Rebel Academy: Crush

Chapter Eleven MAGENTA

I've grown accustomed to being thought wicked. It was disconcerting, however, to be hated as a monster because your sparring partner believed that you'd transformed into their own monstrous self.

Ezekiel's Nightmare Spell was truly wicked.

It'd brought alive whoever haunted both Willoughby and Bask. And it appeared that Willoughby feared himself.

Ah, the wonders of an academy education.

When Willoughby narrowed his eyes and stalked towards me, I backed towards the wide window, which streamed sun across the dusty floor of Conqueror Gym.

Mage's balls, how did I fuck him hard and dirty, when he looked like he wished to choke me?

Although, Flair had told me some interesting things about how that could be quite arousing in the right circumstances. I didn't imagine those were under an enchantment, however, where Willoughby believed me to be his Evil Mirror Twin, or did that merely make it more kinky?

Willoughby and his dark twin would look delectable together.

Damelza had said that I should be open to new opportunities, and I'd never been someone's Evil Mirror Twin before. As long as I didn't die, this could be an interesting chance to work out whether Willoughby truly could become one of my Immortals.

Witch's tit, I wasn't even kidding myself. He already was.

That still didn't hold back the wave of sparkling magic that struggled to burst out of me and crash over his pretty head in retaliation.

Defend, defend, defend...

I shook, struggling to hold my power inside.

Willoughby crouched, ready to attack. His gaze was intent and predatory. I shivered at how deliciously dangerous he was.

When he leaped at me with a flurry of blows, I spun and deflected, vibrating with joy in the fight. My legs melted into mists, just before he attempted to hook my legs out from under me. I hooted in delight at his huff of frustration.

I’d never been allowed to join in with such sparring, when mother, Henrietta, had kept me isolated in the Bird Turret. I found that I rather enjoyed the sweaty hand to mist battle, from which she’d been protecting me.

My magic wasn’t delicate, after all. And I was just as capable of a magical education as the Rebel boys.

The need to fight back zinged through me at the thought. My magenta trailed out, winding around Willoughby like ivy.

Don't you dare... I dragged it back with a yank.

Ezekiel paced with controlled but coiled energy, crossing his arms.

"Remember that restraining ourselves is as important as facing our fears," Ezekiel's voice was soft with compassion, as he met my gaze. Had this been hard for him as well? "Isn't allowing yourself to be attacked...vulnerable...hurt and not attacking back, your nightmare?"

I hissed a breath sharply through my teeth.

I'd always found being seen the most seductive thing in the world, but Ezekiel also saw my darkness.

When Robin had been murdered by Henrietta, my magic had reacted on instinct to the grief blasting through me. I'd lashed out and cursed the academy. Would it’ve been better to have meekly followed Henrietta's orders and married Prince Titus? To have remained Blessedly, rather than Wickedly, Charmed? To have failed to avenge Robin's death, remaining powerless in the face of cruelty?

Indeed, that was my nightmare.

I swallowed, forcing my magic back down. Would Robin have wanted me to turn the academy to perpetual winter so that every Rebel had to freeze in its cold? I had a feeling that he'd have pecked my behind for making that his legacy.

At the thought, my pink faded into sparkles, which caressed (rather than hurt), Willoughby.

Robin's legacy would be to help and free every Rebel. He was my first love and he'd died because of me. Blessed be, there could be no better way to honor him.

Unfortunately, Willoughby hadn't appreciated the teasing strokes of my magic or the quite beautiful (if I said so myself) dedication to Robin. To be fair, that’d only been inside my head.

When the Prince circled me, I could imagine every battle that he'd fought against the Dark Elves.

Against the far wall, Bask was attacking his Evil Twin Duchess (or my hot god, Sleipnir) with a string of curses that I'd never have guessed he knew, a flurry of slaps, and the power of a deadly incubus glare.

Casually, Sleipnir lounged against the wall, holding Bask back with one hand. It was like an adorable kitten, smacking the nose of a lion. Sleipnir’s control impressed me; I knew that he'd never hurt Bask.

Sleipnir's genuine worry about whether any of the curses about never-ending glitter on his clothes or stepping on a Lego every time that he walked through a door would come true, however, was shown in Mist’s frantic tossing of his mane. The tiny eight-legged horse wildly galloped laps around Bask like he was running a race all by himself.

All of a sudden, Willoughby spun towards me with a series of kicks, which were beautiful, elegant, and deadly. I eeped, floating to the side and slamming into the wall.

Only defend...

When the tip of Willoughby’s foot caught my bosoms, I gasped in outrage, grabbing his ankle and twisting him away. He sprawled onto his front, quickly catching himself and bouncing back to his feet.

"Watch the bosoms." I patted them like comforting a pussy or Fox. "You menfolk have no idea how difficult it is to fight with these large things."

Yet Willoughby saw me as his Evil Mirror Twin and he had nothing but a flat chest. I forgave him the lack of manners, therefore, with his high kick.

I dematerialized, reappearing behind Willoughby. When he turned on his heel with military precision, I fought not to flinch. My pulse thundered in my ears because his sky-blue eyes were clouded.

He didn't see me...he saw himself.

"Have you no shame?" Willoughby’s voice was ice-cold; it cut me. "Will you not even stand still for punishment?"

I jiggled my bosoms to readjust them. "You're not the one having to battle in a corset."

He cocked his head in confusion. "What nonsense is this? You’re guilty. Why won't you let me kill you?"

Such pain...

His anguish howled through me. I'd felt it myself on Robin's death. Except, then I had died, burned to death by my own mother.

Yet did this mean that Willoughby wished to die?

My hands fluttered at my sides, desperate to pull him to me and then stroke away the pain furrowed on his brow. My mouth was dry, and my heart clenched.

I wouldn't let him die. He needed to be shown that he was more than a nightmare. He could be loved and discover a new family. There was always a way out.

Yet right now, if I tried to tell him any of that, he'd only boot me in the chest again. And once in a day was more than enough for that, thank you very much.

"I do not wish to be burned," Bask snarled. "How about I curse you to beg to be used as an ash tray every time that you see a cigarette?"

He was on a roll.

Distracted, I didn't notice the sudden drop in temperature, until my breath came out like white ghosts and my skin ghost bumped.

Dizzy with awe at the startling beauty, I stared at the blue ice that streaked from Willoughby's skin like the roots and branches of a tree, as natural as my frozen breath itself.

Willoughby was death and life and everything that matched my own frosty magic. He was my equal partner in wickedness, just as I'd said, and I wanted him as hard and dirty as I could have him in that moment.

The ice crackled across the gym, coating it in a slippery skin like an ice-rink. Delicate icicles hung from the ceiling, transforming it into a glimmering cave that sparkled in the sun.

It was as beautiful as Willoughby, whose hair had frozen to ice. Yet he hated this side of himself, enough to wish to destroy it.

I would never allow him to.

Ezekiel yelped, as his bare feet burned on the freezing ice. He hopped up and down, before flapping his wings and swooping up to the roof of the gym.

"Stop this travesty at once." Lysander didn't dare leave his corner, but he twisted to glare over his shoulder at the professor. He hugged his wings around himself for warmth. "If you do not, then I shall be the one writing to my uncle. One is under strict instructions not to lie, and I can only spin the truth so far. How would you suggest I creatively hide the fact that you broke the killer loose?"

My eyes narrowed. "Fae may tremble at a little cold, but I don't. I love it."

I strolled towards Willoughby, resting the back of my glove against his cheek. "We don't fear the cold, remember?"

For a moment, Willoughby's eyes cleared, and he blinked. "Magenta...?"

He moved closer; his breath was rapid and his skin was frozen. I brushed my lips against his forehead to warm him up.

But then, his eyes became clouded again and filled with such hate that I recoiled. His lips twisted into a snarl, and his hair coiled like ice snakes.

A shard of ice snapped off the end, accidentally whipping off his long hair and slashing across my throat.

"Valhalla!" Sleipnir hollered. "Stop the spell."

I reached up to my neck: crimson. I stared at my fingers in shock.

Ezekiel stormed towards me, catching me in the sweet fragranced safety of his wings. Yet he’d been the one to cast the spell. It wasn’t Willoughby’s fault. It never had been. “Nightmares end!”

When Bask collapsed, Sleipnir caught him. Willoughby groaned, clutching his head, as he stumbled to his knees. Instantly, the room warmed, and the ice melted to puddles, dripping onto my head and sliding in icy trails down my neck, washing away the streams of blood as if I'd never been cut.

Yet the fiery line, which still stung, told me that I had.

I pressed my palm across my throat like I could hide the evidence. I was an optimistic witch, when I wasn't being forced into marriage, burned alive, or trapped by goddesses.

Ezekiel's wings tightened around me. "Let me see. I can heal you."

"Shouldn't you rather be worrying about the students who you spelled to suffer nightmares?" I shrugged myself out of Ezekiel’s embrace, even though I missed his wings’ softness and the hardness of his chest, which he'd held me against like he was a lover and not a professor.

I nudged Ezekiel towards Willoughby, whose eyes were still dazed.

Willoughby shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Magenta...?"

"She's our Magenta," Sleipnir growled. "The monsters who'd never hurt her."

Sleipnir swept Bask into a bridal carry, ignoring his squeak of protest, before storming towards me and dropping down beside me with Bask on his lap.

Immediately, Bask's mouth was on mine. It was as tender as if it was our first kiss. Bask’s lips pressed to mine, before his tongue swept to encourage my mouth to open to ruby sparkles, which wove his incubus magic thrilling through my blood to heal me. After his passionate Kissing Practice with Sleipnir, which had teased pleasure through all three of us, his magic was powerful.

I shuddered, as Bask’s fingers carded through my hair, before he clutched the back of my head and pulled me into a deeper kiss.

My skin knit, until there was nothing left but a trail of crimson over fresh skin. Then I shivered, as Sleipnir leaned down and licked away the blood. His tongue worked between the pearls to the sensitive skin, and the pulse in my neck fluttered.

"My apologies," Willoughby's voice was tentative and strained. "I warned you that I couldn't control..."

"You could but you chose not to." Ezekiel's voice was harder than I'd yet heard it. "There are no excuses for harming another student. You must be deadly to those who you assassinate, but never to fellow Rebels, even if you believe them to be yourself."

Ezekiel stood, yanking Willoughby with him.

"Now see here…" I leaped up as well, regretfully breaking away from the delicious combination of Bask's lips and Sleipnir's talented tongue.

I tried to catch Willoughby's eye, but his head was ducked and his hair (which had now returned to silky sky-blue), covered his face.

Lysander twirled out of the corner, throwing up his hands. "My royal personage demands to be allowed out of your childish punishment to deal with this." He pointed at Willoughby like he was an out of control troll, rather than an introverted elf (was he playing the Silent Elf game now?), who was standing obediently next to his professor. "Do you wish to line up to allow him to slit your throats or perhaps, to blast us all to ice?"

Lysander stormed to Willoughby, despite the fact that his limp was even worse now, manhandling him to the window; his fingers dug into Willoughby's arms.

Was it wrong that I wished Willoughby's hair to turn to ice and for him to become the storm again? Sweet Hecate, at least long enough to burn Lysander's fingers for daring to touch him like he was his personal prisoner.

"Enough." My magenta lit up the room in my fury. "Stop acting like he's—"

"Dangerous? A killer? The elf who just cut you?" Lysander raised his eyebrow. Yet it was Willoughby who I watched, and he flinched on each word. He didn't, however, defend himself. Instead, his shoulders slumped, and he curled in on himself. I knew that there was no way to hide or disappear. Such things had to be faced. "One would almost believe that you were keen to end up like his father."

Lysander pulled tight a length of silk, which had fallen loose at the neck of Willoughby's suit, during the fight. Willoughby winced, then the life in his eyes died. All of a sudden, he became lost and confused again.

I would not lose him.

I straightened my shoulders, marching up to Lysander, whose eyes widened in alarm. "I shall not allow Willoughby to hurt himself anymore, and I shall not allow anyone else to hurt him either."

Lysander's face paled, before his expression hardened. "You always think so little of me. You forgive and cuddle a killer. But for the sins of my uncle, do I deserve nothing but your contempt and hate?"

Sleipnir sprawled on the floor, running his hand through Bask's hair. "Sounds about right. Oh, and because you're an elitist asshole."

I blinked. Once, that was true. As patron of the academy, Titus had been and still was the reason for the oppression of the Rebels. By trying to force me into marriage with him, he'd caused Robin's death and my own. As trauma went, I believed it perfectly understandable that I’d despised fae.

But not anymore.

"I don't hate you." I patted Lysander on the arm. "I just don't like you."

Bask snickered.

Lysander glared at me. "Was that supposed to make me feel better, witch?"

"Not particularly. Is the way that you're holding Willoughby's arm hard enough to bruise making him feel better?" Lysander dropped Willoughby's arm like it had burned him. Snap my broomstick, I was good. I nodded, with a smile. "See, now I dislike you a little less. I won't stand by, whilst those I..." Mage's balls, had I just been about to say love? "...have responsibility for are shown cruelty."

"My royal personage is his Prefect," Lysander sneered. Then he waved at the Immortals. "Go and be all responsible for those creatures over there. I have my orders for my Wing. I'm taking him outside for some air."

What was that code for? Take Willoughby for a refreshing walk, back to the Princes Wing and tuck him into bed, or hang him up by his thumbs?

Ezekiel beat his wings together in agitation. "As the actual professor in the room, I'll have to insist, not yet." Lysander flushed. "I don't understand why you get out of hand every lesson. I've never had such a rebellious class." He ran his hand over his face in frustration. "Together, your magic is volatile but powerful. You need to learn to use it to work for you and not against you. I had intended to declare today a draw, so that you wouldn't have to play the Punish and Reward game."

My heart thudded, and my chest was tight.

We had to win. Fox's life depended on the outcome of the three lessons today.

I wet my dry lips, staring at Ezekiel. Lysander had gone very still. Was he even breathing?

"The one who draws blood in my lesson will always lose." Ezekiel shrugged. "And that means that the Immortals win."

Bask bounced to his feet with a whoop, holding out his hands to drag Sleipnir with him. Mist whinnied, raising his tail and prancing around the gym in delight.

To my surprise, it was Willoughby who patted Lysander's arm reassuringly. Lysander carefully didn't look at us, fixing his stare at the far wall.

I found that I hated that as much as Willoughby's lost look.

"We choose Punish." Sleipnir's grin was dark.

Bask slunk to me, winding his arms around my neck. "Would the Princes posing for a sexy calendar please you? It could be the Hot Rebel Princes 2020. Naked, oiled, and pinned in our bedroom."

Lysander made a low, choked sound, and Sleipnir chuckled.

"As Willoughby loves the cold," when Sleipnir's eyes narrowed, it reminded me of how dangerously protective he was, "why don't we send them for a night tied by the frozen lake?”

I cocked my head. "Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

"Also, naked and oiled." Sleipnir smirked.

"I detest this game. No one's to be punished," I declared. Bask pouted; he'd truly been looking forward to that Rebel Prince Calendar. To be fair, I was flushed with warmth myself at the thought of it. "I choose Reward."

Sleipnir's jaw clenched. "Why would you reward them?"

"Because it's what they need." For the first time, Willoughby looked up, and I met his anguished gaze. "Both of them." I took a deep breath, as Lysander shot me a startled look. "I choose for Willoughby to heal Lysander."

"Your concern for me is touching." Lysander sniffed. "But I'm in no need of..."

I prickled my magic across his back, and even at the light touch, he yelped.

I raised my eyebrow, and he reddened. "I believe that it's my choice of reward."

Ezekiel's lips curled into a smile. He nodded at Willoughby, who rested his forehead against Lysander's. Then Willoughby hummed a lullaby that made me tingle with its beauty. It was like being drawn beneath dark waters into the Other World. My magic stilled, lulled into the calm.

It was magic with the power to heal and more powerful than even my own.

I could've died and been happy in that moment. It was magic like nothing in my world. When Willoughby stopped, I couldn't help the sense that I’d lost something special.

On Torment Thursday, nightmares were made real, but not the kind that children conjured. Instead, the type that lurked deep in our Souls. Fox had been saved in this lesson, but we had to win the next class to save his life.

Yet now we had Spells, Hexes, and Potions with Professor Bacchus. She was a witch from Sleipnir's nightmares, and her enchantments were terrors.