Chapter 5 The Joker’s Game #2
One moment, Nikolai is child-sized, features round with forced youth. The next, adult proportions reassert themselves with the particular grace of magic being released rather than overcome. Bones lengthen, muscles mature, the Fae's natural beauty returning to its usual ethereal splendor.
"Thank the Fae gods," Nikolai breathes, the relief in their voice palpable. "Fuck, I need a nap."
He doesn’t hesitate to drop onto the bench beside me, his body collapsing with the boneless exhaustion of someone who has been running on willpower alone for far too long.
"Join the club," I observe, my voice carrying dry amusement that feels appropriate given our circumstances. "But I guess the Wicked don't get breaks."
Nikolai groans—the sound carrying eloquent complaint about everything we've endured and everything that apparently still awaits.
"I'm using your arm," he announces, the words slurring slightly with approaching unconsciousness, "'cause I can't handle feeling like shit and neck pain."
I smirk at the warning, but the Fae is out in literally five seconds—consciousness surrendering to exhaustion with the particular speed of someone who has been fighting sleep for too long.
His weight settles against my shoulder with familiar comfort, silver-gold hair spilling across my arm in waves that carry the particular shimmer of Fae magic even in sleep.
Teammates.
Mortimer has been observing us from his position near the door, those dragon eyes missing nothing.
His gaze tracks from my protective barrier to sleeping Nikolai to the continued chaos of Atticus and Damien still attempting to murder our unwanted guest.
"Are you guys done fighting?" he asks, voice carrying the particular patience of someone who has decided that waiting is more efficient than intervening. "Because we need to talk."
"NO!"
Atticus and Damien's response comes in perfect unison—child voices harmonizing in fury that would be impressive if it wasn't so ridiculous.
Then they look at each other.
Realize they've agreed on something.
And immediately begin fighting each other instead, small fists swinging with the particular lack of coordination that makes children's brawls more amusing than threatening.
The Joker laughs.
That fucking laugh.
It echoes through the chartered space like nails on a chalkboard, each note calculated to irritate, each chuckle designed to make anyone listening want to commit violence just to achieve silence.
Is that all we have to listen to?
Is his entire personality just "annoying chaos gremlin"?
My eye begins to twitch with irritation, which I usually pride myself on suppressing.
Professor Eternalis sighs—the sound carrying weight that speaks of countless similar situations she's apparently navigated across whatever impossibly long lifespan she possesses.
"Prince Yoshiro," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes everyone pause. Not authority exactly—respect. The particular deference given to those whose power demands acknowledgment even from other powerful beings. "Can we pause?"
Prince Yoshiro.
The name settles into my consciousness with weight I don't fully understand. The title carries formality that suggests a legitimate claim rather than self-proclamation.
Prince.
But prince of what? Of where?
Yoshiro.
The name carries Japanese undertones, descent from that corner of the mortal world where supernatural beings have their own particular flavors and traditions.
But he doesn't give off Japanese aesthetics in any way I can identify—no cultural markers, no behavioral patterns, nothing that suggests connection to those islands or their supernatural communities.
What exact being is he?
The question has been nagging at me since his first appearance.
He's definitely a hybrid—whatever sorcery of magic he possesses is multilayered in ways that suggest multiple supernatural bloodlines combining into something unique.
But the specific components escape my analysis, hidden behind that frustrating absence that makes my shadows useless for reading him.
Still prefer calling him Joker.
He pouts.
The expression is theatrical, exaggerated, the face of someone told that the party is over and finding this development personally offensive.
"I'm a King, mind you," he corrects, the emphasis on his title carrying genuine irritation beneath the performance. "I'm simply waiting for my Queen to wake and claim the throne destined for us."
King.
Queen.
Throne.
The words trigger protective instincts that make my shadows writhe within their barrier. I don't like the implications of his phrasing. Don't like the possessive way he speaks of destinies that apparently involve Gwenievere.
"And who is that Queen?"
The question escapes me before I can consider whether asking is wise. My voice carries edges that suggest the answer better not be what I suspect it is.
Nikolai shifts against my shoulder—still asleep, somehow undisturbed by the conversation happening around them. It's only now that I realize Zeke has moved, the feline having materialized beside me with the particular silence that makes cats so unsettling.
When did he—
How did he—
You know what, it doesn't matter.
Cat magic. Feline bullshit. I’m too tired to figure this out.
Joker—Prince Yoshiro, whatever title he actually holds—smirks.
The expression transforms his already unsettling features into something that sends actual shivers down my spine.
This isn't his usual theatrical amusement. This is something darker, something that carries intent rather than mere entertainment.
Tension shifts through the room like a living thing, everyone sensing the change in atmosphere, everyone suddenly paying closer attention than they were moments before.
His teeth show—white and perfect and somehow sharper than they should be, as if his smile itself is a weapon he's choosing to display.
He walks toward the glass.
The glass.
The barrier separating our chartered space from the smaller room where Gwenievere floats in her stasis sphere.
His movements break whatever spell had been affecting the others. I feel the magic shift, release, dissipate—and suddenly Atticus and Damien are no longer children fighting on the floor but adults sprawled in positions that would be embarrassing even if they weren't apparently naked.
Wait.
When did their clothes—
Why are they—
But my attention follows Joker's gaze, tracking to where Gwenievere's form floats in that sphere of incantations and protective magic.
The golden light that surrounds her pulses with the rhythm of her heartbeat, symbols rotating around her body in patterns that speak of life maintained through artificial means.
My Queen.
MY Queen.
Not yours. Never yours.
"My lovely Queen," Joker declares, the words landing in the silence with weight that makes everyone's blood run cold.
We all follow his gaze.
Gwenievere floats peacefully, unconscious and unreachable, silver hair drifting around her face like a halo made of starlight. The incantations that crawl across her skin pulse with a steady rhythm, life signs stable and secure.
Beautiful.
Vulnerable.
Mine.
The possessive thought surges through me with force that surprises even my own awareness.
And then I realize I'm growling.
The sound that emerges from my throat has nothing to do with human vocal cords, nothing to do with the Duskwalker nature I usually present.
This is something older, something more primal—a warning from parts of myself that rarely surface, a declaration that this woman is claimed and any threat to that claim will be met with violence beyond rational restraint.
Everyone is looking my way.
Their expressions range from surprise, to wariness, and a certain feline amusement; cat felines clearly find amusement in many things.
"Cassius," Mortimer warns, his voice carrying the particular caution of someone trying to defuse a situation before it explodes.
I don't understand why they're being so careful around me.
I'm merely sitting. Relaxed. My tendrils clearly multiplying, maybe coiling with slightly threatening energy, possibly carrying an aura that suggests anyone who approaches will be unmade at the molecular level.
Okay.
Fine.
Maybe I'm not as calm as I thought.
Two can play this game of possession.
If Joker thinks he can simply declare Gwenievere his "Queen" and have that accepted, he's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
My shadows continue to multiply, darkness spreading from my protected bubble to cast the room in deeper shadow, each tendril carrying the particular weight of a Duskwalker who has decided something needs to die.
"WHY THE FUCK ARE WE NAKED?"
Atticus's declaration cuts through the tension with the particular grace of someone entirely unaware they've interrupted a potentially violent confrontation.
Attention shifts.
My shadows pause their aggressive expansion as everyone registers what Atticus has just noticed.
He and Damien are indeed naked—their clothes apparently casualties of whatever transformation magic Joker employed, leaving both men exposed to the room in ways that would be embarrassing if anyone currently had the capacity for embarrassment.
My eyes land on Damien.
Not with any inappropriate interest, but because—
Gods.
What happened to him?
The scars covering his body weren't there before.
I'm certain of it.
In Year One, in all our encounters since, Damien's flesh was unmarked—the perfect canvas of pureblood genetics, skin that healed from any injury without evidence it had ever been damaged.
But now...
Scars trace patterns across his torso, his arms, his legs—patterns that speak of systematic damage rather than random violence.
This isn't the aftermath of battle wounds or trial injuries.
This is something deliberate, something repeated, something that was done to him over time with cruel intention.
The magnitude is staggering.