“Fucking fae and their fucking delicateness,” I hiss to no one.
I barrel down the unknown hall without caution, arms outstretched, my palms slamming into unseen walls again, and again, and again. I’m turning left, then right and the narrow walls start to feel like they’re pressing in. It feels like a cruel game meant to torture any intruder who might not belong in the channels of the Academy of Six.
Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s because of my demon blood.
I keep going.
My rapid steps stumble over the stone flooring, and my skull pounds right into hard concrete before my hands ever have time to come up for protection.
“Fuck!” I curse the darkness. I curse this fucking school and the fucking founders who built these twisting, winding tunnels beneath it.
My eyes shut, and I lean into the wall. The weight on my shoulders sags, and I settle there for a bit with my head against the cool rock, my frustrated breaths the only sound whispering to me in the silence.
Sparking light flickers over the jagged rock beneath my hands. The bright colors dance across the shadows, and it takes me a second to lift my head to the source of the flame. A bend blocks my view, but with just a few steps, I see him.
Professor Thorne stands in a circular room that’s carved right from the earth itself. Five tall, godly statues surround him. I watch as his forest green eyes shift from one monument to the next. A man in a long cloak is carved with a regal and proud posture. A woman with accentuated curves and bared fangs gives a piercing look to anyone who might admire her. Next to her, a beast on four legs with slashing talons bares its teeth as if he’s mid-roar. A figure with wide shoulders and an even wider wingspan takes up several feet of space.
And then, a slender figure identical to the professor stands quietly among them all.
The warlock, the vampire, the shifter, the nephilim, and the fae.
“They’re all dead,” Thorne whispers, his shining eyes still searching every detail of the statues before him. “Even Etheria. She was our leader, and even she’s gone now.” His tone is a wavering thing, and I exhale a heavy breath.
I am not equipped to handle this. Syko would be able to comfort this man. Meanwhile, I just want to ask him how protected the entrance up above us is. If the statue of the headmistress is broken, all of these pieces will be destroyed and the barrier around the academy will fall with them.
Grime shifts beneath my boots, and I hate that we’re just fucking standing here while a war is booming over our heads.
“Listen, I’m going to get Malek.” I start plotting it all out, thinking through everything that needs to be done. “We can all take shifts guarding the six. We just have to keep them safe until Shade is taken down. If we can keep this shit safe and kill Shade, all of this will be over. We can do it. We can do this.” My wide eyes finally lift to see if Professor Thorne has any input on my rambling plans.
To my surprise, he isn’t paying attention to me at all. He didn’t hear a word I’d just said, I’m sure of it. Instead, he’s staring down at a glinting piece of metal in his pale palm. Tendrils of smoke waft up from around it, accompanied by the distinct sound of sizzling skin. Because the metal is burning rapidly through his flesh. The capsule of iron is lying in the bloody palm of his hand, resting on white bone, but he doesn’t let it go. His gaze is lost. Far off. Thinking of another time entirely.
I take a step forward, but I take it right back when he lifts his hand, pushes his bloody palm over his lips, and swallows the iron tablet.
“Professor,” I gasp, hands held up as if I might comfort him, but I don’t go to him at all.
I keep the space between us.
It’s like I’m terrified if I come closer, the sinister thoughts slashing through his eyes will infect me.
And then I too will do something irreversibly fatal.
A stuttering cough chokes from his throat, and his gaze slides through the room before landing on me. It’s as if he forgot I was here entirely. With his gaze still holding mine, his long legs give out, and he falls to the rocky floor on his knees.
“Good luck, Mr. Rutherford,” he gurgles, blood sliding from his lips and down his chin. It bleeds across his white collared shirt, and the fae man seems confused by the turn of events. He stares down at the mess he’s making as if he isn’t quite sure whose blood this is or how it got there.
And then he falls face forward.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” My hands shake at my sides, and I force harsh breaths from my lungs, but it isn’t enough.
Too many emotions and strengths rip through my body, and I don’t know what to do with it all. My fist flies forward and collides with hard marble. My hand lingers there in the middle of the carved wings of the nephilim. Dust billows up around my knuckles. Pieces of debris scatter to the floor from the divot I’ve made in the statue.
It’s that easy.
One careless fucking punch and the statue’s damaged. A few more reckless blows and it could be taken down completely.
This entire room could be destroyed with little hellacious effort.
And then all of New York City and the world would be fucked.
