by Everly Frost
It all happened so fast, I’m still processing when he turns his gaze up to me, his amber eyes glinting. “Let’s put this somewhere safer.”
He deposits the cup on the other side of his desk, far away from me.
I turn back to the front of the class. I’m too tired to react. I wasn’t going to drink it anyway.
A little wad of paper lands on my desk. My head jolts, seeking the source, my defenses kicking in again.
Lucinda gives me a discreet wave, but it’s an attention-seeking wave, not a greeting. Her wide-eyed stare is pointed as she mouths, “Are you okay?”
I nod once. Yes.
I’ve told a lot of lies today, but that’s the biggest. I can’t remember the last time someone asked me if I’m okay. I want to tell the truth, but it won’t do me any good. Striker’s gaze is burning my neck, making me wonder if I’m cut across it. The feathers scratched me all over my arms too.
Mr. Mallard leans on his desk. “For the sake of our new student, I’m going to repeat what you already know: Everything here at Bloodwing is designed to encourage your power to more fully reveal itself. Once you understand the nature of your power, you must learn to control it.”
He peers at me as if that might be news to me, but it isn’t. It’s the reason I haven’t asked for help with my wounds. There’s no infirmary. The staff will deliberately leave my health to worsen because illness is more likely to force my body’s natural instincts to take over and result in a magical manifestation. I know this, because my parents tried it.
The philosophy here is: Danger invites reaction.
He continues. “However, this class is not concerned with compelling your magic to manifest. It’s about enabling you to understand where your magic comes from so you can better consider how to access it.
“As we’ve been discussing, all magical power originates from the ancient gods in one way or another. Last week, we looked at how shifters originated primarily from the Egyptian gods, in particular Anubis, the first wolf shifter. This week, we’re turning to the Greek gods. And where else to start but with Zeus…”
For the next hour, Mr. Mallard talks about the magic of the Greek gods, how fire mages are descended from Apollo, the god of the sun, and invisibility is a power derived from Hades, god of the underworld. I take most of it with a grain of salt, even though it’s fitting that my mother’s power originates from the god of hell.
Despite the ache in my stomach, it’s the most peaceful hour I’ve ever spent in a school environment. It occurs to me that it might be the most peace anyone here experiences. Even Striker is quiet. I guess that’s why Mr. Mallard has such a captive audience. When he says that our time is up, everyone is slow to rise.
“Time for morning tea.” He beams. “Don’t forget to receive your food before gym class.”
It’s a weird way to talk about food, but my attention remains on Striker. I quickly gather up my books, amazed at the number of notes I took, aiming to get out of his way before he has a chance to push past me. The only place I’m not hurt right now is my ribs. I don’t want to end up rammed against the edge of a desk while I’m getting up.
I slip into the aisle and away, hurrying past Lucinda who tries to catch up to me before I reach the door. I appreciate her concern, but I don’t know if I can handle her asking me if I’m okay without breaking down. I can’t do that in front of everyone.
Outside in the corridor, I realize that I don’t know where gym class is. It’s not listed on the stupid map they gave me. It can’t be on the lower level—there isn’t a room big enough—and it wouldn’t make sense for it to be on a higher level. Now I regret not stopping for Lucinda. Other than her, the other students are still avoiding me. A quick glance back tells me that Mr. Mallard stopped her before she left the room.
“You lost, Price?”
Striker Draven’s voice holds a hint of derision. He hovers at my shoulder, one step behind me so I can’t see his face without turning and giving him my full attention.
I squeeze my eyes closed. “I’m fine, thanks.”
I pause long enough to take my cue from the direction the other students are walking. They’re all facing forward, heading toward the stairwell, which means they’re probably going down to the first level.
Up ahead, Ms. Sparrow suddenly appears at the juncture at the top of the stairs, her red hair unmistakable. “Food!” she shouts.
Around me, all of the students tuck their books under their arms and hold out both hands, palms up. A pear appears in one of their hands and a cookie in the other.
Wait… what?
My books are only halfway under my arm when a large cookie appears in my left hand and a pear drops out of midair into the space where my right hand should have been. It splats onto the floor, too ripe to hold its shape.
A second later, Striker’s large boot presses down on it, squishing it into the floor.
I stare at the crushed food, my left hand closing over the cookie, instinctively gripping tightly. I can’t let him take it from me. I’m starving and I need to eat. I breathe out my rage, fueled by intense hunger. “You… asshole…”
Before I can make a run for it with my precious cookie, his big hand snaps out, grabs my left wrist, and squeezes. He dodges the useless fist I aim at his chest, sidestepping it. It’s too late anyway because my left hand snaps open out of reflex and the cookie drops to the floor, rolling neatly under his boot.
I stare down as his shoe annihilates the doughy substance, turning it into sludge on the wooden floor.
He pauses—I guess it’s for effect—before he leans down close, still holding my wrist, daring me to look at him. “No tears this time? I thought you said you’d gore me slowly.”
My blood boils as I stare at the floor. If I had power, I would use it now. I would make him hurt and crush him slowly… piece by piece… but instead… he’s the one crushing me. He has all the power and I have none.
I’m so hungry. I don’t remember the last thing I ate. Maybe dinner the night before my parents dragged me into the car to bring me here.
I’m too hungry.
The fight drains out of me.
I focus on his shoulder, hardly moving at all. “Let me go.”
There’s a pause. Silence.
I wait, remaining right where I am, unmoving, not caring about whatever cruel smile he’s giving me right now. Not caring about whatever he does next.
His fingers slowly unfurl from my wrist one at a time, the pressure easing in increments. His thumb grazes my palm as he slides his hand away from mine, a confusingly soft touch for what began as such an aggressive gesture.
As soon as he releases me, I step back, avoiding looking at him, discovering that everyone is watching us. Not only the other students, but also the compliance officers, who stand at intervals along the hallway, smirking at the way he’s treating me. It might have been better if I’d fought Striker harder, made it look like I still had fight in me, but I need to conserve my energy. The next time I see Ms. Sparrow, I’ll make certain I’m ready for whatever food she gives me.
Until then, I swerve toward the water fountain and take a long drink. For whatever reason, Striker lets me drink it. I guess he’s not going to kill me by dehydration—only starvation.
Lucinda hurries up to me, catching my arm, creating a visual distraction between me and him.
I wince because she grabbed a sore spot, and she immediately lets go, hovering at my side and keeping her voice to a whisper. “You’re not okay. Nobody spends a night in the pit and comes out okay.” She air quotes around “okay” before she asks, “What happened down there?”
I press my lips together. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“They said you killed the harpy. Like actually killed it dead.”
There’s a question in her voice, but I don’t answer her. I feel bad that she’s not getting anything out of me, especially because she seems to care, but I… can’t relive it. I’ve put up a partition in my m
ind, carving the memory off like so many bad memories before. I won’t climb over that partition ever again. The harpy is gone. Only the physical wounds remain.
Her tone is accusing. “You’re all cut up across your face and you’re bleeding all over your shirt. Everyone can see it.”
I finally arc up, raising myself in defiance. “I’m sorry my appearance is so offensive.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She stares at me as if she expects something. The moment stretches. Her eyes widen. “When are you going to ask for help?”
“I’m not.”
She peers at me, her surprise turning to a deep frown. “Oh, hell. You’re really not.” She sighs. “Well, I’d give you my food, but Striker will just swat it. He’s really not happy you’re here.”
I laugh, but it has no humor in it. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
The man in question strides past at that point and once he’s well into the distance, Lucinda and I follow the other students. I’m not sure where we’re going until we descend the stairs and exit the building by the back door.
I could tell myself the day can’t get any worse, but I know that’s a lie.
7. Peyton Price
The pebbled pathway outside the main building leads directly to a large, raised platform. It looks like a massive boxing ring without the ropes around the outside. Wooden training posts are positioned on each side of it—the kind that look like they’re from a martial arts movie.
A woman stands on the platform, her wand already out and ready. It’s a crooked wand with a vine wound around it. She’s taller than any woman I’ve seen before, possibly mid-thirties with black hair cascading down her back that matches her tight black pants and shirt. Her eyes are a bright blue as she surveys us.
“That’s Ms. Hawk,” Lucinda explains in a whisper at my side. “Don’t be fooled by her beauty. She’s cruel. Do whatever she says without question.”
Ms. Hawk doesn’t wait for us to gather round. “You know the rules! Combat is the fastest conduit to your power. You will all take turns in the ring. Show me your power and you can leave. Until you do, you will continue to fight.”
I swallow hard. Show her my power. I’ll be here until sundown. But then… so will Striker since he’s also Unknown.
Lucinda throws me a sympathetic glance as she bends to remove her shoes. All of the students are doing the same, but they don’t stop there, removing their outer clothing, revealing tight black workout clothing underneath.
I take off my shoes, but I can’t strip beyond that because I didn’t know I was supposed to come prepared. I didn’t even notice gym clothes in my closet.
“Price!” Ms. Hawk screams at me. “Uniform off.”
I lift my head. “I don’t have gym clothes on underneath.”
She storms toward me, her wand raised, shouting as she moves. “Then we’ll get a peep show. Get your uniform off or I’ll strip you myself.”
I expect to hear snickers, but none of the students makes a sound. Not even the girls. A glance tells me the guys have fixed their gaze on the fighting ring, rather than on me. I’m surprised. I assumed they’d be assholes and gawk at me.
I’m confused when Striker steps up between them and me. The moment Joseph glances in my direction, Striker steps across and takes a swipe at him—a light tap on his cheek that makes him look away. What… is he seriously defending my honor right now?
Or… is it a possessive move?
My heart sinks. That’s bad. Really bad.
If he’s claiming turf around me then I’ll not only be his target but I’ll be well and truly isolated. Plenty of assholes don’t like someone else playing with their prey. I wasn’t expecting to progress to that level so quickly.
Just when I think I’ve got him pegged as a complete brute, he turns his back to me.
It’s more privacy than I thought I’d get.
Thank the ancients I’m wearing black underwear, including boyshorts. Delaying the inevitable, I turn my back on the other students as I shimmy out of my skirt and unbutton my shirt. I curse beneath my breath when my makeshift wound dressing slides off with the shirt. It turns out my tie wasn’t really holding it on after all. A trickle of blood slides down my back while I fold up my shirt and place it on the ground.
There are gasps and murmurs behind me.
I take a deep breath before I turn around. My body is a bit of a mess. Thin lines of blood slide from the punctures in my right shoulder, soaking into my bra. Two trickles make it all the way to my stomach, sinking into the top of my panties.
It could be worse. I’m not falling over and that’s what matters.
To be honest, I’m not sure how I’m still standing. I should probably be on an intravenous drip by now. Maybe that’s my superpower—to keep taking hits and not collapse. Maybe I have extra blood supply or something that means I can bleed out for an extended period of time before I pass out.
Someone’s stare is burning me like I’m in hell. Feigning nonchalance, I consider the open mouths and shocked eyes of the girls, especially Lucinda, as they gape at my wounds. I casually pass over their faces to Striker.
He looks angry as all hell. I can’t for the life of me figure out why. It can’t be on my behalf. Maybe the harpy was a friend of his and he’s mad she’s dead.
He swings to Ms. Hawk, his jaw tense. “There are finally two of us. Let’s get this over with.”
She smiles. “Price and Draven. In the ring. The rest of you to your practice stations.”
As the other students move to the training posts, an unsettled laugh rises inside me. Of course. The two Unknowns. I should have predicted it. No wonder Striker wants to keep me unfed and weak. Fighting me each day will be like crushing a ladybug over and over again. Or stepping on a ripe pear.
Aside from self-defense videos on the internet, I have no idea how to fight. I don’t even know where to begin. Eyes, throat, groin. That’s all I’ve got. Oh, and in the case of harpies, sacrifice my shoulder to get in close enough to kill with a makeshift sword made from a dead animal’s ribs.
Striker ambles up to the ring, pulling off his shirt at the same time and throwing it on the ground. The burn marks down his back have faded. Up close his back is… muscles in all the right places, perfectly sculpted like some sort of sun god.
It’s completely wrong that such a beautiful body belongs to such an asshole.
I follow him onto the platform, but he doesn’t give me time to find the middle. He swings a fist at my face. I dodge it on sheer reflex alone, adrenaline spiking through me. He comes after me, his fists like swinging rocks, swipe after swipe so savage that the air shifts around me. I narrowly avoid each one, barely inhaling as I jump and sidestep.
I can’t believe I’m still upright.
I’ve only been in the ring for ten seconds, but I didn’t expect to make it this long.
If his expression is any indication, he’s just as surprised as I am. It only seems to make him more determined to knock me out. His forehead creases into a deep frown before he takes another swing.
I duck and slide beneath his arcing arm. His stomach is exposed and it seems entirely logical to jab him as I pass by. My fist connects, his bare skin on mine. I sense the air leave his lungs, his jolt backward, a split second after energy tingles through my fist.
It was hardly a graceful maneuver and I smeared blood all over the platform when I slid across it, but the stains on it tell me mine is not the first.
He follows my movements with his eyes, his body half-turned, his shoulders squared. I didn’t hurt him. Not even close.
I jump to my feet behind him, clutching my hand where I made contact. What the hell? I’m tingling all over. I shake out my shoulders, trying to rid myself of the odd prickling from my hand up my arm. Dancing backward, I inhale air, my nerves sizzling like I’m more alive than I was before.
Energy spikes through me. It must be adrenaline. Whatever it is, I like it. My wounds suddenly don’t hurt. My head is cle
ar. And I somehow know that his left arm is weaker than his right, he exposes his right side when he hits out, and it will hurt most if I hit the location of the burns on his back.
How I know any of that is beyond me, but I’m not about to ignore this new knowledge.
A smile breaks across my face and a breeze brushes the back of my neck as I rise up to face him again.
He launches forward, but this time the gap between his arms seems wide open. My bare feet won’t make much impact, but I switch weight and kick straight at his stomach before he can get close. His own momentum adds to the hit.
Energy shoots through my foot up my leg, directly from his stomach.
He dances away from me. The fact that he doesn’t stumble is an indication of the lack of power in my kick, but it was enough to make him think twice about coming at me so fast again.
He jiggles his shoulders, stepping across the pavement, giving me wary looks before he stops moving altogether, studying me carefully.
This time, he approaches me step by careful step. He stops close enough so that he could grab me, so I take a cautious step back, aware that I’m standing at the edge of the platform.
“You fight by instinct, but your technique is off.” He holds out his hand. “Give me your fist.”
“Why?”
“You can give me your fist or we can go back to fighting. I’m not going to ask twice.”
I remain unemotional. I may as well be stating facts like talking about the weather. “You’re going to hurt me.”
“You’re already hurt. Very badly, as far as I can see.” He’s blank. No hint of sympathy. He, too, is stating facts. “You’re right to distrust my motives.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Then…?”
“You’re forming your fists wrong,” he says.
I glance at Ms. Hawk. Her arms are folded across her chest as she stands watching us, but she doesn’t object to Striker’s quieter actions. That alone should scare me.
