"Do it," Gabriel says before anyone else can respond.
Too quick. No hesitation. No consideration.
The Gabriel I know—the real one, Gwenivere in her male form—would have hesitated. Would have asked about consent, worried about Nikki's dignity. This is command without compassion.
I want to argue, but we’re not blessed with time in the slightest.
Zeke's magic unfolds with delicate precision. Not the brute force transformation of typical shifter magic, but something far more elegant. Power flows from his hands in visible streams—gold threading through silver, weaving patterns that hurt to look at directly. The magic smells of moonlight and ancient forests, carrying weight of authority that speaks to bloodlines older than recorded history.
Nikki's form shimmers, reality bending around her as fundamental nature shifts. The transformation happens in layers—first her essence condensing, then physical form following. Bones restructure with sounds like wind chimes. Muscle and organ compact with mathematical precision. Her golden hair becomes silver fur that catches the hellish light.
When it completes, a small cat rests where Nikki once lay. Persian breed, if I'm not mistaken. Elegant even in this reduced form. Her breathing immediately eases—the smaller lungs handling damage better than human-sized organs.
"I'll create a carrier," Mortimer offers, scholarly pride overcoming his injuries. He's still favoring his left side where the serpent's attack left its mark, but his hands move in precise patterns. Magic weaves itself into tangible form—threads of starlight pulled from impossibly distant sources, scales manifesting from pure will.
The resulting pouch defies easy description. It appears woven from dragon scales, but the scales themselves seem made of compressed galaxies—points of light swirling within each hexagonal segment. The fabric (if it can be called that) ripples with its own gravity field, creating a pocket dimension that will protect its contents from any environmental hazard.
Atticus carefully places the cat-Nikki into the carrier, movements gentle despite vampire strength. The pouch seals itself, adjusting to her small form. Mortimer slings it across his chest with practiced motion, the strap configuring itself for optimal weight distribution.
"The third guardian," Atticus says, crimson eyes scanning the path ahead. His pupils are dilated—blood loss from the wounds making him hunger. Dangerous combination. "What should we expect?"
"Death," Gabriel responds flatly. "Or worse."
The casual delivery makes my shadows writhe with agitation.Too comfortable with the concept. Too... anticipatory.Like discussing dinner plans rather than potential annihilation.
Gwenivere faces death with defiance or determination.
This is almost eager.
"We need a different approach," I state, but my focus remains on Gabriel. Every detail cataloged, analyzed, compared. The way he stands—weight distributed 60/40 instead of Gwenivere's typical 55/45. How his breathing pattern has shifted by precisely 3.7 seconds—chest expansion reduced by 2.1 centimeters. The angle of his head—tilted right instead of left when thinking. Details. Always in the details. "But first?—"
My shadows move without conscious command. Training, instinct, and growing certainty combining into action faster than thought. Dark tendrils erupt from my form, transforming mid-flight. Not simple extensions of will but weapons—blades of condensed void that exist in the spaces between reality. Each one honed to atomic sharpness, positioned with surgical precision.
They form a crown of death around Gabriel's throat. Thirty-seven individual points, each hovering exactly one millimeter from skin. Close enough that his pulse creates tiny air currents that disturb their edges. Close enough that a deep breath would mean death.
"Cassius!" Atticus snarls, vampire speed bringing him halfway to intervention before he registers my complete calm. His momentum arrests with visible effort, muscles bunching as he fights his own velocity. "What the fuck are you doing? This is hardly the time for?—"
"It's time," Mortimer interrupts, scholarly assessment replacing shock. His stance shifts—no longer casual observer but potential combatant. Dragon instincts awakening. "Past time, actually." He crosses his arms, studying Gabriel withnew intensity. Golden eyes narrow as he catalogs the same discrepancies I've been tracking. "You've noticed it too, haven't you, Atticus? Gabriel is... different."
Zeke sighs, the sound carrying weight of confirmed suspicions. He'd known. Of course he'd known. Cat senses perceive things others miss. "The dual aura. I wondered when someone would address it."
Gabriel—or whoever wears his face—smirks.
The expression is pure arrogance, completely at odds with my Little Mouse's usual defiance. The muscle groups engaged are wrong—using zygomaticus minor instead of major. Creating cruelty instead of mirth.
"Didn't think you lot would be so intuitive. Especially when I've stayed quiet all this while."
He pauses, meeting my gaze directly. The gold veining through silver eyes pulses with amused malice. I count the pulse rate—different from Gwenivere's by thirteen beats per minute. Faster. Excited.
"Even during those annoyingly intimate moments with my sister." His tongue clicks against teeth in disgust. The sound is wet, deliberately crude. "Revolting to be forced to 'participate,' but I suppose silent cheerleading is my strong suit."
The words make the taste in my mouth go sour.Sister. Participate.The implications cascade through recent memory—every kiss, every touch, every moment of vulnerability now tainted by the knowledge of an audience we never knew existed.
"Sister?" Atticus's voice drops to dangerous registers. The vampire's control frays at edges, fangs extending involuntarily. "What do you mean, sister?"
Zeke's musical voice carries reluctant understanding.
"I knew there was another presence, but what an odd predicament of confrontation." His tail—when did thatmanifest?—lashes once before stilling. "The magical signature makes sense now. Not split but doubled. Layered."
