Chapter 17 No Rest For The Wicked #3
The motion is slight—barely perceptible, really—but it's agreement. Acknowledgment that my request has been heard and accepted, even if implementation will probably require patience and repetition across the challenges ahead.
"Then please," I add, pressing while I have his attention, "don't try to actually kill them."
I pause, reconsidering my own words.
"Unless they betray me," I amend, the caveat emerging with the particular pragmatism of someone who has learned that trust should never be unconditional.
Speaking of trust and betrayal...
"Where's Damien?"
The question emerges as I realize one bond mate is conspicuously absent from the chaos surrounding us.
The others are accounted for—Atticus with his blood magic, Mortimer with his draconic frustration, Zeke with his inexplicable reading, Nikolai still floating against the ceiling, Cassius whose tendrils still hold me suspended near Koishii.
But Damien isn't here.
The vampire who spent years pretending to be my enemy, who revealed his true loyalties only after we'd both nearly died, who carries shadows in his past that we haven't fully explored...
Where is he?
None of them answer.
The silence carries weight that makes concern crystallize into something sharper in my chest.
I look at Koi.
His expression shifts into something that might be annoyance, might be reluctance, might be the particular look of someone who has information they don't especially want to share.
He huffs.
Looks away.
"He's on a run."
The statement lands with confusion that doesn't immediately resolve.
"Huh?" I frown, trying to parse meaning from words that don't quite make sense. "A run from what?"
Koi looks back at me, and his expression carries something that might be amusement, might be warning, might be both intertwined in the particular way that complicated news often presents.
"Like run as in he's in hellhound mode," he explains, the words arriving with casual delivery that contradicts their alarming content. "Running around like a manic demon spawn from the pits of Lucifer's hell."
Hellhound mode.
Damien is in hellhound mode.
Running around the Academy in his most dangerous form, apparently without control or restraint.
I gawk at the revelation.
Then my attention snaps to the one person I would have assumed would prevent such a scenario—the bond mate whose shadows should have been able to contain, should have been able to anchor, should have been able to help when Damien's nature overwhelmed his control.
Cassius feels my gaze.
His expression, visible now that his tendrils have brought me close enough to observe properly, carries defensiveness that suggests he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"I was more concerned about you than him running around like a manic hellhound," he declares, the statement carrying challenge that borders on aggressive. "Bite me."
Bite me.
He's telling me to bite him.
While Damien is apparently losing control somewhere in the Academy and no one has done anything to help.
Anger flares.
Sharp and hot and carrying the particular intensity of someone whose protectiveness has been triggered by circumstances that demand immediate response.
The tendrils holding me seem to sense my mood shift because they bring me to Cassius in a flash—faster than he apparently expected, because he actually flinches when my transformed face appears inches from his void-dark eyes without warning.
I hiss.
The sound carries power that I didn't know I possessed—Fae authority bleeding through vampire instinct, the combination producing something that makes the air between us crackle with energy that demands obedience.
"Go. Fetch. Me. My. Vampire. Pureblood. Now."
Each word lands with emphasis that allows no argument, no deflection, no attempt to prioritize his preferences over my explicit command.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Cassius stares at me with eyes that carry shock—genuine shock, the particular reaction of someone who has never been addressed this way by someone they consider theirs.
I add fuel to whatever fire is building in his expression.
"Or you're never enjoying this pussy ever again."
The threat lands with the particular weight of promises that carry genuine consequences.
The reaction is immediate.
His shadow tendrils screech—a sound I've never heard from them before, something between alarm and distress that suggests they understood my words perfectly and find them absolutely unacceptable.
The darkness that holds me trembles with what might be horror, might be protest, might be the particular desperation of eldritch appendages facing prospects they cannot bear.
Then they drop me.
The release is sudden—one moment supported, the next falling toward debris-covered floor with the particular acceleration that gravity provides when nothing interferes with its intentions.
Cassius catches me.
His reflexes respond even as his expression broadcasts clear annoyance at being put in this position—at having to rescue me from consequences that his shadow tendrils created, at having to demonstrate care in the same moment he's been commanded to demonstrate obedience.
His arms wrap around my transformed form with strength that suggests he could easily refuse my demands if he chose to.
He doesn't choose to.
His expression says everything his voice doesn't as he looks at me with eyes that promise this conversation isn't over—that there will be discussions about the threat I just issued, about the command I just gave, about the particular way I leveraged our intimacy to achieve compliance.
Then he sets me down.
And silently walks away toward whatever exit leads out of this destroyed recovery station.
Atticus sighs from his floating position.
"See," the blood mage observes, tone carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who has witnessed drama they won't have to personally navigate. "I'd never want to be in the dog house."
Zeke glances up from his book—actually acknowledging something other than the text for the first time since this confrontation began.
"You were the one who started fighting with the Prince to begin with," he points out, voice carrying mild accusation that makes Atticus's expression shift into alarm.
I turn my attention toward the blood mage, eyebrow arching with implicit question about whatever he apparently initiated before I emerged from the cocoon.
Atticus groans.
"FUCK, Zeke!" he protests, crimson energy flickering with what might be embarrassment, might be frustration, might be the particular desperation of someone who has been thrown under a bus by an ally. "Don't set me up for fucking failure!"
Zeke shrugs, returning his attention to his book with the particular disinterest of someone who feels no obligation to protect others from the consequences of their actions.
"I think you forgot we go to the Academy of the Wicked," he observes, turning a page with casual attention. "It ain't fair."
The exchange would be amusing under other circumstances.
Right now, I have more pressing concerns.
I watch Cassius's retreating form until it disappears through whatever door leads out of this space, trusting that his silence means compliance even if his expression promised future confrontation.
Damien needs help. Whatever triggered his hellhound transformation, whatever pushed him past the control he's maintained since I've known him, he's currently running through the Academy in a state that could prove dangerous for everyone—himself included.
I turn back to the remaining bond mates—those still floating, those still dealing with the aftermath of whatever chaos unfolded before my emergence.
My eyes find Nikolai among the suspended figures.
"Are you okay?"
The question emerges with genuine concern, remembering the emotional devastation we shared in the cocoon, the tears he shed, the vulnerability that preceded the magic he worked to dissolve our sanctuary.
He nods, the motion slightly awkward given his continued floating.
"I'm fine for now," he assures me, the words carrying weight that suggests for now is the operative phrase.
Good enough.
"Where's Professor Eternalis?"
The question addresses whoever has information, my attention scanning the destroyed space for any sign of the being who has guided us through three years of Academy trials.
Mortimer answers from his floating position, draconic features still carrying frustration but now tempered with something approaching patience.
"Outside," he provides. "Probably making sure Damien doesn't go on a destruction spree. Not like there's anything here aside from this recovery station."
The explanation makes sense—someone needed to monitor the situation while the others apparently descended into chaos responding to Koishii's provocations.
I nod, accepting the information while adding it to the mental map I'm building of our current circumstances.
"Are you all okay?"
The question encompasses everyone—floating and grounded, frustrated and amused, all of them bound to me through connections that have grown complicated and essential over years of shared survival.
Nods answer from various positions around the destroyed space.
Relief warms something in my chest, even as concern for Damien continues to pulse with urgent insistence.
"What's with the new look?"
The question comes from somewhere among the floating figures—Atticus, I think, his tone carrying curiosity that edges toward teasing despite his current predicament.
I look down at myself.
The golden hair that falls past my shoulders. The sheer panels of the ridiculous Fae dress that clings to my transformed form. The shimmer of skin that broadcasts magical nature I didn't ask to possess.
"I'll fix it," I declare, the words carrying determination that I hope translates to actual ability. "Because no way am I fighting in a damn dress."