by Mindy Klasky
“So,” David said. “It looks like you got an early start.”
He didn’t think it was possible for the cadet’s face to flush any more crimson. He was wrong. “I— I was already in the building,” Kyle said, his voice breaking on the first try.
“Which form were you practicing?”
The kid scowled. “Dragon.”
“With a sword that light?”
“It’s the only one I have,” Kyle protested. “My mother says it’s stupid to throw good money after bad.”
David heard an entire encyclopedia of background in that protest. Kyle’s mother managed his training. That meant no father was in the picture—grandfather either, or even an uncle. Kyle had no male relative still alive. His mother wasn’t helping matters, either. She clearly didn’t think her son had any potential as a warder or she would have taken some step to get him a half-way decent weapon. Maybe she couldn’t afford one. Maybe she didn’t understand why it mattered.
Maybe she’d already battered her son’s confidence into dust.
Setting his lips tight against the first retort that sprang to mind, David reached into the ether. He brushed past Rosefire, ignoring the subtle hum of the blade that was always ready to serve him. Instead, he closed his palm around the leather-wrapped hilt of the sword he’d first learned on.
The weapon was a practice blade. It didn’t have a name or lineage. But it had taught him everything he knew about the twelve basic forms—taught his father too, and his grandfather before him.
Pulling the sword into the gym, he automatically shifted his weight, accommodating the iron’s heft. It was ice-cold, like all blades from the ether. A shimmer of frost reflected along the edge as he offered the grip to Kyle. “Try this,” he said.
“S— sir?”
“The forms are easier when you have a decent weapon.” He offered the sword again, barely biting off his frustration when Kyle backed away. “Take it,” he ordered.
Another flush, this one a slow burn that painted the kid’s throat. Kyle shrank into himself, refusing to meet David’s eyes. His fingers slipped on the grip of his own inferior blade, as if they’d only danced over the plastic letters on a computer keyboard and never touched leather. “With all due respect, sir, this is a really bad idea.”
“Noted,” David said. That was his father’s favorite response, when George had absolutely no intention of listening to whatever David had to say. “Rotate the grip in your hand. No. Like this.” He pulled in Rosefire and demonstrated the proper placement of his fingers. “Now, forget about Dragon. Let’s start with Snake.”
Any ordinary student would have protested. Snake was a form for first-years. It required little training; it was specifically designed for a child to master in minutes, to gain confidence, to learn success.
But Kyle Hopp was no ordinary student. He merely hunched his shoulders, half-heartedly lifting his borrowed blade and dragging the weapon through the sinuous loop as instructed.
David’s first reaction was to snort in anger. Smothering that—barely—his second reaction was to scoff at the kid’s poor form. Instead, he forced himself to nod, taking a single step back to make time to phrase a proper critique. “Very good,” he finally said. “You know the maneuver.”
The kid’s eyes shot up, as if he were searching for mockery.
“Now all you need to do is focus on the angle. Like this.” Using Rosefire, David demonstrated the first sequence in the basic form, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right as he raised his weapon to shoulder height. “Now, you try it. Focus on rolling your weight forward.”
It took three tries, but Kyle finally presented something related to a smooth shift of posture.
David didn’t allow himself time to question how an Academy student could reach his senior year without ever focusing on the basics. Instead, he concentrated on breaking down every motion into its most elementary parts. Roll forward from heel to toe. Turn the wrist from left to right. Rotate the blade from flat to edge.
He’d never thought about the fighting forms that way. He’d only needed to watch his father work a combination once, and his own body had known the action. His fingers and toes, arms and legs, had all moved without conscious command.
Now, guiding Kyle, he discovered that Snake was a type of meditation. Each pull of muscle drew him deeper into himself. Each shift of weight activated another part of his mind. The elements of the exercise spread across his senses—a pulse of violet light that faded into a tremor of birdsong, the sound melting into a pool of vanilla at the back of his throat only to stop hard against the sharp scent of juniper.
“Again,” he urged, as Kyle finally completed one perfect Snake.
“One more time!” he cried, after the repetition.
“Excellent!”
Kyle came to a rest, his feet joined in perfect symmetry, the blade hanging like a metal spine at the front of his body. His arms trembled from exertion, but his eyes widened in victory.
Before David could comment, the sound of slow clapping filled the gym. Both student and teacher whirled toward the locker room door. As he spun, David’s fingers tightened on Rosefire, but he quickly identified the man who leaned against the doorway.
Aidan O’Rourke had clearly availed himself of the locker room showers. His salt and pepper hair was still long, but now it hung in damp curls around his face. His beard was every bit as scraggly, but no crumbs—from Pop-Tarts or any other meal—remained. The man had traded in his stained T-shirt and baggy sweatpants for the practice-wear provided by the gym. The tight black T-shirt revealed too many ribs, and the matching cotton pants hung loosely from jutting hip bones, but the man was clean and upright. Sober, too, from his sharp gaze.
“You think training a squire will help tame that new witch of yours?” O’Rourke asked.
Flicking a glance at Kyle, David said, “Hit the showers.”
The kid planted his feet in defiance. “No, sir,” he said, actually raising the practice blade as if he intended to defend David from enemy attack.
“Now,” David said. He didn’t raise his voice. Instead, he used a lesson George had taught him, lowering his tone until the single syllable shook like an earthquake.
Kyle hiccuped and started to hand him back his sword.
“Keep it,” David said. “Practice on your own until we meet on Wednesday. Five o’clock.”
The kid nodded, barely remembering to sheathe the weapon in the ether. On his way to the locker room, he turned sideways to edge past O’Rourke, but he held his head high.
“He’s not my squire,” David said to the old warder, as soon as the door slammed closed.
Those piercing blue eyes merely narrowed.
“And I don’t have a new witch.”
“Noted,” O’Rourke said.
David bristled, but there wasn’t any way to respond to the acknowledgment. That’s why George had always used it.
O’Rourke jerked his chin toward the locker room. “You know that one’s never going to win any pitched battle.”
“He just has to get out of the Academy with passing grades,” David said.
“Why help a stranger?” The question was tight, as sharp as the edge of Rosefire’s blade, and David knew they weren’t talking about Kyle any longer.
“Because I can,” he finally said.
For a moment, he didn’t think O’Rourke would accept that. He’d press for more information, for a better reason. And David didn’t want to give him one. He didn’t want to say that sandwiches and coffee were a hedge against his own disaster. He didn’t want to admit that he could be the next warder living as an outcast. He was one confrontation with Pitt away from becoming an object lesson as bitter as O’Rourke’s.
O’Rourke finally nodded. “You’ve got a decent Snake there,” he said, jutting a shoulder toward Rosefire. “What about your other forms?”
For answer, David nodded toward the rack of practice weapons. He wasn’t certain the disgraced warder had
a sword of his own waiting in the ether. “Grab one, and I’ll show you.”
The warder took his time choosing a blade, testing the weight and balance of half a dozen before selecting one. When he returned to the practice court, he swept the sword in a curving arc, as if he were sanctifying a space to all the Guardians. He bowed to David, inclining his head in a ritual gesture before he bent from his waist. That was a deeper acknowledgment than any practice round required.
David accepted the honor with his own bent neck. Going any deeper would eliminate the other warder’s gift.
Together, they worked the full Fire Cycle, from Snake to Phoenix to Dragon to Sun. David knew the steps, of course. He’d mastered them years ago, and he worked them on a regular basis, together with the Water Cycle, with Earth and Air. Not a week went by that he didn’t offer up his sword in service to all the Guardians. It was the least he could do to display his worthiness to Hecate.
But never before had the sequences flowed from one to the other so smoothly. Never before had his muscles been as aware of the tiny linkages, the connections he’d discovered when he’d broken down Snake for Kyle. Never before had his senses rioted over the motions, scent and sight, taste and touch and sound breaking against his consciousness, drawing him in, linking him tighter and faster than ever to the ancient art of swordplay.
He only stopped when his arms were shaking and his thighs trembled from the exertion. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His heart pounded against his sternum. Sweat dripped from his hair onto the floor beneath him.
The other warder still looked as if he’d just emerged from the locker room. He stood easily, not betrayed by a single muscle twitch. His chest rose and fell as if he were meditating, and his face was as placid as a cow’s.
“Excellent,” he said. David heard the tone that matched his own, matched the compliment he’d given to Kyle. He wondered how much more he could learn from an outcast, abandoned warder.
Squaring his shoulders, he forced himself to raise Rosefire in a fighting stance once more.
“Again,” he gasped. Because he knew he needed help wherever he could find it.
24
On Monday, David stopped by the Academy gym after work. He told himself his visit was a casual decision—just a chance to use the free weights in the corner, to watch the oldest cadets sparring in their first organized matches of the school year. In reality, he hoped O’Rourke would show. He could use some serious drilling on the Air Cycle—from Dragonfly to Moth to Crow to Eagle.
But the grizzled old warder was nowhere in sight. David thought about heading down to the library and trying to roust him from his makeshift bed. But that seemed a hell of a lot more intrusive than bringing the guy some food and coffee. And if O’Rourke was no longer camping out in the library, David would feel obligated to track him down, to make sure the old warder was safe.
At least Kyle came in, even if he was half an hour late for his scheduled class. He earned a demerit for tardiness and was sent off to practice Bear form with the first-years. The kid seemed to have forgotten everything he’d managed the day before.
Dissatisfied, David reached home, only to realize he hadn’t spoken to Connor since leaving Arlington Cemetery. It wasn’t unusual for a week or two to go by without contact from his friend—but not when the shifters’ Collar had been stolen. Not when Connor was already on edge, preparing to fight for supremacy within his pack. Not when Brule had said their enemy would be gathered on Sunday night.
David texted, but he got no reply. He could phone, of course. Or better yet, head over to Seymour House. But that wouldn’t change one basic fact: The Collar—along with David’s Torch—was still missing.
At least he could still make out the faint trill of a nightingale, somewhere in the distance, almost out of range. Connor was alive. Not answering his phone, but alive.
Ordering himself not to fret, he made a quick dinner, pouring a can of soup over rice and heating the whole thing in the microwave. After Spot licked the bowl clean, they went on their nightly walk of the farm’s boundaries.
He was still approaching the lake when Bourne rose out of the water, somersaulting onto the end of the dock. As she landed, the sprite transitioned from her imperial form to her human demeanor. He watched her tentacles shorten to fingers. Her lustrous azure hair seeped into her skull, growing shorter and paling to a blond that was almost white. The feral look on her face was enhanced by lavender lips that darkened to a more human shade.
“Salamanders?” she asked without preamble.
“Not yet,” David said. Spot approached the sprite warily, snuffling at the water that still streamed from her shining skin.
“We should take them by surprise, Montroseson,” Bourne said.
“They won’t be gathered until Sunday.”
The sprite tilted her head.
“Six moonrises from now,” David clarified.
He caught her flexing her fingers, as if she were harvesting reeds on the edge of the lake. “Six,” she repeated. “And then we’ll kill them all.”
David shuddered at the blatant violence in her tone. He knew how to fight, but the sprite brought vengeance to a whole new level. Before he could say anything, she dove backward off the dock, jackknifing in mid-air as she slipped into her imperial form.
After returning to the farmhouse, David considered reaching to the cottage behind the Peabridge Library—just to check on Jane, to make sure she didn’t have any questions about her magical abilities. He remembered, however, that he had to leave the proverbial ball in her court. She was the witch, after all. He was just a warder. Not even her warder, no matter what O’Rourke had said.
He had a lousy night, unable to fall asleep. There were only so many times he could punch his pillow into submission. Spot whined from the floor at the foot of the bed, chasing something in his sleep.
On Tuesday, David stopped by the gym again. No O’Rourke. Hanging around, hoping the warder might drift by, he witnessed another spectacular failure by Kyle in front of his entire swordplay class. This time the kid was tripped up by Eagle Form.
At home, waiting for pasta to boil, David texted Connor for the tenth time since the morning. When the shifter still failed to reply, David resorted to placing a call. Voicemail picked up on the fourth ring. “You know what to do,” Connor growled in his recorded message. David let his own voice reflect his frustration. “Yeah, I know what to do. But do you? What the hell is going on? Call me.”
After hanging up, he got nine digits into phoning Jane before he banished his phone to his pocket. He told himself he was keeping the line clear, waiting for Connor to call back.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist reaching out to Jane’s familiar.
“Neko!” He sent the message searing across the ether, targeting the creature’s astral signature, the bar of emerald light that glowed in his memory.
“I didn’t do it!” The response was immediate.
“Do what?” David’s pulse quickened as he imagined Jane hurt, caught in a magical backlash as Neko failed at some essential service.
“Finish the cream.” Neko’s reply came after a long pause. David forced himself to take a calming breath as the familiar justified himself. “It was sour. I had to rinse the container, or the whole kitchen would have started to stink.”
David bit off a frustrated sigh. “Is Jane there?”
“She’s with Melissa. Girls’ night out. Do you need her?”
David didn’t need her. He just wanted to speak with her. And that wasn’t reason enough to drag Jane away from her friend. Hecate would frown on a warder putting his own interests before a witch’s. And the last thing he needed was Hecate disapproving of anything he did. Not with Samhain fast approaching.
“It’s not important,” he finally said. “But you better replace that cream before she gets home. Use your ability to roam for good and not for evil.” He severed the link before Neko could come up with some self-serving reply.
That nig
ht, walking down to the lake, he heard movement before he arrived on the shore. Crossing the beach, he saw Bourne in her human form. She was dressed, head to toe, in what looked like midnight blue, but the precise shade was hard to tell in the silvery moonlight.
The sprite sat on the sand under the boathouse eaves, holding a stone in one hand and a tree branch in the other. Slowly, methodically, she was fashioning the branch into a spear, smoothing away all its deformities and sharpening the end to a single, lethal point.
She sang as she worked, liquid notes rolling across her tongue. David couldn’t make out individual words. He had no idea what language sprites used among themselves. But the notes were stirring, like the soundtrack to an epic adventure movie. He found himself pulled into the circle of moonlight around Bourne’s feet. He realized she’d already completed half a dozen spears.
“Five more nights, Montroseson,” the sprite said by way of greeting.
“If we go at all.”
“We’ll go!” The sprite glared at him, her smooth face reflecting the moon as easily as the lake behind him.
“I haven’t been able to reach the shifters. This is their battle. Not mine.”
“Salamanders are everyone’s battle,” Bourne said. “Your shifters are preparing. As I am. As you should be.”
David didn’t have a reply for that. And Bourne wasn’t interested in saying anything more. She merely reached for a new branch, starting yet another spear. David whistled Spot to his side and returned to the house.
Calling Connor again, he got a message from the phone company that the shifter’s voice mailbox was full. It was just as well. All the things David wanted to shout were better left unrecorded.
Restless, he turned on the TV and forced himself to stare at the screen. An hour later, he couldn’t remember if he’d been watching a sitcom, a reality show, or the nightly news. He went downstairs and ran on the treadmill for another hour. At least his body was exhausted enough for sleep, even if his mind fed him strange, disjointed dreams.
