Page 34 of Demon Touched

Chapter 11

Leah

Iscrape the tip of Swiftwing along the ground, readying myself to practice the movements I saw some cadets trying out on the fields after breakfast.

Filippa’s been avoiding me for the better part of three days now, and I don’t really blame her. It’s not fair that she’s facing the biggest, most dangerous challenge of her life, only to be forced to babysit a clueless nephilim like me. Worse, that her grandfather actually rates my chances of success over hers.

I know what it’s like to have your family disregard you. To treat you like a disappointment. I’m not going to make things worse by following her around reminding her of that fact.

Which is why I’m out here training on my own. Again.

I close my eyes, trying to feel the sword’s power—the magic Garion claims will guide me. Right now, I don’t feel a whole lot, but I push through, trying to repeat from memory the drills I saw this morning. I’ve never properly fought with a sword before, so I don’t have much to go on.

A prickle of sensation runs up the back of my neck, and I brace for Syrus’s arrival, swinging my blade around until my muscles scream. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’m trying to override the way my body too often responds to this moment, eagerly opening up for him, thrumming like a purring cat leaning into a gentle hand.

“Interesting,” Syrus murmurs into the shell of my ear. “I didn’t know interpretive dance was part of the ephilium’s curriculum.”

I lower my arms with a huff. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you flail about with a sword, apparently.”

I give his presence a mental shove, but he holds on. It wasn’t that hard of a push, but even if it were, I suspect it wouldn’t make much difference. He has his hooks back in me now. I still have my walls, but they’re not hard for him to bypass. All it took was letting him in once, and now they’ll never be the same. Still, he must register them. He must know that I don’t want him there, and yet he pushes through anyway.

“It’s a standard drill,” I shoot back. “And I’m just wondering why you’re turning up now, after your multiple disappearing acts two days ago.”

“Did you miss me?” he asks, far too pleased as his voice caresses the inside of my mind.

I suppress a shiver, thrusting the sword out in front of me. “Like a migraine,” I reply. “What was all that about anyway? What freaked you out about the general and the sword?”

“When you learned this ‘standard drill,’ was it taking place in the air by any chance?” he asks, ignoring my question, which only aggravates me more. Of course he dodges any attempt to get him to display some honesty.

But while I’m annoyed at him changing the subject, the fact is that he’s right. I’m trying to replicate maneuvers I saw the cadets perform mid-flight—which might be the issue, given I’m very much grounded.

“I’ve never fought with a sword before,” I admit.

“Then let me show you,” he says, the sarcasm replaced by softness. I feel myself wanting to lean into it, to coax more words out of him, imagining the way his eyes would look if he were here, and how he’d smell as he leaned in⁠—

No. I rip myself back to reality. “Just because I asked for your help in the arena doesn’t mean I was issuing a standing invitation, Syrus,” I snap, trying to make my mind as spiky and uncomfortable for him as possible. “And frankly, I think it’s very shitty that you used me nearly being eaten by a wolf as an opportunity to fuck with my ability to block you out. Whatever you did, whatever backdoor you left for yourself, I⁠—”

“I didn’t do anything,” he says calmly. “If you can’t keep me out anymore, then that’s because a part of you wants me here.”

“That’s not true!” I reply, horrorstruck by the idea. Is it really my fault my walls aren’t working anymore?

“It is,” he says. “You keep letting me back in because you need me⁠—”

“I don’t⁠—”

“You know your chances of survival are much better with me here to help you.”

Oh. I straighten up. I doubt the other interpretation of his words has gone over his head—that I might need him, or at least want him in a much less practical, far more pathetic way. But mercifully he’s decided not to mention that.

“All right,” I sigh, because it’s better than facing up to the other option. “That might be true.”

“And I need you not to die,” he goes on. “Because the alternative…” His voice dips, getting lower and rougher. He slides deeper into my body, his presence coursing through my veins and pulsing like the thud of my own heartbeat, “…is unthinkable.”

I swallow, overwhelmed by the emotion in his voice as much as the sensation.

It doesn’t mean anything. Not when he couldn’t give me what I really wanted.