Chapter 2 #3
Fae luminescence emanates from his skin with intensity that speaks of power barely contained, light that should be beautiful but instead seems sickly, wrong, like a fire burning fuel it wasn't meant to consume.
I do a quick glance toward Grim to ensure Gwenievere remains secure—the shadow-giant holds her with unwavering attention, "greee" rumbling continuously from its approximation of chest—before moving to Nikolai's side.
Up close, the wrongness is more apparent.
His skin is pale past the point of Fae ethereal beauty into something closer to illness.
Veins show through translucent flesh, carrying light rather than blood, each one pulsing with a rhythm that seems slightly off from a normal heartbeat.
His breathing comes in short gasps, as if the simple act of existing requires effort he doesn't quite have.
"Fuck, Nikolai," I observe, the profanity escaping before I can consider whether it's appropriate. "You look like shit."
The Fae huffs—a sound that manages to be both agreement and offense simultaneously.
"Thanks," he grunts, the word carrying exhaustion that goes beyond physical. "Feel like shit."
"What's wrong with him?" Atticus demands, vampire attention finally splits between the prisoner and his fellow bond-mate.
Mortimer and Zeke exchange a look.
The silent communication carries weight I can't quite parse—shared knowledge that apparently doesn't extend to the rest of us. After a moment, Zeke speaks.
"This is the Fae prince's real form," he explains, each word careful, measured. "When independent."
I reach down, pulling Nikolai's arm over my shoulder and wrapping my other arm around his waist. He leans into the support with gratitude that makes something in my chest twist—this powerful being reduced to dependence through circumstances I don't understand.
"What do you mean by 'independent'?" I ask, helping him to his feet despite his obvious struggle to remain upright.
The stranger answers before anyone else can.
"Well, what do you get when you split the fake from the real?" His voice carries amusement that makes me want to tighten my shadows until something breaks. "Twinsies."
The word lands like a stone in still water.
Split.
Fake from real.
Twinsies.
The implications cascade through my mind with the particular horror of understanding arriving too late. Nikolai and Nikki—the male and female aspects of our Fae companion—were always spoken of as transformations, as shapeshifting, as the same soul wearing different forms.
But what if they weren't?
What if Nikolai and Nikki were always two beings sharing one body, the way Gwenievere and Gabriel share theirs? What if the "transformation" was actually switching which consciousness controlled their shared form?
And what if whatever just happened... separated them?
"Though," the stranger continues, seeming to enjoy the horror spreading across our faces, "you were born out of desperation, since being a male in the realms of perfection is a must to avoid the tragic backstory."
The tragic backstory.
Memories surface—Nikki's trial in the labyrinth, the horrific vision of her father, the abuse she suffered that made creating a male persona a matter of survival rather than choice.
Nikolai—the real Nikolai, not the creation born from necessity—trembles against my side with fury and shame and something that might be relief if relief could taste that bitter.
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" Atticus's patience finally shatters completely.
The shout echoes across whatever space we occupy—I haven't had time to examine our surroundings, too focused on Gwenievere and the stranger and now Nikolai to care about the environment.
Atticus's vampire power bleeds into the sound, compulsion magic trying to force an answer from someone who seems entirely immune.
The stranger shrugs—actually shrugs—within bonds that should make such movement impossible.
"I'm not going to say it, so figure it out."
The dismissal is absolute.
Tension builds like pressure before a storm, each of us reaching the limits of patience with this impossible being who saved our mate's life and refuses to explain anything about himself.
I can feel my shadows wanting to constrict, to crush, to force answers from someone who clearly believes himself beyond our ability to threaten.
But...
He saved her.
Whatever else he is, he brought Gwenievere back when we couldn't.
The acknowledgment wars with instinct, creating conflict that makes my darkness roil with confused aggression.
Then I feel it.
Something approaching.
Power moving toward our position with the particular inevitability of things that cannot be stopped. My shadows extend outward, trying to taste what comes, trying to prepare for threat or ally or something between—
The group tenses around me.
Even the stranger reacts, his impossible eyes rolling with theatrical annoyance as he groans.
"Can I not deal with you?"
The complaint is directed at whatever approaches, carrying the particular exhaustion of someone who has encountered this presence before and found it tiresome.
I turn toward the source of my shadows' warning, darkness coiling defensively around our group—around Grim and Gwenievere, around Nikolai, who still leans on me for support, around Atticus and Mortimer and Zeke, who have positioned themselves to face whatever comes.
The figure that emerges from the dimensional chaos is familiar.
Silver hair that seems to carry starlight. Features that belong on classical statues, perfect and ageless, and somehow knowing. Eyes that hold secrets older than the Academy itself.
Professor Eternalis.