DAIMON (Nerys Newblood Series Book 1)

by Lucy Smoke

  “We still have time, patience is a virtue,” Titus says lowly as he flips through another book. He and Booker have been the voices of reason for the last three days and that, too, is driving me crazy.

  “No, she’s right.” Coen slaps his own book down on the table in front of him. “This is it. We’ve already been through these books a dozen times. We haven’t found anything.” He growls in frustration. I sympathize with him because I feel the agitation growing within me as well, but it’s hard to look at him. We’ve been on the outs since Holden kissed me. He’s made his discomfort abundantly clear and even though I understand it, somewhat, I’m beginning to feel suffocated.

  “Let’s take a break,” I announce, standing. Titus glances at me over the top of his book.

  “What, tell me, will this break consist of this time?” he inquires with a raised brow. The last few times I had announced a break, I had convinced Booker to take me sightseeing and somehow managed to break a priceless heirloom in an antiques shop that he had ended up paying for as well as talked Luca into trying exercise in the Courtyard’s gardens. Richard has now asked that I keep my hands, limbs, and feet to myself when within a ten-foot radius of their beloved statues.

  “What about training?” I offer. There’s no way training can go wrong.

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Coen agrees. “It’s been awhile since you trained.”

  “I would say I’ve gotten active practice in the last few weeks,” I reply thinking of the three highway robbers, the bounty hunters, and the soldiers I had faced.

  “Still, I think it would be good for you to try training with the others. You already know all of my tells. Maybe they can actually put you on your ass for a change.”

  “I’m in.”

  We head back to the Courtyard and set up in the gardens closer to the edges this time, with the promise to Richard when he sees us that no acrobats will get anywhere near the statues. He painfully nods his assent and sighs in relief when Booker shows up.

  “What’s going on?” he asks. His dark hair is slicked back, wet from a recent shower, and his arms bulge with muscles, seeming larger under the skin tight sleeveless shirt he wears over sweatpants. We must have caught him on his downtime. Holden and Luca amble in after him. Everyone is here for the party.

  “Training,” Coen says, jumping on his heels. For someone so bulky, he’s actually quite fast. I don’t have all of his muscle weight; I’m faster. He attacks.

  I dodge right, narrowly missing a fist to the face. I swing around his big body, kicking low just behind his knee. Coen takes it in stride, going down and rolling so that I have to leap over him, cutting off my next attack.

  “He’s not pulling any punches,” someone says. No, he’s not. Coen might be protective, but when we’re competing like this, there is no holding back.

  Another one swings my way and I duck, cursing my distraction. I snap a hand out, aiming for his throat–cutting off his air always guarantees a mild reprieve from his fists. He stops me with a hand over mine and jerks me around so that I’m facing away. One arm is wrapped around my chest, pinning my right arm down.

  “Maybe we should have been training more,” he says in my ear. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

  “Yeah?” I pant, feeling sweat drip down the inside of my forearm as his free hand grips my wrist. “Or maybe I’ve just gotten smarter.” I could stomp on his foot, though I know he’s expecting that. When we first started practicing, he grilled in the basics. If attacked from behind, stomp on the foot–hopefully, break from toes was my motto–elbow the abdomen, loosen the hold, twist and run. Coen is a big fan of the running instruction, at least he is when it comes to me. I, on the other hand, tend to ignore it though I know I shouldn’t. What can I say, I get a little thrill out of the fight.

  With my free arm, I grab the wrist anchored on my hip and twist, slipping under the arm pinning me to his chest. In seconds, I’m behind him, with his thumb aimed directly at his spinal cord, I push and kick at the back of his knees once more, causing him to fall face forward and eat a mouthful of grass.

  Chuckles rumble behind us as I climb on top and smile. Coen curses and struggles but with way I’m pinning his arm, the struggles are only causing him pain. He grunts one last time and finally concedes with a muttered, “uncle.”

  Holden and Luca burst out laughing. When I let go and help him up, I’m afraid that he will turn on them, especially Holden in anger, but instead he chuckles and wipes a bead of sweat off my face.

  “Not bad, Ner,” he grins. “Not bad at all.”

  “I want a turn!” Surprisingly, Coen doesn’t immediately shoot down Holden’s excited request. In fact, when he catches me eyeing him uncertainly, his grin widens.

  “I’d love to see you kick his ass,” he says heading towards our group. Sure enough the guys are spread out on the grass with waters and light snacks. Someone must have gone off and gotten the refreshments when Coen and I were otherwise engaged. I grab one of the waters and drain it.

  “Alright then, let’s go.”

  I quickly learn that Holden is a slippery fighter. One moment I’m dashing in his direction and the next he’s gone or he’s on the other side of the grassy area we’ve claimed as our practice grounds or he’s right behind me. I let loose a loud grunt as he slams down on my back, pushing me into the grass. Holden’s laugh comes from above as he plants himself on my back and sits down.

  “Get off!” I yell. Coen is howling with laughter, collapsing on Luca as they both try to hold each other up. Even Titus and Booker are smiling in amusement.

  “I’m sorry, Coen, did you say she was going to kick my ass?”

  “How?” I huff. “How does this make any sense?! You’re hurt!” An injured combatant shouldn’t be this fast.

  Holden leans down so that his dark hair is hanging in my face. “I’m all healed, princess, thanks to Booker.”

  I grunt angrily squirming under him.

  “I don’t know,” Coen says doubtfully. “You better watch yourself, she can be sneaky.”

  I roll out from beneath Holden and his butt plops onto the grass. He laughs laying back as though I can do no harm to him. I stand above him, hands on my hips. I don’t know what to do with him.

  “Well aren’t you going to attack me?” Holden asks from the ground. He smiles wickedly. “Or have I scared you off?”

  I circle him, keeping my legs out of reaching distance of his limbs. In a moment, he could have me back on the ground if he wanted. My face beats hotly, sweat sliding down the sides of my neck, onto my collarbone. With my fingers curled into fists, they don’t shake. I’m sure if I loosen them there will be a slight tremble. It’s because of the adrenaline. I slide to the grass next to him, closing my eyes. I can feel his slight shock.

  “Nerys.” I don’t move, my face is losing its warmth. There’s a rush of air over my side as he sits up. My lips twitch with knowing. “Aww, come on,” I hear him say. “Don’t be a poor loser.”

  “Who says I’ve lost?” I challenge, peeking through one eye.

  Holden grins and pops up from the ground. “Alright, then. Let’s do this.” He takes his position and waits.

  I slide my eyelid closed once more.

  “Hey, I thought you said we were still fighting?” Holden’s feet slide over the grass.

  It does feel nice, I realize. We all take our shoes off to add to the difficulty of fighting on grass. Freshly dewed grass like the kind in the Courtyard is especially difficult to fight on. There is too much slipping around.

  “I’m trying to have some patience,” I say.

  There’s a mutter from someone in the background. “Never thought I’d hear her say that.”

  I know it’s Coen, so I flip him my middle finger before laying it serenely back in my lap. He chuckles and a few others join him, but I can’t pinpoint who. I begin to count the seconds, wondering how long it will take Holden to approach me. I’m not very good at patience, I’ll admit, though Coen beat me
to it.

  “I believe I should participate.” My eyes pop open at Booker’s announcement. Across the grass, he stands from his seated position and Holden grins, turning towards the others, and claps him on the shoulder as they pass each other. I stare up at Booker, unsure. He stops before me, his big muscled body blocking out much of the sunlight. “You should stand,” he says.

  I contemplate continuing with my plan of attack, but noting the differences in Booker’s stance from Holden’s I doubt a surprise attack will work. Booker seems to read exactly what I’m thinking. He leans down, palm up, waiting for my decision. Booker’s fingers are long and lean, his palm wide and comforting as I slide my fingers over the skin there. He helps me to my feet before positioning me facing away from him.

  “W-what are you doing?” My heart races as he pulls my back flush against his chest. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders.

  “Training,” he explains coolly. “What you were doing is playing. Coen is much too comfortable with you and you with him to truly see either of each other as an enemy. Holden is quick, yes, and taught you to never underestimate your opponent. What you learned with him is that you cannot simply rely on action, you must outthink your opponent as well. Confusion does often work, but may not always.”

  “So, what are you trying to teach me?” I ask. I can’t keep the challenge from my tone.

  “We’re going to go through some maneuvers and I want you to get out of them. Right now, I am just assessing your skill level. Then, we will spar and I will show you in exactly what ways you are lacking in your training and practice.”

  “Fine,” I gesture down at myself. “Bring it.”

  Booker nods once before stepping closer, he pauses briefly before he wraps one arm around my chest in much the same fashion as Coen had. I tense, waiting and he clicks his tongue.

  “Not yet,” he chides. He adjusts, sliding something from his pocket that I can’t see, when he brings it up, I blink in surprise. It’s my dagger.

  “How did you—?”

  “Alright,” he interrupts. “Let’s say I’ve got your body pinned against mine and a knife to your throat.” He presses the open blade to my neck lightly, a pressure but no pinch. “Before, you might have kicked out my knee, or even twisted around me and pinned me down with an arm like as you did Coen. Now, if you do so, you risk injury to yourself. What do you do?”

  “I still try to get away,” I state. It’s obvious. It doesn’t matter if I get nicked, getting away is the priority.

  “And how would you do that?” I can feel his breath over the top of my head.

  “I would push your arm away and duck before you can bring it back down and then I’d spin and gain distance.”

  “Alright,” Booker says. “I want you to try that. Right now.”

  So, I do. I bring up the arm that isn’t pinned down and I grab onto Booker’s wrist and shove it away. Once the blade is at least six inches from my throat, I twist counterclockwise out of Booker’s grasp, something skimming the back of my head as I duck to avoid the blade if he decides to bring it back. Before I can complete the spin, a hard jerk at my gathered hair brings me to halt and makes me realize that the thing brushing against my head was Booker’s other hand. I gasp as he yanks again and twists my body the way someone might if they were overpowering an opponent.

  In seconds, my face is pressed to the ground, Booker crouching over my back, my hair pulled back in one of his fists and the dagger back at my throat. I swallow reflexively. There is a stretch of silence behind us as the guys watch in shocked fascination. When I twist my neck to the side, Luca doesn’t look as surprised as the rest. I wonder briefly why Holden didn’t know that Booker could be this...intense feels like an accurate description, but then I remember they haven’t spoken or seen each other in years before I came along. A little warning might have been nice.

  “An attack is rarely announced,” Booker informs me. I hadn’t realized I had voiced that last thought aloud. I blush as he rolls off of me and helps me to my feet. “Let’s continue.”

  For over another hour, Booker shows me different moves that will help someone smaller in stature. I don’t know how he knows them since he’s as big as a fucking mountain, but I don’t question it because in the end, it is helpful and every little bit of knowledge leads me that much closer to my freedom from King Matric.

  “When an attacker has a knife to your throat,” Booker explains, taking up the same position once more. “Instead of trying to get away in this instance, think instead of harming the other person.”

  I reach up slowly, wiping sweat from my brow and keeping it from dripping into my eyes. We have been practicing getting away for the majority of his lessens. The guys have all gotten up and wandered off to do their own thing. The only people who are left are Luca, Booker, and me.

  “When I bring my arm around to point the knife to your neck, instead of escaping, I want you to roll with the movement of my opposite arm.” He pulls away and has Luca come in to act as my replacement. Being given a visual instruction before a hands on approach has been working much better and I’m picking up the moves faster and faster.

  Luca takes position in front of Booker and they speed through the first move. I stand there, mouth gaping as one moment Luca is standing in front of Booker and the next Booker is clutching his abdomen, hunching over. They repeat the motion several more times, slowing down exponentially. The last time they show me, Luca reaches up for the wrist with the dagger, ducks under and out from the pinning arm and instead of shoving the dagger hand away, he thrusts it forward three or four times, in theory effectively stabbing and incapacitating his attacker.

  “Alright,” Booker says, gesturing me forward. “Your turn.”

  Nervously, I rejoin Booker and let him step up behind me as Luca waves his departure. The heat of his chest, heaving from the training practice sears into my back. I can feel his warm breath rush over the top of my head and even my cheek when I turn slightly. I shiver as Booker slides his right arm around my shoulders and down across my breasts, jerking me back fully against him, trapping my body as one might if they wanted to control their victim. My breath leaves me in a heated rush.

  “Go slow the first time,” he urges, whispering the words across the skin of my cheek. I inhale roughly and my free hand touches his wrist, my fingers tremble as I hold and pull the rest of my body from under his pinning. Counterclockwise twists were good, he informed me. I continue to use that and soon I have the dagger, still clutched in his palm facing him. I push it lightly towards him a few times before I drop his arm and step back. Electric green eyes meet mine and I gulp down the knot in my throat.

  “Good job,” he says. “Again.”

  We do it again. And again. And again and again until I can do this move in my sleep. The last time, I’m so frustrated with the training, though I’m happy to be learning something new, I jerk through the motions. The moment I make to shove the blade towards his chest/abdomen area, Booker’s other palm grabs my wrist and twists, trapping my arm behind my back. I gasp in shock.

  “What are you doing?!”

  Hot air floats over my ear as he leans down. Something wild and wicked slithers up my cramping stomach. I figure I’ve been hungry for the last hour because the dull ache hasn’t disappeared, but I ignore it as I have been and focus, instead, on Booker as he leans down.

  “Always be prepared to be outsmarted, Nerys. It can happen to anyone.”

  “Even you?” I counter. He chuckles, the vibrations transferring from his chest to my back.

  “Yes,” he replies. “Even me.”

  With that, he drops his hands away, hands me my dagger and walks away. I watch him leave the gardens with tense shoulders and flashing green eyes that match the scenery. I’ve never more in my life wanted to touch a man the way I wanted to touch him. The only instances I can compare it to are when Holden kissed me and I kissed Titus. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and let my sweat dry on my skin for a few mor
e minutes before I follow behind.

  ⚜⚜⚜

  I roll the vial of dragon blood that I’ve been carrying with us since the beginning across the table to one hand and then the other. Even though we have all eaten now, my stomach doesn’t feel any less cramped. Holden blames the weather, saying that it makes women act strange. It’s true that the weather has turned to crap now and today is the day we’re supposed to meet this infamous criminal alchemist, but I hardly think it has anything to do with my problems.

  The air is getting colder and colder, with flecks of snow here and there. Rain is what you have to watch out for because when it rains everything is covered in a layer of frost and ice, dark and slick. When you break it, it turns into shards that can slice open your feet or even impale you if you fall a certain way. I haven’t ever hated winter, but it’s never been my favorite season. Now, though it draws nearer until it’s a quiet layer over the city of Cephei. I hope that we can finish our business here and return to Ragnarok where maybe we can start a normal life.

  I would like a normal life. Maybe I’ll attend the University of Oracles with Booker and Luca. I could imagine going to classes, even though I hate them, and coming home to hang out with the guys every night. School is important, Coen would say, and I shouldn’t take it for granted. I would tease him and ask him to take my place and he would scold me and I would love every ordinary damn minute of it.

  Chapter 14: Betrayed

  “–listening? Nerys?”

  “Huh?” Booker’s deep vibrato is close to my face draws my attention away from my inner musings, he leans over the table we’ve commandeered in the Pharaoh’s library, one eyebrow raising in concern as he stares at me.

  “Guess not.” Coen smirks, answering Booker’s question.

  “What?” I flatten my palm over the vial, stopping it’s rolling movement. We are all gathered here in the nearly deserted library. For some reason, it’s nearly empty today. All day, I’ve only seen a few of the library employees here and there, reshelving books, wiping down bookcases, and just doing what they would normally do.