2. The Reapers Revelation
2
THE REAPER'S REVELATION
~MORTIMER~
M agic has a scent.
Most don't realize this fundamental truth, but when you've spent centuries walking the line between life and death, you learn to recognize the subtle fragrances of power.
Forest magic smells of moss after rain.
Fae energy carries notes of honey and steel.
Vampire power reeks of copper and midnight air.
But this girl...this fascinating creature before me...her magic smells…impossible. A tantalizing mixture of so much mystery and vibrant uncertainty, that combined invites an allure like no other.
The instant my fingers touched her chin, I knew something was different. The glamour that fooled the others was nothing but a gossamer veil to my eyes – death magic sees through all illusions, after all.
And what I saw beneath that veil left me breathless.
Her hair cascades like fresh snow in winter, so purely white it seems to capture and hold what little light remains in the room.
Yet at the roots, there's the faintest hint of gold, as if sunshine is trying to break through a blizzard. It's the kind of rare coloring that speaks of old magic, of bloodlines that trace back to the first dawn of our kind.
Her skin, naturally peachy in tone, has now taken on an alabaster quality that only comes with the surge of vampire blood. The transformation would be jarring on most, but on her, it creates an ethereal effect. Only the slightest flush remains in her cheeks, a whisper of color that proves she's still partly mortal.
Those lips though – they're cardinal red, like fresh blood on new-fallen snow — and currently pulled back to reveal lengthening fangs that shouldn't exist in one so young.
But it's not just her appearance that fascinates me.
It's the way the school's ancient magic seems to have wrapped around her like a second skin.
I can see it now, threads of power that shouldn't exist outside the wards themselves, somehow woven into her very being. They pulse in time with her heartbeat, creating patterns I've never seen in all my centuries of studying the dark arts.
The school has chosen her…
I realize with growing amazement, and yet there’s so much uncertainty.
But why? And how?
A drop of blood falls from her nose, marking time like a crimson hourglass.
Sunrise approaches, and with it, death – at least, according to the ancient laws that govern this place.
No female has survived past dawn within these walls for five centuries, save those who became feeding puppets. The others can't see past her male glamour, but I know the truth.
She has less than an hour unless...
"Let me at him!" Damien snarls, snapping me from my thoughts.
The vampire prince writhes in Nikolai's enchanted vines, which strain and creak with the effort of holding him. His eyes are completely crimson now, reason abandoned to bloodlust. But there's something else there too – recognition of a power that rivals his own.
His vampire nature sees her as an equal, a threat, a challenge to his dominion.
Could she be...?
The thought strikes me like lightning.
There haven't been female royals in the paranormal bloodlines for centuries.
The last one...
I force my mind away from that particular memory.
It's impossible.
And yet...
"The sister," I murmur, pieces starting to click together. "What if she wasn't the target at all? What if this wasn't about saving her, but about bringing this one here?"
Nikolai grunts with effort as he lifts Damien higher into the air, his vines now glowing with emerald fire, fighting off Damien’s supernatural strength.
"A bit busy here, Mortimer! Philosophize later!"
I open my mouth to explain further, but movement catches my eye. In my momentary distraction, I've loosened my grip on Gwenivere.
It's all the opening she needs.
The ropes that bound her – enchanted restraints that should have held an elder vampire – snap like a thread.
She moves with liquid grace, launching herself backward onto the chair she was bound to moments ago. Her crouch is predatory, perfect, limbs coiled with deadly purpose.
Those blood-red eyes lock onto Damien with a singular focus.
She's going to attack him.
I’m realizing far too slow because it’s happening before my eyes.
In this state, she might actually win.
Before I can move to intercept, she springs. Her leap is a thing of brutal beauty, fangs bared, fingers curled into claws.
But she never reaches her target.
Cassius's shadow creature manifests fully, catching her mid-flight in tendrils of living darkness. This is no mere shadow play now – the Duskwalker's power has taken physical form, wrapped around her like midnight made solid.
It's the kind of restraint that brings lesser beings to their knees in terror.
But Gwenivere...she laughs.
The sound sends chills down my spine, and I've walked through the halls of the dead. The manic eeriness is haunting, and it only premeditates what she has brewing in her mind as a form of vengeance.
Slowly, impossibly, she turns her head to face the shadow creature. Her smile is all teeth and madness and ancient power.
"You think this can hold me?" she purrs, and her voice carries echoes of something vast and terrible. "I've danced with death since the day I was born. Your shadows are nothing but old friends."
The creature's multiple eyes blink in what might be surprise.
In all my years serving as the princes’ "pet" Reaper, I've never seen anyone treat a Duskwalker's power with such casual disdain.
Even Cassius himself seems taken aback; his customary silence is charged with something that might be of interest to him.
The school's magic pulses stronger around her now, resonating with her challenge.
Those threads of power I noticed earlier are practically singing, harmonizing with her own abilities in ways that shouldn't be possible. It's as if the very foundations of Wicked Academy recognize something in her blood, something that calls to the ancient magic woven into these stones.
Something that was meant to be here.
"We need to calm her down," Nikolai grits out, his vines creaking as Damien renews his struggles. "Before these two tear the place apart!"
I watch as Gwenivere flexes against the shadow creature's hold, testing its limits with analytical precision even in her feral state. The blood still dripping from her nose has started to float, suspended in the air around her like rubies caught in spider silk.
The raw power rolling off her makes the air itself feel heavy, the atmosphere thickly charged with possibilities.
"No," I say softly, earning sharp looks from both Nikolai and Cassius. "We need to let this play out."
There’s more to this. More to unravel with this unexpected crossing of paths.
"Have you lost your mind?" Nikolai demands, outraged by my sudden urge to show sympathy for this woman. At least, I’m sure that’s what they’re thinking all of this is. "They'll kill each other!"
I shake my head, never taking my eyes off the tableau before us.
"Look closer. Really look. The school's magic...it's not fighting her. It's embracing her. In five hundred years, I've never seen anything like it."
The shadow creature shivers, its many mouths twisting in patterns that speak of curiosity rather than threat now. Even Cassius steps forward, head tilted slightly as he studies our captive with new intensity.
He feels it too.
The way the ancient magics are responding to her presence.
"She's not just any hybrid," I continue, watching as Gwenivere and Damien lock eyes across the room, their standoff crackling with potential energy. "She's something we haven't seen in centuries. Something that was supposed to be impossible."
The first rays of dawn begin to paint the horizon in shades of fire.
Time is running out.
But as I watch her challenge death itself with a sinister smile, I can't help but wonder if we're the ones who will be making the right decision in this maddening change in circumstances.
Perhaps Wicked Academy has already decided her fate.
After all every kingdom needs its queen…but why has it chosen this moment in time for her arrival and impending rise?
To my utter disbelief, the shadow creature – an entity of pure darkness and terror that had reduced seasoned warriors to gibbering wrecks – slowly lowers Gwenivere to the ground. More shocking still, it retreats, coiling back around Cassius like a chastised pet.
I've never seen anything quite like the expression on Cassius's face.
In all our years together, the Duskwalker prince has maintained an air of controlled detachment, as if the world itself was beneath his notice.
But now... his mouth hangs slightly open, shadows writhing around him in patterns that speak of confusion and – dare I say it? – fascination.
A sharp hiss splits the air as Nikolai's concentration wavers. The magical vines holding Damien aloft begin to unravel, emerald light flickering like dying fireflies. The vampire prince drops to the ground with predatory grace, fangs fully extended, eyes blazing with bloodlust and challenge.
Gwenivere answers his hiss with one of her own, the sound carrying harmonics that shouldn't be possible from a human throat. The tension in the room builds to a fever pitch as they lock eyes across the space between them.
Then they move.
It happens faster than thought – two apex predators launching at each other with lethal intent. Damien's movements are a blur, centuries of royal vampire training evident in every perfect line of his attack. Gwenivere matches him with raw instinct and power, her form less refined but somehow more primal.
But they never connect.
Cassius steps between them, one arm extended to catch Damien across the chest. The movement is smooth, casual almost, but I can see the tremendous power required to halt a vampire prince mid-strike. Shadows curl around his arm like living armor, absorbing the impact.
What none of us expect – least of all Cassius himself, I suspect – is Gwenivere's reaction.
Instead of pulling back or redirecting her attack, she grabs onto his extended arm. Her movements have a desperate edge now, driven by something deeper than mere bloodlust. Those ruby-red eyes lock onto the exposed skin of his wrist where his sleeve has ridden up.
"Don't—" Nikolai starts to warn, but it's too late.
Gwenivere's fangs sink into Cassius's flesh with decisive precision. The Duskwalker prince flinches – the smallest tell, but from him, it might as well be a scream. His jaw clenches as he fights to maintain his composure, while shadows writhe around him in agitated patterns.
"Are you mad?" Nikolai's voice cracks like a whip. "Stop her! Duskwalker blood is toxic to vampires. It'll kill her instantly!"
The Fae prince's vines surge forward, ready to tear Gwenivere away from certain death. But Cassius's voice, rough with strain but unwavering, stops him cold.
"Do not interfere."
The command freezes Nikolai's magic mid-strike, his vines hovering mere inches from Gwenivere's face.
I watch, fascinated, as ancient runes begin to surface on her skin, glowing with internal fire. The markings are familiar – old magic, the kind that predates our modern understanding of spell craft.
She could have turned those vines against him at any moment…
The realization dawns on me, which I could only assume was predicted by Cassius which is exactly why he told Nikolai to stand down in the form of protecting his fellow prince ally.
Nevertheless, the implications are staggering, because this woman is not simply a human…nor just a vampire, but something far more complex.
A hybrid whose magical abilities might rival those of the most powerful practitioners.
"Cassius," Nikolai grits out, clearly struggling with the order to stand down. "What are you doing?"
A ghost of a smile touches the Duskwalker's lips.
"She's hungry."
No shit, Paranormal Sherlock.
It takes a lot for me to not sigh at such a dubious response.
Despite it all, the simple statement carries layers of meaning. We've all dealt with Damien's blood-starved states, and seen how dangerous an unfed vampire can become.
But this...
"Let someone else feed her then!" Nikolai snaps, his vines trembling with restrained power. "My blood won't kill her. Even Mortimer's would be safer than?—"
Cassius shakes his head, the movement slight but definitive.
"We provoked this," he says, his voice carrying an odd note of understanding. "Any vampire running on empty would react similarly. We've seen it with Damien often enough."
His eyes never leave Gwenivere as she continues to drink, her grip on his arm white-knuckled with desperate need.
"But she's more than that. The magic in her blood...she could have turned your vines against you at any moment, Nikolai. Yet she didn't."
I step closer, studying the scene with growing fascination. The runes on her skin pulse in time with her feeding, creating patterns that speak of transformation and balance.
"The control required for that level of restraint while blood-starved..." I murmur. "It's unprecedented."
Damien, still restrained by Cassius's other arm, has gone eerily still. His eyes track every movement Gwenivere makes, but the mindless bloodlust from before has been replaced by something more calculating.
"She's drinking Duskwalker blood," he says slowly. "And she's not dead."
The observation sends a chill down my spine.
He's right – by all known laws of our world, Gwenivere should be writhing in agony right now.
Duskwalker blood is anathema to vampires, a poison that kills within seconds of consumption.
Yet here she is, not just surviving but seemingly drawing strength from it.
The runes on her skin grow brighter, spreading up her arms like burning vines. The school's magic responds, those invisible threads I noticed earlier beginning to pulse in harmony with the ancient markings.
It's as if two separate magical systems are learning to dance together, creating something entirely new in the process.
"Look at the patterns," I say, pointing to where the runes intersect with particularly strong concentrations of the school's energy. "They're adapting to each other. This isn't just feeding… it's synthesis."
Nikolai's eyes widen as he follows my gesture.
Even through his anger, I can see the scholar in him emerging, fascinated by the unprecedented magical phenomenon unfolding before us.
"That's impossible. The school's wards are unchangeable. They've remained exactly as they were cast five centuries ago,” he argues with confidence.
As he should…however, it’s rather obvious this woman is a form of new territory no one has gotten the privilege to explore.
A domain I’d love to be permitted to surpass.
"Yet they're changing now," Cassius murmurs. Despite the drain of blood loss, his voice remains steady. "For her."
I watch Gwenivere closely, noting how her frenzied feeding begins to slow.
If this was some elaborate ruse to escape, now would be the perfect moment – all of us distracted, guards lowered, attention split between the unprecedented magical phenomenon and her apparent immunity to Duskwalker blood.
But she doesn't run.
"How is this not killing you?" Nikolai demands, his vines still hovering uncertainly in the air.
Cassius doesn't answer, his usual reticence seemingly amplified by blood loss. I can see the slight strain around his eyes though – the only tell that this is affecting him at all.
The manic energy in Gwenivere's crimson eyes gradually dims, like a wildfire banking down to embers. When she finally retracts her fangs from Cassius's wrist, her expression shifts from predatory to puzzled.
She wrinkles her nose, looking up at him.
"You smell funny."
Cassius's response is a simple frown, the kind that would send most students running for cover. But Gwenivere seems immune to his intimidation – or perhaps just too blood-drunk to care.
"That's not what you say to someone after you bite into them and drink their blood!" Nikolai exclaims, sounding personally offended on Cassius's behalf.
Gwenivere spins to face him, hands on hips, which must look amusing to them with the male image.
"Well, if you'd believed me in the first place, none of this would have happened!"
"If I'd believed you?—"
"Yes!" She stomps over to him, finger raised accusingly. "If you'd just freed me after I explained my situation the first dozen times, we could have avoided this whole mess!"
Nikolai draws himself up to his full height, crown glinting in the early dawn light. His aura is magnificent, dancing with such majestic grace and intensity, that I’m sure Gwenivere can feel its threatening presence.
"I am Fae royalty. No one speaks to me in that tone."
Yet, it seems she doesn’t give a flying fuck.
"Suck it up, buttercup!" Gwenivere shoots back, swaying slightly. "Be the president of Narnia for all I care! I won't give a damn!"
I bite back a smile as Nikolai's jaw drops.
In five centuries, I've never seen anyone dismiss his title so casually. The Fae prince looks like he's trying to decide between outrage and amazement.
Gwenivere rubs at her eyes, which have started to droop.
"Ugh, I hate drinking blood. Stupid coma effects..."
She stomps back to Cassius, who tenses when she plants herself directly in front of him.
"Thanks," she says coldly, then spins on her heel toward the door. "I'm going home before I'm stuck in this wicked shithole."
"Where exactly do you think you're going?" I ask though I suspect I already know the answer.
"Home! Like I’ve repeated at least one hundred fucking times!" she declares, marching forward with determined steps.
Right into the solid oak door.
The four of us stare in absolute silence as she crumples to the floor, out cold.
The mighty hybrid who just survived drinking Duskwalker blood, taken down by simple architecture…
It takes everything to not laugh at the irony of all of this.
"Uhhh..." Nikolai pinches the bridge of his nose. "That did not fucking happen."
"Rather entertaining, actually," Cassius comments, the ghost of amusement in his voice.
I sigh, looking between my charges.
"Are any of you going to pick her up, or...?"
Damien grunts, massaging his temples.
"No. My head is killing me after that display. I need a blood pack to recover from whatever the hell just happened."
Before any of us can move, something extraordinary occurs.
The shadows around Cassius coalesce, taking physical form.
But not the usual abstract shapes of his power – this is his Duskwalker creature in its true form, manifesting without command.
An ivory skull gleams in the dawn light, eye sockets filled with writhing shadows that seem to reach outward. With gentle care that seems impossible for such a being, it lifts Gwenivere's unconscious form from the floor.
"Cassius," I say carefully, "did you summon it?"
"No." His response is quiet but clear. "He emerged on his own."
The significance of this hits us all at once.
Duskwalker creatures are extensions of their master's will – they don't act independently. They can't . Yet here we are, watching this ancient being cradle our unexpected intruder like something precious.
I look at the strange girl who's turned our world upside down in the span of a single night. At the runes still glowing faintly on her skin, at the way the school's magic continues to weave around her like a protective cocoon, at how even the embodiment of death itself seems drawn to her presence.
"She needs to stay," I say with absolute certainty. The others turn to me, various protests forming on their lips, but I hold up a hand. "Think about what we've witnessed. The school's wards adapting. Her survival of Duskwalker blood. A shadow creature acting of its own will. These aren't coincidences."
I step closer to where the creature holds her, studying the peaceful expression that's replaced her earlier fury.
"Whether we understand it or not, Wicked Academy has chosen her. And I, for one, am very curious to find out why."
Everything happens for a reason, and it seems this woman can be the key to unlocking the secrets hidden within Wicked Academy’s walls.