Assassin's Academy: Book One: Rebels: (A Dark Academy Romance)

by Everly Frost

  Outside the bubble, the compliance officers are bracing, wands outstretched, lines of energy flowing from their wands’ tips into the poultice. Deep concentration forms creases in their foreheads, the ligaments at the sides of their necks bulging as the only sign of strain.

  I drop my head, unable to hold it up. My forehead hits the floor with a smack.

  The poultice breaks, disintegrating into misty liquid. A single drop, unexpectedly cold, splashes the back of my neck where my long brown hair has parted to fall down either side of my face.

  A horrible scream echoes around the entrance room, beating back and forth from wall to wall, making me shudder until it finally fades.

  Was that me? Was I screaming?

  I slump and roll onto my side, my knees still pulled to my chest, slowly unfurling.

  I don’t care about my dignity right now. I need to breathe.

  Headmistress Osprey’s heels clack angrily across the wooden floor and stop at my eye level. I raise my eyes to see her plant her hands firmly on her hips above me.

  Collin and Colby appear above me too—blurry, navy silhouettes—as my tears fall across my vision. It’s hard to tell them apart through the water filling my eyes.

  With a disgruntled frown, one of them says, “That always works.”

  “Not always,” Headmistress Osprey snaps. “Get her up.”

  I scoot away from them, thumping the first hand that reaches for me. “Get off me!”

  I press back against the first solid surface I can find and slide up the counter paneling until I bump my head on the overhanging ledge. Rubbing my smarting scalp with one hand, I swipe my tears with the other, dragging my sweatshirt sleeve across my streaming nose. I’m a revolting mess, but my appearance is the last thing I care about right now. I don’t take my eyes off the wands the compliance twins point at me.

  Headmistress Osprey’s lips are tightly pinched. “You really do belong in the attic.”

  She gives the compliance twins a sharp nod. “Bring her things.”

  I only came with one bag containing a few jeans, sweatshirt, T-shirts, nightclothes, all my underwear, and some basic toiletries. I don’t have a cell phone. No books. No trinkets. Apparently the Academy supplies everything, including uniforms, but I wasn’t going to take the chance with underwear.

  Colby picks up my lone bag and strides ahead of us while Headmistress Osprey grabs my arm and propels me along the hallway to the left. Collin brings up the rear, his wand still out.

  “This is the west wing,” Headmistress Osprey says, “Students sleep on this side. Classes are given in the east wing. The food hall is also in the east wing on the first floor.”

  We climb a set of stairs that opens onto the next level. She describes this floor with a clipped: “Staff sleeping quarters.”

  She continues to push me up the next flight of stairs to the next floor, which apparently belongs to “Female students. Not you.”

  The next is for the males.

  Finally, the stairs let out onto a fourth floor, but this one is nowhere near as big. A wall blocks off the left side and the walkway on the right extends for only fifty or so paces. Opposite the stairs, wall-to-ceiling windows fill the length of the corridor on the outer side. A couple of steps toward them and my vertigo goes haywire. I can finally see how high up we are, but I don’t venture close enough to see outside. It’s high enough to fall to my death. That glass looks far too flimsy to me.

  Headmistress Osprey shoves me along the corridor and I resolutely pin my gaze to the floor.

  “Scared of heights?” Collin’s snicker makes me jump as he leans in too close to me. I resist the urge to give him a bloody nose. The internet was great for learning self-defense moves, which I needed for school on a daily basis. I’m used to being shoved around—but not always good at judging when to hit back. I somehow always managed to do it when a teacher was looking. The wand Collin waggles at me keeps me in line for now.

  We approach the first door, but I’m surprised when we keep walking. It’s ajar. Just enough to glimpse a bedroom with distinctly male décor.

  “Does someone else sleep up here? I thought you said I’d be alone.”

  I’d rather be alone than share a floor with a guy. There’d better be a lock on my door. My experiences with guys have not been positive.

  Headmistress Osprey gives my arm a yank. She shoves me at the next door, which is also ajar. Inside, the bedroom is nearly empty. I take stock of the nothingness: bed, closet, annoyingly loud ticking clock on the wall. No curtains. No rug on the floor. Nothing else on the walls. Not even a desk and chair. At least the bed has a pillow and blankets, all prison gray. A pile of folded towels on the end of the bed indicates there’s a shower somewhere. It doesn’t look anything like the bedroom next door, which had a desk, multi-colored pillows, and pictures on the wall.

  “Bathroom?” I ask.

  “At the end of the hall,” Headmistress Osprey replies.

  Colby dumps my bag next to the towels while Collin stands in the doorway, guarding it.

  Finally released from Headmistress Osprey’s claws, I put as much distance between myself and her as I can, heading straight for the window despite my hatred of heights. This one sits at waist height, extends nearly to the arched ceiling, and looks over the front of the Academy.

  The garden is immaculately sculpted, dotted with neat red rose bushes. At the entrance, the wrought-iron gate is firmly closed, a stone raven sitting on top of each pillar at its side. The fence around the Academy is made of the same iron bars as the gate, ten feet high, too tall to scale.

  There’s so much security around this place that nobody in the supernatural community knows its location—only that it exists. My parents were told to drive. At random intervals, they received a phone call giving them the next set of directions. When we finally pulled up outside the gate after a long trip, a security guard in uniform placed a delayed memory wipe on us to slowly obliterate the memory of the way here. It must be kicking in because I can’t remember much now, not which way we drove or what I saw along the way. I don’t know where we are. Somewhere in the western United States, I think.

  My lingering glance out of the window gave Headmistress Osprey the chance to stride up behind me. Damn. I can’t turn my back on this woman.

  She shoves me hard up against the glass. A shriek dies in my throat as I discover that it’s sturdy enough to hold my weight, even though she’s pressing my face against the lowest pane firmly enough to squish my cheek.

  “The fence is electrified,” she says, lowering her mouth to my ear as if she thinks I won’t hear her otherwise. Her breath smells of cigarettes and mint gum.

  I struggle to get away from her, only to discover she has hooked her leg around my ankle, causing me to stumble harder forward.

  “If you try to escape, that fence will send enough volts into your body to knock you out cold. Trust me, we tested it. A fun little test. We made the students choose which one of them would touch it. You’d be surprised how quickly friends turn on each other to avoid pain.”

  I sigh against the glass, my breath misting it. As the mist clears, a figure moves in the grounds below, a guy dressed in gray gym pants and a short-sleeved T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps. He doesn’t look as small as I expected from this high up, which would make him taller and bigger than average. He’s running the perimeter close to the fence, a steady jog, arms pumping, feet kicking up the turf. Within moments, he passes the front gate and disappears around the other side.

  He looks like he’s in his mid-twenties, maybe a little older than me, but he must be a teacher since the students are on lockdown.

  My voice is muffled against the glass, but I’m hoping I can distract Headmistress Osprey from her torturous grip on my hair. My eyes water as I ask, “Who is that?”

  A slow smile crosses her face, her lips close enough to my face for me to see the snarky curve. “That’s Striker Draven.”

  Draven… Why does that name sou
nd familiar?

  She eases up on me, so I ask her another question, hoping she’ll let me go altogether. “What class does he teach?”

  She scoffs. “Striker is a student.”

  I give her a confused frown, angling my face leftward with great difficulty. “I thought you said the other students needed—”

  “Oh, no, my dear.” She snickers. “Striker Draven is the only student who doesn’t need protection from you.”

  She leans in close again and whispers, “You’ll need protection from him.”

  With a pleased smile that makes my heart sink, she finally lets me go. “Get yourself settled. Dinner is downstairs at 6 o’clock sharp.”

  I glance at the clock. That’s only half an hour away.

  “Your uniform is in the closet. Your books are in the bottom of your closet along with your class timetable. Don’t be tardy. The last student to class is always punished.”

  As she makes her way to the door, Colby asks, “Do you want us to guard her room?”

  “Whenever Draven isn’t around, yes. Otherwise, you can leave her to him.”

  I guess that means they won’t always watch me in class.

  Osprey whirls back at the last moment. “Oh, by the way, there’s no infirmary. If you get hurt, you’ll have to deal with it.”

  With that, they file out of the room and I hear the two men take up position outside my door while Headmistress Osprey’s steps retreat.

  Alone in my room, I slump against the window. My neck aches and so does my temple. It’s stopped bleeding, but I don’t have a mirror to check how badly it’s cut. I hope there’s a mirror in the bathroom because otherwise, my hair will be a mess each day. My parents wouldn’t let me near scissors—they equated me with a serial killer in the making—and hairdressing trips were out of the question, so my tangled, brown hair is an unruly length.

  Down below, Striker passes around the perimeter again. Assuming he traveled the full perimeter, it tells me that the grounds aren’t all that large.

  From this high up, he doesn’t look so scary. If I press my thumb against the glass, I can imagine squishing him.

  Wait a minute…

  I remove my thumb and crane forward. He’s moving much faster this time around, rapidly picking up speed and heading in a straight line instead of curving in the direction of the fence. If he doesn’t veer away, he’ll run straight into it.

  What is he doing—?

  At the last moment, his muscles bunch, he turns his shoulder, and his feet leave the ground. But not toward safety.

  He throws himself at the fence.

  I cry out in shock before I clamp my hand over my mouth in case the noise invites the compliance officers back into my room.

  Down below, light sparks as Striker’s body jolts, shudders, rolls to the side across the fence, and then drops to the grass.

  My heart in my throat, I wait for him to get up. Is he hurt? Is he dead? Why would he do that?

  I’m still in shock when he pushes up on his hands. I can’t tell if he’s making any sounds. He could be shouting for all I know.

  I jump as he punches the ground with his right fist, driving his knuckles into it. He draws himself upright and lifts his head high, standing very still for a moment. He’s not shouting. I can’t really tell, but I think his eyes are closed. I can’t see his expression, but I can sense his tension.

  Without warning, he throws himself at the fence again. This time, he pushes his back up against it, digging his heels in, his whole body jolting with the electrical shocks. He thumps his fists back against the fence posts, smoke rising where he connects.

  I want to cover my eyes. This is… I can’t even… He’s inviting the pain. What the hell is wrong with him?

  The only reason I don’t race down there and yell at him to stop is the possibility that his actions have something to do with his power. Maybe it’s electrical and this is all part of a normal day for him.

  Some freaking crazy aggressive part of his day.

  He finally jolts forward, falling to the ground, his shirt burned apart at the back. I can’t see if his back is burned too. He rips off his shirt as he rises to his feet, his bare chest rising and falling, sculpted muscles shifting with every breath before he stretches his neck side to side, appearing weirdly relaxed. As if he didn’t just electrocute himself.

  I rub my eyes in disbelief and when I look again, he’s gone.

  My thoughts churn as I sink to my bed. Headmistress Osprey wasn’t exaggerating. Striker Draven is crazy dangerous. My first goal—in fact my daily goal—is going to be avoiding him at all costs.

  I clasp my hands in my lap, taking a moment to center myself, telling myself to take it step by step. I’ve made it through the first hour. I’m still alive and mostly unharmed. Now I need to make it through my first night. And the next. And however many nights it takes.

  Reform academy. Prison. It’s all the same.

  Nobody has ever escaped from Bloodwing. I intend to be the first.

  2. Striker Draven

  Air rakes into my lungs as my feet pound the grass, my speed increasing around the Academy’s perimeter. The sickly scent of roses invades every breath I take. The perfume might be soothing if it didn’t remind me of the woman who put me here—a woman whose appearance is so sweetly innocent, nobody would ever suspect her of being a mass murderer, the leader of an underground that trades in lives, both human and supernatural.

  I can’t do anything about her while I’m trapped here.

  I focus on the cut of the grass—every sharp blade—the gleaming iron bars that form the cage around me, and the sizzle of electricity that warns me every time I get too close to the fence. I focus on my feet, each breath in and out of my lungs, but it’s no use.

  I can’t block out the echoes from within the Academy’s walls.

  The new girl is screaming.

  It’s nothing new. Pain is the melody of my life. I live and breathe by its rhythm. But her voice carries an edge that I’ve never heard from any newcomer to this hellhole. Most cry in fear and pain, but her screams carry anger, a deep fury that hits a nerve inside me.

  I have to escape it. I won’t be fooled by a girl again. If I could close my ears, I would.

  I refuse to care.

  Her scream deepens, a moan that tears into me like claws ripping at my heart.

  Impossible. I don’t have a heart anymore.

  I force my feet to move faster, sprinting as rapidly as I can around the perimeter. Sweat builds on my chest and back, soaking into my shirt. My breath tears out of my throat. The rest of the school is on lockdown, but the Headmistress doesn’t treat me like I’m a student anymore. I’m a fixture in this place, hated by both students and guards alike. I move around as I please. As long as I don’t try to leave the grounds, Headmistress Osprey doesn’t care. I arrived when the Academy first opened three years ago and I’m bound to be the last to leave—in a coffin inevitably, but I’m determined to stave off that day as long as I can.

  The new girl’s screams finally stop.

  The silence is a sudden weight dropped on me and I misjudge my footing, stumbling enough to throw myself off course, veering toward the fence. I pull to a stop right in front of it, inches from connecting with the electricity surging through it.

  I resist the urge to wrap my hands around the bars. My breathing’s too rapid. I need to calm down before I take on the voltage coursing through the iron poles.

  Taking off again, I slow my pace, fill my lungs with the scent of roses, and empty my mind of the new girl’s furious screams. With every step, the squeezing sensation in my chest eases, the claws retracting from the cold organ that used to be my heart. It’s a muscle, that’s all, pumping blood around my body, nothing more.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m calm again, my mind at ease. I’m prepared for my daily ritual.

  I empty myself of all thoughts as I increase speed around the back of the Academy. Headmistress Osprey pays no attention to my movemen
ts anymore—my reckless aggression. I can get away with anything. If I hurt someone while I’m at it, it’s all the better with her. Her delight in my hostility certainly makes it easy to hide my true motives.

  I charge in a straight line toward the fence, throwing up a mental shield around my mind, anticipating the pain.

  Air whooshes across my chest and legs as I launch myself at the fence, turning my shoulder to connect with its surface. Electricity sparks at the corners of my vision, pain screaming through my shoulder and down my back, a gripping, tearing agony. With it comes energy, a deep, surging power that feeds my body. It’s an excruciating contradiction to the biting pain tearing at my flesh.

  I shudder and drop to the grass, hitting it on hands and knees.

  The electricity I absorbed is not enough for what I need. Dammit. I punch the grass, feeding my frustration into my fist, telling myself I can go again.

  Forcing myself upright, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and clear my mind again. I fight the urge to step back into the fence before I’m ready, fight the pull, the need for its energy.

  My mind is empty again.

  I throw myself backward, digging in my heels this time, jamming myself against its deadly surface.

  Pain sears my back. The scent of burning material, burning skin, makes me want to hurl up everything I ate today, but I need the burn. I need the spark, the flame. Need it like I need air.

  I smack my fists back against the bars. Once. Twice.

  I hold on just a little too long.

  But I’m okay now.

  The fire inside me is fed.

  I slump forward, finally dropping away from the fence. My back is in agony, but my mind is calm. I’m in control again.

  I rip off my burned shirt as I rise to my feet. I normally take it off first, but I forgot today.

  Damn the new girl. She threw me off routine. She’s already a distraction I don’t need. Burning through another shirt is going to annoy the Headmistress and I don’t want her asking questions.