“Seamus, sir,” I say, turning to him. The sir is a nice little touch that he seems to enjoy, and honestly, I don’t mind it. “I think I’m ready. I think I can handle the Underking.”
Seamus frowns, looking me over. “You’re a fast learner, Berkeley,” he says, “but you’re far from ready to fight the likes of him. We need an experienced team. Capable fighters.”
I wouldn’t really care if anyone else implied that I wasn’t a competent fighter. In fact, I’d probably do my best to lay them out on their ass. But coming from Seamus...it stings.
“So, you’re saying that I can’t handle myself?” I ask, unable to keep the challenge from my voice. “You don’t think I’d murder the sonofabitch that killed my parents?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Seamus looks at me, unblinking. “You’re a gifted Slayborn, Berkeley. I can’t afford to lose you from the team.”
He’s not going to let me face him. He’s going to send someone else to do it. To steal that one pleasure from me. Probably Sabrina. I came all this way, suffered being beaten and bruised and humiliated, and for what? I feel a sudden flare of rage rise up in me.
“I’m ready,” I growl. “I can fight him. I can fight anyone in this room.”
“Very well.” Seamus beckons to a nearby boy, who immediately trots over, offering him a practice sword. “You’ll fight me.”
He raises the sword, waiting motionless as I stumble into position. I absolutely do not want to do this. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, challenging him like that. People begin to gather around us, and from the corner of my eye I can see Castor pale, biting his lip as he seems to decide whether or not he should intervene. Even Jasper looks a little bit concerned, and I’ve never seen him care about anyone else other than Sabrina.
I barely see the first blow coming.
Seamus strikes hard and fast, sending me whirling around and tumbling back. He waits, pacing as I drag myself to my feet, readying myself once more. He continues to attack, blow after relentless blow, and no matter how hard I try to strike back, he deflects each pitiful swing. His sword hits my cheek, and even though it’s made of wood, I can feel it split the skin. The next swing takes my legs out from under me.
I’m trembling, down on my hands and knees in front of everyone. Castor. Sabrina. Jasper. A hundred eyes, all on me. Blood runs in a hot line from my nose and I shrug it away, a dark stain forming on the shoulder of my uniform. Seamus slowly circles me, his booming baritone filling the training hall.
“Can anyone tell me what Berkeley’s mistake was in this instant?” He surveys the crowd circled around us. I glance up through the thick strands of hair covering my face to see Sabrina raising her hands, golden hair contrasting with eyes like ice, her lips pinched into a shrewd smile. “Yes, Sabrina.”
“She has no control,” Sabrina says, her voice light and airy, slicing through the tense silence like a knife. God, how fucking great it would feel to smack that smirk right off of her snide little face. “She just attacks whenever she feels like it,” she continues, glancing down at me, “and she doesn’t think anything through.”
I bite back the fuck you that rises to my lips instinctively, but I barely keep it down. I swear, the next time I’m paired with that little mean-girl bitch, playtime is over. I am going to do some serious fucking damage. I finally manage to get back to my feet, still wobbly, wooden sparring sword trembling in my hands.
“You’re right, Sabrina.” Seamus is still slowly pacing the half-circle of Slayborn that has formed around us. “There are many critical issues with Berkeley’s...style of fighting. But the most damning is her impulsiveness.”
I know I’m just taking the bait. It’s just like Castor warned me—I need to stop butting heads with Seamus. But Christ, I can’t handle this asshole. The way he says style, like he’s mocking me. Well, we didn’t all have his training. Some of us had to train ourselves. Some of us had to learn how to punch by taking punches.
I wheel on my heel, bringing my wooden sword down the air so fast it whistles. Seamus is already in clean position, his sword raised, shoulders set, knees rigid like he was born that way. Complete with a stick up his ass to top it all off. My sword strikes his, and in one clean movement, he strikes my knuckles with his own, hooks the hilt of my blade with his, and launches it into the air.
I open my mouth, but he’s already struck out, his foot catching behind my ankle. I land on my back so hard that the wind is knocked from my lungs. As Seamus looks down on me, my sword drops from the air and lands in his waiting hand.
“Patience,” he says slowly. Though he’s addressing the room, his eyes never leave mine. I feel pinned in place. Nowhere to run. “Patience is the key to winning any fight. Patience is a form of versatility; the blade that bends when pressed, and does not break. Those who cannot adapt cannot survive. As an animal who cannot catch up to the pack will be left behind.”
He casts my sword to the ground and it falls with a clatter. He takes position once more, arm behind his back, blade extended. His eyes haven’t left mine. He doesn’t blink.
“Again.”
Chapter Eleven
Whiskey on the Rocks
I can see why not everybody survives training in this hellhole.
With just a week to go until the Winter Solstice, Seamus has doubled down on the schedule. We barely sleep. Barely smile. Everyone just wanders around in their cold black uniforms, looking like fucking zombies.
And me? I’m covered in so many bruises that I’ve all but forgotten what color my skin was originally. Now it’s just a tapestry of blue and purple and sallow yellow.
“You look like shit.”
Sabrina plops down on the bench next to me, sliding her tray of food up beside mine. After that first night I’d taken to eating in the communal dining hall. At least show that I’m making some sort of effort at being a team player. Of course, I’m beginning to regret the decision. At my grandma’s, there’s no flavorless coddle for dinner. No prying eyes, no hushed giggles. And no goddamn Sabrina.
“Look, I’m not really in the mood,” I say, shoveling a lump of potato into my mouth. “Go bother Castor. You’re good at ruffling his petticoats.”
“As much as I like fucking with Castor, he’s old news.” Sabrina takes a delicate sip of water. “You’re much more exciting.”
“What’s exciting?” Jasper steps up behind Sabrina, settling down beside her. “You gotta give me something, Rina, I could use some excitement. All we do is train twenty-five hours a day. Not even a stout to wash down dinner, how barbaric is that?”
Sabrina just chuckles, giving her water an overly dramatic slurp. But Jasper’s words have given me an idea.
“Hey, do you guys know the area around here at all?”
“Well enough, I guess,” Sabrina says with a shrug. “Though I haven’t gotten out much since training started.”
“Well, when I was a kid there used to be this pub a couple of miles down the road,” I tell her. “The Pig and the Fox. Have you heard of it?”
“Miles.” Sabrina snorts, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Still up and running as far as I know, couple of kilometers down the road.”
“Well, I mean...if we can’t get a stout here…”
“Are you kidding?” Jasper turns to me, eyes wide. “We’re not allowed to leave the training grounds. Seamus would skin us alive. Hell, he might kick us out of the Làidir!”
“He can’t kick everybody out, though, can he?”
Jasper narrows his eyes, and Sabrina follows suit beside him. “Are you suggesting—”
“You’re popular enough,” I say, smirking. “I’m sure you could find a way to spread the word.”
Sabrina huffs. “Of course I can,” she says. “But you know, Jasper is right. If Seamus finds out, he’ll go ballistic. Which is why I’m pinning the entire blame on you if we get caught.”
“What do you think I am, an amateur?” I grin. “You spread the word. Pub nig
ht, tomorrow after dinner. Leave the logistics to me.”
Sabrina shakes her head, but still, there’s an excited gleam in her eye as she looks around the dining hall. “Well, Gallagher,” she says with a shrug. “It’s your funeral, I guess.”
“And then—no, no, and then—she told me she wasn’t really sixteen.” The boy telling the story lets out a whooping laugh, clapping a hand down on his buddy for support. “So I told her—get this, yeah, I told her I wasn’t really her new psychology professor!”
The entire group bursts into howling laughter, drinks sloshing around in their cups. The entire pub is packed to the brim with Slayborn, a sea of black that spills out across the bar and onto the undersized dance floor.
Everyone is dressed in their training uniforms. The same as every day. Drab. But for possibly the first time since I’ve gotten here, they’re all smiling. Nearly three dozen tipsy Slayborn finally letting loose. We all needed this.
I sit back on my barstool, sipping a whiskey on the rocks as I watch people make asses of themselves. A tall blond boy who goes by the name of Will has already been slapped by half the women in the room, while a tiny raven-haired thing hurls into a garbage can by the toilets. Even Jasper is having some success chatting up a small brunette piece, but every few sentences he keeps glancing over toward Sabrina.
And everywhere, bodies on bodies, initiates taking out their frustrations on one another with alcohol-fueled enthusiasm. I almost wish that Castor was here, but I’d told Sabrina to leave him out of the loop. I couldn’t risk him going and tattling to uncle. I can feel my face screw up as I think of Seamus, and so I take another deep swig of whiskey to calm my nerves.
“Another for the lady.”
A boy sidles up next to me, grinning as the bartender slides another drink my way. I give him a small nod of thanks, looking away as I take a sip. I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and go mack on some other poor girl, but I’m not that lucky.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all on her lonesome?” He leans on the bar, propping himself up with one elbow. Looking at him, I have to admit he’s handsome.
He’s tall and broad, with deep olive skin and thick waves of black hair. Definitely not from here. But while I’d normally jump at the chance to ride that cowboy, I’m not exactly feeling it tonight. Maybe when I’m another few glasses deep, but certainly not right now.
“Sorry, bucko,” I say. “Ain’t interested. Why not try your luck with the blonde over there?”
I slide off my seat, moving to leave, but his hand shoots out to stop me.
“I don’t like blondes,” he says, grasping my wrist in one hand. “I’ve had my eye on you, you know. I like the way you move.”
“Yeah, well, I’d be happy to let you watch me move away from you. So let go.”
“Why so uptight?” the guy asks, grabbing my hip with a rough hand and dragging me in closer. “I hear that this was your idea. So why not enjoy yourself?”
“Let me go,” I hiss, trying not to make a scene. It doesn’t seem to be much of an issue. Everyone around us is too wrapped up in their drinks, their dancing, their own libidos to pay me any attention. “I swear to God, if you don’t take your hands off me right now, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” the man snorts, smirking. “You’ll beat me up like you did Seamus? I’d like to see you try.”
“Yeah? And how’d ya like to see me try?”
Oh, God. So, I guess he found out.
I twist around to see Castor standing there, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen him. His eyes flash, a snarl taking over his lips, and I can see him flexing and tensing the muscles of his shoulders as he wanders over. His rage isn’t directed at me, though.His eyes are locked on the hand digging into my arm.
“Maybe you should listen to the lady and take your dirty mits off’a her.”
The guy looks between Castor and I, clearly weighing his options. Eventually he decides against whatever he’s thinking. He releases my arm, grabbing his drink instead.
“Whatever,” he mutters, shouldering his way past Castor and I. “Plenty of better tail here anyhow.”
Castor watches the man, shoulders rigid, eyes never leaving his back until he disappears into the crowd. No doubt seeking out that blonde I pointed out earlier.
“Y’alright?” Castor gives me a quick once-over. “He didn’t hurt ya, did he?”
“You didn’t need to do that,” I snap, folding my arms and glaring up at him. “I was handling it myself.”
“Sure you were. Looked like everything was going just dandy from where I was standing. I mean, Christ, Berkeley. You got a good head on your shoulders. Why d’you never use it?”
“I don’t need you stepping in to play White Knight anytime someone steps on my toes.” I know I sound petty, like an ungrateful brat, but the liquor is crashing through my system for the first time in weeks and I’m feeling violent. Vicious. I swear I hear snickers coming from the crowd around us, people staring at the new girl losing yet another battle. “Just leave me alone. I’m trying to have fun here.”
“Yeah, you an’ everyone else here.” Castor glances around the pub, eyes shifting from one group of drunk Slayborn to the next. “What the hell were you thinkin’, convincing everyone to sneak offsite?”
“That people were gonna start murdering each other if they didn’t let loose a little. Seamus has everyone on such a tight fucking leash—”
“Because he has to, Berkeley. Seamus knows what he’s doing. He’s been fighting the Unseelie since before you or I were born. He’s the key to defeating the Underking, if it’s ever going to happen.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” I raise my voice, drawing several pairs of nearby eyes. “And here I was thinking if I agreed to join this circus that I’d be the one murdering that sonofabitch. At least, that’s what I was led to believe.”
“Look, Berkeley, I’m sorry you won’t get to kill the Underking,” Castor hisses, trying to gently shush me. “But all that really matters is that he dies, isn’t it? Do you really care all that much if it’s by your hand?”
“He killed my parents—”
“And mine too, in case you’ve forgotten! But I’m not going to fuck up everything that the Làidir’s been working to build to satisfy my goddamn ego!”
“Screw you, Castor!” I grab what’s left of my drink and start to march away when I feel his hand on my shoulder. With a growl I whip around, flinging my whiskey in his face. “Leave me alone,” I snarl, barging my way through the crowd. I’m tipsy. Tipsier than I had initially realized, and the world tilts just a bit on its axis as I stumble out the pub door.
Fuck Castor. Fuck his uncle. Fuck every one of those high-and-mighty Slayborn jackasses.
I don’t need them.
I begin to stagger my way down the road, flipping off a passing car when it honks at me. The ground is wet with slush, the mud sucking my feet in so that each step is a struggle. Soft flakes of snow are beginning to drift down from overhead. But I don’t stop. I’m hopped up on booze and rage, so much so that I barely feel the chill in the air.
I know exactly where I’m heading.
It’s a long walk, and a damn miracle I don’t get lost. But about an hour, maybe two hour’s walk from the pub, to the west of where my grandma lives, lies the Unseelie stronghold—Newgrange.
I remember visiting the place with my parents as a kid. A huge, grassy green knoll, the front encircled by an ancient swirling stone facade that seems to sink into the landscape. The entire place bustling with Seelie activity—the twinkle of pixies, the squawking of drunken clurichauns, the shrill giggles of sprites. As I approach it now, though, the entire clearing remains silent. Just a mass of stone and earth rising from the ground, looming dark and gray in the fog. Like a cemetery. I can definitely believe this place has fallen to those Unseelie assholes.
I march closer to the tomb, up to the monolithic stones that tower in front of the entryway as if to guard the place. I stand behind one, peer
ing out past the side. There’s no sign of life anywhere. Barely even a breeze. The entrance to the structure is a gaping black hole, a withered stone mouth opening into an empty chasm. There could be a hundred Unseelie waiting for me in that passageway, and I wouldn’t know until they were right on top of me.
Suddenly this is starting not to seem like such a great idea. Maybe it’s the alcohol draining from my system, or maybe it’s the cold air sobering some sense into me. Maybe I’m just finally starting to wise up. But it occurs to me that maybe this is a mistake. I can almost feel eyes on me, watching me—making every hair on the back of my neck bristle.
Even if I can defeat the Underking, what about his guards? His soldiers? Hell, how many are out there right now, weapons drawn, waiting for me to make my next move? And how do I get through the Veil, down into the guts of their stronghold?
This was a mistake. It makes me queasy to admit it, but Seamus, Castor—they were right.
I grip the hilt of the blade resting at my hip, taking a slow step backward, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot ringing impossibly loud through the night air. I flinch, waiting.Nothing. Another step back. Still nothing.
I allow myself to relax, hand dropping from my dagger. But then—a third slow crunch. Feet come to a stop behind me, sounding almost impatient.
Castor. Of-fucking-course he followed me here. Come to save me once again, show everyone what a great goddamn Slayborn he is, protecting the poor Gallagher fuckup. I throw my head back and groan.
“Seriously, Castor?” I snap. “Did you not get the hint the first time I told you to screw off? Look, you don’t need to come ride in and save me, I’m leaving—”
I whirl around, expecting to see him glaring back at me. But when I turn, the words die on my lips.
Because the man standing in front of me—the bright blue eyes, the pointed ears, the pale skin—that sure as hell isn’t Castor.
Slayborn Page 8
