Chapter 2 #2
She levitates slowly—not the violent ascent of being grabbed but the gentle lift of being cradled by forces that want her whole. Atticus releases her reluctantly, crimson eyes tracking every inch of her ascent with the particular attention of someone who expects to need to catch her at any moment.
I have no choice but to let her go.
My hands fall empty to my sides as magic takes her from my reach, and the loss—brief as it is—makes my shadows writhe with agitation I have to actively suppress. The darkness wants to reach for her, to wrap around her, to ensure she never leaves my grasp again.
Not yet, I command them. Let the healing work.
Power swirls around Gwenievere's floating form.
It begins as simple gold—Zeke's magic, recognizable and warm—but quickly gains complexity. Navy blue joins the mix, deep and mysterious, carrying the particular weight of depth magic I associate with oceanic power. Then shadows enter the dance, and I startle because those aren't mine.
Hers.
The shadows that join the healing come from within Gwenievere herself—the Duskwalker power she gained through our bond, manifesting now to assist in her own recovery.
They weave between gold and navy like threads in a tapestry, each color supporting the others, creating patterns that speak of wounds being mended on levels beyond the physical.
The process takes a full minute.
Sixty seconds of watching magic do what magic does, of trusting power to accomplish what force cannot.
The swirling colors pulse and dance and weave, and with each passing moment, Gwenievere's pallor improves.
The blood stops flowing from her nose. Her breathing deepens from shallow survival to genuine rest.
Then the magic decides it's finished.
The gold and navy and shadow retreat as suddenly as they appeared, withdrawing into Gwenievere's form like tide returning to sea. Her body begins to descend—not falling but lowering, controlled by forces that refuse to let her crash.
My shadows move before I consciously command them.
Tendrils of darkness surge upward, positioning themselves beneath her falling form with the particular care of someone who has learned that catching requires cushioning.
They wrap around her with gentleness that contradicts their usual violence, cradling her in a cocoon of void that will let nothing harm her.
Mine.
The possessive thought pulses through our bond, and somewhere in her unconscious mind, I feel her respond with warmth that makes my chest tight.
But the shadows don't stop at simply catching her.
They continue to move, to reshape, to become. Darkness that was formless gains structure, tendrils that were individual merge into something unified. My shadows construct a figure around Gwenievere—a tall, humanoid shape that cradles her against its chest with protective intent that mirrors my own.
Grim.
I recognize the familiar being immediately, though this version is different from the tiny reaper who usually floats at Gwenievere's shoulder. This is Grim grown massive, Grim given form by my shadows, Grim transformed into the guardian he always wanted to be.
"Greeeee."
The sound that emerges from the shadow-figure's approximation of mouth is deeper than the miniature version's chirp—resonant with protective intent that makes even my agitated darkness settle slightly.
Grim-giant holds Gwenievere with the particular care of something that has finally been given the means to protect what it loves.
Good.
With her secured, my attention can return to the problem I've been trying not to think about.
The stranger.
He's still wrapped in my shadows, encased in Zeke's ice, bound by Mortimer's flame. The restraints should be agonizing—three different magics designed to contain and cause discomfort in equal measure. But when I focus on him, he looks merely... inconvenienced.
"Jeez," he drawls, voice carrying the particular tone of someone who finds everyone around them tedious. "Overprotective paranormals. Do one good thing by bringing that princess back from the afterlife, and this is what I get."
He shifts within his bonds, testing their limits without actually trying to escape.
"Temporary captivity," he concludes, as if the word 'temporary' is the only acceptable outcome and he's merely waiting for us to realize our mistake.
"Temporary?" Mortimer's voice carries heat that has nothing to do with his dragon nature. His scholarly composure—already stressed by everything we've witnessed—finally cracks, revealing the warrior beneath the academic facade.
I watch his eyes shift.
The human appearance he typically maintains flickers, revealing vertical slits that speak of dragon heritage and draconic fury. His usually calm features twist with anger I don't fully understand—as if this stranger's presence offends him on levels beyond simple territorial concern.
What does he know that we don't?
The question adds itself to the growing list of things I need to understand about this situation.
The stranger chuckles—a low, dark sound that carries no warmth whatsoever. He cracks his neck within the bounds of his restraints, the casual gesture speaking of flexibility that shouldn't be possible given how tightly he's bound.
Then he looks at us.
Really looks, with eyes that carry colors I don't have names for—shifting between hues that seem to exist outside normal spectrums, each shade bleeding into the next with the particular fluidity of something that refuses to be categorized.
The headbutt left damage.
A bruise blooms across his forehead—purple and angry, spreading across perfect features with the particular slowness of supernatural healing working against supernatural impact. His nose drips blood as well, crimson trickling down to his lips with lazy inevitability.
Wait.
I focus on the blood, something wrong registering in my consciousness before I can identify what.
That's not red.
The liquid that drips from his nose is purple.
Not dark red that might be mistaken for purple in certain light. Not crimson with unusual undertones. Genuinely, unmistakably, impossibly purple—the color of twilight skies, of dying stars, of power that exists in the spaces between what should be and what is.
I see the unease spread through my companions.
Atticus's eyes narrow with the particular suspicion of someone who has spent centuries studying blood in all its forms and has never encountered anything like this.
Mortimer's anger shifts to something closer to wariness, dragon instincts recognizing threat even if scholarly knowledge can't categorize it.
Only Zeke seems intrigued.
Those feline eyes study the purple blood with fascination that borders on academic interest, as if he's witnessing a phenomenon he's only ever read about in texts too ancient to take seriously.
"Temporary," the stranger repeats, clearly enjoying our discomfort, "because you weaklings couldn't even tap into the afterlife to retrieve your bonded mate, but you're acting as if I'm the mortal enemy."
He shifts again within his bonds, somehow managing to look comfortable despite being wrapped in shadow and ice and fire.
"You should be praising me," he continues, indignation coloring his impossible voice. "I feel insulted. If you didn't bring my Princess, I'd just kill all of you."
My Princess.
The possessive pronoun makes my shadows tighten involuntarily, darkness pressing against his flesh with pressure that would crush normal beings. The stranger doesn't even flinch.
"But I suppose that would be a loss," he muses, seemingly unaware of—or indifferent to—my increasing aggression. "Since it seems as if she's bonded with you lot of weak immortals."
"Bonded mate?"
Atticus's snarl is pure vampire—territorial, possessive, carrying centuries of aristocratic fury. He's moved closer without me noticing, crimson eyes fixed on the stranger with hunger that has nothing to do with blood.
"We're her mates," Atticus continues, each word sharp as the fangs now fully extended past his lips. "We don't know who the fuck you are."
The stranger tsks—an actual, deliberate tsk that somehow conveys more condescension than any word could manage.
"Well, it's not as if you gave me time to introduce myself," he observes, sounding genuinely put-upon by our rudeness. "Alas. You average shifters are not only rude but also insulting. I'm wasting oxygen here. Could have been in the Academy eating instead of this foolishness."
Average.
The word grates across nerves I didn't know I possessed. I am the Prince of the Duskwalker Realm, heir to shadows that predate mortal understanding. Nothing about my existence is average.
"Then tell us who you are," Zeke demands, his usual calm finally cracking enough to show the steel beneath.
The stranger's smirk widens into something that might be a smile if smiles could carry that much malice.
"No," he says simply. "I don't feel like it."
The refusal hangs in the air, impossibly casual given the situation.
Before anyone can respond, a new voice enters the conversation.
"Oh, you better not be... who I think you are... or I'm fucking committing treason."
All eyes turn to Nikolai.
The Fae prince—or princess, depending on circumstances, I don't fully understand—has been uncharacteristically quiet since Gwenievere's collapse.
I'd assumed he was simply processing the chaos like the rest of us, perhaps more affected given the particular sensitivity Fae possess toward magical upheaval.
I was wrong.
Nikolai kneels on the ground several feet away, barely able to support himself on hands and knees that tremble with visible effort.
His head hangs low, silver-gold hair obscuring features that are somehow different from what I remember—sharper, more angular, stripped of something I can't quite identify.
And he's glowing.