by A. L. Knorr
She laughed, but the room remained quiet.
“As Headmaster Chaplin mentioned, I’m in charge of the yearbook. I’m looking for a couple of volunteers to help out with photography and journalism, capturing the essence of the activities of the school, that sort of thing. If you’re interested, please email me or find me in person. I’ll also be making the arrangements for the end-of-year party, which will include a dance.”
A murmur of excitement arose at this announcement.
“This year’s theme will be chosen democratically. All ideas are welcome. Secretary Goshawk will email you a link to a web page where you can submit ideas. The page will close on January 31st, then voting will commence. You’ll have until Valentine’s Day to register your vote. Anyone interested in volunteering to help make the party memorable, which we’re hoping can be hosted outdoors in late May, please make yourselves known to Secretary Goshhawk or myself. Thank you.”
Gage shot me a hilarious seduction face.
I laughed, whispering: “Do you like to dance?”
“With you,” he whispered back, waggling his brows so fast they almost blurred.
As Basil dismissed the student body, Gage’s fingers wound through mine and we left our seats as one, heat welding our skin together. How had I gotten so lucky? A guy who was polite, sweet, made me laugh, sexy, charming, clean and tidy, and who almost always said the right thing.
Sometimes he seemed too good to be true.
Two
Enter the Dragon
Every dojo in the CTH was occupied by a sparring couple, with more magi standing and sitting at the perimeters, waiting for their chance. Spirit yells, the sounds of bodies hitting mats and the occasional burst of random laughter made the cavernous space come alive. Colorful water bottles, gym-bags and towels sat in little piles along the edges of the mats. The forge was vacant.
A second-year combat class led by Alfred occupied the dojo in the north-west corner, while a couple of self-supervised third-years on their spares used the north-east. Tomio and I had taken over the south-west dojo for a timeslot we’d claimed twice per week. When arranging our schedules, we’d submitted a request for overlapping spares so that we could train together regularly.
The warm-up and basic drills of my first sparring session of the year with Tomio were over. My muscles were warm and thrumming like live wires. Even training without the use of fire, I was eager to spar. Christmas break had been just two weeks but it felt like too long between sessions, especially those with Tomio, which I’d come to love. I’d missed them more than I cared to admit as I grew plump on holiday desserts and Christmas chocolate.
Tomio looked up from taking a drink of water, dark inquisitive eyes checking to see if I was ready. Plugging and setting the bottle down, he slid his head to one side and gave me his hilarious Enter the Dragon face. In a masterful imitation of Bruce Lee he pulled the side-long glare, lips slightly puckered, every muscle standing out under his tight black Arcturus t-shirt. Humor twinkled in his dark eyes, but didn’t reach the rest of his taut form.
I suspected he’d missed this too.
I swept onto the sparring mat and into a fighting stance, then with one fluid motion slid toward him with a flurry of showy kicks. I was at too great a distance to threaten him, but it felt good to remind my muscles of what they’d learned last semester.
Tomio didn’t break character as he forced a stern frown.
“What was that? An exhibition?” he said, quoting the kung fu movie even as he slid into his own fighting stance. “We need emotional content. Now try again!”
“Here’s emotional content for you.” I felt giddy as I launched a spinning series of high kicks.
Moving at a frustratingly slow pace, Tomio back-stepped two of my attacks, letting them flash by, before lunging in at the third and final kick. He didn’t block the heel arcing toward his head like a wrecking ball. Instead, he brought a forearm down across the back of my knee. My third kick swung around the fulcrum of his forearm, twisting my body out and down.
I struggled to keep my balance but it was a doomed effort, even before he chopped his free hand across my back. I tried to use momentum to summersault into the fall, but Tomio had a vise-like grip on my leg. My roll became an undignified flop. I kicked at him with my free foot. Just because I was down didn’t mean the engagement was over.
“We train like someone wants to hurt you,” he’d explained last semester. “This isn’t sport and I don’t want you building reflexes that scream stop just when things get hard. Hesitation can get you killed.”
Tomio twisted to avoid the kick, turning his upper body as he swiveled in closer. His grip on my leg shifted so I swiveled my hips in an effort to yank free.
He let the leg go without a fight, electing to capitalize on the fact that my back was vulnerable. With a panther-like lunge he drove a knee between my shoulder blades and bore me down to the ground. Air rushed from my lungs and something popped in my spine as my face slapped against the matted dojo floor with a note of defeat. Stars danced in front of my eyes and my chest felt too small to hold a breath.
Tomio’s weight pressed me down, his body vibrating with aggression. He was in the perfect position to deliver his power in a final, decisive way. One descending blow, one twisting grab could put me to sleep or even kill me. I was a mouse caught between feline teeth.
“Where did things go wrong?” Tomio asked, his Bruce Lee imitation gone as he knelt on me, breathing evenly, voice maddeningly calm.
“On the third kick,” I wheezed, trying to squirm into a more comfortable position but failing. His knee was a blunt spike pinning me to the ground like an insect to a corkboard.
“Try again.” He sounded bored as his weight compressed my lungs more and more with each exhale.
Growling with frustration, I fought for air. “When I began the attack. I was... rrr... hasty.”
“Closer.” He patted my topknot without relieving a single ounce of weight. My thick hair bounced jovially on the top of my head like a traitor. “But not quite.”
Groaning, chest burning, spots popping across my vision like cartoon bubbles, I would not give in. In typical Tomio fashion, he dominated and educated at the same time. He seemed to take such glee in it that I wondered if he’d spent most of his childhood where I was right now, with his face mashed into the floor.
My thoughts grew hazy.
“Still there, Saxony?” A quiver passed through his body, his weight easing by a minute fraction. Was that concern in his voice?
I snarled, forcing my oxygen depleted brain to function. “It was when I threw out those first show off kicks!”
“Good.” Tomio sounded pleased. Like a gift from on high, his weight lifted and oxygen flooded my body. My vision cleared as I sucked in air.
“Jerk,” I gasped as I rolled onto my back. He didn’t reply, just shook his head with a narrow smile under those earnest eyes.
“Why was the display a bad idea?” He stood over me, gaze fixed on my flushed face.
“I don’t know,” I groaned, fighting against a burning wave of irritation. Three months of sparring with him and he’d pinned me in less time than it took a child to tie their shoe.
Tomio waited, the smile melting away as he read my face. He stepped close and sank into a crouch next to me.
“We train like this so you can neutralize an opponent quickly and with minimal harm to either of you,” he explained, eyes roaming my face. “An enemy is easiest to subdue when he doesn’t know what he is defending against. Shock and awe isn’t just for people with tanks and guns.”
Smoothly, like his joints were oiled daily, he rose to his feet and extended a hand.
As he helped me up, I caught the motion of the third-years adjacent to us. It wouldn’t have been fair to identify them as boy and girl, though they were students, they were man and woman. Their slick and practiced agility boasted of three full years of combat training. Probably headed for positions at the agency, I thought with a t
ouch of bitterness. Students who elected to take combat every semester often angled for agency work. Even if they were beneath me in fire-power, their technique and liquid movements made my own appear graceless and unpracticed.
Tomio let me watch the sparring couple as I caught my breath. More experienced magi were allowed to detonate in the combat hall. I had not yet earned the privilege, not until I had another semester under my belt.
They were a blur of limbs, too fast to be natural. Each strike was countered in a savage dance. The dance ended when he sprang in for a hard cross. Instead of deflecting, she vaulted into the air with inhuman power, detonations perfectly concealed. Bringing her waist near level with his head, she rocketed a knee forward. Slamming it into his chin and snapping his head back. He toppled like a string-less marionette while she landed on her feet like a puma, graceful and triumphant.
Talk about shock and awe. My skin rippled with goosebumps.
He was bleeding and dazed, but he’d cauterize himself, get a drink and they’d carry on. I admired them. They were not Burned, yet they behaved as though they were, having learned to both manage the pain of their fire and cow it sufficiently to use it to their advantage. For the first time, I felt regret at having survived the Burning process so soon after receiving my fire. I’d never have an opportunity to test myself as an Unburned mage. Just the fact that they continued semester after semester with combat training—in spite of the pain I knew they battled daily—made me aware of my inferiority. I had accidentally achieved an exalted position, which meant I would need to work twice as hard to be impressive.
I shook my head, musing that the grass was greener even in the supernatural world. Unburned magi looked on the Burned with jealousy and amazement, while here I was, Burned and with more fire-power at my disposal than anyone else in the academy aside from Basil himself, and I felt short-changed. There was something that accomplished third-degree magi had that I didn’t have; a level of discipline and pain-tolerance that I’d never be required to foster.
Turning back to Tomio, I watched him set his water bottle aside and swallow as he stepped back onto the mat. His liquid eyes assessing me, probing, weighing.
My feet slid into ready stance. “Round two?”
He nodded and approached, bare feet silent on the mat. “Focus on quick, decisive maneuvers or combinations. I know Taekwondo kicks are your favorite, but try to keep me guessing.”
He raked a hand through his thick pelt of blue-black hair then settled into a fighting stance. Hands up, forearms corded with visible veins.
“Noted.” I felt a smile creep across my face as my hands came up into guard. “Shock, awe, and surprise.”
Tomio returned the smile, advancing with a shuffling step. He began to weave his head and shoulders in short defensive patterns.
I moved in for a blitz of elbows and knees, drawing on the elementary blocks from Muay Thai that Alfred had introduced me to. The martial art of Thailand had been interesting to practice but seemed sharp and claustrophobic compared to the graceful and rapid Taekwondo, but in this moment, it served well enough to press Tomio back. I wasn’t doing any real damage, but he didn’t want to clinch with me and so gave some ground.
I threw myself into a stepping front kick. All my weight behind my lunging foot, I connected with Tomio’s abdomen and sent him shuffling back.
He grunted, winded but smiling.
Emboldened, I flew into a Taekwondo series of kicks while he adjusted as before. My first two whipped past him but this time—instead of pivoting hard for a grounded roundhouse—I leaped up and to the side.
A low tingle of fire rippled through me, like a puppy with its paws up, begging to play. Fire-power detonated throughout my lower body as I launched into the air. Tomio—on reflex—lunged in.
Body turning mid-air, I sent a fire-backed flying side-kick right at Tomio’s surprised face. He threw up an arm to protect himself, pure instinct and hard-won skill keeping my heel from connecting with his nose. But the force of my kick—even tempered—knocked him off his feet and sent him down to the mat with a heavy thud.
The last traces of fire sizzling along my nerves, I landed lightly and sprang on top of him. A single snapped kick knocked his warding hand away and I hovered over him with one leg poised to deliver a coup de grace. He looked up, expression a hybrid of emotions I didn’t dare at that moment pick apart.
“Shock and awe!” I crowed triumphantly, body still tingling with power and frozen to deliver that final blow.
Victory was sweet, but I shouldn’t have used my fire. I’d controlled the detonation enough that he might not notice, but it had been a risk and it wasn’t fair. Tomio agreed to coach me with the understanding that we wouldn’t use fire in the combat hall until I was through my first year. I’d broken the rules, and just because I could conceal it well enough that he might not know, didn’t make it right. I swallowed down a wave of guilt and resolved not to do it again. It was cheating. I’d now cheated three times in a matter of weeks. When did it become a habit?
Tomio stared up, bemused. Something like suspicion swam through the depths of his eyes before his lips curled up in a smile. “Very good, grasshopper.”
“I thought you were Bruce Lee.” I laughed, trying to hide the twist of anxiety I felt at what I’d just done. “Not Mr. Miyagi.”
Tomio got to his feet with a cocky, half-smile.
“I like to keep it fresh but still old school.” He pointed at my poised kick. “Are you going to put that thing away so we can get back to business or do you need another minute to bask in glory?”
I relaxed and shook off the encounter, turning my back to Tomio. I closed my eyes for a brief moment. You are not a cheater. Stop behaving like one.
Putting a smile on, I turned back to my Bruce Lee, ready for round three.
Three
Snubs
“I’m starving.” Setting my tray on the shelf in front of the hot food, I gulped to keep from drooling. Helping myself to a heap of garlic mashed potatoes, I topped it with a piece of steamed haddock, a side of buttered beans, and a generous dollop of hollandaise sauce.
Feeling eyes on me, I looked to my left. A female student gave an amused look at the amount of food I’d just served myself. It took me a moment to recognize her as the third-year mage I’d seen sparring in the CTH an hour earlier.
“Sorry, I was talking to myself,” I said, feeling sheepish.
She slid her tray along in one smooth motion, just as graceful out of the combat hall as she was in it. “No, I get it.” She dimpled. “I’m famished too.”
She spoke with a soft Scottish accent and a gravity and self-possession that made me like her instantly.
“Doesn’t look like it.” I gestured at her plate, which held a colorful salad, a side of beans and thin slice of unbuttered rye bread.
“Don’t be deceived. This is my fifth meal of the day.” She moved forward and opened the fridge, taking an orange Pellegrino. Holding the door open for me, she sent a questioning look.
“Thanks.” I grabbed a lemonade. “I saw you in the CTH last period. What’s your name?”
She nodded. “Cecily Price. You’re the girl the first-years call Queen Cagney. Quite the complimentary nickname.”
I rolled my eyes as we stepped away from the line and headed for a table, walking together. “I don’t think it was meant to be a compliment. Call me Saxony.”
“Okay.” Cecily set her tray down at a table and indicated with her chin that I should take the other chair if I wanted.
A quick glance around the room confirmed an absence of Gage, so I slid out the seat and sat down. “Your last name is Price? Are you related to Dr. Price?”
Cecily settled into her seat and picked up her fork. “Christy is my mum.”
“So the accent isn’t a coincidence.”
She smiled and speared a trio of beans. “We’re from Inverness. Where are you from?”
“Small city on the east coast of Canada called Saltford.�
�� I dug into my mashed potato, making sure I swallowed it before I spoke again. Something about Cecily made me want to behave like a lady. Strange, since I’d witnessed her almost behead her opponent. “Who was your sparring partner? The one you so roundly schooled.”
Her cheeks pinked as she finished chewing and downed her bite. “Tagan Lyall. I don’t usually dominate him, but he’s always slow after the holidays. He’ll be in fighting shape in two weeks and then I’ll have my work cut out for me. Who was your sparring partner?”
I wondered if she was just being modest. She had moved with the ease and fluidity of a master. I couldn’t even remember how Lyall had moved. I swallowed my bite of fish and took a quick sip of water. “Tomio Nakano. I’ll never best him, fat or not.”
Her eyebrows arched in appreciation as she smiled over her glass of Pellegrino. She recognized Tomio’s name. “Handsome.”
“Yes, and even more deadly.” I replied.
Cecily’s gray gaze drifted over my head and her glass hovered at her lips. It would have been rude for me to do a full 180 to gawk at whoever she was watching, but I tracked the progress of her eyes as they followed someone from the door to the back of the line. She put down her glass and drew her eyes down to her plate. “Speaking of handsome.”
A quick cut to the person made my lips tighten. Ryan. I covered my displeasure by taking another drink. I wanted to tell her to steer clear but worried about how it would sound. I wouldn’t sabotage a potential friendship with Cecily by speaking ill of someone right off the bat. She didn’t know what kind of person I was and I didn’t want to sound jealous. I just took another bite of food and kept my eyes down.
“Too young for me,” Cecily added hastily, perhaps misunderstanding my silence. “But cute.”
“Mm.” I kept my reply neutral.
We ate in companionable silence for several minutes, the majority of activity in the cafeteria out of my view. The soundscape was the usual: low conversation, utensils tinkling against plates, chairs squeaking on the hardwood floor. But something kept drawing Cecily’s attention from her food. It was all I could do not to rubberneck, but Ryan was in the cafeteria and I didn’t want to catch his attention.