Ugh. I hate when Chad makes actual sense while being a complete ass about it.We're like some toxic relationship case study waiting to happen.
“Now quit whining and prove me wrong,” he adds.
I narrow my eyes. “About what exactly?”
His smile is all teeth. “They don't call you the lesser Salem for nothing.”
My pulse goes haywire. Something hot and thick clogs my throat as I square my shoulders and glare up at him. Chad godsdamned Valgrave with his stupid perfect jawline thinks I'm not Salem enough to take him on? Like hell.
I didn't choose books over bloodshed because I couldn't hack it. I chose them because I wanted to. Because unlike the rest of my family, I don't get off on watching people bleed.
Fine. Whatever. Let's get this over with.
Chad struts to the center of the training hall like he owns it. “Ready?”
“Just FYI, my specialty is more in the fields of healing and research,” I say, flexing my fingers. “You know, spell modifications? The boring stuff that actually saves lives?”
“And just FYI, I don't give a rat's ass.”
Chad's lips twitch into that stupid smirk. One second I'm thinking about how much I'd enjoy slapping him, and the next—a blood droplet is flying at me. The bastard didn't even flinch when he cut himself.
The droplet morphs mid-air, crimson catching the torchlight as it sharpens into something wicked and blade-like. It slices toward my shoulder, but I stumble sideways. It splashes against the stone floor, leaving a gross little puddle that'll probably stain.
Chad flashes his little metal dagger like he's so clever. “Always be ready to use your blood as a weapon.”
“How original.”
“Yet I almost sliced through your subclavian artery.”
I glance down at my shoulder, half-expecting to see blood.
“It runs just below your clavicle,” Chad says with that condescending mentor face. “Didn't they teach you basic anatomy during combat training? Elder Farrow's mandatory twice-yearly seminar?”
My cheeks burn. “I know where it is. And I was present at the seminar—even if my brain wasn’t.”
“Another one's happening Friday. Check the bulletin board,” he says. “You will attend. And maybe try staying awake this time.”
“I’ve never needed combat training to memorize artery names, okay? Some of us had actual career plans that didn't involve stabbing people.”
“Yeah, well.” His eyes harden. “Times have changed.”
I cross my arms. “So what other inadequacies would you like to point out? My inability to recite the periodic table of death? Or my failure to memorize 'Modern Dissection Techniques for the Vengeful Mind'?”
Chad steps closer. “The point of the anatomy seminar is knowing where to strike for maximum damage. Hit an artery, and your target bleeds out. Fast or slow, depends which one. Blood spells are perfect when you're cornered without fancy weapons.”
“There are curses and hexes too,” I mutter.
“Which take time and ingredients. Blood projectiles? Quick and dirty. You do know the incantation, right?”
I exhale. “I'm not magically illiterate, Valgrave. I can spell-check your ass six ways to Sunday.”
“Then hit me with one. Come on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Try to hit me.” His mouth quirks up with that insufferable Valgrave smugness. “I won't even move. Scout's honor.”
It takes a second to process what he's asking. But the chance to smack that smirk off his face? Sign me up. I pull my knife from under my belt—the cute one with the amethyst handle Esme got me last Solstice—and nick my fingertip. The spell tumbles out in a whisper, familiar as my own name. A delicious tingle zips from my throat down my arm, buzzing all the way to my bleeding finger.
