Daughter of Rage and Beauty (Berserker Academy Book 1)

by Amy Pennza

  I jerked my gaze up. What the hell was I doing?

  He balled up the cloak and tossed it on a dusty-looking armchair as he rounded the desk and faced me.

  For the second time, I sucked in a sharp breath. There was no vagueness about his face now. Every feature was in sharp, clear focus. His forehead was high, with a subtle widow’s peak. His hair was a shade or two lighter than his beard, the dirty blond brushed back and fastened in a knot on the back of his head. Blue eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he’d just heard a joke. The beard didn’t hide his strong jaw and full lips, or the cheekbones that would have made any makeup guru swoon.

  And he wasn’t old. Oh no. He was young. Even his eyes were young, which meant he wasn’t the wizened immortal I’d imagined.

  His gaze found mine, and I realized with a start that I was staring.

  With my mouth open.

  I snapped my jaw shut and looked down. Mistake. His chest was just as impressive as the rest of him. Except he really needed to consider sizing up in the shirt department, because the material looked ready to split. The short sleeves hugged tanned, rounded biceps streaked with . . . I tilted my head.

  “Is that blood?”

  He looked at his arm and cursed. “Ah, probably. Yeah.”

  I swallowed. All at once, it occurred to me that I was trapped in a tower with a man twice my size. A bloodied man. Oh, and the tower was guarded by menacing statues that talked and owned swords.

  With a distracted air, he looked around his messy desk. “Give me a second . . . ah, there it is.” He moved a stack of papers aside and pulled a small package from the pile. He held it aloft and shook it a bit. “Baby wipes.”

  Some of my trepidation faded. It was hard to stay frightened when a strapping, bearded berserker showed excitement over unearthing a package of baby wipes.

  “Sit, please.” He pointed to the chairs in front of his desk. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Huh. If he was going to attack me, would he be so polite about it? With an inward shrug, I moved closer. The chair on the left held his bunched-up robe, its mud-covered hem trailing toward the floor. Wherever he’d come from, it was dirty. And clearly dangerous, considering the bloody souvenir on his arm. Conscious of my aching back, I lowered myself carefully into the empty chair. Dust puffed around me as I sat. Motes swirled in the air. I waved them away from my nose.

  The headmaster didn’t seem to notice. He ripped open the crinkly package, withdrew a couple wipes, and rubbed at the spot on his arm. As he bent his head, a lock of hair escaped the knot on his crown. With the sun streaming behind him and the blond hair tangling in his beard, he looked nothing like the top professor of an academic institution. His leather pants rode low on his hips, the leather laces peeking from his waistband.

  He scrubbed the wipes down his forearms, which were sprinkled with light blond hairs. His fingers were long, with blunt nails squared off at the ends. The muscles in his chest bunched as he switched arms, swiping up and down with rhythmic movements.

  Warmth entered my cheeks, and my undershirt clung to my back. I looked toward one of the bookcases as I tugged the neckline of my jerkin away from my throat. I was probably just overheated from climbing so many stairs.

  “So, Harald Berregaard sent his only daughter to Bjørneskalle.”

  I yanked my gaze from the books. He was seated now, the wipes tossed aside. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze amused.

  “Uhm.” I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

  “And are you happy to be here?”

  What kind of question was that? I was a horrible liar, so I rarely bothered trying. It was easier to deflect. I shrugged. “It was either this or law school.”

  He grinned, his teeth white and even in his beard.

  I stopped breathing for a moment. Not only did the expression make him seem even younger, it was the first time I’d seen a berserker grin in . . . well, forever.

  “You got your ass kicked today,” he said.

  Wow. He wasn’t one to mince words. If his goal was to keep me off balance, he was doing an excellent job.

  I folded my hands in my lap. “You could say that.”

  He gestured toward the sword on his desk. “Well, for starters, you used the wrong weapon.”

  I looked at the blade. It was unremarkable, like all the other swords on the rack. “How so?”

  “It’s too long, for one thing. How tall are you?”

  That brought my head up. “Five foot nine.” Tall for a human woman, but not all that impressive for a berserker. Just one of many failings Harald had pointed out over the years. Belatedly, I realized I probably should have given my height in meters.

  But he nodded. “I thought so.” He stood and lifted the sword. “This is better suited to someone with my reach. Even at six four, I probably would have chosen something shorter.”

  Almost against my will, my gaze roamed down his body. He filled out every one of those inches, his arms and legs packed with muscle. For the first time, I noticed a dagger strapped to his thigh. The sheath was a deep obsidian, which probably explained how I’d overlooked it. The color was so dark, I had to blink a couple times to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

  “Even better,” he said, “would be a wooden sword. I’ll make sure you have one for next time.”

  Wait, what? I sat up straighter. “I kind of thought there wouldn’t be a next time.”

  He cocked his head. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, I . . .” Words stuck in my throat. Did this mean he wasn’t kicking me out? “I lost control of my rage. I mean, I was provoked, but . . .”

  “Mmmm.” A knowing look entered his eyes. “Maja?”

  “Yes.” I took a gulping breath. “She insulted my mother.”

  He lowered the sword to the desk. Then he circled it and walked past me, a purposeful look in his eye.

  Confused, I turned so I could keep him in my line of sight.

  The bookcases ended well before the door—something I hadn’t seen on my way in. The walls on either side of the frame were covered in weapons—from wicked-looking daggers to nunchucks that looked straight out of a Bruce Lee movie.

  He took down a wooden bo staff and returned to the desk.

  I faced forward, curiosity buzzing through me. I’d walked in the tower expecting to be expelled. But it seemed that wasn’t happening—at least not yet.

  Staff in hand, he settled back in his chair with a contented sigh. He balanced the wood across his knees and studied me for a moment. Then he said, “Maja was wrong, but it’s not really her fault.”

  That got my hackles up. “She called my mother a slut.”

  He lifted a hand. “As I said, that was wrong, and I’ll speak to her about it. What you have to understand about Maja is she hates the Fae. They killed her parents.” He grimaced. “Ate them, actually.”

  “Gross,” I said under my breath before I could stop myself. I cleared my throat and tried to make my face more serious. “Not all Fae are like that, though.” According to Fiona, only the high Fae preyed on humans, and most of them had stopped in recent centuries. Eating people tended to attract attention from human law enforcement.

  Amusement entered his gaze. “I’m aware. I’m a halfling myself.”

  Shock left me speechless. He was Fae? The headmaster of Bjørneskalle and the most berserker-looking berserker I’d ever seen? Did Harald know? Questions whirled through my mind. I asked the next one that popped into my head. “So Maja hates you, too?”

  He took his time answering. When he did, he spoke in measured tones, as if he chose each word carefully. “She makes something of an exception in my case. My position here doesn’t leave her much choice.”

  I mulled that over. “Hating someone for something they can’t help is always a choice.”

  “I agree with you. Berserkers aren’t the best at managing their emotions.” He stroked a palm down the staff, his gaze thoughtful. “They spend so much time bottling up their feelings
. I get it; we have to keep a tight lid on our rage. But that doesn’t leave a lot of room for joy or laughter or love.”

  His big palm smoothed over the wood. It was a striking juxtaposition, an oversized man in black leather petting a staff and talking about things like love.

  Quiet descended, the only sound his hand moving over the staff. What kind of Fae was he? It wasn’t always easy to tell, especially with a half-breed. He could be anything, his true form hidden behind glamour.

  Into the silence, he said, “Your mother was a nymph.”

  “That’s right.” I heard the defensiveness in my voice, but I didn’t apologize for it. I was tired of being sorry for who I was. For who she’d been.

  He stilled his movements and looked up. “That’s wild magic, the power of the Hunt.”

  He meant the Wild Hunt, an ancient practice in Faerie. Fiona claimed the high Fae started it as a way of whipping up devotion among their followers. Something about human energy drew the noblest Fae, who could siphon it and grow stronger. The Hunt was a thing of the past, but the magic it created still lingered in the world. It was strongest in Faerie. Or at least that’s what I’d been told.

  I squeezed my hands together in my lap. The motion made my burnt palm smart. I ignored it. “My mother’s magic was powerful, but I didn’t inherit it.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said. “Fae magic is unpredictable. Wild, as I said. Like a lot of wild things, it tends to fight when you try to control it. When you pair that with a berserker’s rage, which craves precision and control, you can end up with explosive results.”

  Explosive. That was a good way to describe my . . . whatever it was I did. My magic was like a fire hose, or maybe a floodlight. That was bad enough, but I also had no way to turn it off once it showed up. I couldn’t direct it, either. Channeled properly into a weapon, a berserker’s rage could make them almost invincible in battle. But mine was uncontrollable.

  Either that, or I just lacked the skill to control it. That was Harald’s theory.

  “I have a hunch, Elin,” the headmaster said.

  His use of my name did a funny thing to my stomach. I stuffed the feeling down and tried to sound casual. “Yes?”

  “I think you’re more powerful than you realize. You just need someone to train you.”

  My heart sank. “I’ve had tutors.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I sighed. “Seven.”

  “And they taught you sword work?”

  “Every day.” I tensed, thinking of early morning drills under Harald’s window. The only bright spot in those years had been Nils, who had trained with me after his father ran off with the siren.

  The headmaster stood, staff in hand. “It’s as I thought. You’ve been using the wrong weapon.”

  I gestured to the staff. “You think I should use one of those?” Maja and the others would laugh their asses off.

  He quirked an eyebrow and turned the staff horizontal across his body, holding it like he might a barbell. “You sound skeptical.”

  “We train to kill Mythicals. I’ve never heard of anyone being beheaded by a bo staff.” At least not like the one he held. Simple and unadorned, it barely reached his shoulder. It looked more like a walking stick than a weapon. He might as well have been holding a broom handle.

  He seemed to read my thoughts, because he smiled. “The deadliest weapon is often one your opponent underestimates.” Then, without warning, he tossed the staff at me.

  My hands moved before I had a chance to think, and I snatched it out of the air, my palms smacking against the wood. The impact sent a bolt of pain through my injured hand, and I couldn’t hide my wince.

  “What is it?” He moved around the desk, concern in his eyes.

  “It’s nothing,” I said quickly, tucking my hand against my thigh. I gripped the staff in my other hand, resting one end on the floor.

  He stopped in front of me, his big body radiating heat. “It’s not nothing.”

  “Yes, it is. I mean not.” I lifted my chin. “It’s not.”

  “You’re hiding your hand.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Let me see it.” He held out his palm, his expression that of an impatient mother confronting a reluctant child. The look was so ridiculous on his bearded face, I almost laughed out loud. At the same time, a curious warmth spread through me. Suddenly, the air shifted between us. Or maybe it had been like that all along. Some subtle thread of tension grew stronger, swirling around us like an invisible current.

  My voice came out husky as I extended my hand. “It’s just a burn. From the sword.”

  He held my gaze a bit longer than necessary, then took my hand in both of his and bent his head, studying the red weal on my skin. “I can fix this.” He looked up. “May I?”

  “A gift of yours?” Some Fae had that power.

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I dabble.”

  That didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Hoping I wouldn’t regret it, I nodded. “Do your worst.”

  He turned my hand over and folded it between both of his. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled a slow, even breath. Standing so close, the heat from his body reached me. His scent did, too. He smelled of clean sweat and wind—as if he’d just come from spending a long time outdoors.

  My heart picked up speed.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. “I’ve only killed one person during a healing.”

  Alarm jolted me. When I might have pulled away, he patted my hand.

  “Just kidding.”

  I bit my lower lip.

  Warmth suffused my hand, but it wasn’t the kind of heat I’d felt when power had flowed through the sword. This was like sinking into a bubble bath. A faint tickling sensation scattered across my skin, traveling up my wrist to my forearm. I gasped, then let out a laugh. Before Harald put a stop to them, the staff at Berregaard Manor had hosted parties every time he came home from a kill. On a few occasions, Fiona had given me champagne. The tickling feeling reminded me of the bubbles that had danced under my nose. There was a joy about it, something merry and uninhibited.

  It’s Fae magic. The realization made my eyes widen. Deep within me, something lifted its head, roused by the rush of wild magic racing over my skin. A core part of me recognized the heady, abandoned brand of power radiating from him, and it wanted nothing more than to soak it up.

  Heat pulsed along my palm, then the headmaster opened his eyes and released me. “There,” he said, his voice soft.

  For a second, the loss of the tickling warmth was an ache in my gut. I lowered my eyes so he wouldn’t see my despair, however fleeting. The angry red mark on my palm was gone, the skin smooth. His gift was powerful. “What kind of Fae are you?” I blurted.

  As soon as I said it, I wanted to sink into the ground. If Fiona were alive, she would have rapped my knuckles with the big wooden spoon she always stuffed in her apron pocket. It was exceedingly bad taste to ask a Fae that question—like a human asking another their salary or how much they weighed.

  A teasing smile touched his lips. “Ah, if I told you that, you’d stop being curious about me.” Holding my gaze, he walked backwards a few steps. He cleared the edge of his desk, then turned and went behind it again.

  Heat crept up my nape. Did he want me to be curious about him? More likely, he’d just given a polite answer to a rude question. Why, oh why, did I always have to say whatever was on my mind? I’d made things awkward. The best I could do now was make a quick exit. I faced him across the desk and waved the staff a little. “Thank you for this. I’ll give it a try.”

  “Good. We start training tomorrow.”

  Wait. We? Maybe I’d heard him wrong. “Do you mean—”

  “You and me.”

  I licked my lips. “You’re going to train me.”

  “Everyone at the academy gets one-on-one sword training. The
re’s no rule that says it has to involve a sword.”

  “Right. I j-just . . .” Good grief, I was stuttering. “Aren’t you busy with”—I dipped my gaze to the small mountain of paper on his desk—“headmaster stuff?”

  “What, this?” He swept a hand through the air over his desk. “Trust me, it’s not going anywhere.” He gave me a pointed look. “The more important thing is to make sure you don’t blow the place up. Or yourself.”

  My chin went up of its own accord. I shouldn’t have been insulted by his words. After all, he spoke the truth. But I must have had more in common with Harald than I thought, because pride surged hot in my veins. “You could still expel me. It won’t take me long to grab my things.”

  He folded his arms across his broad chest and shook his head. Instead of the anger I might have expected, his tone was kind. Almost gentle. “There’s no such thing as an oathless berserker, Elin. You either finish the academy or . . .” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

  “Or you die,” I said.

  His blue eyes were steady. “I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded, a smile in his eyes. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  It was clearly a dismissal, so I turned and walked to the door. As I touched the latch, however, his voice stopped me.

  “One other thing.”

  I looked over my shoulder. “Yes?”

  He still stood behind his desk, something in his gaze letting me know he’d watched me walk to the door. That knowledge sent warmth into my cheeks, and I was grateful for the distance between us. “It’s probably best if you skip the morning sword training,” he said. “At least for a little while.”

  No more early mornings with Olaf and Maja? I had no problem with that. “Okay.”

  “Good. Meet me at the base of the Dragon Tower after lunch, then.”

  “All right.” I turned to go, but a question nagged at me.

  “What is it?” he asked softly.

  I took a deep breath and faced him. “Why are you helping me? Is it because I’m Fae?”