by Everly Frost
I give myself an internal slap.
I don’t know enough about Furies, but they have the power to compel even the fiercest warrior to do their bidding.
Her power is growing stronger.
Much stronger.
I didn’t anticipate that her power of compulsion would affect me in my hellhound form, but I should have remembered that a Fury is built for vengeance on all creatures, human and supernatural. She is judge, jury, and executioner.
If I were smart, I’d fear her, but what I feel for her is much more intense. I still can’t believe how hard she fought to bring me back, that she’s given me the second chance I never thought I’d get. I won’t waste it. She’s the most important person in my life now and I’ll spend every day proving it to her.
She glances back at me, her lips curving. She promised to hate me always. She brought me back from the abyss. Even as the demons of hell gripped my ankles and pulled me under, she reached down and wouldn’t let me go.
We reach the end of the corridor. The entrance area ahead of us is empty, but we can’t see to either side. With a shiver, I realize that’s why she smiled.
She raises her hand, palm up at me to stop.
I count my heartbeats. One. Two.
She darts forward, her arms outstretched, before she spins in the air. Glittering darts flood the space around her like deadly snow. She whirls through them, dancing effortlessly until the flurry stops, at which she lands in the center of the floor, finding her feet, completely unharmed.
“I think that’s it,” she says with another laugh and again, the tension eases around me. I don’t think she realizes that it’s not only her lighthearted speech, but her compulsion that is easing the minds of all of those around her. I’m glad for it. The last thing we need is for someone to panic and get themselves killed.
I stride up to her, expanding my senses. Contrary to what I thought, I count four bodies outside the front entrance and none at the back exit. “They’re all out front.”
She nods as if she already knew. “We should go outside first—just you and I—and kill them. I don’t want to risk the other students.”
She’s so calm, talking about death so easily, it’s scary.
My inner nature laps it up, but my human side is cautious. “The spells could have been tests.”
Her eyes narrow. “You mean if we walk out of here alive, they’ll know we have particular powers.”
“Raptor’s not stupid.”
“You’re right.” She sighs. “I was worried he already figured out Bree and Lucinda’s powers.”
I’m curious. “Bree?”
She gives me a smile. “She’s a siren.”
That’s news to me, but I stay focused. “I agree with your plan.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You do?”
I grin at her, rolling my shoulders. “Why is that so surprising?”
Peyton shrugs. She leans in with a smile, but it fades, and she finally allows me to see the fear she’s hiding, using me as a visual barrier so the others can’t see her face. She lowers her voice. “They’re ready for us this time. The dining room was child’s play. The risk to the others is high now.”
I contemplate the closed doors. I walked into this place through those doors. Strode in like I didn’t care, willfully taking a knife to my sense of freedom.
Striding back to Lucinda and Joseph, I say to them, “We need you to stay here and protect the others. Peyton and I will let you know when the path is clear.”
“I don’t like it,” Lucinda objects, but Joseph places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We can do that. We’ll watch your backs in case anyone tries to come through here behind you.”
Lucinda finally nods. “Okay, we can do that.”
I return to Peyton. She turns her face up to mine. “I’m not afraid,” she says.
She faced me down so many times, going head to head with me. Getting right back up again to challenge me again. “You rarely are.”
“No, I mean…” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of Osprey. But I am afraid… of…” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
She leaves me wondering what she was going to say as she glides forward and presses against the door. The gleam in her eyes increases and her expression changes for a second, a shadow passing over it.
She says, “It’s time to cut some roses.”
41. Peyton Price
I don’t know how to tell Striker that I’m barely in control right now. Somewhere between the dining room and the entrance, the rage inside me has escalated. I can’t retract my claws. I had to force myself to return to the ground. My feet feel foreign on it.
I thought that if I threw myself into danger, I would regain my sense of self, but it only made things worse. A hundred glass shards passed through my body and I felt every one of them, heard myself scream a thousand times inside my mind, but even my own pain doesn’t seem to matter.
I want blood. Just like the elegant plaque behind me announces: This is Bloodwing Academy.
Dusk has fallen outside, a gorgeous sunset glow bathing the front yard, turning the red roses crimson.
Mr. Mallard, Ms. Hawk, Raptor, and Osprey stand at intervals around the rose bushes, each fully contained within a large sphere of glowing power. Ms. Vulture isn’t anywhere to be seen so I’m glad Lucinda and Joseph are watching our backs.
The spheres remind me of the poultice Osprey used on me when I first arrived, but without the sucking sensation. I won’t know what the spheres do until I engage with them but I suspect they’re some kind of defensive mechanism.
These teachers won’t be so easily disarmed.
Osprey calls to us. “You can’t touch us, Peyton. We’re protected inside these shields. Our magic can get out but nothing can get in.”
I stop at the bottom of the steps, Striker close at my side. “Let us go, Osprey. You said it yourself—we’re a liability. Let us walk out of here and you’ll never see us again.”
She scoffs. “The location of this academy has been kept secret for years. The moment you walk out of here, you’ll know where we are. Sorry, Peyton. I can’t take the chance that you’ll talk.” She sounds anything but sorry. “Especially when the assassins come for you.”
“They’re coming for you, Headmistress. Not us.”
She laughs. “That’s where you’re wrong. I wanted to give you quick deaths. The assassins will take their time.”
She’s lying through her teeth, but not about all of it. Assassins pride themselves on clean kills, but if they need information, well, Raptor’s brutality is evidence of an assassin’s interrogation skills.
I paste a smile on my face that quickly becomes genuine. “I was hoping you’d refuse.”
Darting forward, I’m prepared to tear apart their magical shields with my claws if I have to.
The teachers shout in unison, “Cunning capture, control, and cut!”
Glowing magical ropes spear toward us as we run. Striker lopes ahead of me, taking the brunt of the ropes. He grabs two of them, twists, pulls them taut, and slices through them with his claws.
I follow his lead, grabbing the end of the final lash that flies toward me, my claws passing through it. As soon as I cut it, the lash disintegrates.
I reach Mallard’s sphere first and Striker hits Hawk’s.
Despite what Osprey said, the sphere’s surface is like butter to me, my claws slicing right through it.
To my left, Striker has a harder time, ramming his claws into the sphere, molten lava flowing down his arm to his hand, sizzling across the sphere’s surface. The magic keeping the sphere together pops and crackles, cracks appearing across its surface.
Ms. Hawk screams. Spells explode around Striker as she tries to fight back. Daggers appear out of nowhere and pierce his skin. A fireball hits his back, but he doesn’t stop.
The sphere finally explodes outward. Ms. Hawk screams another spell, but Striker plucks a dagger from his c
hest and flings it into hers.
She falls to the ground and her scream stops.
I don’t have nearly so much trouble with Mallard’s sphere, slicing through it with a single downward cut and peeling it apart with my hands, stepping forward to join him inside it. Sounds outside the sphere are muffled from the inside, but Osprey’s scream as Striker hits her sphere echoes around us, oddly amplified.
Mallard plasters himself against the back of the sphere, lowering his wand. “You weren’t supposed to be able to do that.”
“I wasn’t supposed to live in this hellhole,” I say. “What is it you think I’m supposed to do now?”
Other than the ropes, he hasn’t tried to cast a spell on me. “I never hurt you, Peyton.”
“You stood by while others did.”
“True.” He nods. “I came here for the research. I wanted to study the magically repressed. Find out what you are. You haven’t disappointed. Not in the least.”
I can’t touch him unless he raises his wand. I want blood but I’m no better than Osprey if I have no honor.
Mallard lifts his left hand, palm up in surrender as he slowly places his wand on the ground and pushes it toward me. “You can kill me. It’s your choice. But I’d like to live.”
He steps away from his wand, pressing against the sphere.
Without taking my eyes off him, I bend to retrieve the magical weapon, hesitating before I touch it, wondering what I’ll see.
My fingers close around it and an image assaults me: I’m looking at myself from a different perspective—Mallard’s perspective. My body is lying on the floor of his classroom. Striker stands over the top of me, glaring back at Mallard. It must be moments after Striker knocked me out and stopped me telling Raptor about the assassins.
Raptor storms at him from the side, but Striker snarls, “Try making Peyton talk now.”
Striker feints left as Raptor draws his blade and attacks, but then Mallard flings ropes at him, binding Striker. Striker thrashes so hard that the ropes turn to blades and shred his shirt. The sight of Striker’s blood snaps me back to the present.
“I should kill you,” I say, gripping the wand as I take a step forward amid a wash of perfume. Wildflowers. The scent swirls around us, intensified within the sphere and with it, my compulsion to control him increases.
Mallard nods. “You should.” He drops to his knees and tips his head back, responding to my wish. “Will you, please?”
My hands shake. I fight the urge to claw his neck and end his miserable existence.
Snap. His wand separates into two, bringing me back to myself just in time. I grip both pieces hard and take them with me as I step from the sphere, leaving Mallard to slump within it. He can’t hurt or stop us without his wand.
Outside, Osprey is fighting back with everything she’s got. Every time Striker creates a crack in her sphere, she screams another spell, repairing it. He’s bleeding across his neck, where she must have tried to slit his throat, but the wound is healing.
Raptor prowls within his own sphere, a dagger clutched in each hand. He has no magic to fight back with and can’t come out to fight us. He flicks a glance at the front entrance, as if he’s expecting something, but there’s nobody there. Maybe he thinks Vulture is coming to help him?
As he turns, I catch sight of the weapon attached to his belt.
My whip.
I take a step toward him just as Striker breaks through Osprey’s shield and everything explodes around us. A spell hits me from behind forcing me into Raptor’s shield. My outstretched claws cut right through it so that I tumble inside to his waiting blades.
One slices through my shoulder, the other through my back, but my screams only sound in my mind. The wounds heal instantly.
He jolts backward, cursing loudly, driving the dagger into my neck and leaving it there.
I scowl at him, pulling it free and repositioning it in my hand. “That wasn’t smart.”
Keeping him within my sights, I tear an opening in the sphere and fling the dagger outside it. It doesn’t bother me that he still holds one blade. He can’t hurt me with it.
My only focus now is the whip.
Outside Raptor’s shield, Osprey continues to fight back, keeping Striker at bay. I was afraid she might control instinctive magic and it looks like my fears are coming true.
He drops to his knees as a spell splashes against his heart. A blade forms before his face, arcing toward his eye. He grabs it with his hand, straining to keep it from descending, blood dripping down his arm as the sword cuts his palm.
He’s not healing fast enough to hold on.
A smile crosses Osprey’s face.
I scream at Raptor. “Give me the whip!”
The scent of wildflowers fills the space around us. He shudders, shaking his head, trying to clear it, his hand inching toward the weapon.
His hesitation is all I need. I duck, roll, and snatch the whip from his belt. I run, one hand outward, claws slicing through the shield as I arc back, racing toward Osprey.
My power flows into the whip as I skid to a halt, raise my arm and swing. With a scream, the tips sail through the air, straight and true, wrapping around Osprey’s face and neck twice before they crack against her cheeks.
I sense the moment of perfect tension in the whip, the moment that the crack splits the air.
Her startled scream is cut short as I retract my arm and the whip tears through sinew, muscle, and bone.
A clean kill.
Her body snaps to the side, rolling out of the whip as it unfurls and casts her through the air. She hits the ground, tumbles a couple of paces, and comes to a stop under a rose bush, lying on her side, her face turned away.
I should be horrified.
I should go into shock at what I just did.
But the blade at Striker’s face disappears and I’m grateful because he’s alive. I promised I’d defend him and I’ll never break that promise.
He pulls to his feet, spits blood onto the ground, and then comes for me, taking my arms in his enormous hands as he searches my eyes. “Thank you.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m not done.”
He gives me a serious nod before he stands clear. “I won’t stop you.”
I turn, dragging the whip through the grass. I’ll need to clean it later but its job isn’t finished yet.
Raptor’s shield disappeared the moment that Osprey died.
He flings his second blade straight and true into my heart, but I drag it right out, dropping it to the ground.
He backs up, his gaze flicking to the entrance again.
I adjust the whip as I advance on him, lifting it and preparing to swing.
“Stop!” The shout from the front door makes me pause.
Ms. Vulture descends down the front steps, her old lady legs hurrying as fast as she can. She’s alone and isn’t even carrying a wand. Striker advances on her, making her stop with a shriek as she takes in his appearance.
She pulls herself upright as he prowls around her, her head held high, smoothing her hair back and tugging her sweater into place. She eyes him over her glasses.
I keep Raptor in my sights as Vulture carefully raises her hand and flicks her wrist.
Both doors open and the students appear behind her. They shuffle together, Lucinda and Joseph at their head. Their bodies are wooden as they move, their eyes unfocused.
“What have you done to them?” I shout.
Ms. Vulture clears her throat. “I’ve used a compliance spell on them. You’ll be pleased to know it was very difficult and won’t last very long, but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Joseph is already breaking free. Lucinda will be next. If you don’t mind, Peyton, my intent is not to harm you. Only to delay you for a moment until—”
A loud clang rings out behind me.
“There,” Ms. Vulture says, giving me a pleased smile.
I swing to the gate, stepping closer to Striker, both of us backing up so we can keep Vulture,
Raptor, and the entrance in our sights. Off to the side, Mallard has fallen to the ground, remaining on his knees as he, too, watches the gate.
It rattles as it opens.
42. Peyton Price
The empty road stretches out before us, curving to the right and into the trees, the forest obscuring the rest of it. It’s the first time I’ve seen the gate open and the urge to race through it is so strong, I have to fight my instincts. I can’t leave without everyone else and most of the students are still under Vulture’s control.
The gate’s iron bars slide open in both directions as two armored vehicles appear around the distant curve, both sleek and black, with tinted windows so no one can see who’s inside them.
I brace, ready for anything as the first truck pulls to a halt in the entrance, not quite entering the grounds.
The passenger side door opens and an older man jumps from it, his movements sharp and controlled. He’s wearing black body armor, with multiple weapon belts attached around his torso and hips. I lose count of the dagger hilts and guns, finally contemplating the tip of what appears to be a semi-automatic machine gun strapped to his back.
His hair is white blond, his eyes striking blue, his jaw chiseled in a perfect military way, and his clothing stretched over his muscled arms and legs. He looks mid-forties but carries himself like a twenty-year old. As soon as his boots hit the ground, thirty other men dressed just like him pour from the back of the trucks, swarming into the yard and lining the fence line. One of them drags Mallard with him, gripping his arm and forcing him to his knees on the grass again.
Suddenly, we’re surrounded and it’s like the nightmare is beginning all over again. Striker growls beside me, reminding me that we can fight back this time. We just killed thirty compliance officers. We can kill these men too.
Maybe. We’ve fought magic, not guns. I’m certain I can withstand bullets, but I don’t know about Striker. The students who are still in human form won’t have a chance if bullets start flying. Tears of rage fill my eyes as I realize that I shouldn’t have stopped fighting. I should have killed Raptor quickly, then Vulture, and been done with it.
