"Well, what do you get when you split the fake from the real?" His voice carries amusement that makes me want to tighten my shadows until something breaks. "Twinsies."
The word lands like a stone in still water.
Split.
Fake from real.
Twinsies.
The implications cascade through my mind with the particular horror of understanding arriving too late. Nikolai and Nikki—the male and female aspects of our Fae companion—were always spoken of as transformations, as shapeshifting, as the same soul wearing different forms.
But what if they weren't?
What if Nikolai and Nikki were always two beings sharing one body, the way Gwenievere and Gabriel share theirs? What if the "transformation" was actually switching which consciousness controlled their shared form?
And what if whatever just happened... separated them?
"Though," the stranger continues, seeming to enjoy the horror spreading across our faces, "you were born out ofdesperation, since being a male in the realms of perfection is a must to avoid the tragic backstory."
The tragic backstory.
Memories surface—Nikki's trial in the labyrinth, the horrific vision of her father, the abuse she suffered that made creating a male persona a matter of survival rather than choice.
Nikolai—therealNikolai, not the creation born from necessity—trembles against my side with fury and shame and something that might be relief if relief could taste that bitter.
"WHO THEFUCKARE YOU?!" Atticus's patience finally shatters completely.
The shout echoes across whatever space we occupy—I haven't had time to examine our surroundings, too focused on Gwenievere and the stranger and now Nikolai to care about the environment. Atticus's vampire power bleeds into the sound, compulsion magic trying to force an answer from someone who seems entirely immune.
The stranger shrugs—actuallyshrugs—within bonds that should make such movement impossible.
"I'm not going to say it, so figure it out."
The dismissal is absolute.
Tension builds like pressure before a storm, each of us reaching the limits of patience with this impossible being who saved our mate's life and refuses to explain anything about himself. I can feel my shadows wanting to constrict, to crush, to force answers from someone who clearly believes himself beyond our ability to threaten.
But...
He saved her.
Whatever else he is, he brought Gwenievere back when we couldn't.
The acknowledgment wars with instinct, creating conflict that makes my darkness roil with confused aggression.
Then I feel it.
Something approaching.
Power moving toward our position with the particular inevitability of things that cannot be stopped. My shadows extend outward, trying to taste what comes, trying to prepare for threat or ally or something between?—
The group tenses around me.
Even the stranger reacts, his impossible eyes rolling with theatrical annoyance as he groans.
"Can Inotdeal with you?"
The complaint is directed at whatever approaches, carrying the particular exhaustion of someone who has encountered this presence before and found it tiresome.
