Chapter 18 Abomination
Abomination
~GWENIEVERE~
Catching a hellhound is a pain in one's hybrid ass.
The thought surfaces with the particular exhaustion of someone who has been standing on the sidelines watching chaos unfold for what feels like hours but is probably closer to thirty minutes.
My transformed feet—still bare, still carrying the particular luminescence that my Fae awakening has apparently made permanent—ache against ground that trembles with each impact of massive paws against Academy architecture.
Professor Eternalis stands beside me, her ancient features arranged into an expression of calm observation that borders on amusement. She watches the mayhem with the particular attention of someone taking mental notes rather than someone with any intention of intervening.
I can't even be upset with her.
Six men versus one hellhound shouldn't be this difficult.
The logic is sound. Six supernaturally enhanced beings—each carrying power that has proven capable of surviving three years of Academy trials designed to kill—should be able to contain a single creature. The math supports this conclusion. The reality... does not.
Well, technically five.
My attention shifts to where Koishii floats.
Upside down.
The Fae prince has apparently decided that his contribution to our current crisis will be entertainment rather than assistance.
He hovers in the air with complete disregard for conventional orientation, his body inverted, his shifted features carrying expressions of absolute delight as he watches the others scramble to contain Damien's monstrous form.
Laughter spills from his lips—manic, delighted, the particular sound of someone who has found genuine joy in circumstances that should probably concern him.
How is he even doing that?
The gravity magic he demonstrated earlier apparently extends to personal application, allowing him to exist in whatever orientation amuses him most regardless of what physics might suggest. Whether it's Fae magic or something else entirely, I don't have the energy to investigate.
Below his floating form, chaos reigns.
Damien—or what Damien has become—is massive.
The hellhound that replaced my vampire bond mate stands easily fifteen feet at the shoulder, three heads snapping and snarling with independent fury that somehow coordinates into devastating effectiveness.
Each head carries its own particular brand of menace: the left one seems to breathe fire, the right one appears to exhale some kind of toxic smoke, and the center one—the largest—simply bites with teeth the size of my forearm.
Muscles ripple beneath fur that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, void-black coat carrying the particular weight of something that belongs in infernal realms rather than Academy grounds.
His paws leave scorched earth with each step, claws carving furrows in stone that should be too hard to mark.
Atticus ducks as the left head snaps in his direction, crimson energy flaring along his forearms as he counters with blood magic that seems to do absolutely nothing beyond irritating the creature further.
The blood mage curses with creative profanity that would impress sailors, his usual composure entirely abandoned in favor of survival instincts.
Nikolai weaves between strikes with Fae grace that looks almost effortless—except I can see the sweat dampening his silver-blonde hair, the tension in his shoulders, the particular strain of someone using everything they have just to stay alive.
Vines erupt from his hands in attempts to bind the hellhound's legs, but the creature tears through them like tissue paper.
Cassius's shadow tendrils multiply with desperate intensity, darkness spreading across the battlefield in patterns that attempt to restrain what cannot be restrained.
The void-black appendages wrap around legs and necks and jaws, but Damien's hellhound form carries strength that shrugs off even Duskwalker shadows.
Mortimer's draconic features flicker with increasing frequency—scales appearing along his arms, his eyes shifting toward reptilian slits, his body preparing for the transformation that might be necessary if this continues.
Fire builds in his chest, heat radiating outward in waves I can feel from my observation position.
Zeke moves with feline precision that defies the chaos surrounding him, but even his supernatural reflexes seem stretched to their limits.
He dodges and weaves and retreats, contributing what he can while clearly recognizing that direct confrontation with this particular opponent falls outside his skillset.
Every spell in the book.
And none of them are working.
I turn to look at Koishii, frustration building with each passing second of his unhelpful amusement.
"Why is he in hellhound form?"
The question emerges with demand rather than curiosity, my patience for his entertainment wearing dangerously thin.
He pauses in his laughing fit—actually stops, the sound cutting off with the particular abruptness of someone who has been addressed by authority they recognize.
His inverted position rotates slowly until he's facing me properly, still upside down but at least giving the conversation the attention it deserves.
"Well," he begins, shifted features settling into something approaching seriousness, "because he doesn't have a master."
The statement lands with confusion that doesn't immediately resolve.
Master?
What does that mean?
I frown at the explanation that isn't actually an explanation, my transformed features probably broadcasting my frustration clearly to anyone paying attention.
Before I can demand clarification, Professor Eternalis decides to grace me with actual knowledge.
"Hellhound creatures are usually bound to a master to control them," she explains, her ancient voice carrying the particular cadence of academic instruction.
"They still roam and exhibit aggressive behaviors, but with proper bonding, they can be directed.
Managed. Prevented from attempting to kill everything that moves. "
The information settles into my understanding with implications I'm still processing.
She uses Lucifer as an example with Cerberus, she continues, naming entities that carry mythological weight I've only encountered in stories until this moment.
"All such beings—the hounds, the guardians, the infernal creatures that serve higher powers—they require ownership.
A master whose authority they recognize and obey. "
Like dogs.
The comparison surfaces with the particular simplicity of understanding finally clicking into place.
Supernatural, terrifying, three-headed dogs that breathe fire and could easily kill everyone present...
But still dogs.
Still creatures that need someone to tell them what to do.
"So..." I begin, pieces assembling into conclusion I'm not entirely comfortable with. "I need to be his master?"
Professor Eternalis inclines her head in confirmation.
"If I tell him to sit, he'll sit?"
The question emerges with skepticism that I can't quite hide. The creature currently tearing through Academy grounds doesn't look like anything that would respond to commands, regardless of who gave them.
"Yes," Professor Eternalis confirms. "But I suspect your current form won't suffice for establishing that authority."
I frown at the caveat.
"So I'm in 'Fae' form right now?"
The question seeks confirmation of something I've been suspecting since waking in Nikolai's cocoon with golden hair and pink eyes and skin that won't stop shimmering.
She nods.
Koishii chuckles from his inverted position, the sound carrying the particular amusement of someone who finds my ignorance entertaining.
"Your Fae magic feels neglected," he observes, finally rotating himself to proper orientation with casual disregard for whatever effort that might require.
"It's been suppressed for your entire existence.
Now that it's awakened, it wants to stretch its wings.
Establish dominance. Claim the attention it's been denied. "
The explanation makes a certain kind of sense—explains why the transformation happened without my consent, why maintaining this form seems to require no effort on my part, why returning to my previous state feels impossible despite how desperately I want my old face back.
"That's fine and all," I acknowledge, accepting the reality even if I don't appreciate it. "But we can't be standing here waiting for Damien to try and kill one of the others."
The concern is genuine—every second we spend discussing magical theory is a second where one of my bond mates might make a mistake that proves fatal.
Damien's hellhound form shows no signs of recognizing friend from enemy, no evidence that the bonds connecting us mean anything while he's trapped in this monstrous state.
Koishii shrugs with the particular insouciance of someone who doesn't share my concern.
"It wouldn't be a big deal," he observes, tone carrying casualness that makes my teeth grind. "Just proves they weren't worthy of life."
Not worthy of—
"Koishii."
His name emerges from my lips with sternness that I didn't know I was capable of producing—authority that comes from somewhere deep, from the awakened heritage that apparently carries expectations about how certain people should be addressed by certain other people.
He pouts.
The expression is almost childlike in its petulance, shifted features arranging themselves into displeasure that suggests my tone has wounded him more than my words.
"Hmph," he huffs, the sound carrying sulking quality that contradicts his centuries of existence. "This only started when you were in that cocoon."
The statement makes me frown with new confusion.
This started while I was unconscious?
Damien's transformation happened because of something related to the cocoon?
I look to Professor Eternalis for clarification.
"Really?"