Chapter 12

F allen Knight Rank 1 Grant Valerius flashed a nervous grin as he stood in a gym with the leaders of his race and Lich Sentinel Alaric Daray. The tall man with the glowing green eyes stared at Grant without blinking. It was unnerving—even for a man resurrected to defend and protect.

Although Grant had only been brought to life a week ago, he'd already learned the difference between fallen knights and sentinels. The Arch Lich had created the fallen knights in the likeness of the sentinels in many aspects, but the Lich Sentinel's people were elite assassins with an uncompromising code of honor.

Their dagger skills were also unparalleled, and for some reason, the Lich Sentinel had decided he'd spar with Grant that morning. Grant shifted his booted feet and hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself.

"Good morning, Lich Sentinel," Grant chirped as the Lich Sentinel stalked toward him in a uniform of charcoal gray. With the help of a bit of the magic that was innate to sentinels, a two-toned poison flowed around the man's blades.

"Good morning," the Lich Sentinel replied without inflection. Grant noted that he was a handsome guy. Like the men he ruled, Alaric had hair that lay haphazardly on his forehead. It was rumored that few sentinels bothered to comb their tresses. The newly resurrected sentinels training alongside Grant boasted of their desire not to ever purchase a brush or anything close to it.

Grant was amused that they were so proud of something that mundane, but he'd decided he wouldn't borrow the custom. He preferred to follow the model of the other fallen knights and start his day with his hair tamed. It was a small thing to decide, but Grant was embracing every aspect of the life he'd been given. He woke each morning with a smile and an eagerness to get as much as he could out of the day.

"So, Lich Sentinel, I guess we're going to spar," Grant said, his feet moving of their own accord as he wilted slightly under the direct stare of the Lich Sentinel.

Grateful that he was on the same side of justice as Alaric, Grant took a calming breath and internally lectured himself on keeping his shit together. He was doing great so far as a fallen knight. His test scores were nearly perfect, and he'd acquitted himself well in the gym. Grant had earned the praise of the Reverent Knights and two of the Venerable Knights.

The third Venerable Knight—Roman Calixtus—had yet to appear at the Ascension Center. Although it was apparently customary for the entire leadership of the fallen knights to be involved in the training of new recruits, duty had forced VK Calixtus to stay at headquarters. It was a bummer since Grant wanted to embrace this rare opportunity to work with his superiors daily, but he also understood that crime didn't take a break.

"Wrong," Alaric finally replied. "You will wave your daggers around, and I'll instruct you on your every mistake so that someday you will have the ability to spar with me. In the gym, you may call me Alaric. There is no need for formality unless tradition dictates it."

Grant gulped. "Okay?"

"You should get your daggers out of the holster to start."

With a chuckle at his foolishness for not even having his blades out, Grant did as he was told. "Check. Okay, what next?"

"You have your thumb wrapped around the hilt. I did not expect that. So many fallen knights start by holding their daggers incorrectly. If it were possible for you to lose limbs, the entire gymnasium floor would be littered with spare fingers hacked off by the sentinels teaching fallen knights."

"Well, I'm glad I impressed you."

A black brow rose as Alaric plucked his daggers from his sides, and the glow of his poisons disappeared. Every sentinel removed their poisons when facing off with fallen knights who lacked the ability to add such a thing to their own blades.

From what Grant had read, it was a show of respect to fallen knights and an important part of the comradery and closeness of both races. Reading was something Grant did for hours after his classes were done for the day. Thankfully, he had the lone single dorm, and he invested all his time in being the best damn fallen knight possible.

"I did not say I was impressed," Alaric commented. "But I've heard you are doing well in both your physical and mental tests thus far."

"It's only been a week since my resurrection, but I want to crush it."

"With hard work, you can accomplish anything you wish. Except, of course, to be as exceptional with your daggers as a sentinel."

Grant laughed. "Trust me, I know. I thought I was badass, then I faced a sentinel. It was a humbling I needed to remind myself that I should always give my best."

"A sound notion. And while I appreciate that you wish to confide in me as if we are old friends, you should do more than hold those daggers in your sweaty palms."

"Right," Grant muttered. "Just hack away at the Lich Sentinel."

Alaric shook his head slowly. "Use your daggers with grace, purpose, and honor. We do not hack away at people."

"Sure, sure, sure," Grant said, waving one of the blades in his hand. "You want me to just…?"

In a complete departure from the stoic sentinel Alaric had been since his arrival in the gym, he rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Fallen knights are the bane of my existence," he grumbled.

"Don't you live with two of them?"

"Yes."

"So, you must like them."

"Not necessarily. They live there because they are mated to Skeleton Lords. Fate decided we should share a home. I did not."

Grant had no clue why, but he burst into laughter. "All right. Try not to break my bones as we do this."

"I refuse to take responsibility for any injury you incur," Alaric stated as he easily fended off Grant's attempts to get his blades close to any part of the Lich Sentinel. "Besides, you will mend almost instantly."

"Won't make it hurt any less," Grant muttered as he tried to find an opening but found himself completely outmatched by Alaric. It wasn't a surprise, but he was determined to improve so he could at least force Alaric to break a sweat someday.

"I take it you have already hurt yourself?"

Grant narrowed his eyes and swung his right arm forward, only to be stopped by the clang of his blade hitting Alaric's. "Broke my nose on the second day of training. I let my guard down for a second and RK Conley nailed me in the face. Afterward, I was glad it happened. I can't get better if I don't learn things. When I'm fighting or studying, I need to be one hundred percent focused."

"Indeed. Here is another lesson. Do not act recklessly. Make every motion count. This wild swinging will tire you out and give your opponent an advantage," Alaric stated as he neatly slammed his dagger into Grant's hard enough that the blade fell from his grasp. It hit the mat beneath their feet with a thud.

Grant picked it up and nodded. "Okay, what other pointers can you give me?"

"Keep your body tight. Your movements should be concise. Not fragile. Not purposeless. If you cannot find an opening, reassess and choose another strategy."

"Here's the problem," Grant huffed out as Alaric disarmed him a second time. "You're way better than this at me. There is no opening."

"What are you doing with your feet?"

"Uh, using them to remain upright."

"Grant, you cannot disarm me. Use your feet to knock me down."

"Fuck, I should've thought of that," Grant replied and swung around, intending to nail Alaric on the back of the knee. Unfortunately, the Lich Sentinel was too fast and dodged him. Grant's momentum nearly had his faceplanting into the mat.

"Keep trying," Alaric instructed.

"I will," Grant vowed to both himself and the Lich Sentinel. "I'll keep trying until the day I can at least surprise you and maybe get lucky enough to knock you on your ass."

Alaric's mouth curved into a smile. "I look forward to our rematches."

Happy that he'd somehow pleased the Lich Sentinel, Grant doubled his efforts to follow Alaric's instructions and intently watched his body language to mimic him. Grant intended to push himself to his limits in every respect of his training.

It was far too early to wrap his mind around the possibility of gaining more than a couple of ranks at graduation, but Grant wanted to make history. He was already dreaming of being called Venerable Knight.

∞∞∞

Roman closed his eyes as the mist from the sea dampened his skin. It was barely light out, but Roman hadn't slept, so he'd walked from the rental house the Reverent Knights had insisted on paying for to the edge of the ocean. It was past high tide, so he didn't need to worry about the water crashing onto the sand any closer to him. The air was cool, which suited a fallen knight impervious to temperature extremes, because the last thing he wanted was a bunch of people around.

For the first time in six-hundred-and-fifty-five years, Roman was living a lie. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a nefarious untruth, nor was it permanent. Drystan and Conley had decided that what Roman needed most was to clear his head. They had offered multiple options, but in the end, Roman had opted for a spot for him to be alone with his thoughts and feelings.

Everyone in his extended D'Vaire family knew where he was and why. But if anyone beyond that inquired where to find Venerable Knight Calixtus, they were transferred to Kyle, who happily explained that Roman was on a case—one so secretive that he couldn't be reached. If anyone had left a message for Roman, Kyle had yet to pass them on.

Roman didn't mind how protective the people he loved were. Quite the opposite. He was grateful. Although it'd been a few weeks, Roman continued to grapple with that moment at the Ascension Center when he'd laid eyes on Grant's supine form.

Each day, either Arvandus or Samson emailed him the current test results for every recruit. Unless something dramatic happened, Grant would be a Venerable Knight at graduation. Roman thanked Fate for that, and it had nothing to do with his desire to share some of the heavy burden that went along with his title. What made Roman happy was that he'd never be Grant's superior. They were equals.

But as Roman wiggled his toes in the sand and wrapped his arms around his knees, he wondered how he'd face him at the ceremony that would grant him his title. There were no simple answers. Roman carried the memory of their brief acquaintance from before Grant's death, but those were memories the new fallen knight wouldn't regain.

How should Roman tackle his future? Could he look Grant in those fabulously lime-green eyes and pretend they were meeting for the first time? Since they were mates, Grant wouldn't have the ability to unearth any lie Roman told. So, if Roman wanted to put the past firmly behind them, he had the necessary tools.

But was it fair? How could they begin a relationship based on a lie? That was assuming they had a future. All confusion aside, Roman wanted a mate. He didn't know if he could make Grant happy or vice versa, but he refused to pass up the opportunity to find out. Which meant Roman had to move past his shock, his sadness that someone had likely hurt Grant, and learn everything he could about his other half.

Roman had briefly searched on the Internet to discover if he could find any clues about what had happened to Grant. But he didn't even know the man's former last name. Roman didn't know what city he'd lived in. He assumed Grant had lived close to the woman he'd been tailing as a private investigator, but he could also have been flown in for the job. The area code for his phone wasn't tied to the area he'd met Grant in, and that mattered little. It was possible to have any area code for a mobile phone.

It was a needle-in-a-haystack kind of search and a pointless one. Roman was a damn good detective, but he lacked the vital information he needed to discover the truth. As a fallen knight, he couldn't contact the humans involved in the one case Roman knew Grant had been working on. Humans wouldn't help him. Roman had no choice but to accept that Grant's death would remain a mystery.

Except for in books, movies, and television, Roman had no patience for mysteries—especially when it came to the man Fate had chosen for him. Annoyed at himself for getting stuck in the same cyclical thoughts yet again, Roman blew out an exasperated breath. Dwelling on the past wasn't the answer.

Which left Roman with the hardest part—making decisions about the future. A future he hoped would someday include Grant. So, once again Roman put himself in the new fallen knight's shoes. Would he want his mate to tell him about the few phone conversations they'd shared before his unfortunate demise?

Roman grimaced. They hadn't been the best chats. The last thing Roman wanted to recall was Grant's boyfriend or the job he'd accepted that could free a man still facing an upcoming felony trial for attempted murder. Their last call had held promise. Grant had wanted to change his life and required space to do so.

Would Roman want to learn that he'd had a boyfriend or that he'd called his other half a zombie if that had been his life? Roman had to admit that he'd prefer to be left in the dark. But was that what Grant would want? It wasn't as if Roman could ask unless he was prepared to dump those details on the man so soon after his resurrection.

Grant needed to find himself. To discover his passions. To get settled in his job and figure out his favorite food. Or whether he liked sunny days or snowy mountains. Roman wanted him to have the freedom to spread his wings unhindered by the ghosts of his past.

Roman rested his forehead on his knees. That was it. His decision was made. Right or wrong, Roman would keep his silence. Once he knew Grant better, Roman could determine when it was best to tackle the past. Resolute and content to have a clear path ahead of him, Roman promised he'd give himself another day or two to settle his heart.

Then he'd return to work and prepare himself for the day he'd have the honor of placing a magical patch on Grant's formal uniform with VK on it. The patch would represent the title Grant was busting his ass to earn. It was a nice thought, and part of Roman was eager for the next several weeks to fly by.

The rest of him was scared shitless.