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.