Academy of Assassins

by Stacey Brutger

  “You live here?”

  Morgan rolled her eyes. “What gave it away?”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Open the door.”

  The rough voice was an order, and before she could check herself, she obeyed. By the time her brain caught up with her and she caught the door, Kincade shoved his foot in the crack, and she knew it was too late.

  All four men barged into her room.

  “What the hell!” It was all she could do not to drop into a crouch, her hands itching for her blades to draw blood.

  The men kept a careful eye on her as they systematically took apart her room, one even slipping into the bathroom to search.

  “What are you doing?”

  In seconds, they began to pull out the weapons she’d so carefully hidden and set them across the mattress.

  “Again. What the hell?!?” Morgan straightened, turning to keep them all in sight.

  None of them answered her or even acknowledged her existence. Very carefully, she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall to watch, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them if she wanted to stay at the Academy.

  It was proof of why others couldn’t be trusted.

  Why she preferred her own company.

  She would say they were thorough, though. They found the blades under the bed, the dresser, and the one behind the door—even the one under her chair. They found the blade above the dresser, the one hidden in the curtains, the one she’d stashed under her pillow. Another guy slipped under the bed, locating the second weapon, and pulled out her bag of backups. The big guy cast her a startled look but quickly dropped his gaze, a slight blush on his cheeks as he slipped his hand between her mattresses and pulled out another. He studied the weapon in his hand, brushing his fingers reverently over the pummel. She shivered, easily imagining how he would be with a woman. Almost reluctantly, he gently placed the blade next to all the others.

  The bed was covered when they were done.

  “Jesus.” Draven ran a hand over his head in awe, gazing at her small arsenal. “Where you expecting to go to war?”

  All the guys looked at her and she could only shrug, feeling slightly embarrassed and a tad defensive. “What? A girl’s got to protect herself.”

  “Against what?” the elf asked, watching her appraisingly, more curious than ever.

  Kincade didn’t join in the teasing. “Is this all of them?”

  “Shouldn’t I at least know the names of the guys who’ve had their hands in my underwear drawer?”

  Draven gave her a wicked grin, sauntering forward to whisper in her ear. “Any time you want to return the favor and search my drawers, I’m game.”

  Morgan couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing. She pulled out the ten-inch blade she kept at her lower back, holding it under his chin, then trailed it down his chest suggestively. His laughter faded, his eyes turning cold as he backed away and raised his arms in surrender. “I would, but I doubt your blade would be able to compete with mine.”

  He blinked once, then burst out laughing. “Oh, I like you. I truly do.”

  Without taking his eyes away from hers, he pointed around the room. “I’m Draven. The asshole is Kincade. The big, strong silent type there is Ryder. The fairy is Atlas.”

  “Tuatha Dé Danann.” The elf scowled at Draven before giving her a short bow.

  “Is. This. All. Of. Them?”

  Much to her consternation, Kincade was not to be sidetracked. Conceding to the inevitable, she shrugged. “Mostly.”

  One of the guys snorted, then cleared his throat when Kincade glared at the lot of them.

  “What else?”

  Morgan gave one last ditch attempt to distract him. “I’m going to miss my orientation.”

  “Then I suggest you stop stalling.”

  She slumped against the wall in defeat. “You missed the one taped to the top of the inside of the closet, the one in the light fixture and the one in the bookshelf.”

  Instead of being appeased, Kincade crossed his arms. “What else? Or did you want me to do a more thorough search myself?”

  Hating the thought of him touching her things, she mimicked his stance and looked down, admiring the tip of her boots. “You missed the one in my left boot, and one in my jacket on the back of the door.”

  “Jesus.” Draven shook his head in awe, while the other three retrieved the remainder of her weapons.

  “And the bathroom?”

  Bastard.

  “Since when is it illegal for hunters to bring their own weapons?”

  When he made to enter her bathroom, she sighed in defeat. “One in the toilet tank, one under it, another under the sink, taped behind the pipes.”

  “She’s even worse then you, Kincade.” Draven sang from the bathroom, quickly returning with her small stash.

  When he finally turned away from her, he studied her small armory.

  He touched a few of them—she wanted to say admired them, but he didn’t say it in so many words. When he straightened, he gave her a hard look. “You are responsible for your weapons. You’re here as a hunter. Don’t let me catch you fighting another hunter using your weapons without supervision, or you will be penalized.”

  Surprise shot through her, along with a curl of pleasure that she would be allowed to keep her blades—then she realized why he’d searched her room in the first place. Her good mood vanished, and her fascination with him cooled, offended by his implications. “I’m not your thief.”

  His eyes softened, but before he could speak, Neil stopped in the doorway of their shared bathroom. His face brightened when he saw her, then he scowled when he spotted the others. His crooked glasses gave him a harmless, hapless expression, but he appeared willing to help her if she needed it, a small spark of energy snapping between his fingertips, but the frightened, glazed look in his eyes said he was praying she didn’t. “You okay?”

  “Of course. In fact, they were just leaving.” She grabbed the door and held it open, giving them a pointed look. “Right?”

  They obediently dragged their feet to the door…all but Kincade.

  He continued to stare at Neil, his eyes a frosty, hard green.

  It made all his critical glances at her look like he was a lovesick fool.

  When his eyes swept over her, she quickly lowered her gaze, uncomfortable with her train of thought.

  She heard his boot scuffle over the floor as he neared, and cursed when he stopped in front of her, resting his hand on the edge of the door above her head, leaning into her, silently demanding she acknowledge him.

  Morgan wanted to resist the temptation of him, resist the heat radiating off him that invited her closer, the fresh earth smell of warm stone making her want to linger and stretch against him to bask in his warmth.

  When the silence stretched awkwardly, she reluctantly raked her eyes up, skimming over his impressive chest, those broad shoulders begging her hands to explore, the stubble on his jaw making her fingers itch to touch, past those luscious lips so temptingly close, and landed on green eyes so warm she found her staunch resolve to maintain her distance softening. “Huh?”

  His lips quirked at her reaction, and she stiffened her spine, wincing at her obvious response to his nearness. “We will meet out front at dusk. Be prepared to move.”

  He walked out the door, passing much closer than necessary before disappearing down the hall.

  Leaving her completely flustered and confused at the mixed signals he was throwing at her.

  “I thought I would walk you to orientation, maybe give you a few pointers.”

  When she peered at Neil, he was politely staring at the bed, sparing her embarrassment.

  She could’ve kissed him. “Sure, that would be great. Why don’t I take a quick shower and meet you in the hall in five minutes? I’ll knock on the door when I’m done.”

  “Sure.” His pale skin flushed at the mention of their shared shower, and he hastily backed away, tripping over
his own feet in the process. “Sure. I’ll…uh…just…um…get ready.”

  Chapter Ten

  Morgan took the fastest shower on record, but still ended up being five minutes late when she and Neil stopped outside the orientation hall. She grabbed the long hanks of her hair, wringing out the excess water before dragging the strands back in a sloppy ponytail.

  “You’ll do fine. Mistress McKay is tough, but fair if you give her a chance. Everyone in the school has been in at least one of her classes. I’ll be there if you need me.”

  She glanced at Neil in surprise. “You’re coming in?”

  He blushed at her blunt question, self-consciously running a hand over his choppy hair, which looked like he’d hacked off the ends himself. “While hunters join teams, witches have covens. Often, older students watch orientation, both to keep an eye on the competition and suss out potential members as well.”

  Her spirits plummeted. “Great.”

  Exactly what she needed—more attention.

  “It’s really painless.” Neil appeared so earnest, sweetly trying to ease her apprehension, that she gave him a strained smile.

  But he was wrong.

  In her experience, magic always hurt.

  “Let’s get this over with.” She pushed open the door, and immediately became the center of attention of the whole assembly. There had to be over a hundred people in the hall.

  She located Harper and her entourage almost instantly, and barely stifled her sigh at the coming humiliation. While a few adults were in attendance—possibly other teachers—the rest of the room was filled with teenagers of all ages. In the front of the stadium-like classroom sat those barely out of grade school.

  “Miss Moran, it’s good of you to join us.” An older woman, her light brown hair scraped back from her face and secured at the base of her neck, wore a dour expression at odds with her youthful complexion, barely spared her a glance before returning her attention to her desk. “Please take a seat.”

  Neil gave her a friendly nudge with his shoulder, then took up position near the door, leaning awkwardly against the wall.

  Ignoring the snickers from the balcony, Morgan surveyed the room, sighing when she saw the only seat available was front and center. Nervous energy swirled in the auditorium, the younger students shifting away from her as she walked past them, giving her a moue of distaste, as if they smelled something foul.

  Little snots.

  When she refused to look away, a few of them shifted uncomfortably and quickly dropped their gazes. When she sat, everyone scooted their chairs away from her. Morgan simply smiled, relaxed in her chair, and stretched out her legs, crossing her feet at her ankles.

  The kids were a mixture of guys and girls. What didn’t surprise her was neither side, hunters or witches, wanted anything to do with her.

  Prejudice was indoctrinated into them young.

  “Tonya.”

  A cute little girl in a pretty white dress and a shimmering blue sash around her waist bounced to her feet when her name was called. She practically skipped to the front of the room, her ponytail bobbing with confidence as she stopped in the center of a circle of ancient sigils chiseled into the stone floor. Never once had she doubted her place in the world.

  Mistress McKay gave an elegant wave of her arm, and light flashed up from the sigils as magic swelled throughout the room. The air around the circle shimmered into view, sparkling a faint red where it rose up from the floor. “What is your craft?”

  “Earth, Mistress.”

  “Very well.” McKay wrote something down, then straightened. “Begin.”

  The kid scattered something across the floor, then held out her hands, her fingers splayed wide. She narrowed her eyes, mashed her lips together as she concentrated. Very lightly, a trickle of magic danced against Morgan’s skin. After a good five minutes, three sunflower plants began to sprout. Without soil. Without water. Without sun. In ten minutes, a foot-tall plant stood before them. The girl gave a pleased nod and dropped her hands, but the use of magic had exhausted her, leaving her skin pale and coated with a light sheen of sweat.

  Two more kids were picked. One made a book fly in a small circle, while another soaked the floor when he made it rain. Inside the room. With nothing but his thoughts.

  Then the first hunter was selected.

  “Chase.”

  Instead of heading toward the circle, a slim guy strutted toward the desk and placed his hand on a rock.

  Nothing happened.

  McKay studied her watch. After five minutes, she gave a nod. “Step back.”

  Curious, Morgan leaned forward, but still saw nothing but a rock.

  Everyone else appeared satisfied.

  “Morgan Moran.”

  Though she expected to be called, hearing her name made her jump. Snide chuckles rose from the gallery, but she ignored them.

  “Send her home where she belongs.”

  McKay scanned the crowd, her expression so severe, it was enough to silence the hecklers.

  “Moran. I used to hunt with a Jack Moran.”

  “He must have liked you, since you survived.” Morgan spoke without thinking. She had to be one tough broad to still be alive, strong in her own right, after hunting with Madman Moran. She wasn’t what Morgan would have expected, especially since the woman barely reached her shoulders, an itty-bitty thing who looked like she belonged in an ivory tower protected by dragons.

  McKay turned toward her with an inscrutable expression. She could almost be pretty if she let down her hair and smiled. “I see you know him well.”

  Wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, Morgan shrugged. “He raised me.”

  Now she got a reaction.

  McKay’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and the first spark of interest lightened her almost silver eyes. Sharp. Intelligent. “He must have liked you…since you survived.”

  Morgan couldn’t help it, she grinned at McKay’s identical reply. “It was a close thing.”

  McKay’s lips kicked up at the corners before she glanced down. Morgan could understand why the MacGregor would hunt with her. She was no-nonsense like him, and hated the bullshit.

  “You’re listed as a hunter?” She frowned, looking at Morgan in question, as if expecting her to protest.

  “Correct.” Morgan lifted her chin, waiting for the snub.

  Witches treated hunters as second-class citizens.

  She shouldn’t expect anything else, even from the teachers.

  McKay merely hummed, leaning forward to take notes. The front of her shirt parted slightly, enough for Morgan to see four wicked slashes marring the front of her chest, trailing over her collarbone to disappear into the shirt.

  They were deep.

  Brutal.

  It was a miracle she’d survived.

  “Impressive.” Without looking up, McKay’s whisper was hardly more than a breath of air. “Jack doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and he wouldn’t have sent you here if you didn’t have what it takes.”

  McKay straightened as if nothing happened, and pointed her pen at the rock. “Place your hand on the stone.”

  Morgan snapped to attention, unconsciously clenching her fingers into a fist. “Why?”

  Instead of impatience, McKay gave her a slight smile. “We’re here to test your level of magic. This rock is from the primordial realm and reacts to magic.”

  “I don’t practice.” Morgan barely resisted shoving her hands behind her back.

  “Not a problem. If you place your hand down, we can confirm that you have no magic and adjust accordingly.”

  That was the problem.

  She had magic, but she refused to use it—unheard of for a witch.

  Morgan reached up, gripping the torque tightly and sent up a silent prayer.

  Her fingers hovered over the stone, half expecting it to reach out and bite her. Instead, she sensed nothing from the rock. It could have been any one of the million used to build the Academy. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her
hand down.

  The rock warmed, and she tried to jerk her hand back, but it stubbornly remained stuck.

  Primordial magic swarmed up her arm, spreading heat in its wake, and began to burn mercilessly when it hit the runes engraved into her flesh, the magic battling for possession of her soul. The world around her wavered and darkened, her insides twisting until she feared she was going to be sucked down into the rock.

  The torque tightened, diverting the worst of the magic.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Her back felt as if it was being fileted from her body, the runes twisting and worming under her skin, fighting against the pull, the forces trying to tear her apart.

  Rage tore through her, a primal scream of pain and fury crawled up her throat. “No!”

  The stone under her hand cracked. The world around her rippled, swirled and dipped before slowly righting itself. It took all her concentration to hold back the feral urge to give into the dark side she’d always denied.

  She would not turn into a primordial monster.

  After three controlled breaths, the wild impulse gradually faded, and she felt like herself once again. When the world came back into focus, the rock under her hand was nothing more than dust. Mortification burned through her, and Morgan dusted off her hands.

  “Sorry.” Her throat was scratchy when she spoke, her stomach still churning as she pried her other hand away from her torque.

  The room was deathly quiet.

  McKay studied what remained of her rock, then glanced up at her curiously. “You have magic.”

  “Not active.” Morgan frantically shook her head. “Dormant magic I can’t access.”

  McKay didn’t look convinced. “What was your craft?”

  Morgan had never chosen a focus of study—no point when she wasn’t able to do anything about it but writhe in pain whenever she tried to access it. MacGregor insisted she learn the basics, and she humored him, but she had no interest in learning more.

  “I’m a null. The only talent I have is the ability to break any spell or curse.” Morgan refused to have the future she had mapped out before her altered. She was too good a hunter to be sidetracked. She couldn’t bear to be trapped in a future she detested. “I can’t cast.”