"Who are you?" Mortimer asks the essential question, scholarly directness cutting through growing tension. But his hands are glowing with pre-cast dragon fire, ready to strike.
The being wearing Gabriel's face executes a mocking bow, uncaring how shadow-tips pierce throat-skin with the movement. Tiny beads of blood well up—not red but gold-tinged crimson.Royal blood. True heir blood.The scent fills the air with copper and burnt roses.
"Gabriel Elias Hawthorne-Voss,"he declares with theatrical precision. Each syllable enunciated like a spell."Firstborn heir of the Infernal Academy. Crown Prince of the Forgotten Throne. Warden of the Crimson Gates."The smirk widens, revealing canines slightly longer than they should be. "And apparently, unwilling time-share partner in this delightful flesh-prison. Should I continue my list of credentials?"
"Gabriel…but that's Gwenivere's male persona name she chose," Atticus states, pieces clicking together with vampire speed. His stance shifts—weight forward, ready to lunge. "Where is she? What did you do with?—"
"Do?" Gabriel—the real Gabriel—laughs. The sound is broken glass and bitter wine. "How exactly would I 'take' my sister when we're both up here?" He taps his temple with one finger. The gesture is casual. The implications are staggering. "Sharing the penthouse suite, so to speak. Though the accommodations leave much to be desired."
His eyes unfocused for a moment, gaze turning inward. "She's screaming, you know. Clawing at the walls I've built. Demanding control." The smile turns fond. Terrifying. "Always so dramatic, my dear sister. As if rage could overcome birthright."
"You're... sharing a body," Mortimer whispers, academic mind racing through possibilities. I can see the theories forming—magical equations balancing and rebalancing behind golden eyes. "Twin souls in singular form. That's... that should be impossible. The metaphysical mass alone would cause corporeal dissolution. Unless..."
"Unless we were never meant to be separated," Gabriel finishes. "Two halves of one whole, split by well-meaning fools who thought twins sharing power would mean weakness." His expression hardens and his voice vibrates with foreign power."They were wrong."
My shadows press sharply, lashing out to hit but so effortlessly, it’s but a scratch that draws fresh blood. The droplets don't fall—hovering in air, pulled by the competing gravity of two souls. Testing. He doesn't flinch. If anything, he leans into the blades.
"How?" I demand. One word. Loaded with requirement for explanation.
His gaze flicks to me—dismissive in a way Gwenivere's never is. She sees me. Acknowledges me. This thing wearing her face looks through me like I'm furniture.
Useful, perhaps, but ultimately replaceable.
"Birth curse. Divine joke. Cosmic accident."He shrugs, the motion deliberately casual."Pick your favorite explanation.The result remains—two heirs for the price of one. Though really, the discount hardly seems worth the inconvenience."
"Let her go," Atticus growls. The command carries vampire compulsion, power that could crack lesser minds.
Gabriel tilts his head, examining Atticus like a specimen. "Can't compel what owns the body, vampire. Your little tricks work on passengers, not pilots." The smirk returns. "Though I appreciate the attempt. Shows you care. How... touching."
"If you hurt her—" I begin.
"Hurt her?” he sounds insulted. “She IS me. I AM her. We're the same soul split by fate and bad decisions." His voice drops, becoming something older. Darker."But if you're so concerned, ask her yourself. I'll let her 'come back' to enjoy this realm's delightful hospitality."
The shift in his expression is subtle—calculation replacing amusement.
"Fair warning though—she's the dangerous one. Not me."
"Wait—" I start, but his eyes roll back, body going completely limp.
My shadows retract instantly to avoid stabbing the falling form. The blades dissipate, returning to standard tendril configuration. But something feels wrong. The magical signature isn't shifting—it's inverting. Turning inside out.
Atticus moves with vampire speed, catching Gabriel—Gwenivere?—before impact with scorched earth. His hands are gentle, cradling the form against his chest.
"Gabriel!" Atticus calls, then freezes. "Gwen?" His curse is creative. Anatomically improbable. Involves several species that shouldn't be capable of the suggested acts. "Fuck. Fuck!"
No one moves. We're all watching Atticus's face transform from concern to shock to something approaching terror. The vampire who's survived centuries, who's faced horrors that would break lesser minds, is afraid.
Then I see why.
The blade juts from his abdomen—crystallized blood formed into a weapon of impossible sharpness. Not summoned from outside but generated from within, using Atticus's own blood against him. The weapon pulses with its own heartbeat, drinking deeply of vampire vitae.
Gabriel's eyes snap open. Pure crimson. No silver. No gold. Just endless, burning red that seems to look past physical reality into something worse.
Power erupts from his form—not the controlled authority from before but raw, primal force that makes reality flinch. The ground doesn't just crack—it screams. Fissures spread in perfect spirals, each one bleeding molten light that tastes of endings. The air doesn't ignite—it dies, leaving vacuum that our lungs reject.
The sensation is beyond description. Not mere magical pressure but fundamental wrongness. Like standing at the edge of existence and watching it unravel. My shadows don't just recoil—they flee, streaming back into my form with primal terror I've never felt from them before.
"Oh shit," Zeke whispers, pieces falling into place with audible clicks. His form flickers—human to cat to something between, magic unable to decide which shape offers better survival odds. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh?—"
