by E E Rawls
Aken made a half-hearted attempt to stay awake as the Mentor read, his consciousness fading in and out, in and out.
The human princess appeared in his mind suddenly. Her hair like scarlet roses swirled, just like the image within the starlight orb. She moved towards him, collapsing on her knees.
She was crying, screaming, clawing at his hand for him to wake up. White wings, bright in the gloom like a swan’s, rose at her back.
The soil beneath him as he lay on the ground churned damp with rain.
There were ruins of buildings everywhere, all around them.
“Get up!” she pleaded.
“Run...” he tried to tell her. “Be free. Run.”
Enemies drew near. And suddenly he saw a sword swing at the princess.
“Stop!” he called feebly as his body lay dying. He struggled to reach out to her, to stop the sword, but it came regardless.
“Cyrus!” he shouted...
And blinked awake.
The familiar ceiling of the study room came into focus—no ruins, no rain. It had been a dream.
A dream that felt all to real.
Off to his right, Bak was sniffling, wiping tears from his drenched cheeks. “That was so sad,” he was saying. “How can the story just end like that? The hero gets killed along with the bad guys. All so his true love, the princess, can live on and be f-f-free!” he spluttered. “What kind of story is that?” Twin rivers cried from his eyesockets, and Zartin scooted a few inches away from him.
Aken rubbed at his temples, trying to collect himself. Did he shout Cyrus’s name? There was a vague feeling he had. Lifting his head to look across at the redhead, he took a moment to imagine longer hair and a white dress.
Cy could be a perfect replica...if only he were a girl. Poor thing; were most human boys that girly?
“It’s a fairytale, you dunce,” Hercule commented irritably from the sofa end as Bak’s blubbering went on and on. “It never happened. Why are you crying over something that never happened?”
“Because...!” Bak hiccupped and couldn’t finish the sentence.
“It was tragic,” Zartin reasoned softly.
“Eh?” Aken sat all the way up now, head groggy. “Traffic? What traffic? Is there an ice cream sale this late?”
“Tragic,” Zartin repeated.
“Oh. My ears must’ve fallen asleep, too.”
Mentor Nephryte made an effort not to roll his eyes skyward; he closed the book perched on his crossed knees.
“You were sleeping?” said Cy from the armchair. “Shame on you! It was a really good story! Even if tragic. Is it based on a real story, you think?” Cy looked up at the Mentor, as if half-hoping it wasn’t, yet half-hoping such a grand tale was true.
“It’s possible,” Nephryte considered. “Every legend is based on some ounce of truth, some occurrence of long ago, even if it barely resembles the original event itself.”
Aken stretched his arms with a loud yawn, and everyone in the room scowled his way. “Can we call it a night, now, jiji? A vempar needs his beauty sleep.”
The line of Nephryte’s mouth slanted. “While I am glad of your odd talent for memorizing other languages, I am not an old man. Where did you learn that Hanasu word?”
Aken gave a blank shrug.
Nephryte reached to ruffle his bangs. “How about you call me onii-sensei?”
“Brother teacher? Nope.”Aken scooted out of reach.
Off beyond the window panes, a peel of thunder rolled—a new spring storm brewing over Draethvyle. Aken turned to watch. “Do Corpsed like thunderstorms?”
Nephryte massaged his temples. “So help me, Aken-Shou, you will not go off chasing imaginary enemies during a thunderstorm for a second time. If it’s work you need, to get out all of your excessive energy, then I’m sure the kitchens will be happy to have you.”
“Nevermind.”
Chapter 32
Aken tried to sleep while the storm rolled past throughout the night, muffling his ears with a pillow. When it finally calmed, there was just an hour left before his alarm would ring. He shut his eyelids tight, seeking sleep...
Ro-hoo ro-hoo.
“Nhhhr,” he groaned and gripped the bed sheet in a fist, then burrowed his head deeper to block out the solo act of a dove who’d so wonderfully decided to use his windowsill for a stage this morning. Its cooing, owl-like warble rippled through the glass as it strutted back and forth, greeting the dawn.
Ro-hoo fro-ho-hoo-hoo.
“Aw sheesh!” He pounded the pillow with a fist, and when that didn’t work, he threw it at the window.
The dove looked at him, startled by the pillow’s thump, then continued warbling.
He let out a vexed sigh, got out of bed and opened the window. “Did you have to choose my windowsill? Go bother Denim Dunceface!”
Instead of being spooked, the dove fluttered and landed on his head. Fro-hoo!
Aken gave up, letting his shoulders slump forward, his eyelashes wanting to droop to the floor.
“The only person who can make people stop judging you and stop believing you’re a monster, is you yourself.”
He held onto Maru’s words from yesterday. He would make people acknowledge that he wasn’t a monster, and see the person he really was.
His nose felt wet suddenly. He wiped it with a hand, then paused mid-wipe when he realized what it was.
“Gah! Bird poo!”
The dove took off, and Aken could’ve sworn it laughed at him.
“Yuck! What’d I ever do to you, rotten bird?”
CYRUS CHECKED ONCE more that her fake fangs were intact and her ears lined. Students in the hallways kept glancing her way and whispering—and it was putting her nerves on edge. Why were they eyeing her as if she’d grown antlers? (No offense to Zartanian.) Her gut refused to settle.
She glimpsed Hercule: Healing had erased all traces of damage from his body. No one else but her knew of the nobleson’s secret excursion last night. She hoped he wouldn’t hold it against her.
A group standing just outside the classroom door whispered fervently. And they paused to watch as she passed by.
The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end as she took a seat.
The teacher for Physical Ed marched in: none other than the perpertually miffed Dr. Zushil himself. “Buttocks in your seats, this instant!” he commanded, and every student hurried to sit. “Let me make this very clear. No silly behavior or interruptions will be tolerated in this class, such as last week’s disturbance.”
Cyrus whispered out the side of her mouth to Aken, “What’s he mean by disturbance?”
Aken groaned. “I sort of...caused some trouble.”
“Like what?”
“Erm, well, drawing him as a hedgehog on the chalkboard, and throwing an eraser at his hair—it’s so spiky it actually stuck.”
Cyrus raised her eyebrows.
“It wasn’t my finest hour. But I’m a reformed vempar, now.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“No, really. I’m trying.”
But before he could convince her, class began. “Today’s chapter in Health & Body,” read Zushil from a lesson planner, “is on the topic of birth. The final stages: From womb to newborn.”
Unease and disgust rustled through the room.
Aken grumbled, “The last three chapters were bad enough. I really don’t think we need any more info on this stuff.”
The doctor clasped both hands together, and a malicious grin parted his lips. “Oh, but I have a video to go along with it!”
The classroom stilled.
Oilpowder lights flickered out, and windowshades rolled down to darken the room. A sheet above the chalkboard unfolded and a projector turned on. Zushil’s glasses became glowing rectangles in the projector’s light. “This is payback for last week. The class has you to thank for it.”
The class muttered angrily, and Aken ducked his head, making himself small.
“And now,” spoke the video, �
�let us explore the details of the birthing process...”
When class came to an end, they all rushed outside in a flood. Harlow scurried down the hallway toward the cafeteria, in hopes that lunch would rid them of the memory. They nearly ran into Master Nephryte’s torso around the next corner.
“Whoa—slow down there! The world isn’t ending, just yet.”
“Yes it is!” cried Bakoa.
Zartanian struggled between breaths, his palor green, breathing in and out through a paper bag.
The Master raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Scarred—I’m scarred for life!” Bakoa repeated like a broken record.
“What on eartha did Zushil put you through?” mused Master Nephryte.
Cyrus hung back, content to let everyone else do the talking, as Bakoa tried but could barely speak. “B...”
“Hmm?” Nephryte leaned an ear forward.
“B...Bi...Birthing process!” Bakoa squeaked out.
The Master’s forehead creased upward, and a hand conveniently rested across his mouth.
“You’re laughing. You’re laughing at us!” Aken scowled.
The Master’s shoulders shuddered with muffled sounds before he coughed, keeping a straight face. “Ahem. I would do nothing of the sort.”
“Yeah right,” Aken spat. “Why do we gotta learn that stuff? It’s got nothing to do with fighting or being a Draev Guardian.”
“It’s to prepare you for the biggest fight of all, Aken-Shou: the fight known as Growing Up.” Master Nephryte’s hand came down, tousling Aken’s hair roughly. “Life isn’t all about having powers. And besides, it was only a cartoon video, right?”
“We don’t need that stuff!”
The Master’s head shook, and Cyrus wondered if it was laughter. “My, my. How will you survive the real thing when you get married and have families of your own?”
Zartanian made odd noises trying not to throw-up. Cyrus lightly patted his sleeve, though the boy flinched away at her touch.
“No chance of that, Nephster. My sole goal is mastering battle skills.” Aken threw several punches in the air. “I’ll need them to become the greatest Draev Guardian. Who’s got time for romance?”
“Greatest Draev Guardian, indeed,” Hercule mocked.
Aken was about to say something back, when Bakoa gave him a funny look and said, “Then how come you were happy when you thought Cyrus was a girl—?”
Aken clamped a hand over his mouth quickly. “It was a joke, Bak, duh. Who could ever mistake Cy for a girl?” His laugh wavered. “I’m glad he’s my best boy bud. It wouldn’t work otherwise!”
Cyrus faked a smile, but rubbed at her gloved wrists and shifted to watch their reflections in the polished floor.
“Nephster—so creative with alternate names, aren’t you? Or is that your way of avoiding calling me Master?” Master Nephryte gave Aken’s head a hard pat, nailing down each word like a hammer. “Know this: in addition to battle skills, you’d better master people skills, because it’s key in becoming a valuable Draev. And also, consider yourself blessed if a girl should ever happen to like a troublemaker like you.”
Aken’s face sunk into a wide frown; but then a sly grin tweaked it back up. “Really? Do you happen to know something about girls liking you, Mentor Nephryte? Does her name have the word ‘Rose’ in it, by any chance?”
Cyrus recalled the female Master: Lady Seren-Rose.
The Master’s jaw twitched. “Why should I discuss it with someone whose highest grade is an F+?”
The sly grin melted.
Before any more snark could be exchanged, a loud “Master Nephryte!” down the hallway grabbed their attention. Cyrus watched the caller: a pear-shaped man with a long beak of a nose, as he slid to a squeaky stop before them.
“Assistant Principal Pueginn?”
The assistant paused just long enough to say, “Principal Han wishes to speak with you in his office. Urgently. Do not delay!” Then he was off, shiny shoes squeaking across the floor tiles.
Cyrus stared after the man. His skin was a unique charcoal gray, and his beady eyes like boulder opal. Something about him didn’t feel right, though no one else seemed to notice. He was soon out of sight.
Worry flashed across Master Nephryte’s features, and he fixed his gaze ahead. “I best be off and see what this is about. Behave yourselves. And yes, I mean you, Aken-Shou.”
Aken made a sound between his teeth and stalked toward the cafeteria.
LUNCH AND RECESS CAME early as the school day cut short for the Festival Duel. In the cafeteria, Aken got caught trying to sneak a second dessert—which made for laughs when he was forced to eat broccoli instead.
Aken washed down the green taste with cold milk. Students at other tables kept glancing their way and talking in hushed tones, more so than usual. Cy looked to be on edge about it, rubbing his arms. But Hercule held his chin high, looking smug about something.
The madman began prowling restlessly in the back of Aken’s mind. He tried to ignore it. He cleaned up his plate and stood. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air. I’ll race you guys outside!”
Once out on the green field, he dove, rolling down the slope like a bowling pin.
His roll came to a stop, and he sprawled on the spring grass, laughing. Bak and Zartin followed. “Try it, Cy!” he called out, his fingers rubbing over the grass-clover mixture under him; he breathed in the warm air and rich earthy scents. But when no one answered, he sat up. “Cyrus?”
Bak and Zartin sat up too, sharing a look. Cy walked instead of rolling down the slope, and halted several feet away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, a pit of concern growing in his stomach.
Cy’s mouth opened halfway, then faltered. “I feel like people are talking about me. Like they know something...”
Cackling laughter rose around them.
Aken bristled, every hair on the nape of his neck stood on end, as Denim’s gang approached, circling Harlow like eager feroce on the hunt.
Chapter 33
The cocky royal relative and his lackies leered as they surrounded Cyrus, Bakoa, Zartanian and Aken.
Denim let his head tilt back as he strode with exaggerated footsteps around them. His knowing smirk made Cyrus’s gut sour. “I heard a rumor,” he sing-songed, strutting like a proud rooster who knew a tantalizing secret.
“Buzz-off, chicken brain. Or did you come hoping for lunch scraps?” Aken confronted, kneeling up from the grass.
Denim shook a finger, “Tut-tut-tut. You won’t even ask me what the rumor is?” His strutting came to a halt several feet from Cyrus. “The whole school—maybe the whole city, by now—is talking about it. The rumor’s been circulating since first class.” His gaze narrowed. “Why aren’t you curious? Unless...you Harlow boys already knew?”
Cyrus’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Denim combed a hand through his jet-black hair, grinning darkly. “It appears that someone here isn’t who they say they are,” he sing-songed again, and this time with a threatening undertone that made her breath hitch. “Someone here,” Denim snarled, “is a human.”
Cyrus’s knees gave out. The words felt like they echoed across the field, across the school grounds, across the world, as she knelt. Cold hatred seeped through the air, freezing her bones—vempar hatred, as if her hands were stained in their brethren’s blood.
Something slapped her mouth, and she jolted back. Denim dangled the fake wood fangs between his fingers for all to see. She shrunk, covering her mouth. This moment was destined to come; Master Nephryte had warned her. But for it to happen now...she wasn’t ready. Darn it, she wasn’t ready!
A hand clasped her shoulder. She forced her head to turn, finding Aken beside her. His focus on Denim was dangerous.
Zartanian moved to place himself between her and the circling gang, holding a stick as if it were a sword. Bakoa shifted into a ready-stance opposite him, arms becoming large hammers of sand. Together the three made a triangle bar
rier around her.
Hercule hung back a distance away, observing, as if curious how the situation would unfold.
“You took one friend away from me.” Aken’s tone grew harsher with each word. “I won’t let you take another.”
Denim leaned forward. “Are you siding with a human? Betraying your own kind? I don’t think that’s very Draev-like behavior.”
“I will not let you take Cyrus.”
Instead of backing down, Denim smirked. “Guess I should’ve expected you to take in another stray pet, after losing that sabercat.”
A fierce glow lit within Aken’s eyes, replacing the blue with lava red.
“You know the school won’t let you keep a pet. In fact, I’ll be surprised if they don’t expel you along with it. Oh, wait.” Denim held up a finger. “With that Scourgeblood of yours, you’re too dangerous to expel, aren’t you? They’ll have to lock you away. Yes, that’s what they’ll do: lock you away for good.”
Aken dove at him with a shout. The veins down his arms glowed as if flowing with lava, and his fists heated and swung forward.
Denim blocked the punch with a shield of ice growing from his forearm. He made the shield grow wider and thicker before the second punch came. He laughed as Aken’s attacks chipped away at the icy barrier. “You’ll never become the greatest Draev Guardian. And after today, you’ll never see that half-human friend of yours again.”
A roar tore from Aken’s throat, and Cyrus watched as his right fist became a gauntlet of obsidian. He punched straight through the ice shield, shattering it to pieces, and connected with Denim’s shoulder—sending the boy flying backwards.
Silence followed as Aken panted and waited for Denim to get back up. The bully clutched his dislocated shoulder, then pulled back his shirt to see red burn marks in the shape of a fist on his skin. “It’s not Healing...” Denim stared, breathing hard. “It’s not Healing!”
Aken looked at his armored hand for the first time and came back to his senses. The obsidian crumbled away as he stumbled back, and his irises were blue once more.
“He used his evil Scourgeblood power on me!” Denim shouted.