Two profound connections to two very different men. The mate bond with Bael, rooted in shadow and blood and ancient protection. And now this Vessel connection with Constantine, built on fire and power and dangerous curiosity.
The crimson-winged harbinger prophecy mentioned bonds of both blood and fire. As the pieces fall into place, I wonder if these connections are coincidence—or destiny calling me toward something I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
Either way, my time at Greyson Academy just got exponentially more complicated.
Chapter Twelve
Greyson Academy’smid-semester power demonstrations are apparently a big fucking deal. Students spend weeks preparing, parents and potential mentors attend from across the country, and the pressure to perform perfectly has everyone stressed to the breaking point. The air practically vibrates with nervous energy, making my skin crawl with secondhand anxiety.
For me, it’s basically scheduled public humiliation. Or worse—exposure and a death sentence.
The main arena has been transformed for the event into something that belongs in a fairy tale rather than an educational institution. Crystal chandeliers float beneath the vaulted ceiling like captured stars, illuminating the space with a prismatic light that casts rainbow patterns across every surface. The stone floor has been polished to a mirror shine that reflects the floating lights, creating the illusion of walking on captured sky. Ornate viewing boxes line the walls for distinguished guests, their velvet cushions, and golden railings making the arena look more like an opera house than a training facility. The air smells of expensive polish, anticipation thick enough to taste, and the faint metallic tang of nervous magic that makes my teeth ache.
I pace the preparation chamber, trying to calm my frantic thoughts while my heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird. The small room smells like sweat and fear, with undertones of cleaning supplies that can’t quite mask the scent of decades of student anxiety. My shadows curl anxiously around my feet, responding to my stress despite my desperate attempts to control them. They pool and swirl like agitated smoke, reaching toward corners and cracks as if seeking escape routes.
“You’ll wear a hole in the stone if you keep that up,” Constantine says, leaning against the doorframe with a casual grace that makes me want to scream. In his formal instructor robes—deep blue silk with silver threading that catches the light—he looks older, more imposing. Every inch the Hunter professor rather than my secret training partner who knows exactly what kind of monster I am.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, glancing around to ensure no other students are within earshot. “There’s too many people, too much pressure. My shadows are already acting like hyperactive puppies.”
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the tense silence. “That’s why I’m here. Professor Winters approved some last-minute coaching.”
Relief floods through me like cool water on burning skin. After three private training sessions exploring our Vessel connection, Constantine has a better understanding of my shadow behavior than anyone except Bael. If anyone can help me fake normalcy for the demonstrations, it’s him.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, already feeling more centered just having an ally in the room who doesn’t want to see me burned at the stake.
Constantine removes his formal outer robe with efficient movements, revealing more practical training attire beneath—black pants and a fitted shirt that emphasizes his lean build. “We create a control framework using the Vessel connection. Your shadows are drawn to my fire—we use that natural attraction to channel their energy in a way that appears deliberate rather than reactive.”
“Won’t someone notice the unusual interaction?” I eye the door nervously, hyperaware of every sound from the arena beyond. “The light Nephilim already watch me like hawks circling roadkill.”
“That’s why we’re being strategic.” He moves to the center of the room, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle. “The demonstration format works in our favor. You’ll be performing individually, but I’ll be stationed as a safety monitor just off the main floor. Close enough for the connection to work, far enough that it won’t be obvious.”
My shadows reach toward him instinctively as he summons a small flame to his palm, the fire casting dancing light across his features and making his amber eyes look like molten gold. Over the past week, we’ve discovered that even minimal fire contact creates a subtle channel between us, allowing him to help stabilize my more independent shadow behaviors.
“We need to establish the connection now, before you enter the arena,” he explains, his voice taking on that focused tone he gets when we’re training. “The residual effect should last through your demonstration.”
I step closer, close enough to smell his scent—something woodsy and warm that always makes me think of safety. I allow a single shadow tendril to extend toward his flame like a cautious finger reaching for warmth. The moment they connect, the familiar electric sensation races up my spine—milder than during our training sessions but still potent enough to make my breath catch. My shadow absorbs a hint of his fire essence, taking on a subtle reddish glow where they touch.
“Good,” he murmurs, watching the interaction with the fascination of a scientist observing a new discovery. “The energy transfer is becoming more efficient each time.”
He’s right. What initially required intense concentration and left me exhausted now happens almost naturally, my shadows instinctively knowing how to process his fire energy. The more we practice, the stronger and more nuanced our connection becomes. It’s like learning a new language that my body understands better than my mind.
“Now extend more shadows,” Constantine instructs, his flame growing slightly larger. “We need all of them to carry the fire essence.”
One by one, I allow my shadow tendrils to touch his flame, each absorbing just enough fire to create a stabilizing effect without looking obviously altered. The process is oddly intimate, like sharing pieces of our essence with each deliberate contact. I can feel him through the connection—his determination, his protective instincts, his genuine fascination with what we’re discovering together.
As the last shadow connects, Constantine increases his flame slightly. “Now try forming a basic construct.”
I concentrate, shaping my shadows into a simple sphere above my palm. The fire-touched shadows respond more precisely than usual, holding the form with perfect stability instead of their usual restless shifting.
“See?” Constantine smiles, genuine pride in his expression that makes my chest warm. “The fire essence acts as a stabilizing agent for your shadows. They maintain structure better while carrying it.”
We spend the next twenty minutes running through my demonstration routine, my shadows performing with unprecedented control thanks to the fire integration. By the time Professor Winters arrives to escort students to the arena, hersilver-streaked hair severe as ever and her dark robes rustling against the stone floor, my confidence has improved dramatically.
Constantine gives me a reassuring nod as he dons his formal robe again, the blue silk settling around his shoulders like armor. “Remember, I’ll be just off the main floor. The connection will hold.”
The demonstration begins with first-year students, progressing upward in age and skill level. I watch from the sidelines as light and Dark Nephilim perform increasingly impressive displays of their abilities. The audience responds with appropriate appreciation—polite applause and murmured appreciation that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. Distinguished guests make notes about particularly talented students, their expensive clothing, and jewelry glinting in the crystal light.
Among the observers, I spot Elara and Seraphina Lightbringer seated with what must be their parents—a striking couple radiating such intense light energy that it’s difficult to look directly at them without my eyes watering. They’re beautiful in that otherworldly way of pure-light Nephilim, but there’s something cold in their perfection. Their attention seems particularly focused on the Dark Nephilim performances, their expressions critical and assessing like judges at a trial.
