Page 38 of Demon Touched

“You win,” I gasp. Larius allows himself a second to be pleased before his expression folds into that look of intense concentration again, already preparing himself for the next bout.

“Keep practicing,” he says calmly. “Your swordsmanship needs a lot of work.”

I stifle a smile, knowing he doesn’t mean any insult by it. You’ve got to love how direct ephilium are sometimes.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say as I get to my feet and fix my eyes on Keros’s delighted expression.

“Any recommendations for how to get red out of a uniform?” he says smugly as we take our starting positions. “I’ve not had to wash mire blood off my clothes before.”

“I’m surprised you know what washing is, Keros,” I shoot back. “You certainly don’t smell like you do.”

It’s far from my best material, but I have more important things to worry about than witty comebacks as Keros bares his teeth and lunges.

I try to keep it quick. Filippa was right to say that my best option is to keep it short when he’s out for blood like this. His initial attack is quick and direct; after my fight with Larius, he has no reason to think he needs anything else. But I’m much faster than I let on, certainly quicker than someone Keros’s size and density. I sidestep and spin, staying low and grazing my sword across the bottom of his breastplate as I go.

“One,” I call out, making sure Keros knows he’s a strike down.

He stops for a second, as if he can’t quite process what just happened. I don’t give him the luxury of time to figure it out, diving at him. He blocks my first swing, kicking me in the knee so hard I nearly crumple to the ground—for real this time. But as my leg rolls out with the force of his blow, I go with it, using the momentum to fall forward onto my other foot, spinning my sword around and driving it up and back. Without Swiftwing, I doubt this strike would connect, but the sword does its job, tugging my hand into place at the right moment to slide past Keros’s defenses and jab him in the chest.

“Two,” I call, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice.

Keros roars, rage possessing him as he grabs hold of my shoulder, yanking it back so I feel it groan in its socket. I arch in pain.

“That’s two strikes!” I scream again, lightning crackling into my palms. “Let me go or I swear I’ll blast you to Strata.”

Keros releases me, but not without calling over to Hasteed, who’s stationed near a different group.

“Captain! The nephilim’s trying to cheat!”

Hasteed looks over at us, her eyes shifting between Keros and me, calculating.

“No lightning, Fledgling Illidore. I said that at the start,” she calls, but the reprimand is relatively mild. I think she suspects Keros drove me to it.

I let the magic die in my hands and put several steps between myself and the blond brute. “Goddess, you’re a piece of shit, Keros,” I bite out.

His anger has stripped him of any smugness, and the hate on his face is raw. “You don’t belong here, runt. Why don’t you crawl back to whatever disgusting hole you came from?”

“And you just got beaten by a runt, so what does that say about you?” I point out. “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

From the widening of his eyes, I can tell my barb has hit much deeper than I expected—striking right at the heart of whatever desperate insecurity makes him such a dick. I take the satisfaction of that with me as I turn to find my next sparring partner.

“Who was it?” Syrus says when he finds me alone in my room later that day and notices the throb in my shoulder. His touch feathers over my skin, exploring the injury. “Which pale-blood bastard hurt you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, sliding my hand under my shirt to massage the bruise Keros left. “It’s not like there’s anything you can do about it.”

My fingers brush against the other sore spot on my back—the edge of the ridges where the skin is stretched and tender. I sense Syrus’s attention sharpen.

“What are—” He stops, stiffening in my mind with realization. “You’re growing wings.”

“Yes,” I say, the word heavy with what we’re both not acknowledging. With every step forward into my ephilium identity, I’m a step farther away from him. “It’s a good thing. I’ll have a better chance of surviving the trials now.”

“Better, but still not guaranteed,” he says, his exasperation spiking in my mind. “And don’t think I didn’t hear what your grandfather said about the trials purging you of links to Infernum. That could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous because you wouldn’t be able to keep your hooks in me, you mean?” I throw back, the pain in my shoulder making me snappish.

“Because you have no idea what it involves,” he says witheringly. “I have Viz trying to find out what he can about this oracle, but the ephilium guard their secrets well.”

I hate that he’s right. The smart move would be for me to do research of my own. I’ve been distracted lately, between the argument with Filippa, my wings, and Syrus being impossible, but I should be gathering whatever information I can to help me prepare for the trials.