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That’s luck. I’m never this sidetracked.
I’m also never late.
On any given day, I retreat from Nacoma Knight like a sting gone wrong. I hate that place. I’m forced to be there seven hours a day and assigned to patrol when darkling energy is highest, from midnight until four in the morning (Valryn don’t need as much sleep as humans).
Basically, I never get to leave.
The worst part?
Nothing ever happens.
It’s basically patrol with training wheels for Knights-in-Training like me and it’s not preparing us for much. Sure, sometimes a stray spirit or two will wander campus and scare some kids who’ve snuck into the woods to party, or Vera, our resident dead girl, will get a little testy and break a window (she thinks she’s scarier than she really is), but that’s about as intense as it gets. The real action’s outside the boundaries of Nacoma Knight where ranked Shadow Knights like my father get to patrol and fight darklings—basically monsters created from the energy of the dead. I know because I’ve read Dad’s reports.
But today, things got interesting.
Case in point: Vera is missing.
Missing might be the wrong word—she isn’t in her usual place.
The thing about the dead is that they’re as predictable as rain after a car wash. Vera is a mobile spirit, and roams about campus, but she takes the same routes she did when she was alive. She’ll wander into buildings, to the rooms where she had class, but at 3:05 p.m.—the exact time she hanged herself about fifty years ago—she’ll return to her noose over the doors at Emerson Hall.
I ran out of time scouting campus for her. I still need to search the woods on patrol tonight before I report her missing. Still, I know she’s out there somewhere because her noose remains. It’s like a relic, tethering her soul to Earth. When that disappears, it’s really time to worry.
“Did the new girl keep you?” Jacobi tries again, and my blades collide with his, jarring me from my thoughts. We pause for a moment; our breathing is heavy and the muscles in my arms start to throb. The observation is a little startling as I realize Jacobi’s fighting with more force than usual. We step away from each other; our knives untangle with a crisp zing.
“No,” I shift my blades in my hand to get a better grip.
I came into training thinking I could take my mind off things, which is usually the case, but today, each strike reminds me something is wrong.
Just as wrong as Anora’s reaction to the dead…the second thing to challenge my complaint that nothing ever happens at Nacoma Knight Academy.
It was sort of funny, watching her interact with Vera…until it wasn't. After her first sighting, I expected her to go about her day like everyone else who can see the dead—like it is normal. As sure as the sky is blue, dead people roam the Earth.
But she hadn't. She freaked.
I mean, I hate walking through the dead, too, and Vera isn’t exactly the most delightful spirit to behold. That head of hers is held on by a thread of skin, but she’s nice for the most part, unless she spots a bully. We’ve had to shine a light through her head on more than one occasion to redirect her attention. I’m sure Anora has seen worse. I’ve seen worse. So, if it isn’t the sight of the dead that scares her, what does?
Jacobi swings his blades toward my head and feet simultaneously. I jump back, stretching my wings to keep from falling.
“I saw you talking to her,” he says it like an accusation, but he’s just mad because I’m not willing to have a conversation about it.
I talked to her for...reasons: because it is my job as a student aide, because she is clearly a death-speaker, a human who can see and speak to the dead, and I need to ensure she follows the rules set forth by the Order—a select group of skilled Shadow Knights also called Elites, who have decision-making power over the rest of us. They are basically the Congress of the Valryn world and just as dysfunctional. Death-speakers have a tendency to involve themselves with the dead in ways that harm the living, specifically through the occult. That m
akes them dangerous.
But Anora doesn’t show any signs of practicing the occult, or being involved in the Underworld—death-speaker society. She isn't aged beyond her years—her hair is dark and shiny, her skin and eyes are clear—she practically glows, and she is healthy, most obviously demonstrated by the way she took Natalie down during seventh hour.
More than needing to know if she's involved in the occult, I need to know who she is, because I've met her before. I'm sure of it.
The problem is that she doesn’t look familiar. This is something I feel. Something inside me reacts to her presence, like we are connected by an invisible thread. When she walks away, that thread unravels with her. When I do not follow, it pulls taut at my chest. Even now, I rub the spot where the feeling is tightest.
And it’s not just this stupid feeling in my chest.
She’ll do things that pull at my memory just like this thread pulls at the space over my heart—laugh so that chills prick my arms, or press her extremely full lips together—an expression of her anxiety—or tilt her head to the side as she studies me, narrowing those pretty hazel eyes in a way that makes me think she finds me just as familiar. I spent all day trying to figure out where I’d met her, stared at her so much she even called me out. I’m not meant to have a connection with a human, and I want to know why I feel this way about her.
So yeah. I’ll take what I can get. The first sign she’s a practicing death-speaker, the interrogation begins. Until then, I’m going to play friend. At least being around her will dull this stupid ache in my chest. I’m going insane.
And losing.
