1. Rising Complications Of A Male Hybrid
1
RISING COMPLICATIONS OF A MALE HYbrID
~GWENIVERE~
R ope burns are seriously underrated in terms of pain levels.
And whoever tied these knots clearly spent way too much time in whatever evil boy scout troop Wicked Academy probably runs.
"I've told you three times already," I growl in my new and unwelcome baritone, testing the restraints for the hundredth time. "I came for the Chalice of Restoration. My sister is dying. Just let me go and I'll be out of your perfectly styled hair forever."
Damien Constantine lounges against an antique desk like he's posing for a portrait, now thankfully dressed in a black silk shirt and tailored pants.
His violet eyes glitter with predatory amusement.
"A noble cause. Breaking into the most dangerous magical academy in existence to save your dying twin. Very heroic. Very touching." His smile shows just a hint of fang. "And completely impossible."
I bite back a scream of frustration.
This son of a bitch!
"Obviously not impossible since I'm sitting right here!" It shouldn’t be so hard to say the actual truth for once in my life.
"That's precisely what makes this so interesting," Nikolai drawls from where he's perched on a windowsill, moonlight casting his sharp Fae features in silver. "No one simply walks into Wicked Academy. The walls themselves are alive with tainted magic. The wards are sentient and rather fond of creative dismemberment."
My eyes dart around the ornate office they've dragged me to, searching for any sign of the third prince.
The Duskwalker — Prince Cassius it seems — had been there one moment in the bedroom, wreathed in living shadows, and then...nothing.
I don't even remember being brought here or tied up, which means I had to have briefly passed out or something.
"Where's your creepy shadow friend?" I demand, trying to mask my unease.
"Concerned about our resident Duskwalker?" Damien's smile widens. "How fascinating. Most people try very hard not to think about Cassius at all."
A chill runs down my spine.
I've clearly blacked out at some point, which means the Duskwalker probably...
I shut that train of thought down hard.
"Look," I say, forcing myself to sound reasonable. "I realize breaking in was wrong. I'll take whatever punishment you want to dish out after I save my sister. Just let me get the chalice?—"
"There is no chalice," Nikolai interrupts. "At least, not the one you're looking for. The Chalice of Restoration is a myth."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"No. I saw it. Almost touched it.” It’s odd that just thinking about it hurts my head, making me wonder if what I saw was real… or an illusion. I shake my head. “You're lying. The texts in my grandmother's grimoire?—"
"You were probably planted here to lure us," Damien finishes. "The question is...by whom?"
I slump in my chair, my mind racing.
If there's no chalice, then Elena... No.
I can't think about that right now.
I need to focus on getting out of here alive.
"There's still something not adding up," Nikolai muses, sliding off the windowsill with Fae grace. He circles my chair slowly, and I resist the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. "Perhaps we should verify certain...details...about our unexpected guest."
His meaningful glance downward makes my stomach drop. Slowly, I follow his gaze to my lap and the implications hit me like a thunderbolt.
Wait a minute...does that mean I have a...
I must make some kind of horrified face because Damien arches one perfect eyebrow.
"Why do you look so disgusted?"
"I'm cursed with having a—" I cut myself off, choking on the word. "How am I supposed to pee?!"
They both stare at me like I've lost my mind.
"You don't know how to urinate?" Damien asks slowly.
"You men don't know how to aim into a toilet!" I snap back. "So now I'm going to find out if you're genetically incapable of comprehending basic targeting or if you do it on purpose just to piss us females off!"
Nikolai's eyes narrow.
"Us females?"
I groan, letting my head fall back.
"Yes! I'm a girl! A woman! Now can I please go before sunrise? I have a sister to save and a new anatomy to figure out!"
"There hasn't been a woman at Wicked Academy in over 500 years," Damien says softly.
"Yeah, I know, very progressive of you all?—"
"Because they die at sunrise," Nikolai cuts in. "Unless they're feeding puppets."
Say WHAT now?!
That brings me up short.
"I'm sorry, what's a feeding puppet?"
The two princes exchange a look that makes my blood run cold. Whatever a feeding puppet is, I have a feeling I really don't want to find out.
"Think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement," Damien says with calculated casualness. "The female gets to live, and the male students get to...practice their feeding techniques."
My jaw drops.
"That is the most horrific thing I've ever—wait." I narrow my eyes at him. "You're trying to scare me into confessing something. Well, the joke's on you because I already told you I'm a woman. And clearly the sunrise thing is bull because I've been here since yesterday afternoon scoping the place out."
"Fascinating," Nikolai murmurs. "The magic protecting you must be incredibly powerful. Old magic. Which brings us back to the question of who sent you here."
"No one sent me! I came on my own because my sister is dying and I needed the chalice and—" I yank at the ropes again in frustration. "Why aren't you listening to me?"
"Oh, we're listening," Damien says, pushing off from the desk and approaching my chair. "We're just having trouble believing that someone powerful enough to bypass our wards, glamour themselves male, and survive past sunrise just happened to stumble in here following a fairy tale about a magic cup."
Putting it that way, it does sound a bit suspicious.
Just a bit…
But I don't have time to argue about this. Somewhere in this wicked paradise is the key to my sister’s survival. She’s back home, far away, slipping further into the pools of death’s row with each passing second.
And now I don't even have the chalice to pin my hopes on.
"The sun will be up soon," Nikolai observes. "I suppose we'll find out the truth one way or another."
Terror grips me.
What if they're not lying about the sunrise? What if the glamour fails? What if ? —
The shadows in the corner of the room began to writhe until they suddenly surged forward like an ink stain spreading across the parchment.
My heart leaps into my throat as Cassius emerges from the darkness, but this time he's not alone.
Another one? Really? How many supernaturally gorgeous men does one academy need?
"Mortimer Kaine," the newcomer announces without preamble, his voice resonating with power that makes the air itself feel heavier. "Necromancer Reaper of the Seventh Order."
A what of the what now?
He steps out of the shadows like death personified — tall and lean with hair darker than a starless night. His bone structure could cut glass, all sharp angles, and haunting hollows. But it's his eyes that steal my breath — pale as moonlight on fresh snow and just as merciless.
"Move aside, Cassius," he commands, those pale eyes narrowing. "Your energy is particularly...abrasive tonight."
I watch, fascinated, as the Duskwalker actually listens, retreating to a far corner where his shadows curl around him like agitated snakes.
I can barely see him now that he seems to camouflage with the darkness, but I guess he’s the least of my worries right now with this Seventh Order dude present.
Is he here to take me away or something?
Mortimer's lip curls into something between a sneer and a smile.
"Don't sulk. You know I'm bound as your eternally faithful 'pet'." The sarcasm in his voice could strip paint. Is he talking to Cassius? "But that doesn't mean I have to enjoy how your particular brand of darkness makes my skin crawl. Some of us prefer our magic a bit more...refined."
A Necromancer Reaper? Like, what…does he reap souls AND raise the dead? Because that's not terrifying at all.
Cue in the heavy sarcasm.
He prowls around my chair in a slow circle, those arctic eyes dissecting me piece by piece. I resist the urge to squirm. I've faced down seductive vampires, taunting fae, and now apparently one very moody Duskwalker.
I can handle Mr. Tall, Dark, and Death-Obsessed.
"Name?" he demands.
I groan, letting my head fall back.
"For the last time, I'm Gwenivere Isolde Graveshadow. I broke in to save my dying sister. I needed the Chalice of?—"
"Ah yes," Damien cuts in with that infuriating smirk. "Such commitment to the role. The feminine mannerisms are a particularly nice touch."
Can he just shut up and let me say my shit?!
My mouth drops open to argue, but something else happens instead.
"AH-CHOO!"
The sneeze catches me completely off guard.
What the hell?
Mortimer hasn't moved, but somehow the air around him feels...different. Heavy. Like standing in a tomb that hasn't been opened in centuries.
"Are you wearing cologne or something?" I demand, my nose tingling. "Because whatever it is—" Another sneeze cuts me off. "—it's making my sinuses go crazy!"
For the first time, something like interest flickers in those pale eyes.
"What time is it?"
"Just past six," Nikolai answers casually, but there's a new tension in his shoulders that makes my stomach drop.
"Six?" My voice rises an octave — which, given my current baritone, is quite a feat. "As in, sunrise is—" ACHOO! "—happening now?"
I try to fight back another sneeze, but it's like my entire face is rebelling against me.
The pressure behind my eyes builds until I see spots, and my sinuses feel like they're being scrubbed with sandpaper.
A prickling sensation on the back of my neck makes me look up, and I freeze.
The shadow creature bound to Cassius hovers directly above my chair, its form more defined than I've ever seen it.
Multiple eyes blink at me in an unsettling pattern, and what might be mouths twist into expressions I can't begin to interpret.
Don't sneeze…don't sneeze…don't sneeze ? —
Something warm trickles down my nose. Panic flares as I try to sniff it back, but it's too late. The metallic scent seems to hit me as fast as realization settles in the depths of my brain.
Nosebleed…
Blood…
Oh…no…
Cassius's curse makes the shadows themselves shudder.
"Nikolai, hold Damien, NOW!"
Time crystallizes into a series of heartbeats.
One: The blood trickles down my nose, warm and damning.
Two: A low, feral growl fills the room—a sound that shouldn't come from any human throat.
Three: Damien's head snaps toward me, and I see the exact moment his control shatters.
His pupils explode, consuming the violet of his irises until only a thin ring remains, blazing blood-red. Veins darken beneath his skin like ink spreading through water.
His lips pull back, revealing fangs that extend with predatory purpose.
Nikolai's shout comes too late:
"Damien, don't?—"
The vampire prince moves faster than thought, crossing the space between us in less time than it takes to draw breath.
One moment he's across the room, the next he's inches from my face, close enough that I can see the individual threads of crimson threading through his eyes.
Green light explodes through the room. Nikolai's magic manifests as vines that sparkle with golden luminescence, whipping through the air like living things. They wrap around Damien's torso and arms, yanking him back mere inches before his fangs can find my throat.
The scent of my blood has transformed the composed prince into something feral and ancient.
Something that speaks to the darkest parts of my own nature.
"What is this?" Nikolai demands, strain evident in his voice as he holds the writhing vampire prince. The vines pulse with emerald fire when they touch Damien's skin. "He shouldn't lose control like this. He's royal ."
Magic crackles through the air, different flavors of power colliding and reacting.
Nikolai's forest magic is sharp and vital. The cold tomb-stillness that emanates from Mortimer. The writhing darkness that is Cassius's signature.
And underneath it all, the copper-penny taste of blood — my blood—making the air thick and electric.
Cassius takes a step forward, his shadow creature rippling above us like a storm cloud.
"It's not just blood," he says quietly. "It's tainted blood."
Mortimer leans in, positioning himself between me and Damien like some sort of supernatural referee. The movement brings another wave of that tomb-scent washing over me, but I barely notice it now. My attention is locked on Damien, still straining against Nikolai's magical restraints.
Something dark and hungry unfurls in my chest, responding to the threat. To the challenge. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring. The ropes around my wrists suddenly feel like nothing more than minor inconveniences.
"Miss Graveshadow?" Mortimer's voice seems to come from very far away.
Blood pounds in my ears.
Damien's eyes lock with mine, and I feel an answering surge of predatory instinct. The vampire in me recognizes him as both kindred and rival.
The witch in me catalogs a dozen ways to tear him apart with magic.
"Miss Graveshadow." Mortimer's voice sharpens. "Are you listening?"
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
"What? Sorry, can you repeat that?"
"I asked why you seem to be having trouble concentrating."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep and dangerous inside me.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I'd really enjoy destroying these ropes and tackling the shit out of this vampire prince if he doesn't get the fuck out of my personal space!" The words come out in a snarl that doesn't sound entirely human.
I’m losing control…
I feel the change as it happens — my eyes shifting, the world taking on that familiar crimson tinge. Power pulses through the room, different from before.
Darker.
Wilder.
The kind of magic that predates civilization, that remembers when we were all just monsters in the dark.
The others feel it too. Nikolai's vines shiver. Cassius's shadows writhe faster. Even Mortimer takes half a step back.
“Fuck…he’s a vampire?” Nikolai releases, the state of calm in his voice finally faulty in the realms of empowerment.
"We need to keep her," Mortimer announces to Cassius, his voice pitched low and urgent.
" Him, " Nikolai corrects automatically, though he sounds distracted by the effort of restraining Damien.
Mortimer ignores him completely.
"Mortimer…what is she and why are you suggesting we keep her?”
“Waltzed into Wicked Academy unharmed, glamor tainted by the very magic that keeps this place alive and thriving against the various threats that tackle these walls on a daily basis. Tainted blood of a hybrid with magic forbidden in many lands, and we’re tipping her over the edge into vampire territory,” he summarizes with some odd sense of pride.
His cold fingers find my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
The touch sends ice through my veins, but not enough to cool the fire building in my blood. I glare at him through eyes I know are now completely red, feeling my fangs lengthening against my will.
Control it.
I tell myself desperately. I know this shit is my fault. I hadn’t thought of the possibility of confronting another vampire within the boundaries of Wicked Academy, but I didn’t think I was needy of blood.
Control it!
I went to the blood bank a month ago. I’ve thrived on one pack… which is very little I guess, but why now?
Is it because I used too much magic energy? Or maybe something to do with the glamors’ constant pull of my magic? None of them are going to give me blood now… fuck!
Panic consumes me and yet that thrilling boil of power and the idea of freedom being at my fingertips seems to override everything.
Control it….please…control ? —
But my vampire nature, suppressed for so long under glamours and necessity for so many months, rises up like a tide.
The part of me that's all predator and hungry recognizes the power in the room, sees the threat and the challenge, and wants to answer it with violence.
To prove I’m not simply weak prey that can be discarded without a fight…
Mortimer's pale eyes study my face with clinical fascination. His thumb brushes just beneath my lip where I know my fangs are now fully extended.
Then he leans close, his breath ghosting across my ear as he whispers three words that shatter what remains of my control.
"Are you thirsty, Wicked Queen?"
He sets me ablaze as that last strand of resistance snaps.