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“Yeah. We train as a team. Now, go and warm up.”
The Winter Prince smirks at Rhaegar before stalking away, and Rhaegar frowns in return. It’s obvious he doesn’t appreciate having my perceived mistreatment pointed out by an Unseelie.
22
Once I’m back in our dorm room with Mack, glued in front of the fire, I realize he was right to let me out early. I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically. And we still have fight training in an hour.
I barely have time to eat the apple I stole earlier, down a glorious cup of coffee, and pull my hair into a high ponytail before we head off to training.
A huge gym awaits with several different arenas. We follow a bunch of first years to a locker room where we change into stretchy black athletic gear that melds to our bodies, leaving very little to the imagination.
Then our instructor, Mrs. Richter, a former shadow guardian with long black hair restrained in a loose braid and the buffest arms I’ve ever seen, leads us into the largest arena.
Other than Mr. Willis, she’s the first human instructor I’ve seen at Evermore Academy, but by the tight set of her lips and serious expression, I very much doubt she’ll have sympathy on us.
The room stinks of years’ worth of sweat and old socks, but the equipment shines like new. Black punching bags line the far wall and red wrestling mats are positioned around the area. The door to another smaller padded room is open, where students with little crossbows on their wrists shoot at targets along the wall.
Evelyn raises her hand. “Instructor Richter, when do we get to train for that?”
Our instructor follows Evelyn’s gaze to the other room and then purses her lips. “Shadows aren’t taught how to use class three weapons until second year.”
“Then how are we supposed to kill darklings?” a boy with spiky blond hair and acne jokes.
“With your hands,” Richter says dryly.
The boy snorts and mutters under his breath, “I’d rather have a wrist-mounted crossbow. They’re so freaking cool.”
Richter regards him with narrowed eyes. Then she retrieves a small wrist-mounted crossbow from the other room and hands the weapon to the boy. The class goes quiet, the only sound a dull thud as the bolts hit their targets.
“What do I do with this?” he asks, his eyes huge as they go from the weapon to the instructor.
“What’s your name, shadow?” Richter asks.
“Be—Ben.”
“Well, Ben. You said you wanted a wrist-mounted crossbow. Now you have one.”
He flicks a nervous glance at the weapon. “I’ve never—”
“Used one? I think not. This particular weapon is a semi-automatic wrist-mounted, laser guided crossbow, to be exact.” She closes the distance between them until the sharp end of the bolt is inches from her heart. “Pretend I’m a darkling and shoot me.”
“No, I . . . I can’t. Right?”
“If you want to stay in this academy, Ben, you can and you will.”
The crossbow shakes as he fastens it to his wrist. His finger moves to the trigger . . .
Right before the bolt releases, Richter side steps. At the same time, she brings her right hand down on his elbow. Her other hand lifts the weapon from the bottom and thrusts up, stripping it from his grip.
She tosses the crossbow away, and it clatters near Evelyn’s feet. Richter grins. “Now your freaking cool weapon is gone. What do you do?”
I’m pretty sure Ben is about to piss his pants. When he can’t come up with a solution, Richter holds up her hands, a clever look on her face. “Weapons have their place. But these”—she wiggles her fingers—“will always be with you, and they should be your most honed weapon.”
After that very convincing display, she sends us to do laps around the gym. We end the session with pushups and burpees, and I’m not entirely sure how I don’t vomit. My head spins. My stomach churns. I assume we’re done until Richter leads us through a small padded room into another even larger gym.
There’s no equipment here other than mats. Mirrors line the far wall. Our keepers wait on a large mat, stretching. They all wear similar tight black workout gear and are sweaty like they’ve been here a while. Except their sweaty and ours is entirely different.
They’re like the models on sports magazines who have been sprayed with droplets of water to get a picture. Gorgeous. Every hair in place. Not breathing hard at all. Skin all dewy and crap.
