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Jacobi’s blade hits my shoulder. While the strike doesn’t tear through my armor, it startles me. “Ah!”
Jacobi falls back laughing. His teeth match the soft white walls and hard floor surrounding us.
“You’re distracted, Shy—it’s unlike you,” Jacobi twirls his blade once, and then sticks it into the floor. “Must be thinking about that pretty new human girl.”
“Nope.”
It is against the Order for a Valryn and human to have a relationship, and any offspring born of a coupling between the two races are referred to as Abominations, as they are often disfigured, with bones and feathers protruding where wings and skin might have been. Something in our blood—maybe the part that gives us wings—doesn’t mix well with human DNA. Not to mention a lot of my beliefs don’t exactly line up with the human world. I don’t believe in God or heaven or any of that. My creator is Charon, the keeper of the Adamantine Gates—the only way into the afterlife.
“She’s kinda brave, isn’t she? Picking fights with Natalie on her first day. She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”
“From my angle, it looked like Anora held her own just fine.”
Which is funny as hell considering Natalie can’t stand to be bested by anyone, much less a death-speaker. As hilarious as it is, I was just as surprised as Natalie to find Anora’s reflexes matched ours, as if she’s been trained by an Elite herself. Another thing that doesn’t sit well with me—who taught Anora to fight and why is it necessary?
“Ten bucks says the new girl bests Natalie.”
“Don’t encourage them. It’s going to be hard enough for Natalie to leave Anora alone at school.”
“What are you so worried about?” She’s just human—I know what he’s thinking, but if it’s our job to protect human souls, then it’s our job to protect their bodies, too. Besides, we have bigger things to worry about, and if Natalie needs a reminder, all she has to do is turn on the television to see Influence’s handiwork.
Influence is an incorporeal being that can be anywhere in the world all at once, compelling humans to commit heinous and unspeakable acts or tearing the world apart with natural disasters. The plane crash in Switzerland is the most recent antic. Last week it was an Earthquake in Haiti and before that a bomb on a London train. All claimed hundreds of lives, all resulting in more souls tethered to the living world, and more power for Influence. The longer It lives, the more unstable Earth becomes. Some Valryn believe Influence is the beginning of the end, Armageddon.
“Anyway,” Jacobi continues. “If Vera sees Natalie picking fights, she’s in for it.”
Yeah, if Vera’s there to see it.
“Natalie shouldn’t have tripped Anora,” I say. “She’s going to have to deal with the embarrassment.”
“Have you told her that?”
Yes, which is why she is angry with me.
I clear my mind of the clutter that’s been distracting me and focus on my blades. Their weight is a familiar comfort in my hands. We have been together since I started training at twelve. Unlike my suit, my blades cannot be bought. They are made from the essences of Spirit, from Charon’s forges, and have protected me far better than any armor or human weapon.
The air thickens between me and Jacobi, but I’m calm, my arms are relaxed at my sides. My father’s rules echo in my head. I know them as well as I know the alphabet: one, never strike first. Two, never provide the enemy with a mirror. Three, smile.
My lips twitch.
Jacobi is familiar enough with me that he returns the smile, but either his impatience or his nerves get to him because he lifts his blades. That’s what my father means by not providing a mirror—keeping my arms at my sides prevents my opponent from knowing when I will make my move.
My smile widens.
Jacobi strikes, jabbing with the weapon in his right hand. I deflect the blow and parry the follow-up attack from his left with my other blade. We pull away and then circle each other like prey, my wings feel like a cloak dragging the ground and I stretch them, wishing I could take flight in this cramped room—but that’s not the point of this exercise.
“I know girls melt at your feet when you flash that smile, but it’s creepy as hell when you’re trying to kill me.”
My opponent moves swiftly, one blade swipes toward my chest and the other comes down upon my head. I jump away and cross my swords over my head to deflect the attack. Jacobi pulls his blades back and swings. I collapse to my knees as the weapons cut the air above me. The ground is not an ideal vantage point, so I use my swords as one and go for Jacobi’s legs. He jumps away, avoiding the assault, but it’s given me the space I need to get to my feet. We stand opposite each other again, our chests rise and fall. This time, Jacobi’s smiling.
“I almost had you.”
It is true that Jacobi is improving, but he has yet to catch up to me.
Motivated by his progress, Jacobi rushes to attack again, his right blade flashes under the fluorescent lights. His left remains aloft, on defense, prepared for my counter-attack. It’s that blade I focus on as I charge him. Surprise flashes through his eyes, and at the last second, I slide to my knees, ducking under the blade in his left hand. As I rise to my feet, I use the hilt of my weapon to disarm him, and before he can turn to face me, both of my blades are around his neck—this is the executioner’s angle.
“Down,” I command.
And Jacobi kneels. I look up at two bulbs sticking out over the black glass pane. One is green, the other is red—green is pass, red is fail. In the old days, when the Order was first begun, the colors had different meanings, and Knights could actually be put to death for disappointing Commanders during training. Seconds tick by, and still the lights remain off. I hate not being able to see into the window. Are the Commanders even watching? Of course, they are—always assessing and recording. Every move I’ve ever made has been entered into the Archive, and they’ll use all that data when I turn eighteen to decide my place in the Order.
