Free Spirit: Book Two of The Bound Spirit Series

by H. A. Wills

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Well, if that’s all...” sarcasm saturating my voice as I trail off, and Felix snickers.

  When we reach the open area near a wide selection of free weights, Nolan flashes me a grin and says, “So I’m supposed to be your personal trainer, I guess. Need me to walk you through what stretches you’re supposed to do?”

  I snort. “I took gym, so I think I’m good, but I’ll let you know if I need help.”

  “Just remember, dynamic stretching before workout, and static stretching after,” he adds with flourish.

  “I’ll remember,” I sing back, then bend at the waist, bouncing my hands against the floor.

  There are two audible throat clearings, before Felix comments, “You’re pretty flexible there. When I was alive, I could barely touch my knees.”

  “Yeah, well this is pretty much all I have working for me,” I sigh, blood slowly making its way to my head. “I’m slim thanks to genetics, not actual athletic ability.”

  “Uh-- yeah-- I’m sure all the training will probably help with that,” Nolan comments, his words trailing off like he’s distracted.

  I stand up to start pulling my knees to my chest, quickly alternating between legs, when I notice Nolan and Felix’s gazes quickly shift to my face. Were they just...?

  I can’t decide if I should feel awkward, flattered, or simply relieved that at least I’m not the only one ogling. It does bring to mind something I hadn’t considered. I’ve been trying to keep my wayward attractions in check, if for no other reason than because they’re my first real friends, and I don’t want to screw it up. But what if one of them develops more than friendly feelings for me? I’m still figuring out how to be a friend. I’ve no clue how to be a girlfriend.

  I mentally groan. Presumptuous much? You’re a whole new brand of crazy they’re possibly regretting taking on. They literally saw you go catatonic from just seeing fire, and let’s not forget you’re a magical ticking time bomb. Be happy they aren’t running for the hills.

  There’s a sharp clang of metal against metal loud enough to be heard over the music, startling me from my thoughts. I look over at Kaleb and Donovan, and my stomach freefalls. While they narrowly miss the other’s blade, their faces are fierce masks of deathly concentration, as if they’re in the middle of a battle for their lives.

  My heart stutters as Kaleb goes hard at Donovan, his blade making a long swinging arc from his hip, while the dagger against his forearm blocks the katana’s strike on his other side.

  There’s a quick chirp from Donovan’s shoes against the hardwood floor, as he turns and jumps back, barely missing the blow of the longsword. With Kaleb’s right side open, Donovan tries to slash across his belly, only to be parried and barely lifts his foot in time to keep from getting knocked down with a leg sweep.

  My lungs burn from only taking little gasps of air. Every time a hit is deflected, I barely have a chance to exhale in relief, before they go for the next strike.

  They both jump back and continue to circle each other, sweat clinging to their skin. The music shifts from the sweet violins to a heavier rock song that is a mix of the deep throaty sounds of cellos and the more expected sounds of drums, bass, and electric guitar. The vocalist has the harsh anger of the wounded, as he promises he isn’t Jesus and won’t forget what he’s suffered.

  Donovan’s eyes narrow, and he rolls his shoulders with the music shift.

  “Intense, huh?” Felix interjects, bringing me back to myself and the realization that I’ve been standing with one leg pulled to my chest for a couple of minutes now. My hip isn’t pleased.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” I mumble. My eyes feel dry from lack of blinking.

  “Just wait,” Nolan hints solemnly, as I finally switch to the other leg.

  The refracted light of the sun against the swords immediately draws my eye back. Despite the flying blades, neither’s gaze leaves the face of the other, relying on their peripheral vision to warn them of the next attack.

  With lightning speed, Kaleb stabs forward, looking to skewer Donovan, but misses when he once again spins away. The blade must be heavy, but Kaleb handles it with an effortless grace that is mesmerizing.

  I cringe with fear when, with both hands, Donovan strikes downward, aiming where Kaleb’s neck meets his shoulder, but is swatted away once again by Kaleb’s dagger. Except this time, Kaleb does a quick spin of his wrist, hooking the katana and locking Donovan’s arms in an awkward angle, leaving him open for a hard kick to the gut. Donovan grunts against the blow, his mouth forming around a hushed curse, as he stumbles back.

  Instead of a stuttering stop and start as they slash at each other, it’s a fluid dance of lethal motion. Each movement, whether offensive or defensive, quickly slides into the next, leaving neither time to catch their breath. Their whole bodies are engaged, their muscles rippling and flexing as they not only slice and stab at each other, but elbow, kick, pummel, and flit around their unmarked arena. Most of their attacks are dodged or countered swiftly, but others ruthlessly hit their marks.

  I’m most of the way through my stretches, continuing to glance up with every clash of metal and grunt of pain, when I get to see what Nolan meant earlier.

  Donovan is in the middle of a full swing, when out of nowhere Connor leaps at him, shoving him onto the grey mat. Donovan quickly tosses his sword, which surprisingly, Kaleb catches.

  “What the hell?” I exclaim, while Donovan quickly shifts his head to miss being punched in the face.

  “Can’t be sure if another opponent is going to come at you,” Nolan explains with a sigh, as he stands up from a lunge, “so D has Connor jump in at random times during his sparring with Kaleb. It also tests his combat endurance, going from sword fighting to fist fighting with no break in between.”

  “That’s… brutal,” I reply, flinching at the sharp slap of fist hitting flesh.

  Nolan shakes his head. “You have no idea.”

  He’s right. With the swords, the strikes mostly fell against the opposing blade, but with hand to hand, it’s either dodge or be hit.

  With only a two-inch height difference, their reach is evenly matched. Though Donovan looks like he has more weight to throw behind his attacks, Connor is blurringly fast and his shifter strength clearly makes his lean appearance misleading. The wild energy that Connor normally has coiled tight around him appears to have snapped.

  The song playing matches the savagery of the fight with heavy drums, gritty electric guitar and bass, and vocals that switch between guttural growls, harsh screams, and sneering promise. The vocalist embraces what their abuser has made them and the demon they’ve unleashed.

  “What’s this song?” I ask, my heart now thundering with the beat.

  “‘Down With the Sickness’ by Disturbed,” Nolan answers with a muted tone to his voice.

  I swallow heavily, the song tugging on fears I’d rather not look at. “Interesting variety in your playlist.”

  “We tried trading days for who picked the music but that mostly ended with us bitching over the selection,” he comments ruefully. “So we finally broke down and made a playlist that had songs each of us liked.”

  “Very diplomatic,” I murmur, glancing over at him.

  He shrugs, his face strangely unreadable.

  A deep groan emanates from the mat, and I give up any pretense of continuing to warm up, my focus locked on the fight. Logically, I know this is something they’ve probably done a million times, but their sparring looks more like a last man standing than friendly training. The twisting in my gut won’t go away, as I watch two people I’ve come to care about try to pummel each other into the ground.

  At first, they circle each other, mixing quick one-two punches with various forward and side kicks that look painful even when they’re blocked. Then Donovan throws a right hook with his whole body behind it that doesn’t connect, because Connor is already in mid-motion with a roundhouse kick that lands with a sickening thud against t
he side of his head. Donovan stumbles back, shakes his head like he’s trying to gain back his equilibrium, and is barely quick enough to evade the follow-up kick.

  Donovan quickly wipes the blood from his mouth, a streak of crimson painted across the back of his hand, then dives forward and grapples Connor’s head down. I jerk when I hear the crunch as he lands a strong knee to his face. Before he can get in a second strike, Connor breaks free by tucking his arms in between Donovan’s and quickly pushes out.

  With Donovan’s face unprotected, Connor does a sharp uppercut that connects, snapping his head back, then does a low kick that causes Donovan to drop to his knees. Donovan quickly shifts sideways to avoid getting a shin to the face and fluidly spins into a low sweep. Connor drops onto his back, his head bouncing hard against the mat.

  Donovan wastes no time and mounts Connor’s chest. He pulls his arm back to what looks like the start of a flurry of blows, but Connor twists his body, jarring Donovan and preventing the punch from landing. From there, it’s a tangle of limbs that ends with Donovan on his back and his knee being pushed in the wrong direction. He quickly taps out, and that’s the end of the match.

  Connor stands up, his dark brown hair hanging in damp curls that fall into his amber eyes. He cracks his nose back into place like he doesn’t feel it, then wipes away the blood and sweat dripping down his face and neck. Panting with hurried breaths, there’s a tempestuous savagery to his expression that feels foreign to his normally cool control. Without acknowledging anyone, he turns and silently walks out of the room, bruises already blooming on his stomach, chest and face.

  Donovan simply lies on the mat for a few minutes, his chest rising and falling with heaving gusts, while bloodied sweat drips down his body. He pulls out his mouth guard and grunts, “One of these days, I will beat him.”

  “What. The. Hell. Was. That?” I screech, my gaze bouncing from Donovan groaning on the floor to the door Connor just stalked out of.

  The music has shifted from rage to something gentler-- an electric rock song of the wounded both wanting to reach out for help while also wanting to protect others against the demons inside them. It echoes my own feelings, and I wonder if Connor chose the song.

  Kaleb walks over to us with a white towel slung over his neck and a few growing bruises of his own along his left side. His eyes hold the weight of the world within them, the desire to help his friends painted on his features.

  “Demons won’t go easy on Donovan,” he explains with a weariness to his voice, wrapping both ends of the towel tight around his knuckles. “He has to train like each time he holds his life in his hands, because when the real time comes, he will.”

  Nolan has a pinched quality to his face when he adds, “And Connor can’t show weakness of any kind and survive in the pack. To keep from getting challenged every other day, he has to be able to show in a fight that they’ll be the ones that lose.”

  And just like that, the awe I had of the supernatural world now has a heavy lining of ugliness. There’s a harsh reality in witnessing what Donovan puts himself through to up his chances of survival, and a sinking fear of the hellish flames Connor continues to walk through.

  “Is Connor all right?” I murmur, looking at the door. “Should someone go after him?”

  “No,” Nolan answers with a visible tick to his jaw. “He’s going to go get cleaned up, then he has to head home and check in. If he’s not seen on pack grounds at least once every twenty-four hours, the Alpha considers him a deserter, and he’s cut from the pack.”

  “And as I understand it, that’s really bad,” Felix shares solemnly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Lone wolves don’t do so well.”

  Nolan scoffs with a heavy sneer. “Try hunted down and killed if he doesn’t leave pack territory-- which is the whole state of Oregon, by the way.”

  “And everyone is just okay with this?” I cry, horrified of not only what Connor faces but the sad acceptance my friends have over it. My hands curl into fists, and there’s a sharp bite of my nails digging into my palms.

  “No, everyone is not okay with this,” Donovan growls, rolling up off the floor. He flips his hair out of his eyes, showcasing a growing bruise on his jaw. “But the piece of shit Alpha is the law within the pack.”

  “And no one stops him?” I snap back, rage boiling in my belly. There’s a gust of harsh wind that smacks against the windows.

  Nolan grabs my shoulders and turns me so I have to look into his artic blue eyes. “Callie, you have your warrior witch look, and we need you to calm down. Destroying my house won’t help Connor.” He releases a weighty breath, his sharp features stretched with bitterness. “We would love to go over there and fuck up the Alpha for what he’s doing, but we can’t. Connor literally begged us not to-- for his safety as well as ours.”

  “There’s more to this isn’t there?” I whisper, feeling heartbroken and helpless, as the breeze outside stills.

  Nolan pulls me into a hug, my head pressed against his smooth, hard chest. His heart beats wildly in my ear, and with me this close, I can smell the hint of engine grease that seems to cling to him regardless if he’s actually touched an engine recently.

  “Yeah, but it’s Connor’s story to tell,” he murmurs into my hair, his arms wrapped tight across my shoulder blades and waist. “You need to understand that pack business is as complicated and dangerous as witch business, maybe more, and there’s no forgiveness for the ignorant. We just have to do what we can to help him when he’s with us.”

  “And if that means he has to beat the crap out of Donovan once a week, then that’s the sacrifice we are willing to make,” Felix chimes in, forever able to pull us back from the edge.

  I step back from Nolan, his embrace taking a moment before fully releasing me, and I kind of sniff-laugh in response.

  “Thanks,” Donovan grumbles at Felix, walking over and using his towel to wipe down his chest. His knuckles are bruised on top of the growing collection all over his body. “Man, I really thought I had him when I knocked him on his back.”

  “Connor’s always been difficult to pin down,” Kaleb comments, his gaze distant like he’s replaying the fight in his mind. “I’d recommend trying for choke hold submissions verses heavy punches to the head.”

  “Yeah, you say that, but the last time I tried, I ended up with several broken fingers,” Donovan counters, flexing his hand like he can still feel it.

  “Then use your legs next time,” Kaleb replies like it should be obvious.

  I take it all back. They’re as crazy as I am.

  Donovan rolls his eyes before looking over at me. “I’m going to rinse off real fast, then I’ll be back to help you. We’ll go through some punches, kicks, and throws, so in the future, when you’re cursing my name for making you do 100 reps of shin kicks to the heavy bag over there, you’ll remember what it’s all for.”

  “Great,” I squeak, pulling on the sleeves of my sweater.

  Donovan chuckles. “Don’t worry. We have protective gear around here somewhere, and it’ll be a while before you even attempt what you just saw.”

  “That’s good,” I reply with one raised brow. “Still not looking forward to 100 reps of kicking a heavy bag. Having superhuman healing doesn’t mean I’m even remotely in shape.”

  “And that’s 100 reps on each leg, by the way,” he adds with an evil wink before sauntering out of the gym.

  “Fantastic,” I groan.

  Rolling on his toes, Felix grins while pointing out, “Remember, you volunteered for this.”

  I squinty glare at him, because what else am I going to do? He’s a ghost.

  “I think I’m also going to shower, then see if I can put together something for lunch,” Kaleb says, his stance more relaxed than before and his grip loose around the towel.

  Confused, I look over at Nolan. “I thought you had a personal chef?”

  “During the week,” he answers simply, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Not that we have a huge staff,
but all of them get weekends off. My parents felt that we should be able to function through at least two days on our own-- though we often eat out those days.”

  I giggle over his self-deprecating smirk, and Kaleb shakes his head as he walks out of the room, leaving just me, Felix and Nolan.

  The music shifts to a fast-paced electronica song that sounds almost hopeful, as the vocalist sings of the war of life raging on, calls on their fellow for help, and how together they’ll survive the trials. My heart warms, because if there was ever a song that symbolizes the guys, this is it.

  “So, are you actually going to work out, or are you staying for the show?” Felix teases, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “D said he’ll need me to help with Callie’s training,” he replies, casually shifting his weight to one side. “He didn’t specify how, which has me worried. I need this face preferably not covered in bruises.”

  “Then don’t get hit,” Felix laughs, and Nolan rolls his eyes.

  As they banter back and forth, I attempt to take a closer look at the tattoo that covers Nolan’s right shoulder and half his arm. Before I can get a good look past a broken clock with different forms chained to it, it’s as if he can feel my eyes, and his left hand comes out of his pocket to grab his upper arm, covering most of his ink.

  Doesn’t want to talk about it. Got it.

  This however does make me curious, and I comment, “With how talented Connor is, I’m surprised he doesn’t have any tattoos of his own.”

  “He can’t-- at least not permanently,” Nolan explains, moving to the other side of Felix. “Once he shifts back from a wolf, he’s literally good as new.”

  There’s a fleeting look of confusion across Felix’s face, before he glances down at Nolan’s arm and a moment of melancholy tugs at his deep set eyes. I respectfully ignore the exchange, and within a blink, his expression is wiped clean, and he looks back up at me with his sweet smile.