by Iyanna Orr
“What was happening?” Rory asked curiously.
“The council was involving Monsil in deals with Drake. Slowly, we were being absorbed into Legacy. It came to a standstill when Drake discovered the twin’s existence. He wanted them, simply because he thought they would be useful to him. Their father overheard the deal. He oversaw the shuttle that would send them to Drake. He took advantage and changed their destination to Earth.”
“Do they know?”
“It wouldn’t do any good if they did, Chandler,” Claudia answered. “Our world is still destroyed, and it’s because of Gideon. He just wants to push the blame away from himself so he can keep control of the people. For now, we just have to let him.”
That night, Chandler left the house without the watchful eyes of the Monsilian on him. The entire time, he felt as if he were looking for something, but he couldn’t make his head wrap around what it was. During the day, every candle that hung from the ceiling was lit, but at night, the candles were only on every hundred feet or so and dimmed. The beams cast a shadow over everything, particularly the houses with their open doorways and glassless windows. The gaping dark portals glared out at him. As their intensity bored into him, he had to look away, and he continued on his way.
He found himself on the other side of town, climbing over the threshold of the only place with a door and window covers to keep the privacy. The dirt on the floor made a soft crunching sound under his feet, echoing the many steps he’d taken to get there. Chandler turned around, flipping the switch to spark the fire from the lamps to fill the room. Hundreds of feet long and twenty feet wide were bathed in the soft color. He stalked along the uneven floor before stepped off and onto the smooth rock. It had been shaped and changed until it shined like a marble under the light. Sliding across, there was no dirt and no sound under his feet.
The first movement came slowly; hesitantly. Chandler’s hands came up, defensive in front of his face, but he looked past them, his eyes seeing an enemy that wasn’t there yet. His fists flew, pumping and brushing sudden gusts of air into his face. His feet danced; in, punch, block, retreat. Then it went all over again until his body had a mind of its own. Chandler had no memory of ever learning to fight, but his body twisted, turned and curved around the air because it was familiar with the style. His breathing didn’t pick up or slow, but sweat broke out over his skin, soaking his shirt and causing his feathers to mold to the flesh they clung to. His wings became a source of light of its own, reflecting the flames back into the room. As muscles rose and fell beneath his skin, his wings widened the motion, pulling him up when he jumped, rising above him when he dodged an invisible attack.
As his imagined opponent fell, Chandler’s body became inactive but stayed strung tight. His hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes scanned the room. Still, though, he didn’t see Michael until he spoke.
“Impressive.” His casual tone reached Chandler. He turned his head in Michael’s direction, a sense of invasion falling over him. The boy’s swords weren’t strapped to his back as he walked toward Chandler. The sheaths were in his hands until he dropped them just outside the smooth surface of the fighting floor. Chandler knew what was coming, even as Michael carefully unbuttoned his leather vest and tossed it down on top of them. Kicking off his shoes, he stepped into the ring and gestured for Chandler to do the same.
Chandler peeled his shirt from his skin, then pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. Leaning over, he pulled off his shoes and socks, stuffing the cotton tubes into his shoes and throwing them on top of his shirt. Once his body was free of the restrictive items, Chandler stretched slowly. He tucked his wings tightly against his back and lowered himself into a position that felt familiar and defensive. His hands were poised in front of him, waiting for Michael’s first move.
For a time, they just looked at each other; sizing up their opponent. Then, they made the first move at the same time, and they crashed together, creating a sound Chandler was surprised didn’t wake the whole city.
Michael was hard and fast. His whole body was corded with muscle from years of training and experience. Chandler felt his face change and become stiff with the effort of pushing Michael away and gaining back his defensive. Michael’s hands were lightning, igniting Chandler’s skin with fire as they slammed into him, creating sore places that quickly turned to black and blue bruises. Even as the marks faded, Chandler wished they would stay, just to remind him that he wasn’t untouchable. He was being beaten; his legs collapsed, folding under the pressure of using his chest to catch Michael’s flying body when he launched himself at Chandler. He rolled off the Nephalem, and by then, Chandler knew that they weren’t evenly matched. They both had the stamina, but Chandler didn’t have the skill required to beat somebody who’d spent the last sixteen years training his body.
Chandler lay on the floor, staring up at the darkness with his wings flush against the rock. When Michael held out a hand to help him to his feet, he had to go around them to stand near Chandler’s torso. When Chandler was on his feet, he tucked in his wings and shook the hand he still held.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Michael asked. Chandler shrugged and released his hand to sweep his hair from his face. In the last week and a half, it had grown until it was enough to touch the corner of his eyes.
“I have no idea. I got here, and something in me knew what it was doing. I was just following along.”
“However, you know it, you’re good at it. And I mean really good,” Michael claimed. They walked to the edge of the fighting floor and sat down on the dirty ground. “What are you doing out here anyway?”
“I just wanted away. There are just some things I know now that I would have been better off never finding out about. My life was so simple on Earth because there was no magic, no book, nobody trying to kill me. At this point, I’d take having secret murderers as parents, and I wouldn’t blink an eye.” Chandler looked over at Michael. “The sick part is I mean that. I know I should care about the people they killed to get me, but Drake and Zafrina are all I know, and I like what I know. It gives me something to hold on to so I can go back to it when I can’t face what’s new.”
“I know what you mean,” Michael said. He cleared his throat and stood up, walking over to his stuff. “When Monsil was destroyed, and we were forced onto Earth, we had to learn everything again, and so many times, I just wanted to come back here. Max is the only thing that kept me sane while I learned. I knew I had to protect her. As far as I was concerned, she was the only family I had left. But I also knew she was the one who was probably protecting me.” Michael reached down and picked up his swords. “I don’t have magic, and I never will. All I have are my swords and a mind filled with war strategy and Monsil laws I won’t ever use. I liked what I knew, too,” he continued, turning to Chandler. “But I learned how to cope with what I didn’t. So far, it looks like you’ll have to do the same.”
“If I don’t want to?”
“Then you won’t make it any farther than you did in the past,” he said simply. He shrugged and walked over to Chandler, holding out one of the glowing blades. “Come on.”
“I thought you didn’t think anything was going to change?” Chandler asked, but there was no answer. He watched Michael study the swords he had held before he held one out to Chandler. “What are we doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m going to teach you how to use one of these.” Chandler stood up and took it from him. His fingers wrapped around the hilt awkwardly, and he looked up at Michael. The Monsilian was already watching him, a grin trying to force up the corners of his mouth. Chandler grimaced at him and folding his hand around the hilt the same way he saw Michael grip it.
“That’s better.”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“It’s your first time,” Michael said. “Eventually, it’ll feel a lot more natural. You just need a lot of practice. How about we come out here every night? I’ll even invite Max, and we’ll see if your ins
tinct can take on the both of us.”
“I highly doubt that,” Chandler snorted.
“You’ll never know unless you try.”
Chapter 7 – Power
Chandler found himself standing on the smooth floor with Max and Michael the next night. Rory was standing off to the side, hidden in the shadows the light couldn’t touch. He hadn’t said much, but Chandler knew he was still irritated with Michael. The situation was anything but humorous, but he still wanted to laugh.
It was Max’s idea for them to fight first so she could get a read on Chandler’s “style.” As she stood across from him, Chandler pushed back the hold that had fallen over him the night before. Instead, he tapped into it, allowing himself control over the instinctual movement.
Max eyed him carefully as he adjusted his stand, but he just nodded to let her know he was ready.
The first thing Chandler noticed about Max was that she was not as experienced in the fight as Michael was. Sometimes, her movements would skirt from precise to sloppy, giving him ample opportunity to use it against her. One moment, she lunged for him, but he’d been expecting it and darted out of the way. He immediately turned around to find her rolling back to her feet, but she has faced away from him. Chandler charged at her and then dropped down, knocking her feet from underneath her. She went down with a curse but was back up as he found himself on the other side of her.
Turning, they were face-to-face again. Chandler took her in slowly and grinned. With her hair in a single braid and her eyes glinting at him as they took him in, she looked just as she did when she’d attacked the car. Max’s eyes narrowed as she took in his smile, and her next movement was far from sloppy and ill-timed.
She backed away from Chandler, her eyes flashing with determination. He watched her cautiously, his hands out and ready to defend himself. But Max stopped and stood there long enough for confusion to settle in and his hands to fall just a fraction of an inch. Apparently, it was the sign she’d been waiting for.
Max ran at him, full speed. She was on him before he could blink, and then she was jumping. Chandler’s eyes widened as her legs locked around his neck. He was out of control as she twisted, flipping his body into the air and slamming it down on the ground. Dazed, Chandler rolled onto his back, gazing up at the lamps as he tried to catch his breath.
“Holy shit,” Rory said. Just a few seconds later, he burst into laughter and jogged over to Chandler. Standing over him, Rory blocked the light from Chandler’s eyes. He held out a hand, attempting to hold in the laughter. “No disrespect, but you should have seen your face.”
“You should be proud,” Michael snickered. “She only does that when she knows she’s losing.”
“It does not matter,” Max announced, crossing her arms. “Now that I know what we’re doing, we can move on.”
“Subtle.”
“Shut up, Michael.”
“All right, so… swords next?”
Their practices, for the rest of the week, started with hand-to-hand and ended with one-on-one sparring with Michael’s swords. Rory often attended their matches but stopped coming once he was introduced to the books in the Petersen’s library. Chandler was surprised once he heard what Rory did with most of his time, as his friend had never been a fan of reading, but was glad. Max spent her time planning and attempting to find ways of sneaking into the power building early. It always ended with disappointment, and she would arrive at the training grounds in a bad mood. Because of it, she was always ready for a fight.
The first day of the next week, Max stayed at the house to get some sleep. Michael and Chandler left soon after he made sure she was really just tired. The walk was long and silent, but it was anything but uncomfortable. Chandler watched as Michael threw the daggers he’d brought along and retrieved them when they embedded themselves in the ground in front of him.
They got to the training grounds, and Chandler started preparing himself for the fight. When he looked over to Michael, he was standing in the closed doorway, looking at his swords thoughtfully. Sensing Chandler’s gaze, Michael turned to him and turned the hilt of the sword in Chandler’s direction.
“I’m going to teach you something,” he said.
“What?”
“When Max and I were training with the council, they didn’t teach us in the traditional way. I, being the most difficult charge, took it upon myself to learn how to use the techniques the Monsilians had been taught for centuries. Of course, I ruined every move, but realized they actually worked.” He lowered his hand as Chandler took the sword and shrugged. “I just figured that if it came down to a sword fight, it might be nice to have the element of surprise.”
“I can barely handle the sword when we’re not doing anything specific. What makes you think I’ll be able to handle it now?”
“Worth a shot, right?”
“What happened?” Claudia exclaimed as she came into the front room. Her loud voice pulled the others from their sleep, and Max, on the couch on the other side of the room, sat up. Damian came walking into the room as if he’d been awake the whole time, but Rory followed, feet dragging and eyelids half closed. Nimue fell from the ceiling, where her loft was perched above their heads.
Michael’s arm was swung across Chandler’s shoulders. He kept Michael balanced between himself and the wall of the doorway, but Michael’s head hung low. His vest, which Michael didn’t want to get blood on, was thrown over Chandler’s shoulder. The wound that continued to bleed onto the stone floor was across his stomach, ripping through and revealing muscle tissue beneath the skin. Max was up off the couch as Chandler moved toward her, carefully dropping Michael in her place as they all followed him. Rory was now wide awake, but he didn’t even glance at the trail of blood. His eyes were narrowed on Michael instead.
“We were practicing with the swords,” Chandler finally explained. He gestured back to where he’d dropped the swords onto the ground. Both were bloodied, and it blocked out the glow. “I misstepped and swung the wrong direction.”
“How?” Max demanded.
“He was teaching me some style he’d made up. I didn’t really understand the rules of it, but he said it was the easiest he could teach me in such a short time.” Chandler turned away from them and stalked toward the kitchen. The book was still lying on the table, and he snatched it up, moving quickly back into the room with them. They were all watching him as he paged through it, finally finding the page he was looking for. Quickly, he whipped the book around to face Damian, but the man looked back at him, shrugging. Chandler sighed, frustrated, and turned the book back to himself.
“What does it say?” Damian asked in a voice that was obviously meant to calm him. Chandler didn’t want to be calm; Michael’s wound wasn’t deep, but it hadn’t stopped bleeding since the sword had sliced through him. The boy was possibly bleeding to death on the family room couch.
“It’s a healing spell,” Chandler told him. My eyes flickered over the page too fast to read the words, but he explained it to them as much as possible. “It says that it’s witch magic. I’m not sure of the limitations, so I assume it could heal anything. I came across it the night before I read you guys the entries.”
“You should at least try it,” Rory said.
Chandler remembered the rules. There was no magic here, and there might not be enough time to get from here to the power room. They were all watching him expectantly, except for Max, who was holding Michael’s hand and whispering something to him. Chandler let go of the book, and it dropped to the ground, closing. His hands curled into tight fists as Max stopped whispering and leaned in close to Michael. He was saying something to her, but Chandler wasn’t focused enough to make out the words.
He stepped over to Michael and said the words that had stared at him from the book before anyone could stop him. The words that sounded like English to his ears sounded much different to the occupants of the room. That’s what they told him later. But Max, who’d mastered most languages on almost ev
ery planet and dimension, said she didn’t recognize it.
Despite that, nothing happened, and they all stood to stare at Michael until his shoulders sagged, and he stepped back.
Claudia called the healers, and they did the best they could to staunch the bleeding. It stopped considerably, but there was still too much coming from the wound to guarantee he would live past the week. The bluntness of the healers made Max angry. She yelled at them, throwing things and cursing in a language Chandler didn’t know before they finally escaped the room. The white gauze that was wrapped around his entire torso was stark against the burnt color of the rock, and Chandler stood to stare at it for hours after the others had gone back to sleep. Max had fallen asleep on the floor holding Michael’s hand. When he was able to shake himself from the black hole inside his head, Chandler went and got the blanket and pillow he had lying in the library. Going back to the family room, he slid the pillow under Max’s head and then did as best as he could with the blanket. She would still feel the ache of sleeping on the floor the next day, but hopefully, it would help.
Chandler’s mind stayed blank the next day until Gideon came to the door and looked inside. The anger he felt upon meeting Gideon returned, and he stepped up to the man until he was forced out the door. Chandler stood there, blood boiling as his ears tuned finely to the painful thump of Michael’s heartbeat. Gideon didn’t look him in the eye; he looked anywhere but at Chandler.
“I dare you to try it again,” he growled lowly.
Then Damian came into the room as if he’d been called, and when Chandler turned, Max was watching him impassively, standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. He stepped away from Gideon and made his way back to the couch, sitting on the hard floor and looking in their direction.
“What is it?” Damian asked.
“It’s come to my attention that the Duke twin is bleeding to death in your house,” Gideon said simply, but he didn’t try to step inside again. “Since we have no way to heal him, then he needs to be taken topsoil before his decomposition ruins the atmosphere here.”
