Chapter 3 #3
His name emerges as a question, confusion threading through the recognition that finally clicks into place. I know him. I know him—not just intellectually but bone-deep, soul-deep, in the way you know things that have become fundamental to your existence.
But then the world fractures.
One moment I'm straddling him, solid and present and real.
The next, reality splits down the middle, and I'm seeing two of everything—two Cassiuses, two rooms, two versions of existence that refuse to merge into single truth.
He sits up fast.
His arms catch me before I can fully collapse, responding to whatever he sees in my face or feels through our bond. I'm not unconscious—that's the strange part. I can feel his arms around me, can feel the shadows wrapping me in a protective cocoon.
But I'm not in my body either.
The sensation is disorienting—being present without being present, aware of physical reality while simultaneously floating above it. Like my soul has decided it doesn't want to stay attached properly, drifting loose from its moorings without actually leaving entirely.
"What's wrong with her?"
Cassius's voice carries worry that sounds foreign coming from the usually composed Duskwalker. The concern bleeding through his tone makes something in my chest ache, even in this disconnected state.
"Something's calling her spirit out," Zeke explains, his voice carrying the particular weight of knowledge he shouldn't possess but somehow does. "She's not dead, but it's like she's in a trance of sorts."
"This started since she died," Mortimer observes.
"Temporarily," Atticus interjects, and then his voice shifts to fury. "That fucker!"
The fucker.
I frown—or try to, uncertain whether the expression translates when I'm only partially inhabiting my face.
Who is "the fucker"?
Laughter answers my unspoken question.
The sound comes from behind me, from the space between physical reality and wherever my drifting consciousness has ended up. It's dark and rich and carries the particular confidence of someone who believes themselves superior to everyone around them.
I turn.
Oh.
The being standing behind me is nothing like the man I apparently headbutted into unconsciousness. That version had been human-shaped, irritating but unremarkable beyond his impossible purple blood and refusal to explain himself.
This version is something else entirely.
He stands at least seven feet tall—possibly more—his form a masterwork of terrifying beauty that makes every other creature I've encountered seem mundane by comparison.
Dark purple and black incantations crawl across skin that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, each symbol pulsing with power that makes the air itself heavy with magic.
Wings extend from his shoulders.
They're massive—spanning wider than his considerable height, each feather a blade of darkness that seems sharp enough to cut reality itself. They shift between folded and extended as he moves, as if unable to decide whether to show off or conserve energy.
His tail swirls around him with serpentine grace.
The appendage is longer than any tail should be, covered in scales that shimmer between purple and black as it moves. The end keeps changing shape—sometimes pointed, sometimes blunt, sometimes configurations I don't have names for—as if it can't decide what it wants to be.
And he's walking toward me.
Each step carries the particular confidence of apex predators who have never encountered anything capable of threatening them. His eyes—those impossible, color-shifting eyes—are fixed on me with intensity that makes my drifting consciousness want to solidify just so it can flee.
"I don't know whether to be mad at the sight of you kissing that shadow excuse of a beast," he drawls, smirk spreading across perfect features, "or turned on to see you so dominant with a man double your size."
Shadow excuse of a beast.
The dismissal of Cassius sparks something protective in my chest, even in this disconnected state.
How dare he?
But then he's towering before me, and whatever retort I was forming dies in my throat.
He's... he's not just powerful.
He's something else—something that exists in categories I don't have names for, something that makes every other supernatural creature I've encountered seem like pale imitations of true monstrosity.
I take in his figure with dawning realization. The wings. The tail. The incantations that pulse with magic older than the Academy itself. The particular flavor of power that surrounds him like cologne—dark and seductive and carrying undertones of something I almost recognize.
Hints of Fae.
But not pure Fae—tainted somehow, mixed with something else, something darker that has corrupted the characteristic shimmer into something more sinister.
"You're... a hybrid?"
The declaration emerges breathless, my consciousness wavering even as understanding begins to click into place.
His frown is immediate and unexpected—displeasure crossing perfect features as if I've said something offensive by observing the obvious. But before he can respond, my form wavers.
The disconnection between soul and body strengthens, reality trying to pull me back while this strange realm tries to keep me present. I flicker like a flame in wind, existence becoming uncertain in ways that should be terrifying but mostly feel exhausting.
His tail moves before I can drift further.
The appendage wraps around my translucent form with possessive strength, coiling once, twice, three times until I'm secured against dissolution. The contact is shockingly solid—his magic apparently capable of interacting with my spirit-form in ways physical matter can't.
He lifts me off the ground.
If you can call it ground, I think distantly. The surface beneath us is more suggestion than substance, existing because something has to but carrying no other properties that make it recognizable as floor.
His tail tightens, pulling me closer until I'm inches from his face. I grit my teeth against the pressure—not painful but confining, making my already-limited mobility even more restricted.
"This bond makes this extremely unfulfilling."
The words carry frustration that seems genuine, though I can't imagine what frustrates him about holding a half-conscious spirit-form in his tail.
"What bond?" I demand, confusion bleeding through my voice. "Who the hell are you?"
His pout is theatrical, exaggerated, the expression of someone who has been asked to explain themselves and finds the request beneath their dignity.
"Tell me," I insist when he remains silent. "Or I'll bite you to find out!"
The threat emerges before I can consider whether it's possible in this realm, vampire instincts overriding common sense with the particular confidence of someone who has never met a problem that couldn't be solved by applying teeth.
He rolls those impossible eyes.
"Can't bite in this realm," he informs me with the particular patience reserved for explaining obvious things to slow children.
"Try me!"
The challenge hangs between us, and something shifts in his expression. The theatrical annoyance fades, replaced by something that might be genuine amusement—or genuine challenge—or both combined into whatever emotion hybrid-Fae-monsters experience.
His grin is devastating.
And then his tail shifts.
The end transforms, scales reorganizing themselves into a shape that makes heat flood my translucent cheeks despite my current state of partial existence. The new configuration is unmistakably phallic—thick and ridged and positioned precisely at my eye level as if he's making some kind of point.
I stare at it.
Then I raise an eyebrow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of shock he's clearly expecting.
"Really?"
He shrugs—the gesture impressive given his wingspan.
"I have a good sense of humor as you ca—"
I bite it.
The tail that had shifted in the clear form of a thick veiny cock…
My fangs sink into the transformed appendage before he can finish his sentence, vampire instincts proving that yes, actually, I can bite in this realm, thank you very much.
The taste is strange—not blood exactly, but power concentrated into liquid form, carrying hints of darkness and Fae shimmer and something ancient I can't identify.
He hisses.
The sound is pure shock, pure pain, pure indignation that I would dare do exactly what I threatened to do. His tail transforms instantly back to its original shape, yanking out of my mouth with speed that speaks of genuine alarm.
Then the tail tightens around my throat.
Not enough to choke—I'm not sure spirits can choke—but enough to communicate displeasure in terms that transcend verbal language. His eyes blaze with fury that makes the air around us crackle with restrained power.
I grin.
Checkmate, asshole.
"You didn't believe..." I start to taunt, but my words trail off as my vision wavers again.
The disconnection is getting worse—reality pulling harder, this in-between realm losing its hold on my drifting consciousness. I blink once, twice, trying to clear sight that keeps doubling and tripling.
He tsks—a sharp sound of annoyance.
"Fine," he snaps, clearly reaching some internal decision. "I'll play your stupid games for the incubus's sake."
Incubus?
I try to ask what he means, but his tail lifts my chin before the words can form.
His lips press against mine.
The kiss is nothing like Cassius's shadows or Atticus's blood-hunger. This is intensely reinvigorating and frightening—cold where they're warm, ancient where they're young, carrying power that tastes of realms I've never visited and might never want to.
But more than anything, the kiss feels like breathing.
Like emerging from underwater after holding your breath too long. Like the first gulp of air after nearly drowning. Like my soul, so loose and drifting, suddenly remembering how to be attached to something solid.
Reality slams back.
There's no gentle transition, no gradual return to consciousness. One moment I'm floating in between-space with a monster's lips on mine, the next I'm crashing back into my body with force that makes my teeth rattle.
My eyes snap open.
I'm still straddling Cassius.
Still positioned exactly where I was before my spirit decided to take an unauthorized vacation. He's looking at me with concern that makes his silver eyes more human than shadow, hands still gripping my hips with possessive strength.
I groan.
My head is pounding—a symphony of pain that suggests I've put my brain through too many traumas in too short a time. Everything feels scrambled, consciousness still sorting itself back into proper configuration after being yanked between realms without warning.
"What in the voodoo... magic... is going..." I try to ask, but the words won't form properly.
Everything is too heavy.
The exhaustion I've been fighting crashes over me like a wave finally breaking, dragging me under with the particular inevitability of tides that cannot be resisted. My eyes, which I'd forced open moments ago, begin to close despite my best efforts to keep them from doing so.
No, I think desperately. Not again. I need answers. I need to understand what's happening.
But my body has decided that answers can wait.
That understanding is secondary to survival.
That sleep—true sleep, not death, not floating between realms, just simple unconscious rest—is what I need more than anything else.
The darkness that claims me is warm.
Not the cold void of the afterlife. Not the strange in-between of the spirit realm.
Just darkness.
Comfortable.
Safe.
I stop fighting.
And I let it take me.