The Assassin and the Soldier

by Carly Morgan

  Callan tried to conjure up her performance during the elimination ceremony before remembering he’d actually missed it entirely, which led him to believe it must have been fairly unexciting. At least she’d probably be eliminated quickly, and Callan would be free to wipe his hands of this whole useless endeavor.

  As the three remaining contestants were paired with trainers, Callan resolved not to be a sore loser. No, he would train No. 72 with the same conviction he would Grady Lair or Elgren Farrow. He was hired to do a job, and he wasn’t about to go easy on No. 72 because of the state of her health. She had signed up for this competition, so she could take what it had to dish out. If the rigorous reps and intervals he put her through happened to be too much for her, or if any of the challenges or tests proved treacherous or deadly, well, he wasn’t about to waste tears on an assassin.

  He glanced down at her, very briefly, and stiffened when he noticed she was whispering once again with Lux Beacon. He’d watched her before while he was in the audience, smiling and chatting with the handsome contestant No. 69. And of course, they’d paired Lux Beacon with one out of the only three women trainers, undoubtedly just to stir up interest and ratings. At least they had the good sense to pair Lauza LaRue, the serial killer who slept with her victims, all of them male, before dismembering them, with another female, though many of Callan’s fellow male trainers were hoping to get her themselves.

  It upset him, the way they whispered and touched one another like two smitten strangers flirting on a crowded plane, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps he just didn’t like them cavorting like normal people, when they weren’t – they were criminals who’d ruined, no, not only ruined, taken, dozens and dozens of lives. They didn’t deserve these moments of humanity, and in Callan’s opinion, this whole contest was disgusting. Just one big, gratuitous, voyeuristic, debauched, money-grab and nothing more.

  Yet he was part of it, after all, and Callan didn’t like being hypocritical. He struggled to get hold of his feelings, to tell himself this was nothing personal.

  Mick Dirkhead, the loudmouthed, obnoxious show host announced it was time for trainer and protégé to get to know each other. “Just a light training session,” he warned, grinning in a campy way. “Let’s see what these hardened criminals are really capable of, shall we?”

  After the cameras stopped rolling and the harsh white lights were dimmed, all twenty contestants and their trainers were ushered into the gyms and fitness rooms. The training spaces contained not only treadmills and rowing machines, dumbbells and weights, but practice weapons, an obscene amount of practice weapons, from blunt wooden knives to long heavy bokkens, along with dull tipped arrows and darts and rubber battle-axes. Callan watched the assassin’s eyes gleam as she took them all in, as if working out how to turn a practice weapon into a deadly one.

  “Why do we need those?” she asked, gesturing, the first time she’d spoken.

  Callan shrugged, unwilling to admit he knew as little about the competition as she did. “Let’s start out with a couple laps on the treadmill. I want to check your heart rate…”

  “Hey, hit girl.” Suddenly, he was interrupted, and when he turned, he saw Lauza LaRue, talking to his trainee. “Wanna trade trainers?”

  The serial killer licked her lips and made a purring sound at him, and Callan felt a stabbing moment of mortification. Luckily, Lauza’s female trainer quickly ushered her away.

  No. 72 watched the brief altercation with a little too much amusement in her eyes for Callan’s liking, and then picked up one of the wooden swords, pointing it at him lazily, her arm slack. Callan struggled to suppress the alarmed look on his face. Her posture, her balance, the way she could barely hold up a four-pound piece of wood. The girl was hopeless. Callan caught sight of Grady Lair, already mitted up with boxing gloves and taking out his aggression on a punching bag, his fists flying in nothing but a blur.

  “I want to do this,” No. 72 insisted, smiling brightly, as if she had a reason to smile. Callan was mystified, wondering how anyone could come out of Krakian as anything but a gibbering idiot from the sheer trauma of it. He had heard the stories of Krakian, and knowing this girl had come from there was enough to make him shiver. Yet she seemed pretty normal, besides the weakened appearance of her body.

  Before he could protest, she threw him the sword, so abruptly he barely saw her do it until the wooden rod was hurtling swiftly towards his chest. He caught it with ease, as well as the flicker of surprise that passed across his trainee’s face. As if he wouldn’t catch it. He watched as she selected a second sword for herself, a slimmer one, lighter.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, positioning herself into a careless stance. She was completely wide open, leaving herself vulnerable to every possible attack. She may have been an assassin, but she clearly didn’t know how to defend herself.

  “It’s Callan,” he said gruffly, wondering why they were going about the pretense of exchanging pleasantries. Didn’t she know that she was beneath him? That they weren’t going to be friends? “Callan Merone. I already realize what it sounds like.”

  “I’m Kaelia Elowyn Nemesis,” she offered sweetly, though he hadn’t asked. “I already realize it’s a bit of a mouthful,” she added, mocking him.

  “I don’t care what it is,” Callan said bluntly, advancing towards her. Nemesis. How did she ever end up with such an absurd last name? Callan bet she made it up, but why? What happened to her real last name?

  She dropped back and then lunged diagonally, bluffing him, the movement coming out of nowhere, her sword clanking into his and depositing it straight onto the ground. He hadn’t been ready for that at all. Callan stared at his sword on the ground, as if wondering how it got there, and then up at his trainee, completely dumbfounded by her strength and speed. At the same time, a glimmer of hope rose in his chest. Maybe Kaelia Nemesis wasn’t as useless as he thought.

  “Pick it up,” she commanded him blithely. “This is fun.”

  “All right, No. 72.” He followed her order, gripping the handle more firmly this time as he studied her. They’d coated her face with make-up for the show’s premiere, which somehow didn’t make her look much better. He winced when he could tell the foundation ended around her collar bone, her pale skin a stark contrast to the bronze hue. “Let’s see what you got.”

  She came for him, striking his sword again and again, not tiring, her abilities somehow a match for his own. Of course, he was holding back… a lot. If he wanted to, he could lay her out on the floor in half a second flat. But better not to draw that kind of attention to themselves. Still, after a while, he decided to get a hit in… any hit in, on her leg, or her arm. After all, the other contestants weren’t going to go easy on her. He stole a glance at Grady Lair’s reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls around them, wondering how she’d fare against someone like that.

  “You wanted him, didn’t you?”

  Her words surprised him. How was she speaking? It was taking a large amount of Callan’s energy just to focus on not being disarmed again. “Hmmm?” he obliged her with an answer anyway, their swords clanking and thudding as they collided until they were dented and dinged from tip to staff.

  “You think he’s better than me,” she went on frankly, charging to get a blow into his innards. Callan dodged and blocked it at the last second.

  “He’s certainly bigger,” he grunted, moving to knock her feet out from under her and win this game. With a twist of her arm, she defended herself, knocking his bokken out of the way with her own.

  “But I’m faster,” she insisted, spiraling and spinning, jerking and dodging. “Smarter,” she went on. “Prettier.”

  “I don’t know about prettier,” he insulted her coolly, keeping her pace.

  Her face fell, and for a split-second Callan felt a twinge of remorse for his harsh words. “You don’t like me,” she concluded, her voice small and forlorn, playing games with him.

  “You’re a criminal,” Callan remin
ded her gruffly. “You all are. I’m a soldier of Amity’s legion. We frown on your sort.”

  Incredibly, she managed to roll her eyes while maintaining her position. “Here comes the boring speech about honor,” she drawled, keeping up with his moves like a dancer, her legs braced to take every hit. “Spare me.”

  “You don’t deserve to be spared,” said Callan, raising his eyebrows at her. Was she actually taking an attitude with him, like some teenage daughter on a sitcom, when, in fact, she was a dangerous murderess? He let out a breath, keeping his face impassive. Better to let her see she didn’t have an effect on him. “This whole competition is an insult.”

  “Boo-hoo-hoo,” Kaelia pretended to cry as she parried and deflected, her movements quick and natural, fluid, like water running over rocks. She was certainly more graceful than him, though he was much stronger of course. “The big, tough soldier doesn’t like the meanie-head criminals to have any fun. Is that it?”

  Callan had had enough. He’d let her stay on her feet far too long, and he was through playing Mr. Nice Guy. He caught her sword easily against his own and bore down on it. She gasped, her eyes widening at his strength, but his eyes widened too, and they both caught each other’s expression. How was she still clutching her sword? Why wasn’t she falling? This was impossible.

  Callan continued to press his bokken against hers, the wood indenting from the impact – he’d break her sword in half if he had to, hers was smaller. Her expression was angry now, and Callan saw she didn’t like being beaten. Didn’t like it at all, in fact, as if she’d never been overpowered in her life. But rather than let her weapon break, she grabbed the other end of it, holding it like a staff. If it had been a real sword, she would have split her hand open.

  “Cheater,” he growled, and she shoved viciously against him with one deft movement, her face contorting into something feral. His bokken flew back, out of his hand and across the gymnasium. “Heads up!” he shouted, giving the other contestants and trainers the warning to duck to avoid being knocked out. Callan let out a breath of disbelief, and suddenly he heard clapping. When he turned, there was a camera crew standing nearby.

  “Excellent sparring session!” the show host Mick Dirkhead exclaimed cheerfully. “But, and I hope you don’t mind me saying so, aren’t you supposed to be training her?”

  Callan’s face was hard and expressionless, though he caught Kaelia smiling smugly. She’d played dirty; he should have suspected that. He breathed hard as Mick Dirkhead held a microphone in his face, glancing again at Kaelia. Her breath was steady, and she hadn’t even broken a sweat. His brow furrowed suspiciously.

  “I don’t train my clients in the art of fighting dirty,” Callan finally managed to come up with a quip.

  “Of course not,” Kaelia interjected gushingly. “He’s a man of Amity’s legion, and I’m a dirty fighting, piece-of-shit cheater. But I’m also the winner, right?”

  Mick Dirkhead laughed nervously. “We’re going to have to bleep that out,” he said, moving the microphone to Kaelia’s face instead of his. Callan bristled. Why should she get any attention? This was so ridiculous. “Contestant No. 72. Remind me of your name again? That was quite a show you two put on. Where did you learn to spar like that?”

  Kaelia smiled coquettishly, but before she could answer, a ruckus broke out to the side of them, and the cameras quickly spun around to catch the action. It was contestant No. 7, the first finalist to be chosen – Emmanuel something, the armed robber. His trainer was Ace Calhoun, a hotheaded, quick-tempered, aggressive roid-rager, his muscles twice the size of Callan’s, though he was one tenth as strong.

  Emmanuel was screaming in pain, favoring his wrist, though it took Callan several seconds to realize why.The tracking band was shocking him, delivering bolts of electricity straight into his arm. Callan’s eyes sought out Emmanuel’s trainer, Ace Calhoun, and he wasn’t sure why he was surprised to realize Ace was the one who was shocking him using the app on his phone. Callan glanced for Kaelia, so quickly it was almost instinctual, for the first time really noticing the band on her own wrist, which the fingers of her opposite hand were circling protectively. Realizing he had the same power as Ace to shock her into submission sickened him.

  “You motherfucking scum!” Ace was screaming at Emmanuel, finally releasing the button on his phone to cease the series of shocks he was emitting. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you if you talk to me like that again!”

  Emmanuel had dropped to the floor in exhaustion, his body still spasming from the aftershocks, and in a moment, Ace was on him, delivering blow after blow to his face. The sound of flesh against bone made Callan’s stomach turn, though when he turned to Kaelia again, her face was placid, and he figured she was used to violence of a far worse magnitude.

  But then, surprisingly, she stepped forward, and Callan had to put his arm out to keep her back. “Stop him!” she cried, attempting to knock his arm away and get by. “Somebody stop him!”

  Callan groaned to himself, wrapping an arm around her chest to keep her out of this mess. She would be the type to throw herself into the middle of something she couldn’t solve. Still, Callan searched the room for someone who would intercept, but each and every body in the room was motionless. Even the guards stood impassively in the doorways, doing nothing.

  This time, Callan sighed, rolling his charge along the length of his arm and depositing her in a heap on the floor. She glared up at him; livid and bewildered, as if surprised he would do that to her. “Don’t move,” he warned her, and stomped towards the fight—if it could be called that. Hulking over Ace, he grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and around the shoulder, hauling him off his victim, now bloodied and barely conscious.

  “What the…” Ace spluttered, but Callan threw him back and held him against a wall.

  “He’s had enough,” he growled threateningly, before dropping the man and stalking back towards No. 72. Casually, he grabbed his water bottle, downing more than half of it in one swig, the plastic crushing under his fingers.

  Ace swore vehemently, rubbing his neck where Callan had gripped him, staring him down threateningly. Callan stared back, but his gaze was untroubled, cool. After a moment, Ace spun on his feet and stormed out of the room.

  Chapter 4

  Kaelia

  She heard the lock in her door beep before she was even awake, but at least she knew where she was this time. Kaelia opened one eye and surveyed her guest. Who gave him a key, anyway? It certainly hadn’t been her. Rolling over, she curled into a more comfortable position and pulled the sheet up to her chest. Her short night gown was hiked around her hips, her ass and legs bare underneath.

  “What are you doing here?” she grumbled.

  Her so-called personal trainer scoffed, taking a step towards the bed. “I’m here to train you,” he replied, as if she’d forgotten, in that somewhat dumbfounded manner he seemed to always use.

  Kaelia groaned sleepily. “I don’t need to be trained,” she insisted dismissively, burying her head under a pillow to protect her eyes from the sun pouring into the room. “I need rest.”

  “The competition is in three weeks,” Callan reminded her matter-of-factly. “You’re going to want to be in the best shape you possibly can be if you want to win.”

  “No,” Kaelia argued feebly, wishing he’d go away. “I am in shape. You saw what I did yesterday.”

  After the sparring session and Emmanuel’s brutal beating, they’d moved onto a few other exercises. Kaelia had busted out a five-minute mile on the treadmill, cranked out several dozen pull-ups, and done sit-ups until she was sure she was going to puke. Today, her whole body ached, but Kaelia refused to give Callan the satisfaction of showing it.

  “You’re undisciplined,” he concluded, walking the length of the foot of her bed. “Get up, before I drag you from that bed.”

  Kaelia uncovered part of her head from beneath her pillow. “Undisciplined?” she regurgitated back to him. “Is that the only critique you can
come up with? You’re just mad because I’m stronger than you.”

  “Stronger than me?” Callan fake-laughed. “I could pick you up in one hand and throw you across the room if I wanted.”

  “Yeah, right.” Kaelia shot to a sitting position, still clutching the sheet to her chest hard enough her knuckles began losing blood. “You realize I wasn’t the most sought-after assassin in a 5000-mile radius for absolutely no reason, don’t you?” It was true, of course, Kaelia had been shipped off all over the world for jobs.

  She saw his face darken at the mention of her former profession. Good. Let him be uncomfortable. This Callan Merone got on her nerves. The way he thought he was better than her, that she was so very much beneath him simply because her life’s circumstances led her down different pathways than him. She hadn’t been planning on showing off quite so much yesterday, but he was strong, he had proved that in their sparring match. Stronger than she’d thought he’d be. And the way he had first looked at her, like she was as pitiful as a half-drowned cat. There was no way she could let him go on looking at her like that.

  “Oh, good,” Callan spoke patronizingly, averting his eyes from her half-dressed form. “You’re up. Now kindly extract yourself from that bed and get some clothes on. We’ll be training outside today.”

  Kaelia yawned indolently on the back of her hand, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “Perhaps I should have let you carry on believing me to be useless. Then maybe you wouldn’t be bothering with this show of bravado right now, if you thought I was a lost cause.”

  He arched his brows as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “I was hired to do a job, and I’m going to do that job, and do it well,” was his only response.

  “Admit it,” Kaelia spat. “You were disappointed when you were assigned me to train. You didn’t think I could win, but now you do. Now you’re invested.”