“Rina, Christ!” The boy grabs Sabrina’s arm, his grip gentle. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? And what the hell, Castor?”
“Easy there, squirt.” Despite the fact that Jasper has a good half a foot or so on him, Castor somehow manages to glare down at the boy. “Did’nae do anything to Little Miss Drama Queen there. Isn’t that right, Succubus?”
“That’s right,” Sabrina replies, cloyingly sweet. “I was just introducing myself to our newest recruit here.”
Jasper’s eyes leave Sabrina’s, and for the first time since he rushed over, he seems to notice me standing there. His entire face lights up all at once, and he bounds forward to grab my hand.
“Berkeley Gallagher, right?” he asks, practically ripping my arm out of my socket as we shake hands. “Jasper O’Connor. Lord, it’s so great to meet you—I mean, you have no idea!”
“Yeah, and...uh...and you too,” I say, returning his handshake. Jasper continues to stare at me, somewhat awed, until Castor lets out a sharp cough and steps up next to my side. Jasper immediately releases my hand, deliberately avoiding Castor’s hard gaze.
“You came all the way here from California, right?” he asks, stepping to my side so that I’m positioned between Castor and himself. I guess he figures it’s the safest place to be, all things considered. “I know a Californian. Josh Hinkley. You know him?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “Everyone there knows each other. We’re all just one big goddamn happy family.”
“Wow,” Jasper mutters. The sarcasm seems to have been lost on him. Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought. I mean, if this kid is my competition, I’m pretty sure I’ll still have a leg up even without any training.
Sabrina, though—she seems a little bit more on the ball. She snorts, smirking at me from behind a curtain of honeyed hair. “Definitely an American,” she says. “You know, I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about you. The daughter of Anna and Conor Gallagher.” She looks me over, almost thoughtful. “You’re not what I was expecting.”
I shrug. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m not disappointed...yet.” She wanders over to a nearby boy, batting her lashes until he hands her two practice swords. She tosses one my way, letting it fall to the stone beneath my feet with a clatter. “Why don’t you show us what you can do, Gallagher?”
Shit. Swords. While I’m lethal with plenty of weapons—daggers, hatchets, brass knuckles—swords are definitely not included on that list. This girl is gonna lay me out on my ass in seconds. What a way to impress my new teammates.
I swallow hard, stepping up to the plate, trying to ignore Sabrina’s knowing smirk. This is a terrible idea, I know it is,but it’s not like I can step down. There’s already a group starting to circle around us, solitary cheers and catcalls egging us on.
With a deep breath I squat down to grab the practice sword at my feet, but just as my fingertips brush against the wood, I’m interrupted by a deafening clanging coming from the other side of the room. Immediately the air switches, the tense faces around us changing to smiles as the entire room throws down their weapons, laughing and chattering as they file out through the far end of the hall.
“Guess we’ll just have to wait until next time,” says Sabrina, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she walks off. Next time. Great. Any relief that I feel is immediately washed away. Tomorrow, I’m going to have to fight. To prove I have what it takes to be a part of the Làidir.
It’s just that I’m not so sure that I do anymore.
Chapter Nine
Bangers and Mash
Meemaw piles the sausages onto my plate, followed by a veritable mountain of mashed potatoes. When she does the same for Castor, he’s not nearly as hesitant. He drags the entire plate toward himself, slicing into the first sausage with a huge grin across his face.
“You’re an absolute treasure, Mabel. Ya know that?”
“You wouldn’t be the first young man to have told me that, and you’ll certainly not be the last,” she says, her entire face alight as she shovels more food onto Castor’s plate. “Eat up. I’m sure the two of you will be needing that protein.”
She smiles, shooting me a wink as she shovels one more scoop of potato onto my plate. Suddenly, I’m not so sure that she’s talking about training tomorrow. I mumble a thanks through a mouthful of food.
“So you didn’t want to eat with the others?” Meemaw asks, settling herself down across the dinner table. “I don’t blame you. If the food is anything like it was back in my day, you made the right choice.”
“They’re eating coddle, I believe,” Castor says, making a face. “Again.”
My grandmother lets out a soft chuckle. “Ah, yes. Leftover day.” She shakes her head. “You know, when Anna was in training, she used to sneak away from headquarters at least once a week for my cooking. This was always her favorite.” Meemaw takes a bite of potato, closing her eyes and savoring the taste.
She was right. Any time of day, breakfast, lunch, or dinner, if my mom had an opportunity to choose the meal she’d invariably end up cooking some version of bangers and mash. It’s hard to eat the meal without thinking about her, honestly, which is why I’ve avoided it for the past four years. Eating it now, though, listening to my grandmother reminisce—it doesn’t leave quite as sour of a taste in my mouth.
“And what do you think of the training grounds, Berkeley?” she continues. “Besides the food, of course.” Meemaw turns to me, her eyes sharp. Curious.
“It was...interesting,” I say, poking my potatoes around with my fork. “Mom used to tell me all these stories of training with the Làidir, back when I was about to join. I guess I never really thought I’d get to see it for myself.”
“I can’t say I relish the idea of my only grandchild throwing herself at the Underking,” Meemaw sighs. “But you were right before, Berkeley. You are Slayborn. This is where you belong, just as much as any of the others. You’re a part of this.”
A part of this. I’ve never really been a part of anything before. I’m perfectly fine playing the role of lone wolf. Less chances of getting fucked over. But seeing all those people, the strength, the power behind them...Castor was right. I need to be a part of this team if I want to have any chance of taking down the Underking. Of avenging my parents. Of following in their footsteps.
I’m more than just some half-drunk, half-dressed, glorified fucking bounty hunter. Hunting down fenodyrees and pixies and little pests here and there—that’s not who I was born to do. I’m supposed to be something more, just like my parents, and my grandma, and every generation of my family tree down to the very root. Fuck, I want to be something more.
“I am a part of this,” I say, taking a vicious bite of sausage. I can feel Castor straighten next to me, and when I glance over at him, there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. I hope the asshole knows that I’m not doing this because of anything that he said. This is all me.
“Just be careful, dear.” Meemaw takes a sip of her drink, face solemn. “Làidir training is no walk in the park. Not all initiates make the final cut.”
“What, you boot them out?” I ask, looking between my grandmother and Castor, both of whom stare resolutely down at their plates.
I get no further answer than the uneasy silence between us.
“I need some air.”
This is the only thing I say before standing from the dinner table and practically sprinting out the door.
The night air is cool and crisp, just a little bit too chilly to be entirely comfortable. I shiver and pull my jacket closer in on myself, though it does nothing to warm my bare legs.
The sky overhead is dark, the fields covered in a thin sheen of silver frost. I keep walking, not entirely sure where I’m going. I just need a few minutes to myself. A few minutes to fucking think. I know that staying here, doing this—it’s my best chance of getting to the Underking. But I can’t stop thinking about what Meemaw and Castor said. Or, rather, what they
didn’t say.
Should I really be doing this? I mean, there’s already a chance I might get myself killed, and I haven’t even so much as laid eyes on an Unseelie yet. Where the hell is my self-preservation instinct?
It’s not like I can go back to who I was before, though. Not after all of this. Drinking and fucking and hunting down the occasional joke of a monster—it all seems so pointless now. A shallow excuse of a life. Especially a Slayborn life.
I’ve walked so far at this point that Meemaw’s cottage is just a warm speck in the distance. I slow to a stop, deliberating whether or not I should head back. I don’t want to catch a cold the day before training, after all. But something stills me. The feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I whip around, scanning the field around me for any signs of life. Nothing. Just the grass rustling in the breeze.
And then, out of nowhere, an arm wraps around me, dragging me back against a solid wall of muscle. A hand clamps down over my mouth, stifling my scream. I try to kick and claw my way out of the vice grip around me until finally, a blow from my elbow lands directly into a hard gut.
“Shit!”
I recognize the voice instantly. That irresistible brogue. I step back from Castor, giving him a little shove. “What the hell?” I nearly shout. “Do you make a habit of creeping up on unsuspecting women, or am I just special?”
“It’s dangerous out here,” he croaks out, still winded. “‘Specially for eejits who aren’t payin’ a lick of attention to their surroundings.”
“Well apparently everywhere is dangerous here.” I fold my arms, kick a loose pebble at my feet. “Guess I just have to get used to it.”
Castor’s face softens. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving the locks standing up every which way. “You know I’m no’ gonna let any’a them kill you, right?” he asks, completely sincere. “Sure, initiates’ve died before, but that’s because they were fools. And while you’re a great many detestable things, Berkeley, a fool isn’t one’a them.”
Well, I suppose there goes the charm he was showering on my grandmother. “Didn’t realize there were so many things about me you don’t like,” I say with a scoff, and Castor smirks.
“Oh, aye,” he says, clearly holding back a chuckle. “You’re stubborn as all hell, for one. I like that.” He takes a step toward me. “You’re crass.” Another step. “Obnoxious. And I can’t fuckin’ get enough of ya.”
With that he moves his hand to cup my chin, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. The green of his eyes has darkened a few shades, his pupils dilated, his breathing gone ragged. Slowly, gently, he lowers his lips to meet mine. I rise up on my toes, steadying myself with a hand splayed over his chest, sinking into the kiss as his arm snakes its way around my waist.
God, I needed this. To forget about everything else, even if only for a little while. I barely realize it when my movements start to become faster, sloppier. Castor responds in kind. His grip tightens, the once-gentle teasing of his fingers against my skin becoming rough, almost bruising. When I drag a hand down to meet the fastenings of his pants he groans, letting his head fall back a fraction.
I give him a single, slow stroke—he’s already hard, and I feel an eager twitch beneath my fingertips. He grabs the hem of my shirt and frantically tugs it over my head, fumbling to remove my bra with just as much fervor. The instant that the pale moonlight hits my skin he’s on me, licking and nipping and sucking the tender flesh of my breasts, his other hand falling between my legs.
It’s not often that I go for round two with a guy. Usually, whatever appeal that they once held vanishes pretty quickly after the first roll in the hay. But Castor—as much of an asshole as he might be, even someone like me can tell he’s a good guy. And while I wouldn’t say that I like him, exactly, I don’t hate him either.
Castor quickly tugs his own shirt over his head, and I lean back for just a second to admire the view. Nope, I definitely don’t hate that.
We come together again, skin-on-skin this time, the warmth of his chest helping to keep the worst of the chill around us at bay. He reaches for my pants next, shoving them down my legs before kneeling down in front of me. He licks his lips, glancing up at me through a tousled mess of hair.
“You gonna taste as sweet as your disposition, love?” he asks, his voice hot against my thighs.
“Fuck you,” I manage to pant out. I drag a hand through his hair, trying to nudge his lips closer, but he just chuckles and shoots me a wicked grin.
“Soon, love. Soon,” he growls. “Patience.”
Chapter Ten
Pride and Punishment
“And you’re dead.”
I lay on the thin mat covering the floor, trying to catch the breath that just got knocked out of me. Seamus paces around in a circle, staring at me with a critical eye.
“Again,” he says.
I knew that Sabrina was going to humiliate me. And I knew it was going to suck ass. I just didn’t know what a regular occurence it was going to be.
For the past week Seamus has been pitting me primarily against her, claiming it’s so I can learn from his best pupil. I’m pretty sure he just derives some sort of sick pleasure from seeing me get my ass kicked. I know Castor finds it amusing. He hasn’t exactly been shy about telling me so. During our late-night romps, he’ll sometimes pick out new bangs and bruises, naming them like he’s watching clouds.
I rise to my feet again, grabbing the wooden sword that had fallen from my grasp when Sabrina knocked the legs out from under me. She watches as I regain my stance, perfectly cool, barely a hair out of place on her head. She waits patiently, twirling her sword like a baton.
“Alright,” I say, trying to hide the shaking in my breath. “I’m ready.”
She comes at me again without a word, sending her sword swinging toward my shoulder. I manage to sidestep the first blow, but Sabrina is quick. I yelp as she smacks my other arm with brutal force, trying my best to parry the hit and failing miserably. I lash out again, this time out of sheer frustration, and I nearly drop my sword in surprise when it actually makes contact.
If Sabrina is shocked then she doesn’t show it. She whirls around, smacking me hard in the lower back, sending me crashing to my knees. And then, there’s the cool touch of wood against my throat.
“Dead again.” Seamus shakes his head, glaring at me. “And your opponent, barely wounded.”
“Well maybe if you put me against someone I actually have a chance of fighting, I wouldn’t be,” I snap back. I know it’s not a good idea. Every time I talk back to Seamus, it ends in bruises. Snickers from the crowd. Humiliation.
A couple of other initiates glance my way. There’s nothing these jerks love more than seeing each other get their asses beat—and I get mine beat a lot.
“You speak out of turn, Slayborn.” Seamus frowns. “Do you want to pass your training?”
I nod, only because I don’t trust myself to speak. His tone has made my throat dry up, the look on his face sending the blood pounding through my ears. I chance a quick glance Castor’s way, but he says nothing. So much for keeping anyone from killing me. Because it looks like Seamus might be contemplating doing just that.
“Forty laps,” he says finally, nodding toward the track ringing around the room. “And the rest of you, quit your gawking and get back to training.”
If there’s anything I hate more than getting beaten up with a wooden sword, it’s running laps. I’ve never been much of a runner. Unless I’m being chased by wild dogs I’ll keep it to a leisurely pace, thank-you-very-much. I grimace as a cramp works its way up my leg, cursing Seamus in my head.
“You really gotta stop talkin’ back.”
I hear Castor’s voice next to me and glance over to see he’s running alongside me. Of course he makes it look effortless. He’s whipped his shirt off, and even in my state of exhaustion, I still can’t help but glance down and admire the beads of sweat running over the hard muscles lining his chest.
“Eyes up here, lo
ve.” He grins, chuckling when I shoot him a quick glare.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I pant. “What do you want anyway, pretty boy?”
“I told ya that I wouldn’t let anyone kill ya. Just wanted to let you know that you’re makin’ the job awfully hard.”
“Well maybe you should talk to your uncle instead,” I growl. “About not being a giant throbbing anal fistula.”
Castor snorts out a laugh. “Look, I know he can be a little tough, but he has to be. He’s not here training Girl Scouts, Berkeley. We’re going up against the Unseelie army. Beasts, creatures that you’ve only heard of in children’s stories. And the Underking himself.”
“Still don’t understand why he has to be a dick about it,” I grumble, finally slowing to a stop. Forty fucking laps. I feel like I’m about to throw up all over the obstacle equipment.
“Look, all I’m sayin’ is that you’re a part of the Làidir team now,” Castor says, mopping the sweat from his brow. “And you need ta start acting like it.”
“You’re improving.”
Seamus looks almost impressed as I stand over the body of the boy he’s me pitted against. The kid rolls on the floor, groaning as he clutches the shiner I gave him. I’m not sure if it’s all in my head or not, but over the past week Seamus seems to have been warming up to me.
Of course, it could just be that I’m not getting my ass handed to me in every other sparring match anymore. With sweat, blood, and a little bit of side-training from Castor, I’m becoming a pretty formidable soldier, even with those goddamn swords. I’ve beaten Jasper. I’ve beaten Castor. I even knocked Sabrina on her back once.
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