by Riley London
I bite my lip.
He’s exactly my type.
Exactly.
And this is exactly not the time.
But there’s something else. He looks familiar.
Not just because he’s exactly the kind of guy I look for in a bar when I’m looking to blow off steam. Because shock slams through me, just at the exact moment I see something like recognition bleed into his eyes.
“Erik?”
For a second, I’m not sure where the name comes from, even as my mind claws for more information.
There’s not much I remember from when I was young. I know I lived in a huge house, and I remember my mother. In my mind, she always looks a lot like me, except that she was soft and feminine where I’m harder.
Tougher.
And I had a much older brother that I worshipped. Micah. Just thinking the name brings a weird ache to my chest. Micah, with the same black hair and dark eyes as mine. And Micah had a best friend with white hair and intelligent blue eyes named Erik.
Could this be him?
Erik.
The reaction on his face when I say his name tells me that’s right. He effortlessly rolls off me, fast, like I’m burning him, pushing up to his feet.
He just stands there, staring down at me, shock contorting his handsome features.
Suddenly, I’m very aware that I’m only wearing athletic clothes. Black yoga pants, black tank, running shoes. My long dark hair is pulled carelessly back into a ponytail. Wild curls have escaped the knot. Instantly, I hate myself for caring.
I roll up into a sitting position, and cross my legs, but don’t make a move to stand.
A second later, he drops down into a crouch in front of me. He’s so close I can smell him and I try to ignore it but ugh, it’s good. Clean clothes. Freshly showered man. Some very subtle aftershave that’s lime and musk. Jesus Christ.
His eyes search my face for another long minute, and anxiousness rises up in me so fast that I could scream. I’m literally buzzing with anticipation. But I just will myself to wait.
“Maximiliana Ryder.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Max,” I say, automatically.
Then I try again. “You are Erik.”
He swallows hard, his eyes falling to my lips before they snap back to my eyes. With a heavy sigh, he drops into a sitting position but puts a little distance between us.
Probably a good thing.
“Maxi…Max,” he corrects. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I’m taken aback. If he’s an instructor here, surely he knows. But then, maybe not.
“It’s a long story,” I say warily. “But the gist of it is that the exorcist I work with was abducted.”
Erik’s whole body – every muscled inch of that six foot five, hard body –goes rigid.
“You work with Father Gabriel.” Again, more of a statement than a question. “You’re the girl.”
“The woman,” I say automatically.. “But yes, I’m Father Gabriel’s assistant. He basically raised me after…”
After what?
“Anyways, I’m here to train and see what help Ari, Serena, and whoever else is here can be in getting him back.”
His eyes narrow, and I can’t tell who he’s mad at.
Me?
Them?
The situation?
Not that it matters, because his face is red from fury and his arms roil with muscle beneath his dark t-shirt sleeves as his hands curl into fists.
Scary motherfucker when he’s angry.
I like it.
Exactly my type.
He’s nothing like the awkward teenager that I remember. Clearly he grew at least a foot and took up some serious bodybuilding in the interim. But mostly, I just remember him being kind to me in a family not generally known for its kindness.
A different awareness takes hold, but he cuts me off before I can speak.
“You were raised by a fucking exorcist?”
“Yeah, Erik,” I say defensively. “That’s what happens when your family abandons you. You don’t necessarily get to pick where you grow up.”
But I hate the sound of my own voice, like I’m somehow saying Father Gabriel is less than a real family. He’s more than I ever had here, apparently. “I ended up in an orphanage. Father Gabriel took me in.”
His lips form a tight line and his eyes narrow. “Micah did everything he could to get you out of this life, and come to find out, you’ve been in the supernatural world your whole life. Of course.”
He gives a deep, bitter laugh.
At my brother’s name, I go still. “Micah? Erik, is Micah here?”
Incomprehensibly, I look around like he might materialize in the otherwise empty training room. He doesn’t speak. That panicky feeling rises again, and I hate that my mind goes back to the long nights when I cried myself to sleep as a little kid.
For my mother. For the lack of a home. And most especially, for Micah.
I lean forward, reaching out and grabbing his t-shirt close to his throat. This guy is a tank, and I might think I remember him, but I don’t know him for shit. He could crush me if he wanted to.
“Please, Erik. Is Micah here at the Academy?”
There’s a frantic edge to my voice that makes me angry.
Something like hope rises so fast that I have to press it down hard. Why do I assume that the brother that apparently played a role in sending me away would want me at all? But I can’t help myself.
Hope has been such an elusive thing these last few days.
He looks at my face, then down at my hands. Dark blue eyes assessing. The silence, that contemplative, orderly, militaristic manner he’s got about him makes me want to scream. I start to draw my hand away, but he brings his up to cover mine.
For just a second, the largest hand I’ve ever seen on another person closes around mine. Thick, square fingers. Blunt nails. Scars across the knuckles. Brutal scars. But just at the touch, I come alive with a heat that’s shocking.
Maybe he feels it too, because he pulls that hand away like I set his skin on fire.
Erik drags a hand across the five o’clock shadow darkening his jawline. “No, Max. I’m sorry. Micah’s not here.”
Disappointment pulls tight in my chest. “Where is he?”
Erik gives a tight little shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Max. I can’t tell you that.”
“Then what the fuck can you tell me?” Rage propels me to my feet. He rises quickly, effortlessly, to his full height and for just a second, my breath catches.
Seriously big. Seriously imposing. Under different circumstances, seriously sexy.
I take a step back, trying to claim some space. He has no right to keep information from me.
“Look Max, I had absolutely no idea that it was going to be you that I’m training today,” he says. “What I can tell you is that Micah did what he thought was right. After your mother died, things were bad here in Salem for you two. Really bad. Micah did what he thought he had to keep you safe. To get you out of this life. He’d be furious to find out that you grew up in it anyways.”
“Will you tell him?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond, and fear clenches my stomach. “Erik, do you know where Micah is? Is he alive?”
He still doesn’t respond. “Did whatever killed my mother kill him?”
Finally, a little shake of the head. “Micah grew up here in Salem. After he studied at the Academy, we joined the military together. Special forces.”
Micah studied at the Academy.
Special forces. That explained the whole bruiser thing Erik has going on.
And the moth to the flame thing that I’ve got going on. Never can resist a soldier.
With a heavy sigh, I try again, “Erik, what can you tell me about Micah? Anything? Did you lose track of him?”
He shakes his head, shrugging his wide shoulders. Dark blue eyes are intent on my face and the pressure of his stare makes me uncomfortable. “It�
��s not my place to say, Max.”
That’s when I realize that even though I took him by surprise, even though he knows me, that this tight-lipped thing.
It’s not surprise.
Or shock.
It’s just Erik.
His way.
His training.
His commitments or code or whatever.
Who the fuck knows?
Fury floods me. Another person deciding what I need to know, and when I need to know it. Expecting me to navigate this confusing morass without a compass.
“I’m out,” I spit, turning around. His hand flies out and he grabs my arm. Where his fingertips brush mine, my skin is seared. Preparing to flinch, surprise flows through me at how impossibly gentle he is for such a huge man.
“Max.” Just his deep voice saying my name sends a shudder down my spine. Another time? Another place? Holy shit, I’d have at him.
But I’m too pissed to see straight right now.
“Let me go. You won’t tell me what happened to my family. You won’t even tell me if my brother’s alive. Well, sorry to take you by surprise or disrupt your orderly fucking life. Now you won’t train me either? I’m done with this bullshit. I don’t know what’s happening here but every second we’re wasting Father Gabriel is being tortured.”
When I say tortured, Erik flinches like he knows what that word means.
Special forces.
Damnit. Something in that realization makes me feel like my heart might break.
“I can’t lose him, Erik. He’s the only person I have.”
The aching truth of that burns, and I stare up at the ceiling to try to find my composure.
He lets me go, but he doesn’t step back. The deep voice, a bass rumble, is very quiet. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t train you.”
My eye shift to his face.
“I never thought I’d see you again, Max. And I have some things that I need to think through. But I have my orders. And those orders are to get you ready to get Father Gabriel back.”
There it is again. That get ready. “I am ready,” I say, raising my chin.
Maybe he’ll believe me. Maybe….
I don’t finish that thought. Not when I see the set of his mouth, the hardness in those eyes. As much as it pisses me off, it doesn’t piss me off nearly as much as that little part of me that would love to see what that intensity could do in the bedroom.
“You’re a solid fighter,” he says, his voice once again all cold assessment. “You’re fit, you’re fast, and you know what you’re doing. From what I hear, you’re lethal at tracking and killing demons post-exorcism. That’s a good start. But here’s the problem. You’re not preparing to fight them here. You’re going into Hell, Max. Literally into Hell.”
It feels like I’m in Hell right now. With Father Gabriel in danger and me unable to do anything to help him.
“Tracking them. Fighting them. Staying alive. In Hell, it’s a completely different thing,” he finishes.
“How would you know?” It’s petty, but I just want to underscore how much I’ve lost. How much it hurts.
For a second, just a second, a shadow crosses his face bringing me up short.
“I know,” he says simply.
Clearly, he’s been through some shit. Time enough to think about that later.
He looks down, looks away, and then drags a hand across the short stubble of hair across the top of his head. Improbably, I wonder if his buzzcut would be fuzzy beneath my fingers.
“You have the capacity to learn and to get him back,” he finally says. “I can teach you how to fight them. And teach you how to fight smarter, more effectively. Not always defaulting to the same tactics. You won’t always face just one enemy, Max. Not anymore. But for this to work, you have to accept that you still have shit to learn and you have to show up and do the work. What do you say?”
As his words sink in, some of the fire in my chest dies out.
Pride, I hear Brother Dominic saying. Before the fall.
Well, I’ve fallen and I guess it’s time to pull myself up.
It’s like I have to face all these things, do battle with emotions and limitations that I thought I’d have years to figure out. But they’re getting in my way now.
Tripping me up now.
Causing me to lose my way now.
At just the time when I can’t afford to waste a second on things that don’t matter. Like pride. Like ego. Like bitterness about the past.
I think back to Ari, and his words about stepping off the path.
My path is clear. It’s the one that leads straight to Hell and helps me get Gabriel back.
“Teach me,” I say.
And the lights drop again, plunging us back into darkness.
6
This whole academy thing might have some perks.
I bite into a messy BBQ sandwich that seems to be part of a catered meal as I walk into the library. My schedule, crumbled in my pocket and smeared with BBQ sauce, named this as my next destination.
My foot’s barely across the threshold before my eyes come to rest on the two people in the room.
One, I recognize from last night. The grouchy ginger. What was his name?
Noah. Noah Brewster-Crane.
His eyes throw daggers at me and I snort.
“You can’t have that in here,” he growls, pushing to his feet.
“What’s the matter, Noah? Daddy doesn’t like paying for a big dry-cleaning bill?” The truth is that I have no idea if his parents are rich or if he just dumps his whole salary on fashion.
From where I stand, it doesn’t matter. Either way, the guy’s a jerk.
An attractive jerk.
But I keep that thought private. I take another huge bite of the stuffed, messy sandwich.
I swipe at the BBQ sauce that threatens to drip onto the floor with my finger, and then plop it in my mouth.
Want me to be the uncouth stray here to mess up your fancy Salem mansion? No problem. Happy to play the part.
Especially for tangy Carolina BBQ.
Holy hell.
I suck on my finger in a half seductive way when I hear a choking sound. It’s the half-laugh, half-strangled sound that brings my eyes to the other man in the room.
He’s sitting in one of the leather chairs at the fancy conference table. For the first time, I take in the room and see more bookshelves lined with old books. Interesting place.
Ancient books. I like books, but then I remember that skin-wrapped book in Serena’s office and shudder.
My eyes go back to the guy. Not-Noah. He stands up immediately, as though he’s forgotten his manners. On the surface, he’s a very striking man. Tall, well-built, with wide shoulders. Not a full-on bruiser like Erik, but more like a rugby player or your run of the mill all-American running back.
Who am I kidding? Something about his lithe shape and the way he moves, that athletic promise, has me giving him serious side-eye.
A striking man.
Coal black hair, dark eyes, and a well-trimmed beard. He’s so formally dressed that honestly, it almost looks like he’s wearing a tuxedo. He’s not, but I can’t quite figure out what it is.
An ascot? Is that what the carefully knotted tie at his throat is called?
Something else calls out to me though.
He has what I can only describe as charisma. An aura that draws your eye to him, that leaves you almost unable to look away. What I always imagine a really good motivational speaker or presidential candidate or evangelical preacher has, you know?
Yeah.
One look at his face? It’s clear he knows it, too.
I take another leisurely bite of my sandwich.
Dark and sexy clears his throat. Adjusts the ascot. “Actually Miss Ryder, I am afraid that Noah here is correct on account of your lunch. This is the Ancient and Rare Volumes library. Serena and Ari would be distressed to think that 2000-year-old volumes might end up splattered with barbecue sauce.”
&
nbsp; That gives me pause. I look around again.
I don’t know what I hate more: the idea that I endangered rare artifacts by being careless or the fact that I have to give Noah the satisfaction of leaving.
Either way, Father Gabriel raised me better than this.
Stepping outside the room, I quickly finish my sandwich. But I head back after washing my hands and throwing away the trash. Before I can enter, Noah storms out of the room.
I give him a cheery grin on his way by.
He’s a few steps past me when I call out his name. “Oh hey, Noah?”
He turns around.
“Eyes up here, buddy.” He snarls and stalks away.
I fight down the urge to say something else, when a calm, cool and collected voice from behind me captures my attention.
“I do not believe that we have been properly introduced,” the man says. When I turn back, he stands in the door of the library, inviting me in.
Pulling the crumpled schedule from my pocket, I read Magical Testing and Studies Practicum.
I look up and meet his eyes.
“Miss Ryder,” he says softly. “May I call you Max?”
When I give an easy nod, he smiles broadly and I try to ignore the flip in my stomach. “Excellent, Max. Well, I have heard so much about you and it is an absolute pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. My name is Tristan Seelie and Serena has asked me to oversee the assessment of your magical capabilities, as well as work with you to see if we can discern a roadmap to help you develop your magical skills as quickly as possible.”
I don’t bother telling him I have no magical abilities. Witch DNA or whatever: beyond the basics of demon sight, nothing ever manifested.
Jumping right in, he starts firing off questions.
Do you know who’s on the other end when the phone rings?
Have you ever wished for something out of the ordinary and had it appear almost instantly?
When you touch an object, you get impressions of who might’ve owned it?
When you’re in a crowd, can you sense the emotions of those around you?
On and on, we go like this for what feels like hours. The answer to most of his questions is no. On the rare occasions when I give him a shrug, he raises an eyebrow and makes a small mark in a notebook that I can’t discern.
