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65

Summer

T he forest is dark, the moonlight barely shining through the canopy. A stick snaps in the distance, and my head whips toward the sound.

“You’re next.” The whisper comes from behind me, beside me, above me. “You’re next,” the voice chants.

Another snapped twig comes from behind me, this one louder and closer. I spin around, but there is only darkness.

“You’re next. You’re next. You’re next.” The voice pauses. “You’re next, little fae.”

I gasp, stumbling back. My foot gets caught on a root, and I fall back. There is no ground beneath me, and I keep falling. Falling. Falling.

I land hard in a classroom. Lucia sits there on the desk, posed as she was before, her lifeless face staring at me maliciously.

Slowly, her head straightens, black blood leaking from her empty eye sockets. She groans, trying to talk, but her lips are stitched shut. She slowly lifts her bloody hand and starts to pull at the stitches, tearing them out. The blood trickles down her chin, and I can do nothing but stare, my body frozen. I watch in horror as her jaw hangs limp, and then she lets out the most blood-curdling scream I’ve ever heard.

Behind her, a bony hand appears on the desk, and then another, the nails pressing into the wood until it splinters. The light dims behind her, and Lucia starts to laugh. The sound is maniacal and horrible, her jaw still limp. Blood seeps from her eyes, her mouth, her nose, and her ears, but all she does is laugh.

The room goes pitch black, and all I can see is a pair of bright red eyes just behind where Lucia was.

“You’re next,” the voice snarls.

I lurch awake, my heart slamming against my ribcage. The image of her is still there, that voice still ringing in my ears. I look at Connor sleeping peacefully next to me, and I exhale, closing my eyes and trying to ground myself in this reality. It was just a nightmare. I rub my hand over my face and climb out of bed to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen.

The wounds tingle and throb a little, but I can definitely feel an improvement from yesterday. After he fed me last night, Connor lovingly tended to my injuries while offering to get Luke approximately a million times. Each time, I stubbornly stated that I was fine and reminded him that the headmaster had said these couldn’t be healed magically, anyway. The pain was grounding me, and it lessened the guilt enough that I was able to function.

“You’re next, little fae.”

A warning from my gut? Fear playing tricks on my mind?

I grab my phone, intending to clean it, trying to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted. But it lights up the moment I touch it, showing me my messages, and of course, there is one there from 1015.

The tone is accusatory like I am to blame for what happened. No doubt he knows what has happened. He probably caused it. Right?

I reply somewhat unfairly, but I don’t care. I’ll say anything to get the fucker to leave me alone at this point.

I feel my rage boil beneath my skin.

He starts to type, and then the bubbles disappear. The bubbles bounce again, then disappear. This happens a couple more times before they stop altogether. I delete the conversation and block his account for good measure. Locking my phone, I chuck it down on the couch before returning to bed. I climb in beside Connor, my thoughts in turmoil and my emotions out of control. As if he’s aware of it, he turns toward me and pulls me against his chest, wrapping his entire body around me. His hold is suffocating, but I bury my face against his chest and wiggle until I am nearly beneath him.

I consider drawing the rune to ward against nightmares, but something stops me. Not only do I feel like I deserve to experience these nightmares, but something inside me whispers these dreams are important, and they may hold some vital information I need.

This time, when I drift off, I embrace the fear.

I wake early, still tucked tightly against Connor. He is dead to the world, which is the only reason he doesn’t wake when I disentangle myself and climb out of bed. I leave a note instead of waking him to tell him I’m just going to the gym. The tortured terror I saw in his eyes every time he thought about me lying dead somewhere was devastating, and I never want to see it again.

C,

Gone to the gym. Will bring back breakfast.

-S

Carefully, I pull on shorts, a sports bra, and my black cropped hoodie, trying to avoid the bandages as much as possible. My run to the gym is a little slower than usual, but I am ready to face stupid Max head-on. When I arrive, he is engrossed in his own workout. His eyes glow a faint green, no doubt the berserker fuelling him. I take a steadying breath before walking over to him. I must look like a cross between a mummy and a professional fighter, thanks to the cuts and bruises covering my body.

It takes a long moment before Max notices me. “What happened to you?” he asks, pausing his workout.

“I don’t want to be a damsel,” I reply, lifting my chin and trying to appear confident.

Max drops the heavy weight he is holding and quirks a brow. “Yeah? What do you want to be?”

“A threat,” I reply.

A slow smile tugs at Max’s lips, and he nods. “Good. Let’s get started then.”

I turn without any further comment and go straight to the sparring room. I walk to the wall, grab a random pair of boxing gloves, and pull them on.

Max follows behind me. “All right, let’s start slow.” Max shakes his muscles out. “Show me your stance.”

I quickly stretch, my muscles groaning, and then I get into the only stance I know, the one I’ve seen on television. I awkwardly angle my body sideways and put my fists up.

Max grimaces and tips his head. “What are you doing?”

“You said… you said to get into a stance, so…”

Max sighs and steps behind me. He puts his hands on my hips and adjusts my body. “Fae are fast, so you must make yourself a small target.” He pushes a foot between mine, widening my feet. “Speed can take down even the biggest of targets. Even a Goliath can fall from a thousand tiny cuts.”

My brows furrow. “And if I’m not… fast?” I ask cautiously, knowing how devastating my powers can be and unwilling to rely on them.

Max moves around me, lifting one of my elbows slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said,” I say, a little more harshly than I mean to.

Max steps back, studying me, but not in a way I’ve ever been studied before. This isn’t him looking to get to know me. He is watching me like an opponent would. “You don’t have to use your powers. The only problem is, your opponent probably won’t have the same consideration.”

“I understand. I know I need to be smart, and I need to know what I’m doing. You know what to do, and I’m smart. Together, I shouldn’t have any need for fae anything.”

Max shrugs. “I can teach you to fight. If you want to leave your best weapon behind, that’s between you and the mirror.” He checks over my stance again and nods. “All right, show me a punch.”

I thrust my arm forward into the air between us and am pleasantly surprised at how well the stance holds up. I feel balanced and still fairly strong.

But any joy I feel from the small achievement is instantly ousted by Max’s look of disappointment. “You’ll throw your shoulder out if you keep doing that. Punch from the hip, and you’re going to feel the power start from here.” He touches my right hip. “It will travel all the way up to your shoulder, down your arm, and then into your fist. Try again.”

I bristle a little. I don’t enjoy not being good at things, especially when my teacher is such an arrogant jerk. I reset, and Max has to correct my stance again. Concentrating on how it feels, I focus on following his instructions. This time, I push through my right hip, and the punch feels more controlled and stronger.

“Better,” he says.

“Can you just show me? I’m a visual learner.”

Max smirks and summons a fighting dummy. I’d say the pasty, faceless, floating torso is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, but after the last few months, that would be a lie.

Max settles into his stance as if it is second nature, and I circle him, trying to see from all angles so I can replicate it. He twists, pushing the weight through his hip. When his fist connects with the dummy, it flies across the room, hitting the wall with a loud crash.

I feel a surge of determination when he smirks at me again, and I get into position. Max summons the dummy again and corrects my stance only slightly this time.

“Though the hip,” he reminds me, and I nod.

I throw a punch at the dummy, following Max’s movements almost exactly. The dummy rocks back a little but doesn’t move, and my hand throbs a little in pain. This thing is fucking heavy.

Max laughs. “Better. Okay, again.”

I nod, and I soon settle into the flow of punching the dummy. Max watches and only occasionally has to make slight corrections to my stance or technique.

“Right, now kicking.”

Max demonstrates the kick, then readjusts my stance, shifting my center of gravity. I kick out at the dummy, and Max grabs my ankle in midair.

“Hold it there. I’m going to try to make you lose balance.”

He slowly releases my ankle, and I wobble a bit but manage to keep my leg in the air. I feel the bandage on my thigh start to unravel as the muscles flex.

Max shoves my foot down and then to the side, trying to make my planted foot falter. I sway a little, feeling a bite of pain in my thigh. I feel the rumble of power inside me, my instincts trying to kick in to stop me from falling, but I quickly oust them and fall to the mat.

Max looks down at me, an eyebrow raised. “You’re not a hundred percent hopeless. You definitely held on longer than I expected.” I bristle at his comments, but he continues, “Ice when you get home, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Painfully, I push from the floor. The bandage on my thigh completely unravels and falls to the mat.

Max winces at the particularly gnarly wound on my thigh. “Come on,” he says and turns, not waiting for me to follow.

I grab the bandage. “It’s fine. Bye!”

He blocks my path and grabs my arm with a surprising amount of gentleness, pulling me with him to the trainer’s room. It is large, the walls white like an asylum, and it smells pleasantly clean. Max pushes me into a chair and walks to the other side of the room, returning with what looks like a first aid kit.

“This is a wild magic wound,” Max says, tucking his hands under my knees and pulling me to the edge of the chair. I ignore him as he starts to wrap my wound. “Let me guess, little damsel went into the forest alone and went too deep.”

I glare at him.

“Carnivorous fog is a cunt,” Max says.

My lips twitch at his unexpected comment. “Oh?”

Max nods, looking up at me. “Yup.”

I burst out laughing, and Max snorts, looking back at the wound. He finishes quickly and stands up, gathering the first aid supplies.

“Thanks,” I say, wondering how often he has done this to be so competent.

Max nods and gives me a quick smile.

“So, tomorrow?” I ask, gingerly getting to my feet.

“Bright and early,” he replies.

I leave the gym feeling a little less defenseless than I was when I entered.