Chapter 18 Abomination #3
Koishii's smile carries edges that suggest he finds the question amusing.
"Would you like the explicit version or the PG-18 version?"
Zeke's calm voice provides correction that seems almost automatic.
"It's called PG-13."
Koishii laughs—the sound carrying genuine amusement rather than the manic quality of earlier.
"Neither version is PG-13," he assures Zeke, shifted features arranging themselves into something approaching conspiratorial. "You seem to take your time in that department, but I suppose you have nine lives. Sex is a sacred ritual for felines, unlike the rest of us who thrive on horny cycles."
His attention shifts, apparently deciding that teasing Zeke isn't satisfying enough.
"Better than dragons, though. Six months of sex would be rather exhausting if I do say so myself."
Mortimer roars.
The sound carries indignation that suggests he's been listening despite the rather significant task of keeping us airborne while avoiding the continuing eruptions of lava below.
The dragon's massive head turns slightly, one enormous eye fixing on Koishii with displeasure that transcends species barriers.
I sigh.
The sound carries exhaustion that extends beyond physical tiredness into something approaching soul-deep weariness with the entire situation.
"How am I changing back to vampire me?"
The question addresses the issue that actually matters—the transformation that currently prevents me from commanding Damien's hellhound form, the shift that's keeping me from helping in any meaningful way.
All eyes turn to Nikolai.
He frowns at the attention, silver-blonde hair disheveled from the chaos of recent events.
"I have no clue," he admits, the words carrying genuine confusion. "I didn't know I'd trigger this at all. I was sleepwalking. Made the cocoon early, unexpectedly. Whatever happened to her was as much a surprise to me as to anyone."
The admission doesn't help, but at least it confirms that my current predicament wasn't intentional sabotage.
Everyone seems to shift their attention to Zeke.
The feline shifter appears deep in thought, golden eyes distant with the particular unfocused quality of someone searching through mental archives for relevant information.
His tail—visible now, apparently his partial shift triggered by the stress of recent events—twitches with rhythm that suggests intense concentration.
Something seems to click.
His eyes widen with the recognition of realization achieved.
"Blood," he declares, the word carrying certainty that contrasts with his earlier hesitation. "Your Fae magic is probably dominant because you haven't drunk blood for a hot minute."
The observation lands with implications I hadn't considered.
"Your reserves were low well after our encounter with Elena," he continues, building the explanation with logic that makes sense as he presents it.
"Vampire nature requires sustenance to maintain presence.
Without blood, the hybrid balance shifts toward whatever alternative power source is available.
In your case, Fae magic has apparently decided to fill the void. "
I realize he's right.
Blood.
I haven't fed properly in...
How long has it been?
The encounter with Elena drained everything I had. The recovery period afterward was spent unconscious or too weak to think about feeding. The crystalline chamber, the cocoon, the transformation...
"I tried," I admit, remembering the blood pack from the mini fridge that tasted wrong. "But it tasted... weird. Wrong. Like drinking something my body didn't recognize as food."
"I had a bit of Atticus's blood, though," I add, remembering the energy transfer that happened during one of the earlier trials.
"Probably wasn't enough," Cassius notes, his voice carrying frustration that I recognize as concern expressed through his usual gruffness. "You haven't drunk blood in a while and you've been doing heavily induced magic activities. Your vampire nature is probably running on fumes."
The assessment sounds accurate.
Everyone seems to look at Koishii.
He notices the attention with obvious confusion.
"Why are you all looking at me?"
"You fed her," Cassius points out, the words carrying accusation that suggests he's been wanting to mention this for a while. "In the library. Food. Magical food that probably had enough Fae essence woven through it to jumpstart her awakening."
Koishii's expression shifts through something that might be guilt before settling into defensive indifference.
"She was hungry," he protests. "And the food helped her recovery. If I gave her blood too, her Fae magic would only amplify further. I'm not going to feed my Queen substandard sustenance just because you lot haven't figured out how to manage hybrid nutrition."
The argument makes a certain kind of sense, even if I don't appreciate being caught in the middle of it.
"So she needs blood from either Cassius or Atticus," Nikolai concludes, apparently deciding that solving the problem matters more than assigning blame for it.
Cassius or Atticus.
Blood from someone whose essence my vampire nature recognizes.
Someone bonded to me, whose power might balance the Fae dominance that's currently controlling my form.
Cassius moves before anyone else can volunteer.
His approach is direct, purposeful, carrying the particular weight of someone who has decided they're handling this regardless of what anyone else might think.
He stops before me, void-dark eyes meeting my transformed pink gaze, and offers his wrist with the casual intimacy of someone who has fed me before.
I look at the offered limb.
Then I look at him.
Really look—past the gesture, past the immediate practicality, to the tension I can see in his shoulders. The way his jaw is set. The particular energy radiating from him that speaks to emotions he's not expressing verbally.
"Hold on."
The words emerge before I can think better of them.
I reach out and grab his hand—not his wrist, not the feeding position, but his actual hand with my fingers intertwining through his in a grip that demands attention.
"Come with me."
I tug him away from the others.
Atticus's voice follows our retreat.
"Where are you going?"
Zeke's calm response provides cover.
"Maybe they want privacy."
Koishii laughs—the sound carrying implications that make my cheeks heat despite my focus on other concerns.
"Privacy on a dragon's back?"
Mortimer roars—the sound carrying agreement with Koishii's skepticism that seems strange coming from the dragon I'm using as a platform for this conversation.
I ignore all of them.
We walk—carefully, given that we're navigating scales on a creature currently flying through volcanic eruptions—until we're closer to Mortimer's tail. The distance doesn't provide true privacy, but it creates enough separation that I feel comfortable having the conversation I need to have.
I stop.
Turn to face him.
His expression carries the careful blankness that I've learned to recognize as his version of emotional armor—shields raised against conversations he doesn't want to have, defenses established against vulnerability he doesn't want to show.
"You're mad."
The statement is direct, leaving no room for deflection.
He frowns.
"I'm not."
The denial is immediate, automatic, carrying the reflexive quality of responses that don't actually engage with the question being asked.
I give him my most unimpressed look.
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
The exchange would be absurd under other circumstances—two people arguing about whether one of them is experiencing an emotion they're clearly experiencing. But the stakes feel too high for absurdity, the tension between us too significant to simply let pass without acknowledgment.
"Cassius—"
"I said I'm—"
Whatever he was going to say gets interrupted by the universe deciding our conversation has gone on long enough.
Wind hits Mortimer with force that carries intention behind it—not natural air currents, not the turbulence of atmospheric conditions, but directed assault that strikes the dragon's side with enough power to throw him off his flight path.
Mortimer banks sideways.
Hard.
The motion is sudden, violent, the dragon's massive body tilting at angles that shouldn't be survivable for the passengers clinging to his scales. I feel the world shift around me, gravity suddenly pulling in directions that make standing impossible.
My grip on Cassius's hand slips.
No—
The scaled surface that was beneath my feet is suddenly beside me, then above me, then gone entirely as the dragon's emergency maneuvering throws me clear of his body.
For one suspended moment, I see everything with terrible clarity.
Cassius's expression shifting from defensive anger to absolute horror.
His hand reaching toward me with speed that isn't fast enough.
The others on Mortimer's back, all of them scrambling for purchase as the dragon rights himself.
The lava below, still erupting, still hungry, still waiting.
And me—
Falling.
Arms reaching for something that isn't there.
Transformed body plummeting toward destruction with velocity that increases with each passing heartbeat.