There's something about that stranger.
Something that sets every protective urge I possess on high alert.
Something that makes me want to position myself between him and Gwenievere and breathe fire until whatever threat he represents has been reduced to ash.
Time,I tell myself, turning away from the sphere to face the door Professor Eternalis departed through.Time will reveal what we need to know.
Time will help the others understand what I've just learned.
Time will show us whether this final teammate can be trusted, or whether Professor Eternalis's warning about not being liked carries implications more dangerous than simple personality conflict.
I move toward the door, preparing to join my... teammates.
My team.
My unexpected family of misfits and monsters, all orbiting the same fierce woman like planets around a sun too bright to look at directly.
And now, apparently, one more addition to our chaotic configuration.
The door handle is warm under my palm—residual heat from Professor Eternalis's touch, or perhaps just the charged nature of this between-space responding to my presence.
I take a breath.
Hold it.
Release it with the particular control of someone who has spent centuries learning to manage reactions that could level buildings if left unchecked.
Then I open the door and step through into whatever chaos awaits.
Time will make me realize that this new addition is going to be a wicked pain in my dragon ass.
CHAPTER 5
The Joker's Game
~CASSIUS~
"WE'LL KILL YOU!"
The threat echoes through the chartered space with the particular fury of immortals who have been thoroughly, embarrassingly outmaneuvered. It would be more intimidating if the voices delivering it weren't currently pitched several octaves higher than their usual registers.
Children.
He turned them into fucking children.
I sit on the bench that materialized along one wall of this between-space, my fingers drumming along its edge in a rhythm that helps contain the irritation threatening to make my shadows do something inadvisable. The surface beneath my fingertips is cool and smooth—conjured material that exists because Professor Eternalis decided it should, carrying the particular shimmer of temporary magic.
Grim floats beside me in his miniature form, tiny scythe raised toward the ceiling as he chants something in a language that sounds like death itself trying to sing a lullaby. The little reaper seems to be attempting to summon peace into this room—an admirable if somewhat ironic goal for a being whose very existence is tied to endings rather than harmony.
Wouldn't work for such a dark creature.
But it's worth imagining.
The chaos shows no signs of abating.
Across the room, three figures who should be among the most powerful supernatural beings I've ever encountered have been reduced to prepubescent versions of themselves. They rage against their circumstances with all the fury their diminished forms can muster, which is simultaneously hilarious and deeply concerning.
Atticus—proud, aristocratic, centuries-old vampire—currently stands at approximately four feet tall, his clothes hanging off his small frame like a child playing dress-up in a parent's wardrobe. His crimson eyes blaze with indignation that looks almost comical in his round, youthful face, fangs that haven't finished growing in yet bared in a snarl that lacks the menace it should carry.
