fog clouding my thoughts. Despite the confusion, I know in my heart that he's right, which is probably why I feel a tad sense of calm begins to take over.

The certainty of his presence —solid, unwavering, completely committed to my well-being— creates an anchor point amid chaotic thoughts.

I lower my hand enough to see the strikingly long nails oozing dark magic, the evidence of what I nearly did sending a shiver of horror through me. The claws are bleeding with added burns, magic having turned inward when prevented from finding the external target.

Either way, I realize I'm alive —heart pounding, breath ragged, but unmistakably alive— and slowly look around to see everyone but Nikolai present.

The realization that we're one short sends a fresh spike of alarm through me.

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