Page 43 of Fractured Fates

“Want a hand up, little piggy?” he asks me.

“From you, no,” I snap, dragging myself up, which is damn hard when my arms are made from jello.

He smirks at me, giving me an infuriating wink and I find the strength to unfurl my finger and offer it up to him once again.

The audience I now have in the gym though, gives me the extra boost of energy and determination I need to climb this damn rope.

I tip my head back and squint up at the distant ceiling. Funny how it didn’t seem that far away when I started this task. Now it seems about as far away as the moon, the bell a tiny, twinkling dot in the distance. I rub the sweat from my palms down the front of my shirt and puff out three lungfuls of air. Then I take the rope in hand, and try again.

And again.

And again.

This time I seem to climb a tad higher with each try but I’m still the length of two elephants away from the ceiling. The accompanying sniggers and sarcastic shouts of ‘Go Piggy go!’, do not help.

I fall onto my backside for the millionth time, realizing that I’ve spent quite a bit of my first day this damn way. I roll down onto my back, close my eyes and scream internally, so loud I burst my own ear drums.

“What are you doing?”

My eyes flip open and I meet the dark gaze of the man in black. Instantly my body seems to melt like butter.

I open my mouth. Close it. Then open it again. It’s probably a very attractive view from where he is up there. He can probably see my tonsils.

“Are you all right?”

“What are you doing here?” I groan.

He shifts his weight from one heavily booted foot to the other.

“Visiting Stone.”

He’s not wearing his cloak today. Instead, he’s dressed in dark jeans and a dark t-shirt. Short-sleeved so that my eyes can’t help flicking to the raised veins and elaborate inks that spiral down each of his arms towards his hands. Hands that …

I swallow.

“I’m trying to climb this stupid rope and ring that bell.”

“Then why are you lying on the mat?” He frowns.

Groaning, I roll up, resting my forearms on my knees. “Because I can’t do it.”

“Then you’re not trying hard enough.”

I snort – stupidly because I can hear the bouncing bunnies giggling. “I really am. I can only get a few feet off the ground. And now my hands are shredded to smithereens.” I hold out my palms, red and raw and blistered.

Without warning, he grabs them in his own and hauls me onto my feet. I open my mouth to complain, but then I’m distracted. Partly by the way his touch has my stomach flipping somersaults, and partly by the way he closes his eyes and starts whispering. When he lets go of my hands, they are completely healed.

“There,” he says softly, before his expression hardens, “you need to learn that fucking spell.”

I swear my legs are shaking and it isn’t from muscle soreness any more.

“Thank you, but it isn’t going to make much difference. I’m never going to make it to the top.”

“Coach said you couldn’t use magic?”

“Wh-what?” I mutter, feeling about as dumb as it’s possible for one person to feel.

“Did coach tell you that you couldn’t use your magic?”