Academy of Assassins (An Academy of Assassins Novel Book 1)

by Stacey Brutger

  Kincade was crouched, frozen, only a foot away from her, unable to tear his gaze away from the blood smeared down her clothes.

  He didn’t even blink, lost in some nightmare inside his head.

  “Most of it isn’t my blood.” Morgan gently ran her fingertips along his jaw, finding his skin frigid under her touch, and she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, trying to warm him. “It’s your blood.”

  Morgan was conscious of the sounds of fighting behind her, but she couldn’t leave him frozen and vulnerable. She leaned closer, her lips just a breath away from touching his, and whispered to him, hoping to reach him wherever he’d gone. “Come back to me.”

  He grabbed her wrist like a lifeline, his personality slowly entering his eyes again. Then he stood, drawing her up along with him. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  His low, gruff tone uncurled the knots of dread in her stomach—his usual grouchy self was back. “They weren’t going to kill me. They need me alive. You’re a different matter.”

  “That wouldn’t have stopped them from hurting you.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, as if he was holding back from saying more. He poked and prodded her shoulder, refusing to look up at her, and she sucked in a sharp breath when he hit a sensitive spot.

  “Hey, careful. I said most of it wasn’t my blood.” In truth, his probing hurt like a bitch, much more than the initial wound.

  Up close, she noted his injuries were shallow, surface cuts at most—as if something under his skin had blocked the ghoul’s claws from cutting deeper.

  “Stop it.” She slapped away his hands, backing away. “What do you say we finish off the last two ghouls?”

  Morgan grabbed one of the blades she’d dropped, wiping off the other one on her thigh.

  Atlas and Draven were systematically hacking away at a ghoul twice as big as the others, standing well over ten feet tall. It was misshapen, as if two ghouls had been smooshed and cobbled together—or one had eaten the other—his back humped, the ridges of his spine nearly piercing his flesh, one arm bigger, more muscular than the other, and nearly twice as long.

  Neither hunter was able to reach the creature’s head and separate the brain from his body for a true kill before being swatted away like a pesky fly. It had warts or tumorous lumps all over, almost like pustules that looked ready to burst. Draven finally threw himself at the ghoul’s leg, picking up the limb and forcing the creature to stagger to keep its balance.

  Atlas ran forward, ramming into the ghoul’s side, tipping the monster over. A roar of outrage escaped as the creature toppled, his weight shaking the ground as he landed, even tree branches swaying in reaction.

  Morgan had no doubt this was this beast who made short work of the mansion.

  Without hesitation, Atlas ran forward, dodging fists with three-inch-long claws, and leapt into the air. One after another, he tossed throwing knives, each weapon striking true. The first two blades took out the creature’s eyes, and they popped like grapes, white puss and maggots spilling down his face. Spittle flew as he bellowed in pain and grabbed his face.

  Atlas landed and rolled, pulling out another blade, then lunged forward again.

  The weapon disappeared into the giant’s ear, the muscles of Atlas’s arms straining as the knife slid deep.

  Right into the brain.

  The body rippled, then stilled, slowly melting into a pile of greenish gelatin.

  Both Draven and Atlas stood panting, every part of their bodies covered with goop, their hair and clothes plastered to them.

  When Morgan scanned the clearing, she didn’t find any sign of Ryder or the last ghoul. Fear poured through her, and she took off running.

  “Wait!”

  Morgan ignored the shouting behind her, following the path of destruction.

  She didn’t have to go far.

  Ryder stood with his back toward her, systematically carving the ghoul he had pinned to the tree into itty-bitty pieces, the creature’s spine clearly visible through his torn neck, and half his body, what was left of it, appeared melted, slowly dribbling to the ground in great chunks.

  Though ghouls were huge, they were no match for Ryder, his large frame practically dwarfing what remained of the creature.

  “Ryder?”

  Draven grabbed her arm to prevent her from getting any closer.

  The muscles of Ryder’s back stiffened, his movements slowing, his head cocked at the sound of her voice.

  Even from the distance, energy crackled, biting painfully along her skin, and fear burned along the back of her throat.

  Something was wrong.

  “He’s dead.”

  Ryder swung one more time, completely severing the head from the body, then dropped his arms to his side, his shoulders heaving. She pulled away from Draven and approached cautiously. “You did it.”

  She took one more step, then noticed what was bothering her.

  Ryder was gone.

  Before her stood his wolf in human form.

  His eyes glowed a whisky brown, claws tipped the ends of his fingers. The shape of his jaw was wrong, and she realized it was because he had way more teeth in his mouth than should be possible. Morgan reached out, slipping her hand into his, carefully avoiding the hard claws, ignoring the way Kincade cursed under his breath behind her.

  Slowly, his grip tightened, and he lifted his face toward her. “There you are.” Morgan smiled, giving his hand a little squeeze. “Unfortunately, the fighting isn’t done yet. I need to have Ryder back. Do you think you can give him control?”

  A rumbly little growl resonated in his chest, and she clucked her tongue. “I know you want to help, but Ryder is who we need right now. How about when we’re done, you and I will go for a run at the Academy?”

  The wolf cocked his head, studying her closely, then the bright glow in his eyes dimmed. The magic around him was sucked inward as his wolf retreated, until only a trace of it remained. Ryder’s jaw popped back into place, his teeth slipping beneath his gums, the claws at the tips of his fingers disappearing back under his skin.

  Ryder reeled under the change, clinging to her hand while his consciousness rose to the surface. He glanced around the clearing, quickly processing what he saw. It didn’t take long for him to realize he’d lost control. His head snapped toward her, his eyes glued to their joined hands. He jerked away from her hold, then grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Never do that again. I could’ve killed you.”

  Morgan reached up and grabbed his forearms, waiting for him to calm down. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  His fingers bit painfully into her arms. “He’s a beast. When I’m in my other form—when he takes control from me—I can’t protect you.”

  “No, but your wolf can.” She reached up and pulled his face down to hers. “I trust you and your wolf. You’re one and the same to me.”

  He inhaled deeply once, then again. “I won’t risk you.”

  Morgan slid her arms around his neck and hugged him, offering him what little comfort she could. Although she wasn’t used to physical contact, she knew his wolf craved it. “We’ll deal with this later. Right now, we need to move. Can you do that?”

  She didn’t think he was even breathing, his arms hanging awkwardly around her shoulders. Then he inhaled deeply, her scent seeming to comfort him, and he nodded. She lowered her arms, dragging her hands over his shoulders, surprisingly reluctant to step away.

  But Ascher was waiting for her.

  She needed to go.

  When she dropped her arms, she curled her hands into fists, already missing his warmth. “Ready?”

  Ryder studied her eyes, then nodded, as if he’d found what he wanted.

  Morgan looked behind her, finding Kincade.

  “Go.”

  She didn’t need to be told twice. Morgan took off at a run, heading straight for the cave. Every step she took sent pain reverberating through her, her wounds protesting the jarring pace. Blood began to trickle down her shoul
der in earnest. She’d taken so many injuries recently, it was slowing down her normal speedy healing process.

  Her shoulder had crunched ominously from when she hit the tree, the bones shattered at the very least. She could feel them knitting together. Slowly. Painfully.

  She charged into the small clearing, hope surging in her chest at the possibility of seeing Ascher again.

  Only to find the area empty.

  Her spirits plummeted, and she spun in a circle, wondering if she imagined the howl.

  The men emerged behind her, weapons drawn, looking a little wild, only easing back when they spotted her.

  Kincade strode toward her when a shadow separated itself from the trees and leapt between her and the hunters, its vicious snarl launching her heart into her throat.

  “Ascher!” Joy exploded in her chest, and Morgan took a step forward, ready to throw herself at him, when everything happened at once.

  “Stay back.” Kincade crouched, his weapons at the ready, his eyes locked on the hellhound, waiting for an opening. “Hellhounds are vicious and won’t hesitate to attack.”

  Ascher growled and hunkered lower, moving to keep himself between her and the others.

  “Stop.” Pleasure at seeing him again evaporated at their asinine behavior. “He’s a friend.”

  Treading carefully now, Morgan edged closer. “Peace.”

  “Hellhounds don’t have friends, they have masters. They are too wild, too unpredictable to be allowed to run free. They are solitary creatures, nearly extinct, but when captured, they have no choice but obey their master in all things. They can be fierce protectors and highly valuable to certain parties—and will turn on them at the first opportunity.”

  The description was chilling.

  Morgan didn’t believe him.

  Ascher was different.

  Ignoring the men, she focused on Ascher, then went lightheaded as she noticed the many wounds scattered all over his huge frame. She didn’t see the blood until she got closer, his black, rough velvet-like fur disguising it. Small wisps of smoke rose from where his paws touched the forest floor, giving away his agitation.

  The strength drained out of her legs, and she dropped to her knees. “What happened?”

  With one last growl, Ascher turned his blue eyes toward her. He exhaled heavily, puffing out smoke, giving once last menacing snarl at the team, then limped slowly toward her. Morgan reached out for him, not sure where to touch him, afraid she would hurt him more. Then he took the options away from her by collapsing in her arms, almost flattening her under his weight.

  She eased him down onto her lap, then ripped off her shirt and pressed it against the nasty claw marks raked across his ribs. The tank top she wore wasn’t in much better shape, coated in blood and practically shredded, leaving her skin exposed.

  Especially the runes on her back.

  If anyone looked closely enough, they would see the markings peeking through the blood and grime beneath the strands of her hair.

  She didn’t care who saw them, too concerned about saving Ascher to worry about it.

  “He saved our lives.” Morgan twisted in surprise and saw MacGregor leaning heavily against the opening of the narrow cave. He was deathly pale and shaky, but alive—and looked like he had the crap beat out of him.

  Unsurprisingly, Catalina emerged from behind him, looking disheveled but whole.

  A shame.

  Howard and three other hunters also emerged, each more banged up than the last. He gave Morgan a nod of greeting, cradling his arm to his chest, his left eye nearly swollen shut. The only other witch was one of the triplets. Blood covered her face from a nasty gash on her forehead, her skin incredibly pale. She slapped at one of the hunters who reached out to help her, glaring at him in disdain.

  The ungrateful bitch.

  Morgan turned away before she did something she would regret.

  A painful tingle swept up her right hand, as if an army of fire ants had been let loose under her skin. Magic simmered in the air, spiraling downward, settling over Ascher before sinking into his rough, velvety fur. Even as she watched, wisps of smoke rose from his body, his black form quickly turning charcoal.

  Her hands heated where she was touching him.

  She watched, completely dumfounded as sparks, then flames, engulfed his form. Arms grabbed to pull her away, but she hadn’t taken two steps when a hand reached out of the smoke and latched onto her wrist.

  She waited for her skin to blister and crack from the heat, but the expected pain never came.

  Instead, the air cleared, and she was staring down at a guy she recognized from her few visits into town. “You.”

  The last time she saw him, she’d been trying to hunt him down and ask why he was following her. But every time she got close, he vanished.

  It took her brain a few seconds to process what she was seeing. “Ascher?”

  Morgan jerked away from the arm around her waist, ignoring Kincade’s curses, and dropped to her knees next to the now-naked man. He was tall and lean, not a spare inch of fat on him. His light, sandy blond hair was wild, with a hint of curl, his cheekbones high, his lips firm…everything about him oh, so touchable. His pale, drawn expression hinted at pain, but those piercing blue eyes…she recognized them anywhere.

  The center of her palm stung, the pain wrapping around her hand and up her wrists, but she ignored the discomfort and grabbed her shirt, pressing it once more against the ragged wounds along his ribs.

  His legs were thickly muscled, and fresh blood bubbled up from the nasty puncture wounds on his thigh. Claw marks and scrapes covered nearly every inch of him, too numerous to count. “Dear God. How are you still alive?”

  MacGregor came to her side, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “If not for him, we would’ve all died. He got us out of the mansion, drawing the attack away from us. He—”

  A deep, wet, hacking cough took MacGregor by surprise, nearly doubling him over, and her gut tightened in concern. He looked even worse up close.

  “We need to get them back to the mansion.”

  Catalina sighed, but reluctantly agreed. “Take MacGregor. Your men and mine will head toward the rift. We need to close it before more ghouls come through.”

  Morgan was already shaking her head, annoyed to see Catalina already trying to act as the MacGregor. “I can’t carry them both.”

  Catalina lifted a perfectly sculptured brow. “Leave the hellhound.”

  “Fuck you.” Morgan pressed down harder on the wound. Only when Ascher flinched and groaned did she wince, cursing herself for a clumsy fool. “Sorry.”

  Morgan glanced around at their small, motley group. “None of your people are up for another confrontation. We need to head back, seek treatment, and gather reinforcements.”

  “She’s right.” MacGregor halted the argument before it had a chance to begin.

  Then he collapsed.

  Kincade barely caught him before he hit the ground.

  The trip back to the mansion was long and torturous, her body protesting the abuse. Her shattered arm had healed, but it had taken most of her energy, leaving her drained. They paused only long enough to dress Ascher, and hastily bandage the worst of their wounds. By the time the mansion came into view, the puncture marks in her shoulder had begun to bleed again.

  Kincade carried MacGregor, while Ascher hung between her and Ryder. The rest of the team acted as guards, protecting their retreat.

  The relief team was waiting for them in the study.

  Both MacGregor and Ascher were eased into their waiting hands, and Morgan watched anxiously while they cleaned away the blood and checked the makeshift bandages they applied.

  “The headmistress needs to be informed of what’s happening.” Though Kincade didn’t look at her, she knew he was going to send her back.

  “No, I can help you locate the rift. I—”

  “No need. I’ll show them.” Catalina took another sip of water from the bottle in her hand, all t
he while staring at her over the top. “You have no magic. Going along would be useless. Only a real witch is able to close the rift. See to MacGregor. The ornery old bastard won’t listen to anyone else.”

  Morgan was torn between duty and concern for her friends.

  She didn’t trust them to be safe unless she was there to protect them.

  “You can’t stay here.” MacGregor swam in and out of consciousness, his hand latching onto hers with a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t let them find you. You’ll only be safe at the school.”

  Morgan stilled.

  He knew something about her past.

  Something he’d never shared with her.

  Her stomach churned at the betrayal, like she was being devoured from the inside out, but before she could demand answers, he passed out cold.

  “They need you more.” Atlas was staring down at the hellhound with a look in his eyes that made her want to step in front of Ascher. “If you stay, you’ll only be a distraction. Go.”

  It was an order.

  Even if she disagreed with the team, they gave her no choice.

  She either went under her own steam, or they would make her.

  Bastards.

  When she turned away, Atlas lifted a hand out to her, but halted before grabbing her arm. “Be careful.”

  If she didn’t know better, she would say he was concerned—which made no sense, since he was the one going into battle.

  The last triplet stood in front of the mirror, already casting her spell.

  Magic filled the air, stronger than the last two times she’d travelled.

  Primordial magic.

  “Something’s wrong.” Morgan pulled her blades and edged closer to the mirror, taking up a protective stance.

  The witch halted, but the magic didn’t. The mirror rippled, the sigils turning from a dusky gold to a sickly green. The image of the room twisted, then vanished as a portal whooshed open. Instead of the Academy, a stranger was reflected back at her.