by Everly Frost
“Well, whatever she is, information about the assassins is more important to me right now. Get on with it.”
She steps back, allowing Raptor to reach into his boot to retrieve the hated dagger. I can’t do a damn thing to stop him as he cuts off my top two buttons with a sadistic smile.
Running footsteps make him pause.
Ms. Sparrow blows into the room, her red hair flying like bloody streaks across the air. She’s moving so fast that her ankles wobble in her heels.
She snarls, out of breath. “Don’t let Peyton scream.”
Osprey’s annoyance increases tenfold. “What’s the problem?”
“We have visitors.”
Osprey frowns. “Who?”
“Draven’s father and his men.”
“They weren’t due until tomorrow.” Osprey huffs in annoyance. “It doesn’t matter. Oliver Draven won’t care what happens here. Carry on, Raptor.”
Ms. Sparrow’s gaze darts to me. “Zara Draven is with them.”
“What?” Osprey’s hand twitches beside her wand. “Oh, of course. It’s her yearly visit with her brother.”
Raptor’s blade hovers above my chest, clearly impatient, taking glances between the two women. “Why should that stop us?”
Osprey rolls her eyes. “Zara Draven is a demon, but unfortunately, she has a significant soft spot for her brother. She could be a real thorn in our sides while she’s here. We can’t afford for her to become unhappy. This will have to wait until she’s gone.”
Raptor’s blade presses against my chest, the tip breaking skin. “Can’t you put a gag on Peyton? Let me get on with it in silence?”
Osprey scoffs. “How is she going to tell you about the assassin if she can’t speak?”
“Well, what about soundproofing this room?”
“Zara goes wherever she wants. Fresh blood on the walls won’t go down well.”
Raptor curses. “How long will she be here?”
“However long she chooses. We’ll have to pick this up after she leaves. In the meantime…” Osprey leans in to me, her washed out eyes conveying a dangerous threat. “Consider your options carefully, Peyton. It would be so much easier if you simply tell us what you saw, don’t you think?”
She taps her wand against my wrist, forcing me to release the whip. Raptor deftly catches it by the handle, testing its weight in his hands. As Osprey reaches out to tap and release me too, he holds up his hand for her to stop. “Just a moment.”
He steps forward, twisting the middle portion of the whip carefully around his hand, positioning it so that the sharp points along its edge face outward like a makeshift knuckleduster.
“The Furies crafted their whips from the tails of flesh-eating horses,” he says. “Every part of this weapon is filled with malevolence.”
He taps his injured cheek meaningfully with his free hand before he gathers up the handle and the loose tips. “It’s only fair,” he says as he arcs his fist at my face. A careful and deliberate punch.
It’s a light enough hit not to cause any structural damage but the skin across my cheek splits painfully.
When I whimper, Osprey grabs Raptor. “No more for now,” she says firmly. “I’m sure Peyton will change her mind. After all, why protect someone she doesn’t know?”
Why, indeed. I certainly don’t owe an assassin any favors. But the thought that someone—anyone—might be gunning for the teachers makes that someone my ally. I’m not going to help Osprey and Raptor evade her.
I drop to the floor when Osprey releases me, my gaze darting to the whip again. The pain in my cheek makes me angry and for the first time since I got here, it dawns on me that I don’t cry when I’m in pain anymore.
Now, pain makes me mad.
My anger only intensifies my feelings. I can’t explain why, but… I want that whip back. Badly.
“Get to your next class, Peyton,” Raptor growls. “Gym, isn’t it?”
I draw to my feet, wary of the way he holds the weapon. He doesn’t care about Osprey’s orders and his posture tells me he’ll lash out at any second. A single cut to my cheek isn’t enough for him. I’m better off getting the hell out of here and leaving the weapon behind.
Besides, the sooner I get through the day, the sooner I can find a reason to go to the library and find out more about Furies.
I need answers.
Hurrying down the corridor, I take a moment to catch my breath before I descend the stairs. Movement and sound float up the staircase from the entrance area. The window facing outward at each staircase landing allows me to see the yard, not the front of the Academy, so when I glance out I can’t see anything unusual. Just students practicing on the mat like usual.
I take the final flight of stairs carefully. Through the wide open front doors, I can finally see a large black truck and an SUV parked outside. The gate in the background is once again firmly closed.
Men traipse into the building, carrying crates labelled ‘uniforms’ and ‘linen.’ Ms. Vulture stands in the entrance directing them where to go, peering at them over her glasses.
I narrow my eyes at the truck outside. It’s an awfully large vehicle to transport such small crates.
At the base of the stairs, staying out of the way, but too close to my location for comfort, a man stands waiting with a woman.
The man is tall and thin with olive eyes and sharp cheekbones, his dark hair graying at the temples. I know that not all children take after their parents, but he looks nothing like Striker.
I recognize the woman from the picture taped to the back of Striker’s door. She looks like she’s in her late twenties, probably three or four years older than Striker. Her tousled black hair is cut short below her ears, accentuating her graceful neck, dark-rimmed olive eyes, and perfect cheekbones. She’s dressed casually in tight jeans with heeled boots and a crisp white shirt.
I lean back against the wall, trying to stay out of sight, but the woman turns at the sound of my footfalls. Her observant gaze follows the curve of the cut across my cheek and the bloody smears where I tried to wipe it before quickly descending to the missing buttons at the front of my shirt. The top of my bra is showing. I resist the urge to tug the material together.
I lift my chin. I have few choices in this place. I’ll walk around like this for the rest of the day if I want to.
Osprey prances down the staircase behind me. “Out of the way, Price.”
She focuses her disingenuous smile on the tall man. “Oliver! Zara! You’re a day early. If I’d known, I would have prepared a welcome party.”
She plants kisses on each of their cheeks. Despite her order for me to move, all three of them are now blocking the bottom of the staircase. I retreat up a step, considering whether I’ll head back up to the attic and change after all.
Oliver Draven gives Osprey an equally insincere smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you as always, Isadora.”
Zara also nods her head, but her smile is firmly expectant. “Thank you, Isadora. Where is my brother?”
“He’ll be here any moment, dear Zara. Why don’t I fetch him for you?” Osprey asks.
“Thank you, yes. Bring him to me right away, please.”
Osprey pauses, blinking rapidly. It’s clear she didn’t mean that she would personally get him. She clears her throat. “Well, then. I’ll be right back.”
I wait for Osprey to move away before I take a careful step.
Just then, one of the crates drops, cracking against the floor, and Oliver strides toward the man, who is trying to gather its contents together again, shouting orders as he goes. He has a big voice for someone so thin.
I focus on disappearing as fast as I can.
Zara’s hand snags my arm as I pass by. My instincts kick in and I nearly punch her, but I force my arm to relax, unfurling my fist.
Her gaze darts to my fist and back to my face with an arched eyebrow. If she’s a demon, she won’t be intimidated.
“The cut on your face is going to sc
ar.” She rummages around in the large satchel she carries before she extends her hand. A small tube peeks from her fist. “Here, take this. Striker will have to make do without this one.”
Her olive eyes glow a little as she speaks. It could be a trick of the light, but it could also be a sign that she’s attempting to use her demonic power of persuasion on me. For some reason, she really wants me to take her gift.
“That’s healing gel,” I say, refusing to move. It looks just like the tube from which Striker squeezed the last drops to heal my face that time he fell asleep in my room. “You’re the one who brings the medical supplies for him.”
She tugs her satchel close to her body again, but not before I spy multiple medical packages in the bag she carries.
I stare at the offered tube, a sense of anger growing inside me. Raising my eyes to her, I’m unable to keep the frost from my voice. “Do you have one of those for every student? We all get cut up on a daily basis, not just Striker.”
It’s obvious that she doesn’t when she flushes pink. I don’t care if she feels ashamed. She should.
“I thought not,” I say, firmly dismissing her offering. I won’t take a single thing from her.
Her hand closes tighter around my arm before I can pull away.
I narrow my eyes at her. She really should let me go or the fist I’m forming will fly at will.
She whispers, “We could be allies, you and I.”
Again, her eyes glow, but her power of suggestion may as well be a breeze passing me by. I step right into her space. Her quick inhale tells me she didn’t expect me to become combative. I imagine she thought I’d be so downtrodden, I’d agree to any offer of help.
“You imprisoned your own brother in this place and choose to keep him caged,” I say. “We will never be friends.”
She has nothing of Striker’s physical strength—or mine for that matter. I easily pull out of her hold and stride away. She’s lucky I didn’t bloody up her face.
Whatever the hell kind of conscience she has, Zara Draven’s money keeps this place going. She keeps her brother captive inside these walls. She may as well be Lady Tirelli.
29. Striker Draven
I hit the practicing post as hard as I can, waiting for Ms. Hawk to call my name. I heard the convoy arrive—the clang as the front gate opened—which means my sister’s here. But so is the truck. A day early. I guess Dear Daddy couldn’t wait to bring the new beast for the pit.
Zara thinks that the truck contains food supplies, new uniforms, books, and linen. It does to an extent, but only enough that if she opens the back doors to look inside, she’ll see crates of supplies piled high to the top. What she won’t see is the covered cage located at the back inside which a tranquilized creature sleeps. Last year, the truck contained a harpy to replace the Orthrus I killed. This year, who knows? My father is resourceful. It’s definitely something they think I can’t kill.
I’m surprised when Osprey herself shrieks my name. “Draven! Inside. Now.”
The door slams as she strides away again.
I don’t waste time, leaving my post and heading inside and down the corridor. Seeing Zara is like stepping outside the Bloodwing world for a while, reminding me of what it was like out there.
Halfway down the corridor, I slow down as Peyton walks toward me, her steps purposeful, angry, her head high. She’s barefoot, as we often are here, her long legs strong and slender. I’ve lost track of her movements over the last week. She and the other girls disappear a lot, especially in the afternoons.
Now, her cheek is bleeding. She fixates on a point past me, but the missing buttons at the top of her shirt tell me everything.
My sister waits only twenty paces away, her expression lighting up when she sees me, but my instincts have already kicked in. I step directly into Peyton’s path, forcing her to pull up.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for her face, calling her by her first name. “Peyton?”
“I’m not dying.” She punches my hand away, her fist stronger than it ever was before. She said to me that I only call her ‘Peyton’ when I think she’s dying. Her eyes flash murder at me as she dares me to raise my hand in her direction again. I’ll be the dead one if I try it again.
In the distance, my sister shifts, her smile fading, watching us carefully. I guess she didn’t expect to see someone take me on. Or expect me to do more than ignore Peyton as she passed by.
Peyton glances back at Zara. She gives a sudden sigh, deflating a little, her gaze now firmly fixed on my shoulder. “Get out of my way, Striker.”
I stay where I am. “You only call me ‘Striker’ when you want something from me.”
Her gaze rises to my lips, but I know it’s only because she’s hurting more than she’s letting on. The cut on her cheek looks vicious. The last time she was hurt, it took a kiss to heal her. How and why that happened is still a mystery to me.
She won’t let me help her today. I know that. I just have to get my damn instincts under control.
I step out of Peyton’s path, letting her pass, but I regret it straight away. There’s only one teacher who likes to mess her up like that. Raptor has left most of the students alone this past week but with the arrival of the new beast, that’s about to change. Peyton is his number one target.
My beast has been very quiet since that day, distant, rarely waking up. He suddenly growls, You gave up your chance to protect her.
Ah, there he is, not so quiet after all.
I hate his truths.
I also have no choice but to let Peyton walk away right now. As I watch her go, Zara hurries toward me along the corridor. I return her fierce hug, dragging my focus away from Peyton to give Zara my full attention. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too, Striker.” She stands a little below my height, nearly as tall as her father. She presses a hand to my cheek like a mother would. She’s only a few years older than me, but she took on the mothering role after Mom died like it was second nature to her. She supported me in all my decisions, even when she shouldn’t have—although she definitely didn’t approve of my cage fighting.
She seems satisfied to find me unharmed, but she arches an eyebrow at Peyton’s disappearing back. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The other Unknown.”
I start walking along the corridor, remaining casual. “What have you heard?”
“C’mon, Striker, you know Osprey gives Dad weekly updates.”
“Right.” I fix my gaze on my stepdad. “So you know about The Specialist then?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I also heard you gave him a beating. That wasn’t wise, Striker.”
“Nothing is.” I pull up as we reach my stepfather, who waits for us in the entrance. “Sir.”
He gives me a disdainful nod. “Striker. You’re still alive.”
I give him a grin, stepping into his space. He stopped towering over me years ago. “I plan to live longer than you, Dad.”
My stepfather has olive eyes like Zara’s that glow an eerie green when he accesses his demonic power. He’s a lesser demon, certainly not the most powerful, which means he can’t possess another person, but he’s very good at persuasion, manipulating people into doing what he wants. It’s always been a source of frustration for him that, for whatever reason, he can’t manipulate me. Some clever supernaturals these days seek protective spells against demons or carry talismans so they aren’t manipulated by demonic suggestion. Over time, my stepfather’s powers have become less useful. Still, he puts his callous heart to good use in the ruthless corporate world, making cutthroat deals that annihilate the competition. It seems to keep him happy.
His lips stretch into a cold smile. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate all the supplies I’ve brought the Academy today.”
He means the beast. “Thank you for your generosity, as always.”
Zara steps between us. “Okay, then. Striker and I are going to
take a walk.”
She draws me through the doors into the front garden. I can’t help noticing the way the workmen quickly shut the back of the truck. They won’t unload the beast until they have the cover of night. Zara will eat dinner in my room—the only night I’m allowed to eat in there—so she won’t be any wiser.
To my surprise, she taps the side of the truck as we pass it. “I’m not stupid, Striker. I know what’s inside this vehicle.”
I don’t often feel anger toward her. She may walk freely in the outside world but her life is primarily dictated by her father. Even so, it’s much easier to forgive her if I believe she’s ignorant about the way this academy operates.
I’ve never used an angry tone with her, but it slips out now. “Then you could have stopped them.”
Her gaze flashes to mine, a quick assessment. “You’re looking at me the same way she did.”
“Who?”
“Peyton. When I offered her a tube of healing gel for her face, she told me where to shove it.”
I give a short laugh. That sounds like Peyton. “She won’t accept help.”
“That’s not what I mean, Striker. She was disappointed in me. Just like you are now.”
I take a deep breath and exhale it out with a non-committal “hmm.”
“You have every right to be,” she says.
I’m wary of where this conversation is going. There are many topics she and I avoid talking about. Mom’s death is number one on the list. My incarceration in this place is second. We avoid facing truths because if we speak them aloud, our relationship will fall apart. She will become my enemy and I don’t want that. My relationship with her is the only one I have that resembles something normal.
I trust her.
Even if… I shouldn’t.
I quickly change the subject as we approach the rose bushes. “Dad seems surlier than usual.”
She runs her fingertips across the tops of the flowers, focusing on them, surprising me when her voice wobbles. “He’s in trouble, Striker. Lady Tirelli hasn’t been seen in months. Just yesterday, we confirmed that she’s disappeared.”