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And the thing with Herald – apart from being a talented sorcerer, an alchemist, an amateur demonologist, and a level thirteen barbarian in his weekly tabletop game – was that he was at the peak of his physical fitness. He dashed towards me, no doubt imbuing his movement with a pinch of magic. I yelped, barely spinning out of the way as the air zinged with the cut of his blade.
“Hey,” I said. “That thing’s sharp as hell, careful.”
Herald answered by doubling back and slashing again. I cried out when the sword made contact, slicing a shallow cut in my chest. Fuck. Time was that I could sink into the shadows, retreat into the Dark Room to regroup, then spring out and stun him with a Sneaky Dustin Special.
I looked down at myself. It was barely a scratch, really, but I was going to milk it for all it was worth. Plus part of my chest was exposed, the injured skin and my ripped clothing frosted lightly at the edges with tiny particles of ice.
Great. So he’d ruined my shirt. Again.
Chapter 17
“Ouch, time out, time out.”
“No time outs in real battles, Graves,” Herald growled. “You want to get a better grip on fire magic? This is how.”
I held out my hands, arranging one vertically and the other horizontally in the universally recognized symbol for “Fucking stop for a minute.” To my surprise, Herald did.
“No, for serious, that smarts,” I whined. “Also. You’re constantly ripping my clothes off.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration.” Herald lurched, swinging forward as a series of tiny icicles launched from his fingertips. I hissed as they grazed my side, the sudden chill coming not from the frosty projectiles, but from the fact that my shirt, yet again, had been torn open.
“I can’t help that I’m so hot,” I said, hurling my own little batch of flaming missiles. Without missing a beat, Herald twisted around, threw up one hand, and erected a shield made entirely of ice. It even had a crest on it, in the shape of a snowflake. Showoff. My little fireballs collided with his shield, sizzling and fizzing into nothing.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re making such a huge deal out of this. You ruined your clothes all the damn time when you still worked your magic with the Dark Room. All those cuts opening all over your body. You were drenched in blood half the time I knew you.”
And all those little scars, I heard his voice say, in words left unspoken. On some nights he’d trace them with his fingers, saying nothing except for the forlorn expression on his face. He thought of them as trauma, I knew, but sometimes I look in the mirror still and think of my scars as tiny medals, trophies earned in battle, every cut a mark of my arcane evolution.
But I said none of that, naturally. No one had to know how perversely I still felt affection for the Dark, most of all Herald.
“Point taken,” I said, loosely clutching another fireball in my hand. “But that was then. This is now.”
I tossed another fireball, this one larger, this one smashing his shield to pieces. Herald’s eyes went wide, his glasses misting over with steam.
“Okay,” he said. “Color me impressed.”
I clutched my knees, bending over and panting. “Fucking great. Because I’m exhausted. Can we call it, finally?”
“Yeah. Okay, fine. We’ll pick this up some other time.”
“Plus we need to get dinner. It’s late, and I’m starving.” I panted again, though this time I felt a little spark of energy return to my body. The promise of food always did that.
Herald pushed his hand through his hair, nudging it out of his face. I didn’t know what he was thinking with that accusation about setting his hair on fire. I liked it that way, a little floppy and longish.
We dropped by the kitchen for some water, where we found Sterling spread across his favorite red sofa, catching up on his telenovelas. I peered closer at the television, realizing these weren’t the Spanish ones he typically followed. They were Filipino. I guess Mama Rosa must have turned him on to some new shows.
Gil’s bedroom door was open when we passed by, and we spotted him and Asher playing with Banjo. Gil was still taking a slightly reserved approach to interacting with the corgi – understandable, considering its erratically explosive nature – but Asher seemed perfectly happy to play-wrestle with the dog. Banjo returned the favor by slobbering all over Asher’s face. I frowned, partly out of jealousy. Okay, totally out of jealousy.
“That’s the exploding dog?” Herald muttered.
“Yeah,” I said. “Listen, when we go out for dinner, remind me to pick up some Puppy Yum biscuits.”
He arched an eyebrow at me. “Is the corgi running low?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go with that.”
When we got to my bedroom, I realized that this would be the first of possibly several sparring sessions I would have with Herald. I was just about to ask if he wanted to drop by his apartment on the way out so he could grab a shower, seeing how sweaty the both of us had ended up.
“So,” he said, lightly running his finger along the ragged edge of the shirt that he’d so skillfully torn open. “How big is your shower, exactly?”
