Wrath of One: A Reverse Harem Series (The Origins of the Six Book 4)

by A. K. Koonce

  Professor Zent wields his warlock’s watch like a weapon, and with a twist of his wrist, the teacher freezes us in place.

  What the fuck!

  My muscles ache to move. I’ve sat still countless times in my life, but there’s something about being forced into a still position you have no control of escaping. It hurts. It hurts deep down in my bones.

  “I have two of the hell spawns over here,” Zent calls back in his drawling tone to a couple of professors behind him.

  A big man storms up to the warlock’s side, nodding his bald head and looking like he’s plotting the best way to torture us right here and now.

  “Great! Great job, Cornelius,” the man booms, clapping Zent on the back with one beefy hand. “I’ll string ’em up over here. Maybe I’ll do the tying by the length of their intestines to show the other demons what will happen if anyone else decides to use their fancy fuckin’ wings to soar into our housing.”

  Our intestines… I’m sorry, what?

  The smaller person scurrying behind him, though, is the last person I ever thought I’d be happy to see.

  Professor Henn.

  Thank God for obsessive women.

  “Oh no! Syko, sweetie,” she squeals. She’s at my side in seconds, her chubby hands clasping my bicep and shielding me with her little body like a protective condom keeping me safe from the men who most definitely want to rip into my ass right now. Without even the promise of lube. “He’s not one of them. Syko is good. He’s kind. He’s the sweetest little nympho—I mean nephilim there is.” Right here in the middle of a hellacious war, the woman’s cheeks burn with a blush of deep red.

  Great. Can they start that slow torture death on me now rather than later? My intestines are ready.

  She does, however, get back to the point. She bats Professor Zent on the hand and motions toward me. “Release him. He’s not one of them.”

  Ashy dirt stains the professor’s face, and he huffs out a long sigh before he lifts his blazing red timepiece with intent and the tight, suffocating hold on me releases so abruptly that I stumble right into the little woman in front of me.

  “Oh, Syko, are you alright, dear?” She paws at me, but my gaze scans from her to the incubus at my side.

  “Phoenix needs to be released as well.”

  The men straighten, and a look slips between them.

  Professor Henn’s dry lips pull together, and I can see she’s really trying to judge my frozen friend while also trying not to anger me.

  “I-I’m not sure. He’s a demon, Syko. If he’s swayed you in any way, do tell me. I can protect you.” Her hands fall high on my chest, and my jaw tightens.

  Our dorm shattered to pieces. My girlfriend took a journey through the underworld and back. And now, the portal of hell is open and breathing us all in.

  And through all that, all of it, I’m still getting hit on by Grandma Fucking Harriete Henn.

  “He’s not using me. He’s my friend. And he’s not one of them,” I growl through teeth that are clenched so hard I can taste chipping enamel. My hands shake as I peel her palms off of me and hold them at bay. “Release him,” I say slowly.

  Her eyes are big and fearful, and I bet this witch is remembering when she sealed my lips permanently shut that one time.

  I remember it too.

  But I’m not a cruel person. Even when I want to be.

  A dusty black dress shoe steps between us, and to my surprise, Professor Thorne pushes our hands down, causing me to release her, and then he releases Phoenix with a careless wave of his long, powerful fingers. He cuts through Zent’s magic just like that.

  And the glares he receives in return are scorching.

  Phoenix wavers, but his big body rights him with little effort.

  “You two, follow me,” Thorne says in a smooth voice.

  His long black coat swirls around his legs as he strides off into the casting of spells, away from the roars of demons in the distance, and he leads us right through the untouched doors of the faculty housing building.

  When we step into the dark hall, it’s pure silence. The crackling flames and the screams of agony are repressed by some other form of magic that I’ve never noticed before. It’s so quiet inside it makes me crazy to watch the chaos through the glass.

  It’s… eerie in a way. Academy of Six might always have the crawling, tenebrous feeling to it.

  The professor stops abruptly and turns to us, his coat a dark wave that crashes and settles against his body. “It took effort to get here. It would have been easier to hide. What exactly do you two want?” the fae man asks, his sharp features eating us up as he eyes us closely.

  Phoenix doesn’t hesitate for a single mortal heartbeat.

  “What magic surrounds this academy? How’s it able to hold back the power of hell?” Sweat clings to the incubus’s brow, he’s breathing heavily, and he appears to be moments away from repeating those fast-spoken words in a screaming, demanding yell.

  Luckily, Thorne is as intelligent as he is composed.

  “The magic is able to contain it all because it isn’t just one person’s power. It’s six,” he whispers with a memory glinting in his eyes. He’s seen so much history. He’s probably traveled through more history than any other Prod on the planet… He’s all knowing. “Six powerful Prods joined forces after the darkest days to create an untouchable place where struggling supernaturals would feel at home. Where they would learn and—”

  “I don’t need the fucking bedtime story. I need to know if the magic can be broken. This shit could spill out into New York City at any fucking moment.” Phoenix’s chest continues to rise and fall, and at this point I don’t even think it’s from exertion. I think it might just be anxiety.

  The soulless demon finally feels that dreaded, terrible emotion we all have from time to time.

  And it’s wearing on him.

  Professor Thorne’s amber gaze widens, and I’m stunned to realize no one else has considered this in the last hour.

  “Right, yes. Yes, the protective ward around Academy of Six isn’t as… untouchable as people may think. The magic of the six is a physical thing. It’s a standing monument. It’s… very much something that can be destroyed.”

  What. The. Fuck? Why? Why…

  “Why would they make it an object?” I finally blurt out.

  “Six objects, actually. Magic is just like a memory. It’s more powerful if it’s held in a memento.”

  Six. Fucking. Objects. SIX. That’s six chances that these demons can level this place to the ground. And then ride out into the night. And eventually rain down all hell’s damnation.

  “Where are the objects?” Phoenix demands while I stand stunned, trying to process all of this.

  Thorne’s lips purse, and I can see Phoenix’s anxiety pulsing right into the professor now. “You’ve passed one of the objects every day since you arrived here. The first source of Academy of Six’s magic lies within the headmistress’s monument in front of the campus gates.”

  My mouth falls open, and I can visualize how little effort it would take to bring that statue crumbling to the ground. But where are the others?

  “The other five objects were never meant to be as ostentatious as the headmistress’s. The vampire, the faerie, the shifter, the warlock, and the nephilim who created Academy of Six were all powerful in their own right, but they never wanted to be a target of retaliation after the Dark Genocide. After Etheria’s death, I believe it was smart of them to hide. It was smart of me to hide.” His dark eyes lift, and he meets my wide gaze head on.

  Professor Thorne was one of the founding six…

  He straightens to his full, spindly height. “I have to go,” the professor says suddenly.

  He’s leaving. He’s going. He’s going to protect his magic.

  My hand snatches his arm before he fully passes.

  “Where are you going? Tell us where it is, and we’ll help.” Anxiety must be contagious. The hammering of my heart and the
desperate breath caught in my lungs tells me it is.

  Thorne hesitates. He peers out at the flames that bleed across the night and the blood that coats our academy grounds. If the wrong person knew where the source of the academy magic is kept, every building here could be a pile of dust by morning.

  It’s a guarded secret.

  One I don’t think a common teacher would have access to. And certainly not one that would be given away under regular circumstances.

  I can see all of that just by the feel of the professor’s tense shoulders and his darting eyes.

  “They’re hidden away in the channels,” he whispers on a quiet breath.

  The channels.

  A chill slithers over my skin.

  I have no idea what that means. I’ve never once heard anyone say those words about Academy of Six. It seems there are many guarded secrets here, and I don’t know if we’ll ever know them all.

  But we also don’t question the professor.

  Even as he shrugs off my hold and stalks forward, shoves the doors open, strides out into the night, and fights his way across the academy grounds.

  We simply follow.

  Four

  Izara

  The last of hell shoves through the flaps of the portal. It doesn't seal back up but remains a bright, gaping hole in the air that whips back and forth as if tugged at by a phantom breeze.

  So many creatures came through, so many of them a flashing blur. I did catch figures I recognized in small snatches. The gleam of black teeth, the wisps of ethereal bodies, snarling throats, and many limbs.

  And the pixies in fucking jeans. Hell is a strange, strange place.

  A swarm of them buzz around my head with their glittering motorcycles. The things are relentless in their mischief. They tug at my locks of dark hair before darting away as my hand comes up to swat at them.

  Fucking annoying.

  I can't help but wonder if Azazel has left them to watch after me. They are, after all, from his domain. Not that domains matter here anymore.

  The space constricted within the academy bounds looks like a dozen worlds have exploded and this is the aftermath. Sand erodes with ice, caves merge toward palm trees and barren wastelands. The sky is black and red and blue, with vicious clouds that take the form of nightmares in the sky. Twin moons and a glaring sun hide behind clouds, while the silhouettes of demons circle the sky.

  It's like one of those paintings divided into four equal parts, depicting spring, summer, fall, and winter. Except this is chaos, smidgens of seasons on all corners of the canvas that is now my world.

  All the domains, all the seven circles of hell, clash together before me. Creatures war against each other with malicious glee. Ice creatures that can only be from the fifth circle face off against Azazel's leather-wearing lackeys, who string up ass-torturing demons by their dicks and beat them with sticks like a fucking child’s birthday party.

  I can feel Azazel's demons and their eyes on me. Some of them approach daringly, but when they get too close, my half-brother unleashes the cruelty of his magic on them, and they scurry away in pain.

  I slash a glare his way, and the Messenger of Chaos just meets the expression with a vicious sneer of his own.

  I don't like him. I never have. I make sure he can read that on my face. When he starts spewing at me in ancient Ifrit, I turn away.

  I dealt with those bullshit conjugations in class. I am the Princess of Hell, and I don't have to deal with it here, too.

  Soon, the screams and cries of the dying are replaced with booming music. A song bleeds out from imaginary speakers and bursts nostalgically around me.

  The Macarena is the dance of the ages, and Azazel's lackeys teach many-limbed creatures the steps beneath the swaying, limp forms of ass demons.

  I am reminded of weeks ago in hell. I went through this exact same scene with fizzy, green demon alcohol flowing through my system. It had been a fun affair before. Now, I watch with a strange sort of detachment as the cruel revelry unfolds.

  Using my hands, I push myself up from the throne, my wings fanning at my back. My father's bicolored gaze snaps to me, loving and strict, with a million questions there. He's protective, and the single look he gives me lets me know that he will never, ever let me go again.

  I take a few steps before him and bend down to press a kiss to his forehead.

  “I am your faithful servant, now and always, Father,” I whisper against his skin and pull away.

  His hand comes up to cup my cheek. “Not my servant. Never my servant. You are my daughter.” I can tell he means every caring word. It’s in the tender tone of his voice and the emotion swelling in his eyes. It’s in this moment I know he loves me, completely and wholly. Like he’d never even left my life at all. Like we’ve known each other all my life instead of for two years.

  “Thank you, Father. I am going to go wander for a bit.”

  He nods and fixes his attention on the surrounding chaos just as I stalk away. My strides are steady and confident as I walk away from everything and venture behind our thrones, where a cluster of sticky black trees are sequestered. The darkness of the bark swallows me up while the cries and screams dissipate into vague background noise.

  Finally, in the quiet, I am able to breathe. Everything is sharper, more intense in the darkness. Embracing every part of my hellish heritage made power, it consumes me, and now I can feel the full force of it honing my senses. I see everything, hear everything, feel everything.

  It’s the heartbeat I hear first. It thumps steadily and not at all afraid. It belongs to a Prod who knows what I am; and I am his prey. The footfalls are near silent things against the ground, and somehow I recognize who they belong to. It’s in the scent, it’s in the prowling straightforwardness.

  Energy surges through me as he steps out from between the trees. I don’t turn to face him, but a sly smile spreads across my face. I feel every bit the predator I never was, and I embrace it fully.

  Because it feels fucking good.

  My wings spread wide against my back. I can feel the rush of my blood flowing through those veins, and I know they probably look like rivers of golden fire. A moment later, they slide between my shoulder blades, disappearing in whiffs of light smoke that match what emanates from my crown.

  My smile only seems to brighten when I take him in.

  “Malek.”

  His glasses are gone, and without them, he looks older, more intense than he ever has. His hair clings to his forehead like kisses I want to claim for myself. His gold-kissed skin is flushed like he’s been running laps, though his chest doesn’t heave and his breathing is all too steady. His usually warm brown eyes are glowing gold in the darkness, and he looks every bit the predator he is.

  He looks wild and sexy.

  Like he’s finally let go of that carefully constructed control he’s held around himself like a blanket.

  That makes two of us.

  I prowl toward him, my every movement sensual and deliberate. I am aware of what I am, of what I look like; a siren made to entice. Something about this newfound power fills me with a confidence I never had before.

  I like it.

  He’s staring at me warily, and he doesn’t speak. He’s regarding me carefully, gauging my every movement, and I can’t help but smirk at the expression on his face.

  Like he came expecting to hunt a lamb but found a wolf in its place instead.

  His whole body is tense as I come near him, circling him in sinuous movements and languid steps. When I’m before him again, close enough to touch, I let my wings burst from my back again.

  “I didn’t think you were one for showing off, mi corazón,” he whispers. His voice has all the dark sexual prowess I adore. His gaze doesn’t linger on my wings, though. He is staring deep into my eyes.

  I know what he’s looking at, contemplating. I’d felt the change as soon as it came over me; the tingling in my eyes that changed their colors. I don’t need to look at my reflection to
see that they mirror my father’s now.

  “Do you like me like this?” I ask without shame, pressing closer to him. My nipples graze against the strength of his chest, and I fight back the shiver that threatens to roll down my spine. My nails reach up to trail along his chest.

  He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push me away.

  His hands go to my waist and hold me there, but there’s no passion, only detachment.

  I don’t like it at all.

  “I don’t, actually.” Slowly, he pushes me away from him.

  I step back just as those words cleave through my chest. The rage of my Prod is a dangerous thing, but I keep it tightly leashed.

  “What are you saying?” My eyes narrow. My heart beats fast in a rhythm I can’t control. Before, I would have worried that these emotions that threatened to overflow would have brought forth the destruction of the entity buried deep inside me. Now, I am in control.

  Finally.

  “What have you done, Izara?” His voice breaks on my name. Something about that sound threatens to break me, too. “Did you really think this was the way to control your Prod?”

  There’s a vehemence in his eyes that can’t be held back. My heart is beating faster and faster, and my hands tighten into fists at my sides. “It was the only way, Malek.”

  He scoffs and shoves long fingers through his dark hair. “The only way to what? Look around you! It’s a fucking shit storm, and things can only get worse. Demons are killing Prods—”

  “I know very well what’s happening.” The words grind out tightly from my lips. “You think I didn’t witness it myself?”

  “But why? Why didn’t you trust us to help you? We could have, if you’d given us the chance.”

  A burning sensation rises within me. I’m losing him, I know it. “This was the only way to keep my Prod in check. I had to absorb her completely. It’s the only way!”

  He suddenly looks old and so, so sad. “I wonder… do you keep telling yourself that, if only to convince yourself, even when you know deep down that what you did is wrong?” He starts to turn, to walk away from me.