Great Falls Rogue: Power of Five Collection Book 6

by Alex Lidell

  In the wake of the Ostera celebration and during the ensuing liberty week that the Academy grants cadets, River has made good on his offer to tutor me through my lagging academics. Ostensibly, I report to his study to fulfill a clerk’s function—it’s far from protocol for the deputy headmaster to work one-on-one with a cadet, especially a cadet who’s one assignment away from flunking out of the Academy—and this arrangement has raised no eyebrows in the two days since we started it. In truth, my literacy and computation skills have left River wincing multiple times a day. Including now.

  “How exactly do two and a half soldiers dig a latrine?” Taking the chalk from my hand, River leans lower to add his marks to the slate, his neat dark hair and clean-shaven jaw only inches from my face. From my lips. Focus, Lera. We may have avoided raising eyebrows, but I’ve discovered the real risk of tutoring: being so close to this version of River, one who’s not yelling at me or issuing a command, is wreaking havoc between my thighs. In just the span of a couple of days, these moments, whether I care to admit it or not, have become precious to me—too precious. I feel a warm finger on my chin, directing my gaze back down to the slate. “Pay attention.” River writes with the same crisp efficiency as he does everything, the muscles beneath his white silk shirt equally at ease working out mathematics as wielding a sword. “You need to remember what you are actually counting.”

  I cut River a sideways glance, meeting his beautiful gray eyes with a quirked brow. “It might help if we counted something more pressing than latrine ditches,” I say carefully. The presence of the Night Guard that I fought on Ostera night changes the landscape of the magic threat we are facing—as does the Night Guard’s discovery of my presence. There has to be a way of conveying as much to River without either triggering the veil amulet’s defenses or getting me thrown out of the study. “Such as the number of fighters at the Academy who can stand against magic-tinged foes.”

  “Alas, you are counting ditches.” Straightening, River crosses his arms and gives the slate a meaningful look. One of the largest males I’ve seen in Lunos, he is downright overpowering in the mortal world, carrying the cloak of responsibility on his shoulders without ever tripping. Or yielding. His biceps and shoulders press tantalizingly against his shirt. In the warmth of the study, he’s hung his jacket over a chair and undone his top buttons, revealing the flare of his tanned pectorals. He’s become less careful around me as we’ve studied, caught up in his work, the strong planes of his face unselfconscious in concentration. With every cuff he loosens and shirtsleeve he rolls up, he becomes more distractingly beautiful. “If you spent half as much effort studying as you do trying to meddle in issues I’ve ordered the cadets to keep clear of, you might have a chance of passing your exams. Let us get back to it, if you please.”

  Beneath the writing desk, my fingers curl around the smooth satin of the dress I chose for the day. The amaranth fabric is light enough to be comfortable while staying formal, while the long skirt and covered sleeves conceal the fading bruises and cuts of my encounter with the Night Guard’s blade. “Just tell me one thing—have you ever heard of fae pledging allegiance to Mors? They—”

  “That’s enough.” River’s face hardens, his low, sensuous voice taking on familiar gravelly steel. “When I give a cadet an order, I expect it followed. If you intend to take up arms, you better get used to obeying your superiors whether or not you like their decisions. Do I—”

  River cuts off, both our attentions sliding toward the door and the two sets of approaching footsteps beyond. The third set of visitors in under two hours. With the constant traffic coming into his study, I’m not sure how the male manages to get anything done. But he does. River has his competent fingers on the pulse of everything. Except the very mission we came from Lunos to accomplish.

  By the time a knock sounds on the double doors, River is already there, waiting for me to cover up my work. I didn’t know it was even possible for someone to be so attentively considerate and bullheadedly frustrating at the same time. As I shove the last of my books into a drawer, River lets his visitors inside.

  “Good morning, sir,” he says.

  Hearing the honorific, I quickly rise to my feet as Headmaster Sage strides into the study, his signature wet cough, hawkish features, and gleaming bald pate arriving with him. Walking in beside him is a man I’ve not seen before. Tall and trim, he appears to be in his early thirties, with short black hair combed back from a pronounced peak and a sharply attractive face. His eyes, a stormy mix of blue and gray, survey River in a single glance before sliding across the room, brushing over me dismissively.

  “River, allow me to introduce Master Han,” Sage says, waiting as the men bow formally to each other. “Han is a well-positioned Prowess trainer and will be joining the Academy’s instructor cadre to prepare Tyelor and the others for the upcoming Trials. He has been in the circuit for a decade now, and fielded more gold medalists than any other practitioner in that time. Han, Commander River is in charge of the Academy’s day-to-day matters. You and I will work directly, of course, but River can see to any special requirements you might have.”

  “Your servant, sir,” River tells the newcomer politely, a flash of concern in his features that only I know him well enough to catch. He turns to look back at Sage. “I wasn’t aware that anyone but Tyelor intended to compete.”

  “A fact that I intend to change shortly,” Han cuts in before Sage can answer. His cool, velvet-smooth voice sends an uncomfortable ripple across my skin. “As Master Sage and I have discussed, athletics is one of the world’s greatest unifiers. With the royal offspring of all ten of the alliance kingdoms together, fielding less than a full team is a mistake. And with the Academy’s strong physical preparation, I feel confident I can adapt interested cadets to be competitive in the less exotic events—unarmed combat, swordplay, perhaps archery.”

  Sage nods along eagerly to Han’s speech. “I recruited Tyelor with the notion of returning the Academy to the Trials, and Han will move on that vision. Not only will this weave the royal-born cadets together, but it will bring their parents together as well.” The hungry glint in Sage’s eyes betrays the honors he already imagines being showered upon him in the wake of victory.

  I make a small noise, the pen in my tight hand suddenly breaking with a loud snap. Sage didn’t recruit Tye—the veil did. And now the little man is turning that kernel of warped memory into a continent-sprawling affair. So much for Lunos not interfering with the humans. I don’t know what this new direction means, but it can’t be good.

  For the first time since walking in, Han’s eyes swing to meet mine straight on. Though there is nothing but guarded greeting in the man’s gaze, its contact makes nausea tickle my throat, my magic churning in its mortal shackles.

  “Was there something you wished to say, Cadet?” Han inquires.

  River shoots me a look that makes any retort dry up immediately, unease swirling in my stomach. Tread carefully, his gaze says. If River is nervous, I’d be a fool not to listen.

  “No, sir.” I answer quickly, pulling the reins of my self-control tighter still and staying silent for the rest of the brief visit.

  “What do you make of Han and the Prowess plan?” I ask River a few minutes later, once the study is free of visitors but for their lingering scent. A sickly musk for Sage and something sharper, like cayenne pepper, that crept from Han’s muscled body.

  “My opinion on the matter was not sought.” River motions for me to bring out my books, ready to return to the fascinating calculations of ditch digging. Any sign of worry in his sculpted face is gone, back behind that thick, impenetrable curtain. “Neither was yours.”

  “Doesn’t stop us from having one.”

  “It stops me from discussing it with you,” River says, that stern voice returning, storm-gray eyes unreadable. No matter what I do, each hour since the forbidden kiss on Ostera night is turning the male more and more formal the moment we stray from academics, his inner sense of studen
t-teacher etiquette on high alert. I almost wish it didn’t happen, for the wall it’s erected between us—but then I remember his warm, velvet lips on mine, the press of his hard body, the soft gravel of his voice in my ear as he led me through the dance steps, and I wish I could spend another eternity in that moment.

  Shade, on the other hand, has gone missing altogether since our moment in the woods, having sent a note of intention to spend several liberty days off Academy grounds. My chest clenches with the certainty that my male now prowls the woods, desperately searching out a mate who isn’t there. I know how he feels, which only makes my worry for him greater. Without Arisha and Gavriel finding me when I first arrived here, giving me a sense of purpose with our nightly missions, I might have gone mad with loneliness weeks ago.

  My heart squeezes painfully. One male is looking in the wrong place and the other is two mere steps away but refusing to look at all.

  “Leralynn.” River’s sharp snap jerks me from my thoughts. Adjusting the rolled-up sleeves to perfectly creased perfection, he throws a pointed look at my empty slate. Right. Latrine ditches and soldier halves.

  This time we manage a full half hour without interruption, River leaving me to struggle through a set of calculations while he catches up on his own work. When the next set of approaching footsteps sounds, however, River barely has time to jump out of the way of the swinging door, much less properly greet the liveried visitor.

  “Sir!” Rabbit, having streaked in like a small dust vortex, smashes into River’s thigh and bounces off. Panting, the boy jabs toward the window, his narrow chest heaving. “A brawl. A real big brawl,” he says between gasping breaths. “With blood and shouting and everything. By the guards’ barracks.”

  “I don’t imagine a brawl by the guards’ barracks is going to last very long, Rabbit.” River’s voice is battle calm as he shrugs into his red wool coat, fastening the buttons with precise, economical motions. “Do you know which cadet chose such a brilliant location for a fight?”

  “None, sir.” Rabbit shakes his head vigorously. “It’s Master Coal against a dozen of the guards themselves.”

  3

  Lera

  A faint humming has started in my head as I try to make sense of Rabbit’s words, River’s study growing distant.

  “Stay here, Leralynn,” River orders. He takes one more heartbeat to hold my eyes, a heartbeat he can’t spare, just to press into me the importance of what he’s saying. “That isn’t a request.”

  Knowing better than to argue, I keep my eyes trained on my studies until the sound of River’s and Rabbit’s steps fades from earshot. That settled, I rush down the stone steps and streak through the hedgerow separating the academic quarters from the training pitch. Worry for my male casts all thought of rules or repercussions aside, his name ricocheting through my mind with each whoosh of blood through my temples. Coal. Coal. Coal.

  The sounds of fighting coming from the guards’ barracks at the base of the towering Academy wall pierce my immortal hearing, spurring my steps and thoughts. Coal makes no habit of fighting lesser warriors, not without provocation. And even then, his battles are swift and meaningful, not brawls.

  Or at least that’s how it used to be.

  “Stop!” a man shouts at me as I dart out of the hedgerow onto the edge of the wide grassy training yard. A half-dozen Academy guards are already spreading out to keep curious cadets away from the fray at the far end. Distantly, I can see a heaving mass of bodies in various states of dress—some shirtless and barefooted, some in full red uniform. Some wielding fists, others charging in with whatever they’d found at hand—from pitchforks to chair legs. It’s too thick to see Coal. “Get back to the dormitory right now.”

  Right. Ducking back into the fragrant green corridor, I rush along the thin walkway, sunlight dappling down through lush overhanging branches. This time, I emerge on the other side of the patrol, near the riding ring at the top of the training yard. A nearby guard catches sight of me and lunges with a surprised shout, but I roll over my shoulder to clear his grasp. Cursing sounds behind me, but the guards have no time to chase a lone runner, not with a smattering of the Academy’s cadets coming out of the woodwork to see what all the fuss is about.

  “Whoa there, lass.” Tye emerges suddenly from the corner of my vision and snatches me with the skill the guards lacked, his large lithe body swinging me in an easy circle. I curse and try to squirm free, but he holds fast to my upper arms. The male smells of pine and citrus and sweat, the wet patches on his sleeveless gray tunic speaking of active training. His hair is damp at the roots, a mess of fiery strands, and his green eyes are brilliant in the sunlight—and firm. Jerking his chin toward the barracks across from us, he shakes his head. “You don’t want to go anywhere near there. Trust me.”

  “Yes, I do.” I squirm out of his hold successfully this time. “But feel free to return to twirling around the wooden bar if you don’t want to help.”

  Cursing, Tye falls in step with me, jogging to the perimeter of the fight, which is partially obscured by a wall of observers now—guards, mostly, with a few instructors and stray cadets sprinkled into the mix. Over their heads, on the other side of the fray, I spot River walking away. “Where the bloody stars is he going?” Tye asks.

  With a shrug, I push my way through the watching crowd and take bearings, all my fae senses on high alert. It is a brawl. Shouting and a thick scent of fury fill the air, more and more men rushing in with whatever weapons they find underfoot. A rock. A piece of chair. Bare fists. In the center, Coal spins a wooden staff—which I think started its day as a broom handle. In spite of everything, Coal in battle is a breathtaking sight—his low blond bun gleaming in the sun, sleeveless black tunic revealing every flick and bulge of muscle in his arms and shoulders, beautiful, sharply carved face set in deadly concentration. His blue eyes glitter, cold as ice chips.

  The wood in his hands twists quickly enough to appear a solid circle, one that has already done untold damage. I wince at the sight of a half-dozen men writhing on the ground, one with bone sticking clear out of a broken forearm and what seems to be paper stuffed into his mouth. The several sergeants shouting orders to stand down are drowned out by infuriated grunts and screams, the downed guardsmen’s friends rushing with vengeance-filled cries.

  In contrast to the guards’ hot rage, Coal’s face is so cold and haunted that I am not sure the male knows where he is. As if having heard my question, the magic inside me stirs, flashing with images of shackles and despair and agony so vivid that my throat closes.

  “Coal won’t stand down,” I tell Tye quickly. “Not unless there is no one left around to fight. I don’t know where the hell River went, but stopping the guards is the only option.”

  Tye pauses for one more heartbeat, then curses under his breath as he nods, his lanky body shifting smoothly into a battle stance that makes me think of the tiger hidden inside him. Every muscle coiled, ready to spring into action, fierce green eyes speckled with silver in the sunlight. When he speaks next, the casualness in his voice belies the deadly warrior I know he is about to unleash. “You want right or left flank, lass?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s yours.” Tye’s unquestioning confidence in me sends a ripple of warmth through my readying muscles. With the discipline born of centuries of combat, the male waits patiently for me to get into position, marks our first target, and signals.

  We rush forward as one, scooping up the swinging guard and throwing him into the crowd, which at least has the sense to hang on to the thrashing man. One down, a dozen to go. My heart pounds, my breaths full and deep. Despite the silly amaranth dress, I feel right. Alive. Strong.

  The second guardsman we go after is swinging a pitchfork around, the erratic movement managing to clip Tye before he grabs the guard’s arm. “Behind you,” Tye tells me calmly, bending Pitchfork’s wrist hard enough to relieve the man of his weapon.

  I turn around in time to see a fist swinging toward my head
. Large and muscled and too slow to compete with my immortal body. I parry the blow and shove the idiot against his friend, the pair tripping each other in a tangle of limbs. When I turn back, however, there is a new slew of attacks separating me from Tye. Some—the more intelligent half—seem to have pegged the pair of us as being on Coal’s side and thus viable targets; the others swing blindly at anything in their path.

  The scent of fury and sweat thickens the air, the men surrounding me blocking my sight. A few paces away, howls of pain and thuds of wood mark both Coal’s position and the growing casualty toll falling to his staff.

  A thick, mustached man with a bleeding brow snarls at me, launching himself forward.

  I step off his path and the man falls to the ground. Behind me, someone steps on the hem of my dress, the tug unbalancing me long enough that yet another idiot blunders into the mess, shoving me atop the original mustached man.

  The man roars with a fury that says his common sense is long gone. When he grabs for my breast, my own wits disappear as well. Baring my teeth, I lunge at the man’s throat—reining myself back at the last moment to sink my elbow into his nose instead. A spray of blood shoots into the air, splattering my dress and the sand beneath. I roll to my feet in time to find myself a new choice target, men separating from the sidelines to—