This lines up with what Theo told me about how witch mediums have shifted around based on the Xers. Maybe I took some kind of combat before I died. If I’d lost my powers that could also still make sense.
The combat instructor stops in the middle of our line. “For those of you who are new, my name is Coach Richards. In this class there will be no sensei. You can call me either Coach Richards or Coach. If I blow the whistle, you will stop what you’re doing immediately and put your complete attention on me. This is for your safety and my sanity.”
I swallow a laugh, figuring he would not appreciate it.
“Now, new ghosts don’t often understand why we train this way,” Coach Richards continues. “We’re already dead. Why would we need to fight? Anybody? New students only.”
Yasmin lifts a finger. “To defend ourselves from the Xers?”
Coach Richards nods. “Very good. Xers are highly trained and often armed with spells that enable them to attack ghosts.” He paces our line. “If you encounter them when you go to complete your unfinished business, you may face any number of magical weapons or individuals that can harm you. This can slow you down and make you vulnerable to getting trapped.”
My chest tightens. As if figuring all this out isn’t hard enough, as if the Xers aren’t terrifying enough, now we have to deal with the possibility of pain and capture. Awesome.
“You should learn more about this in your other classes. My job is to prepare you to fight if necessary. Now even though you no longer have bodies, we still work out in this class,” he claps, “jog around the room.”
Our line breaks into a halting run until it stretches out, the faster and longer legged taking the lead. Running without an actual body isn’t much different than walking, though I am way more tempted to hover instead. At the very least, I don’t have sweat glands anymore, so that’s a plus. I match Rafe’s pace and bump him with my shoulder.
He flails his arms in an extremely overdramatic fashion. “Calm down, Martin. We haven’t started the attacking part yet. It’s not kosher to start early.”
“Isn’t the idea to always be prepared? Are you saying you’re not constantly vigilant?”
“Less talking, more running,” Coach Richards says from the center of the room.
Rafe and I both snicker but cut off all communication. Better not to tick off the coach in the first five minutes of class. After a series of tortuous warm up exercises, Coach Richards calls us to the front, and gestures for Landon to assist him. Broody or not, he fills out those athletic pants very nicely. I roll my eyes internally.
Get it together, Martin. You don’t even technically have hormones anymore.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling something. And it’s super intense. Apparently, my spirit remembers what hormones felt like, and reacts accordingly. Right now, they’re shouting at me so loud I can barely concentrate.
Coach Richards drops to the floor, slapping the mat on either side of his legs to break his fall, and Landon straddles his hips. Without prompting, he pulls an arm back for a punch, but Coach bucks his hips to knock him off balance. They flip so Landon’s on his back. Coach Richards throws a mock punch, then pops onto his feet, and backs up facing us.
“Ground defense.” He sinks onto the floor again and gestures to Landon who assumes his position on top of him. “You never want to get here. The goal is to stay on your feet as much as possible. But if this does happen, your first goal is like any other defense. Throw them off balance.”
Like before, he lifts his hips so Landon falls forward and has to catch himself on his hands. In this position he’s forced to stop the attack in order to steady himself. My muscles can remember things, but something sparks through me, almost like a contraction I would have felt when I was alive. Something in me remembers this movement. I’ve learned it at some place, in some time.
Coach shows us how to trap our opponent’s leg with a foot, then roll sideways to gain the top. “Once you’re off your back, the name of the game is full on assault.” He aims slow punches at Landon’s head. “Spread your hands to clear the knees and protect yourself from getting kicked, and always keep an eye on your surroundings as you back away. Now, partner up. Start with throwing your opponent off balance first. Landon and I will be walking around to assess your form.”
I grimace a little at the thought of Landon judging me on anything, but then turn to Rafe. That grin lifts me out of my existential crisis. He agrees to be on the floor first. Straddling his hips sends a little thrill through my center. I focus my mind on some random internet advertisement jingle I just happen to remember to keep it from sliding right into the gutter.
“I knew you wanted me,” Rafe says with a wink.
“Don’t get cocky fox-boy.” But I can’t keep the smile off my face either, which makes pretending to punch him feel a bit stupid. Still, I respect the exercise, lifting a fist to give Rafe the setup he needs.
He bucks his hips, sending me forward, but not quite far enough. I catch myself on my forearms and we’re face to face. Inches away from each other. He stares up at me with his lips parted. His cold breath fans across my cheeks and sends goosebumps through my body. If I leaned forward just a little bit, I could kiss him, feel that odd combination of cold and heat all at once.
But this close, the scars around his eyes are more jarring than usual. My fingers itch to trace them, the question about where they came from perches on the tip of my tongue.
“You two done with your moment?”
I flinch at Landon’s voice and look up to meet his glower with my best grin. “Actually no, could you give us a minute?”
Rafe laughs, his stomach bumping against me, an incredibly strange feeling. Strange and pleasant. With a snort, I shift to the side, trying not to giggle when Landon’s glare darkens, and he crosses his arms.
“This isn’t a joke,” he says. “If you ever want to pass on you might just have to face the Xers, or some renegade ghost bent on causing trouble. You have to be ready for anything.”
I shouldn’t be obnoxious — especially considering the fact that his girlfriend might have gotten twisted — but his gloom and doom attitude is about to drive me batty. So I do the worst possible thing and give him a little mock salute.
“Sir, yes sir.” Face hardening, Landon stalks off to harass some other poor duo, and I look back at Rafe. “Such a sunny personality.”
Rafe snickers. “Ready to try again? I solemnly swear to do better.”
“Well if you swear.” I climb back on, and this time he does, in fact do better.
For the rest of class, I keep singing that jingle in my head — I think it was for some brand of gum — and manage to earn praise from Coach Richards for my technique. He even confirms my suspicion that I must have had some kind of combat training when I was alive. As Rafe and I walk out the door, the fox shifter gives me a little bow.
“All hail the queen of the mats.” He chuckles. “You’ll have to tutor me, because as you can see, I’m trash at combat. Sucked at it at Blakemore and death hasn’t changed much.”
“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “I don’t know. That sounds like an awful lot of work. What’s in it for me?”
Rafe gives me this ridiculous pouty look, and I can’t keep it together.
Tilting my head back, I let out an obnoxious bark of a laugh, and bump him with a shoulder. “Don’t worry, Warren, when we’re done with our training, no Xer will even think about trying to tangle with you.”
Chapter Twelve
Weekends at Locklear are anything but boring. With the pressure of waiting for an invisible axe to fall a la our friendly neighborhood Xers, everyone likes to straight up party. The first few times I went, I hung out in a corner, just observing the antics, but tonight I plan to join in on the crazy.
Because another week has gone by with no word from Theo, and I’m kind of panicking.
Haya sits on the end of her bed as I stand in the middle of the room, trying to come up with a good party outfi
t. She’s already dressed in a sparkly peach strapless thing. Even her glasses work with the outfit somehow. Maybe she came up with some specific calculation for it. I could never in a million years wear that color because my mother always told me it would wash me out.
I screw my eyes shut as the memory of her voice flits past me. Though the words are very distinct, I can’t quite grasp the sound or tone of her voice.
When my temples throb, I give up and focus on my own outfit. Haya claps a second later. I glance down to make sure I succeeded, relieved to find the freaking gorgeous green sequin dress I’d imagined. It dips in a low V and shows off my long legs. No hope of a tan when you don’t have a body, but oh well.
Haya floats up, glides across the floor to grab my hands, and spins me around. “That is so cute. I love it. That shade enhances your coloring and the cut is perfect for your shape.” She hooks an arm through mine. “You ready?”
I give my shoulders a little shimmy. “I died ready.”
Haya giggles. “That really doesn’t work.”
“Yeah, I was trying a thing. Go big or go home.”
“I approve of how you think.”
Together we make our way to the fourth floor. Before we’re even halfway up the stairs, we can hear the music. It vibrates the walls and jitters through my spirit like an involuntary shiver. We slide through the door into a crowd of ghosts, all moving in sync to the beat. Neon glow sticks light up arms, strobes blink across the ceiling, but Rafe Warren’s smile outshines them all.
I hate to be a cliché, but everything else legit fades in the wake of it.
Haya shoulders me toward him. I drift a few feet before I force myself to pause and glance back at her. She waves her hands, nudging me in his direction, a grin spreading across her face as she mouths the phrase “get ‘im, girl.” Before I can protest, she snags a partner of her own to dance with.
“Hey Billie!” Yasmin waves from a couch in the corner.
Quinn sits with her, pressed up against the arm, eyes darting around the room. When I wave though, he actually throws me a small smile. It’s good to see him here and not hiding out in his and Rafe’s room. We’re dead, but that doesn’t mean we have to act like it. Here he doesn’t have to worry about bloodlust, and I hope that gives him a little more freedom than he probably experienced while he was alive.
In the spirit of afterlife partying, I grab a red solo cup and guzzle whatever the contents are. Warmth billows through me. Someone slides another drink into my hand and I knock it back. Two more numb every aspect of my being and snap me straight into Rafe’s chest. It’s strong. A match for my own strength, one my mind has no memory of, but my body does. I slide my hands up Rafe’s shoulders.
“Hey.”
He chuckles and slips his arms around my waist. “You look pretty amazing in that dress, Martin.”
I rest my head against his chest. “Yeah?”
“You look pretty great no matter what.” His cool breath coasts across my forehead.
“You’re not so bad yourself in that...flannel.” I tilt my head up.
“It’s my signature look. If it works, why change it?” Rafe grins so that stupid dimple overtakes my whole horizon.
“Nothing short of perfect, really.”
Rafe swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and though he doesn’t let me go he does look down at his feet. “Far short of perfect.” He meets my eyes, and I swear the pain there physically cuts me.
“Rafe…” I trail, cupping his face with my hands, and tracing those violent lines beneath his eyes with my thumbs. Somehow, I know for an absolute fact that these are part of the guilt I can almost feel radiating off of him. He flinches a little at my touch but doesn’t move away. “What happened?”
“I’m not ready to talk about it.” His voice is rough and thin.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Rafe shakes his head and pulls me a little closer. “Don’t be sorry. And I promise I’ll tell you, eventually.” He screws on a smile I can tell takes a lot of effort. “Maybe when you have your own death story to share. Fair is fair, right?”
I chuckle. “Excellent point, Mr. Warren.” With a little sigh, I lean into him again, sliding my arms around his neck and breathing in his comforting scent. “Of all the things I need to figure out about my life, that honestly seems like the least terrifying. What if…”
Rafe lets me hang on to the silence for a few moments before asking, “What if what?”
“What if I was a horrible person?” Fear cracks my voice in half. It’s a thought that’s niggled at the back of my mind for the last few days.
Rafe snorts. “I can’t even imagine that being true, but if it was, you’d be in good company.” He says the last part so quietly I can barely hear it and he tenses against me. “The things I did before I died aren’t the best.”
I cling to him a little tighter. As he’d said of me, I can’t even entertain the idea that he could have been a horrible person before he died. Horrible people aren’t wracked with guilt the way he so clearly is. They either don’t care or make excuses, blaming other people for their wrong doing. This has to be the reason he’s still trapped on this side. He needs to be able to forgive himself.
We’re hovering a few inches above the ground, and I don’t ever want to leave this spot. For the first time since I died, I feel stable. As ghosts we feel a constant tug, like something is trying to suck us away. But here, in Rafe’s arms, I feel anchored and steady. Nothing can pull me away as long as I hang on to him.
Someone lets out a disgusted scoff from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. I have to fight off a grimace when I see Dimple Piercing — Melissa — standing a few feet away with her arms crossed. The sound she’d made matches her sour expression. Our best strategy would be to ignore her and the group of girls behind her, to float away from whatever accusations they’re about to level at us.
Instead, I make the rookie mistake of engaging her. “Can I help you?”
“You have the nerve to dance with him after that stunt you pulled in Corporeal Contact?” Melissa says.
“Uh, he’s right here and can speak for himself,” Rafe says. “I want to dance with Billie, and I wanted to be in my fox form in that class. So, there’s no problem. I don’t have some deep-seated self-loathing based on my powers. But thanks for your concern?”
Melissa gives him a sad look I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be pitying. “Sweetie, you don’t have to defend her. I know it must be hard with the way supes have treated lower shifters for so long.” She places a hand on his shoulder.
I arch a brow at her. “Lower shifters? Well that’s not condescending at all.”
Melissa glares at me. “I’m not saying they are lower shifters, I’m just using the phraseology others use to make a point.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh. We really just need to walk away, but I guess if I want to avoid more verbal attacks and accusations of treating Rafe badly, I need to be careful in how I suggest retreat. “Rafe, do you-”
A scream slices through the room. Rafe and I both jump, spinning away from Melissa and her posse to find the source. One of the girls near Haya crumples to her knees. White blue flames jump over her skin as she falls to the floor writhing. Everyone near her jumps backward, all eyes wide with horror. If I still had a heartbeat, I’m positive it would be racing.
Haya clasps both hands over her mouth, her typically studious expression crumbling in sheer terror. Still holding onto Rafe with one hand, I reach out, grabbing her upper arm. My voice is buried somewhere deep in my chest. The flaming girl’s form smears and loses shape, morphing into a twisting, turning shadow that continues screaming its pain.
It tumbles around the room and ghosts flee from it, but one boy can’t get out of the way in time. The shadow pulls him into its darkness, adding his screams to its own, cutting off all of his light. In spite of this, I feel a tug toward it the same way I did in the forest not so long ago. My core aches for this po
or girl, longs to help her, to set her right.
But when she twists in our direction, I know I can’t risk the others getting swallowed. Rafe and I scramble away, pulling Haya with us into the hallway, bumping into other fleeing ghosts. Kaz and Mr. Qureshi bust through the crowd, followed by a handful of other teachers. They shout at us to get downstairs.
Even as I help Rafe drag Haya along, I glance back over my shoulder to try and see how things end. My last view is of Kaz, face contorted like he’s in pain, pulling out a glowing staff and swinging it at the shadow that was once a girl. I just barely catch a flash of bright light before we reach the first landing, but the wail of agony digs itself deep into me, echoing in my ears long after the flash fades.
Chapter Thirteen
Rafe, Haya, and I sit in the corner of the rec center. All the students have escaped to this building, one of the farthest from the dorms and the horror we all just witnessed. Some people are sobbing, while others are trapped in a state of silent shock. Landon paces a few feet from us near the front door. He’s muttering what I’m pretty sure are profanities.
I don’t blame him one single bit. That was horrifying.
When we got here, Haya collapsed next to me, gripping my forearm and repeating the phrase “matter can neither be created nor destroyed.” Rafe sits to my right, one hand on my back between my shoulder blades and staring off into nothing. A few feet away, Quinn and Yasmin stand against a wall, both mute and looking understandably strained.
A weird sort of numbness spreads through me. Questions pile one on top of the other until I can barely think straight. I’m sure if I could, I’d be cursing as much as Landon.
Why do I feel drawn to the Twisted when everyone else runs from them? Why do the Xers not understand what they’re doing to ghosts? How does Locklear handle students who do end up twisted? I knead my aching neck. It’s too much to deal with at the moment, so I try to focus on Haya, running a hand over her arm to try and comfort her in some small way.
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