Assassin's Academy: Book One: Rebels: (A Dark Academy Romance)

by Everly Frost

  I raise my eyes to hers, squeezing my own clear of tears. “You can cut me all day,” I say. “I won’t touch that wand again.”

  Ms. Sparrow gasps.

  I brace for more pain as she raises her wand.

  Lucinda’s sudden shout breaks through the heavy silence. “Disarm!”

  Her pink wand shoots through the air, targeting Ms. Sparrow’s like some sort of homing beacon. Ms. Sparrow jolts, shouts, and turns her wand on Lucinda, but in the next instant Lucinda’s wand splits down the middle like a tuning fork, neatly colliding with Ms. Sparrow’s and collecting it before changing course completely. It zooms upward and lodges in the ceiling. Ms. Sparrow’s wand ends up pressed against the ceiling between the two prongs of Lucinda’s.

  The teacher gapes, her mouth dropping open before her face turns red with rage. She screams for the guards. “Compliance!”

  Lucinda shrugs as the sound of running boots meets my ears. “You wanted me to improve, Ms. Sparrow.”

  She points at the ceiling. “That is not improvement! That’s insolence.”

  Lucinda’s lips twitch into a smile. “I think that’s subjective.”

  Compliance officers swarm the room and Lucinda’s compliance officer grabs her, but she relaxes into his hold, allowing him to pull her arms back without breaking them. He drags her away from her desk and forces her to the floor into a kneeling position, his wand pressed against her bruised cheek. He looks to Ms. Sparrow for instructions.

  Before she can speak, Lucinda suggests, “You can throw me in the pit if you want. I wouldn’t mind the peace and quiet.”

  Does she have a death wish?

  Ms. Sparrow’s jaw clenches. She presses her lips together in anger. “This class is over. You can go to gym early. That should be punishment enough.”

  She snatches up the wand on my desk, glaring at me before she waves it at the two wands stuck to the ceiling and speaks a command. “Return!”

  The now two-pronged pink wand wobbles, refusing to unstick. Ms. Sparrow repeats the command. “Untie unstick!”

  Finally, the pink wand slides from the ceiling, both wands falling to Ms. Sparrow’s waiting open palm. She calls all the wands to her and they coast through the air behind her in a bundle as she storms from the room.

  Lucinda’s guard releases her with a shove that forces her into the floor. She quickly rolls clear of his descending boot before jumping to her feet.

  I release the breath I was holding. She’s okay. I check my cuts and discover that they’re no worse than papercuts. They sting like hell, but they should heal quickly.

  A burning sensation tells me that Striker is still staring at me. When I cast my gaze in his direction, pasting a nonchalant expression on my face, I’m shocked to see pain etched across his features, his face pale, his forehead creased, lips pressed tight. A muscle ticks at the side of his jaw. His hands are clenched around… something… I can’t see what it is.

  Whoever the girl is that the wand belonged to, she did what she set out to do. She hurt him.

  She could still be here. She could be one of the girls in this room, but I don’t think so. The sense I got from her… I would know it if I felt it again.

  His expression hardens, closing off, but his movements are slower as he presses two jagged pieces of wood onto his desk and leaves the room.

  It’s his wand. What remains of it, anyway.

  I think back, remembering the snap. He broke it in two when I first called the wand’s owner a liar.

  I’m the last to leave class. I’ll be the last to arrive at gym if I don’t hurry. I break into a quick stride and then a jog, darting around the other students, even sprinting past Striker, to take the stairs quickly and exit the building. The warm morning air fills my lungs as I rip off my uniform and ascend to the ring, arching an eyebrow at Striker when he arrives after me.

  Ms. Hawk already stands next to one of the practicing posts, leaning against it with her arms folded, eyeing me. She’s probably heard about my display in Magical Instruments and is prepared for my insolent behavior.

  Striker keeps me in his sights while he pulls off his uniform and follows me up onto the ring. He doesn’t take an immediate swipe at me like he did yesterday, keeping his distance instead. It’s impossible to miss the quick assessment he gives my wounds. I’m bleeding, but I’m okay.

  I wait another beat for Ms. Hawk to be distracted by the arriving students before I take quick strides to breach the distance between us. Up close, I’m hit with the scent of cedarwood. Damn, he has the best scent in the world. I keep my voice low. “Teach me how to fight.”

  The crease in his forehead deepens to a scowl. “You’re not worth my time.”

  Oomph. I mimic a dagger to my heart with an exaggerated wince and pout. “Ouch, Draven. You really hurt my feelings.”

  Without giving him time to respond, I drop the act and glare at him. “Like I haven’t heard that a thousand times before. Now, teach me how to fight.”

  He doesn’t budge, his eyes narrowing. His chiseled bare chest is a little too distracting in the sunlight. All that gleaming skin. I keep my focus on his face as I circle him, giving him a chance to think.

  “I don’t care how you teach me,” I say. “Beat me up for all I care. As long as I learn something along the way, it’s all the same to me.”

  There’s a tic in the muscle in his jaw. Without warning, he twists, and his rock of a fist strikes toward me.

  I dart to the left, barely managing to avoid it.

  He watches my movements, dropping his arm and standing back. “Your reflexes are good, but you need to think about your next move. Avoiding a hit is only one part of the equation. You need a follow-up.”

  I dance backward before I force myself to stop and plant my feet. “Okay, then. Hit me.”

  The corner of his mouth tugs up. He paces toward me, surprising me by using his left hand instead of his right. I don’t have time to avoid it. His fist clocks me smack on my cheek.

  Thud.

  The world spins and I kiss the ground. Hot damn. That hurt.

  I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes closed before I press up on my hands, telling myself it’s all good. I’m totally fine. Ms. Hawk was starting to look at us and now she’s turned away again. Watching me get beat up is obviously not very interesting to her.

  I draw up to my feet as Striker towers over me. I grit my teeth, bracing, determined that I’m ready for anything this time. “Again.”

  He gives me a look like I’ve lost it. He aims another hit for exactly the same spot on my cheek, this time with his right fist. I duck but miss the fact that he’s following up with his left, which slams into my shoulder so hard that I spin before I hit the ground, landing on my stomach.

  So much for being ready for anything.

  I tell myself to keep moving—lying on my stomach is one of the most vulnerable positions I can be in—but damn, I’m in pain. I swallow a sob as I roll to avoid the kick he aims at my ribs, shouting out my frustration that I’m crying right now. “Fucking tears!”

  He glares down at me. “You’ve got a mouth on you today, Price.”

  “Fuck you.” I jump to my feet, my head swimming, my balance shaky. This time I don’t plant my feet. I keep moving. Mostly because my balance is pulling me in wonky directions that I can’t control. “Again.”

  I don’t focus on any part of him. My only goal is to get in a hit of my own. Yesterday when I connected, it was like a trigger for my senses, some sort of clarity-inducing rage. I need to feel that again.

  I watch for the openings in his movements, the gaps between his arms, the spaces where his body isn’t protected.

  When his right fist shoots toward me, his left shoulder is exposed. My fist crunches into him so hard that I barely feel the impact of his hit on my own shoulder. Energy rages through me on impact, a violent, searing thrill.

  We hurtle away from each other, our hits propelling us in opposite directions. I tumble before ending up in
a half-kneeling crouch, both hands planted on the ground.

  I can’t help but smile at the way heat surges up my arm, the power flowing through me despite the pain in my left shoulder. It occurs to me that he had the decency to target my unhurt shoulder, not the one that he bandaged. Still, I don’t hesitate, sprinting toward him before he has time to fully stand, my energy levels heightened. I throw my body, feet first across the distance, landing a hard hit into his chest, forcing him flat onto his back. I land on my side, grazing my elbows, one leg hitting his chest. I hurry to use his body as a platform, planting my foot against his ribs and attempting to propel myself back to my feet.

  Oomph. I sense the air leave his lungs as my foot connects, but before I can complete my getaway, he grabs my ankle, yanking me to the ground. I twist just in time so I don’t land on my side, using my stomach muscles to throw myself upright, ending up partially straddling him. He grips one foot in his hands, holding it high against his shoulder while my other leg is bent awkwardly on his other side.

  Plan my next move, huh? Well, that didn’t go so well.

  Energy still rages through both my legs from the connection I made. I’m breathing hard, but my arms are completely free and he’s lying on his back, trying to stop me freeing my leg again. I could easily punch him in his beautiful face.

  I lean forward, flexing over my leg to plant a fist on the mat next to his cheek. “What move would you make right now if you were me, Draven?”

  He surprises me by grinning, a disarming gleam in his eyes. “I’d knock your lights out.”

  “Okay, then.”

  I raise my fist to take a swing, but—damn him—he used my hesitation to shift his legs. He harnesses his stomach muscles in a way I never expected and lifts me up still straddling him.

  Without supporting my back.

  He shoves my foot away from his body and flips me backward. I shriek. There’s nothing to stop my fall as I tip back. It’s too late to get my feet under me. I crunch gracelessly onto my shoulder, narrowly avoiding landing on my head, rolling quickly to avoid his stomping feet aimed at my torso and then my legs.

  I barely get to my feet in time to face him again.

  His eyes are blank, expressionless, a cold glint in them. “Never stop to talk, Price. It gives your opponent time to think.”

  Lesson learned. That time, I fell on my wounded shoulder and I’m sure I ripped open some of the cuts.

  I inhale a calming breath, but it’s no use.

  Now I’m mad.

  I lift my eyes to his and let go of all planning whatsoever.

  I just want to hurt him back. That is all.

  Taking a deep breath, I launch forward, swinging at Striker’s head, feinting left when he blocks my fist. I connect with his side instead and follow up—finally—with a punch to his lower back. I sense his inhale, the tensing of his muscles, the heat raging through my hands, up into my head.

  When he swings toward me, I throw another fist at his chin. His head snaps back, but I don’t stop there, following up with my left fist crunching against his shoulder and a hard knee to his stomach.

  He flies back, landing on his butt several paces away.

  I can’t believe I put him there. I’m as shocked as he is.

  Standing with my fists clenched at my sides, I wait for him to get to his feet and fight me again.

  He rises, a cautious angle to his body as he rubs his chin, a surprising worry entering his expression as his gaze descends to my feet.

  I follow his line of sight and for a second… it looks like my feet aren’t touching the ground.

  Am I levitating? That’s not possible… unless I actually do have powers. The idea is so startling to me that I gasp.

  Ms. Hawk swivels in my direction.

  Just before her gaze lands on me, Striker’s body barrels into mine, forcing the air out of my lungs as he wraps both arms around my waist in a tackle that carries us out of the ring. We fly backward, hit the grass, and narrowly miss cracking our heads on the practicing posts on that side of the ring.

  Lachlan and Ryan jump out of the way on either side of us.

  I roll to a stop several paces from Striker, groaning out the pain. The impact of our fall is still reverberating through my chest and legs. I’m hurt everywhere now. There’s not a single part of me that doesn’t ache. Oh, give me painkillers.

  When Striker jumps to his feet before I can, I throw up my hands in defeat. The fall took the wind out of my sails. He ignores my upraised hands, grabbing the back of my shirt and dragging me away from the ring.

  Ms. Hawk casts a bored glance in our direction before returning to the other students. I guess she assumes he’s determined to get revenge because I beat him just now—and that seems fine with her.

  “Hey!” I thump Striker’s hand as he continues to pull me away—all the way to the neat rows of rose bushes at the back of the grounds. “Let me go!”

  He dumps me on the grass and rounds on me, his voice a low growl. “That was stupid, Price!”

  A merciless laugh tears out of me. “Which part? Wanting to learn how to fight or kicking your butt?”

  He leans down to grab my shoulders, surprising me when he eases up on my hurt shoulder. “The part where you rose off the ground.”

  I can’t stop myself. “I did? That really happened?”

  His face crinkles in disgust. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what you did. You accessed your power. You showed increased agility, strength, and a sudden burst of speed. It’s how you beat me.”

  I replay my actions in my mind—the force behind my fists, the way I dodged his attack, rounded on him faster than I thought possible, and thrust him across the combat mat. None of it was conscious on my part. I was aware of my energy—I was drawing on it like sucking down on ice on a blistering summer day—but I didn’t willfully know what I was doing.

  I search his eyes for a sign that he believes me when I say, “I’m not pretending, Draven. That’s never happened to me before.”

  I’m not sure if I should tell Striker that I think it has something to do with him. My brother used his fire mage power on me all the time—burning my hair, making me break out in heat sweats at awkward moments, forcing me to dodge him, only to step into the path of someone I really didn’t want to bump into. But I never felt the surge of energy that I feel when I connect with Striker’s body.

  His scowl deepens. He casts a wary glance back at the class. He doesn’t relax even when it’s clear Ms. Hawk isn’t paying attention to us. The compliance officers have left us alone so far too. When I’m with Striker, they seem to take the attitude that I’m in enough danger already.

  When he turns back to me, he doesn’t have to speak. The scathing glint in his eyes tells me he doesn’t believe me.

  “I’m not lying,” I persist. “I hate lies.”

  His grip eases, a new caution in his eyes. “You made that clear in Magical Instruments.”

  “I don’t know what I am,” I whisper. “If I can levitate, I could be any number of things. A witch… a winged shifter… Did you see whether I have wings? I didn’t have time to look—”

  “Stop!” He shakes me hard again. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he looks worried. “The moment they know what species of supernatural you are, they’ll start phase two on you. You don’t want that.”

  “Phase two?”

  “The phase where they bombard you with targeted attacks that trigger flicker fits. If you can’t control the fits, they’ll kill you.”

  I ease out a shaky breath. “Joseph’s in stage two, isn’t he?”

  Striker gives me a short, affirmative nod. “They think he’s a shifter. Ashley’s still in phase two as well. They thought she was an ice mage because she could make things freeze, but now they think she’s telekinetic.”

  “What about Lucinda?”

  “She just finished it. It goes on as long they want—a year even.”

  Again, I search his eyes. “Why are you warning
me about this? You said you’d never help me.”

  His expression hardens. He said he weren’t friends and he wasn’t lying. I’m still figuring out what sort of relationship he has with the other students, but other than helping Joseph the other night—with a fist in his face, no less—I haven’t seen Striker interact with them in any positive or friendly way. I don’t understand why he’s helping me now.

  Unless… he’s not.

  Oh. Right. He’s helping himself.

  I swallow, breathing quietly. “You need them to believe that the power of an Unknown can never be known. If I show signs of my power so quickly, they’ll restart their efforts on you.”

  His only reaction is a narrowing of his fiery eyes. “They’ve already tried and failed.”

  Failed? Now I know he’s lying to me. The flame I thought I saw in his eyes the other night was real. I take a deep breath, challenging him with my suspicions. “You know what you are, don’t you, Draven?”

  His grip tightens again, his eyes blazing and this time, I know I’m not imagining the fire that flickers in his gaze.

  His mouth forms a threatening line. “If you tell anyone, I will kill you, you hear me?”

  I stare at him in shock. He knows what he is. He really knows. His death threat is a mere wash of sound—his admission of knowledge is more shocking to me.

  “Do you hear me?”

  I nod. Loud and clear.

  13. Striker Draven

  I try to calm myself as I stride away from Peyton. Fighting her is dangerous. Touching her is dangerous. She brings out my beast and that’s the last thing I need. Damn her. She brings out the worst in me.

  She brings out the best in you.

  I ignore the stirring beast and its unwanted contribution to my inner turmoil. I fed him so much electricity yesterday he should be in a slumbering stupor right now. Instead, he woke up the moment Peyton’s fist connected with my shoulder.

  At the most basic level, I could conclude that her use of force triggered my beast as a protective mechanism, but it was more than that. It was as if her emotions transferred to me and I felt what she felt.