Chapter 17 No Rest For The Wicked
No Rest For The Wicked
~GWENIEVERE~
The cocoon dissolves.
I watch as the vines and flowers and thorns that comprised our bubbled paradise burst into golden stardust—particles of magic scattering outward in patterns that catch whatever ambient light exists beyond the structure's former boundaries.
Each fragment carries the particular shimmer of Fae magic returning to its source, beauty in dissolution that might be worth appreciating under different circumstances.
These are not those circumstances.
The stardust clears.
And reveals absolute chaos.
I don't even have time to register what I'm seeing—don't have time to process the destruction that surrounds us, the figures moving with obvious hostility, the magic crackling through air that smells like ozone and smoke and something that might be blood—before shadow tendrils wrap around my transformed form.
The grip is familiar.
Cassius.
His darkness pulls me upward with speed that steals my breath, yanking my body from whatever position I'd occupied when the cocoon existed. The motion is violent in its urgency, protective desperation manifest as physical force, and I barely have time to register the displacement before—
BOOM.
Something crashes into the space I just vacated.
The impact sends shockwaves through whatever floor we're standing on—or rather, whatever floor the others are standing on, since I'm currently suspended in Cassius's protective grip several feet above the destruction.
Debris scatters in patterns that speak to significant force, fragments of what might have been medical equipment or furniture or Academy architecture flying in directions that could easily prove fatal to anyone caught in their path.
"You almost fucking killed Queen of Spades!"
Atticus's voice cuts through the aftermath of the explosion with fury that carries harmonics I don't usually hear from him.
The blood mage stands somewhere below me—I can see him now, my eyes adjusting to the chaos that surrounds us—his hands raised in defensive position, crimson energy crackling along his forearms in patterns that suggest he was ready to counter whatever attack had just occurred.
A maddening chuckle answers him.
The sound makes my attention snap toward its source, and my eyes land on Koishii with the particular recognition of someone who has become intimately familiar with that voice over recent hours.
He stands amidst the destruction like he caused it—which, based on context clues I'm rapidly assembling, he probably did.
His posture radiates the particular arrogance of someone thoroughly enjoying themselves at others' expense, shifted features carrying expressions that cycle between amusement and something that borders on genuine mania.
"Well, if you all weren't losing your shits," he observes, tone dripping with condescension that makes my jaw tighten, "this would have resolved a whole lot sooner."
The statement apparently fails to satisfy anyone because the magical tension in the room—and I use the term room loosely, since whatever space we're in appears to have been thoroughly destroyed by whatever altercation preceded my emergence from the cocoon—only intensifies in response.
Koishii snaps his fingers.
Magic responds immediately, power cascading through the space with force that makes my newly awakened Fae senses scream with input I'm not prepared to process.
The effect becomes apparent within heartbeats—gravity itself seems to stop, to reverse its usual pull, to lift bodies that were previously grounded into suspension that defies everything physical law suggests should be possible.
Curses fill the air.
A chorus of masculine voices expressing displeasure as they find themselves floating upward without consent—Atticus's blood magic crackling uselessly against forces that transcend elemental manipulation, Mortimer's draconic features flickering with obvious frustration, Zeke's feline grace entirely useless when there's no surface to land on.
Even Nikolai struggles.
His Fae nature should provide some resistance to another Fae's magic, but whatever Koishii is doing apparently transcends the usual rules of magical interaction.
The prince's silver-blonde hair floats around his face in patterns that would be beautiful if he weren't clearly fighting against forces that refuse to release him.
What the fuck.
The thought surfaces with the particular eloquence that extreme confusion produces.
I look around, trying to piece together what happened while I was wrapped in healing cocoons and emotional breakthroughs and discoveries about my Fae heritage.
The space we're in—recovery station, based on the fragments of medical equipment I can identify among the debris—has been utterly devastated.
Walls bear scorch marks and impact craters.
Furniture lies in pieces scattered across floors that carry their own damage.
The ambient lighting flickers with the particular pattern of systems pushed past their design limits.
What the fuck did we waltz into?
"What the fuck did we waltz into?" Nikolai's voice gives my internal question verbal form, his tone carrying the same bewilderment I'm experiencing despite his current predicament of floating helplessly against the damaged ceiling.
Koishii's smile carries edges that make my transformed skin prickle with warning.
"Well, you're the one who kidnapped MY Queen," he declares, possessive emphasis on the word making something in my chest tighten with complicated feelings I don't have time to examine. "Your fault."
Nikolai's gawk is visible even from my suspended position.
"How the fuck is it MY fault?" he demands, outrage coloring words that crack slightly with the strain of resisting gravity that's trying to press him into architecture. "And I didn't kidnap her—I... well..."
He trails off with the particular hesitation of someone realizing their defense is shakier than they initially believed.
"I think I sleepwalked," he continues, the admission emerging reluctantly. "And my magic activated, but that's because her energy resonates with mine! It wasn't intentional to keep her from the others."
The explanation carries enough genuine confusion that I find myself believing him—find myself remembering our earlier conversation about Fae magic yearning for its complements, about bonds drawing compatible souls together regardless of conscious intention.
"Well, I don't give a fuck about you, but still," Koishii responds with the particular dismissiveness of someone who has already decided they're not interested in reasonable explanations.
Nikolai's expression shifts into something approaching offense.
"Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?"
The question drips with sarcasm that Fae courts have probably been perfecting for millennia.
"Aww," Koishii coos, the sound carrying mockery that makes even my patience wear thin. "Did I wound the precious prince's precious feelings?"
Before the exchange can deteriorate further—and based on the energy building between them, deterioration is absolutely the trajectory we're on—another voice cuts through the tension.
"Is defying gravity really necessary right now?"
I locate Zeke among the floating figures and find him doing something that shouldn't be possible given the circumstances: reading a book.
The feline shifter has somehow arranged himself into something approaching a comfortable position despite the absence of anything to sit on, his body curled in the particular pose that cats achieve when they've decided their current location is acceptable regardless of what physics suggests about its suitability.
A thick tome rests in his hands, pages turning with casual attention that suggests he's paying more attention to the text than to the chaos surrounding him.
How is he so calm?
How is he READING?
The boredom radiating from his posture somehow makes the entire situation feel even more absurd than it already is.
Mortimer's voice carries the particular frustration of someone whose patience has been exhausted several exchanges ago.
"Can we stop this foolishness," the dragon-blooded bond mate huffs, his usually composed features twisted with obvious annoyance. "Gwenievere is awake and clearly fine, which we knew she would be."
The statement carries emphasis that suggests this argument has been made before—possibly multiple times—during whatever confrontation preceded my emergence.
Koishii giggles.
The sound is manic in ways that make my concern for his mental state intensify significantly.
"No," he declares, the single word carrying childish defiance that would be amusing if it weren't apparently backed by magic powerful enough to suspend multiple supernatural beings against their will. "You were all panicking that they were in Faerie and probably having a lovely wedding ceremony."
Wedding ceremony?
He told them we were getting MARRIED?
Mortimer's blush is visible even through the chaos—heat climbing his cheeks with the particular intensity of someone whose emotions have been manipulated in ways they find embarrassing.
Atticus's response carries none of Mortimer's restraint.
"THAT'S WHAT YOU IMPLIED!" the blood mage roars, crimson energy flaring along his forearms with intensity that suggests he's seriously considering lethal retaliation regardless of the gravity situation.
Koishii shrugs with the particular insouciance of someone who feels no responsibility for the consequences of their actions.
"Well, that's your fault for trusting a trickster."
The statement lands with implications that make my teeth grind together.
A trickster.
He's been playing with them.
Deliberately winding them up while I was unconscious and vulnerable.
For what? Entertainment? Some Fae game I don't understand?
Cassius's voice cuts through my building irritation with the particular flatness of someone who has reached the end of their tolerance.
"Can we just kill him?"