Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Shy and the Assignment

“You’re late, Shy,” Jacobi says.

The edge of one of his long knives flies over my head. I duck, swinging my blade toward his legs. The move prompts Jacobi to jump back, giving me the space I need to straighten. We stand opposite each other in our hybrid forms, dressed in black suits as tight as our own skin. Large iridescent-black wings sprout from our backs and sweep behind us.

It feels good to be in this form, like I’ve dropped a heavy cloak from my shoulders, given up the disguise of being a regular teenager, and allowed the other part of me to take over. Valryns have three forms: a hybrid, raven, and human.

I actually like my human form the most, even if it is sometimes exhausting having to pretend to care about things like football and trigonometry. If my friends heard me say that, I’d never hear the end of it. I’m pretty sure there’s some unspoken law that says a Valryn’s favorite form cannot be their human form.

“So what kept you?” Jacobi continues.

He likes to talk when we train. I don’t.

My hands tighten around the hilts of my weapons, and I glance at the black two-way mirror through which our commanders observe and score us during training. I don’t really want to discuss why I wasn’t on time while they’re listening, but I know it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Jacobi takes advantage of my distraction by jumping to attack. What little lift he gains works against him, slowing his assault. I bring my blades up to counter his blow.

“Late and distracted,” Jacobi chides. “Better for me.”

On any given day, I retreat from Nacoma Knight Academy 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.

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 we haven’t already dealt with. Even though the school used to be an asylum, it’s also long been a stronghold of Valryn, and most of the dead tend to avoid it. The curfew is only enforced to allow us to patrol unbothered. 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.

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 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 hung herself about fifty years ago—she’ll return to her noose over the doors at Emerson Hall. But today, she wasn’t there.

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 hands 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 all the other death-speakers at our school who can see the dead—like it is normal. As sure as the sky is blue, dead people roam the earth.

But she didn’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’s my job as a student aide, because she is clearly a death-speaker, and I need to ensure she follows the rules set forth by the Order. They’re basically the Congress of the Valryn world and just as dysfunctional. Some death-speakers have a tendency to involve themselves with the dead in ways that harm the living, specifically through the occult, which makes them dangerous and puts the Order on edge.

But Anora doesn’t show any signs of practicing the occult. She isn’t aged beyond her years. Her hair is dark and shiny, her skin and eyes are clear—she practically glows—and she’s healthy and strong. If anything, it feels like she’s just a normal teenage girl. Except I’m pretty sure I’ve met her before.

The problem is that she doesn’t look familiar. This is more something I feel. Something inside me reacts to her presence, like we’re connected by an invisible thread. When she walks away, that thread unravels with her. When I don’t follow, it pulls taut at my chest. Even now, I rub the spot where the feeling is tightest. Which makes Jacobi laugh.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Savior?” he says, swinging his blade toward my side. I spin away from him just in time. “You’re acting weird.”

He’s right. And it’s not just this stupid feeling in my chest.

She did things today that pulled at my memory just like this thread pulls at the space over my heart: laugh so that chills pricked my arms, or nervously pressed her full lips together, or tilted her head to the side as she studied me, narrowing those pretty hazel eyes in a way that made 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 like a stalker. 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 involved in the occult, 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, apparently, losing.

Jacobi’s blade hits my shoulder. While the strike doesn’t tear through my armor, it startles me. “Ah!”

Jacobi falls back, laughing again. His teeth match the soft white walls and hard floor surrounding us.

“You’re so distracted, Shy. It’s unlike you.” Jacobi twirls his blade once and then sticks it into the floor. “Are you seriously obsessing over that pretty new human girl?”

“No.”

It is against the rules of 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’re 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 for spirits to enter the afterlife.

“Did you see that catch she managed when the ball was heading toward her? Pretty good reflexes,” Jacobi muses.

I grunt and try to kick Jacobi’s blade from where he’s planted it in the floor, but he’s too quick. He’s right, though; Anora’s reflexes matched ours, as if she’s been trained by an elite from the Order herself. Another thing that doesn’t sit well with me—who taught Anora to fight, and why is it necessary?

“Natalie doesn’t seem to think it’s a good idea for you to hang out with her,” he continues.

“Natalie just doesn’t want anyone to steal her spotlight.”

Natalie can’t stand to be outdone by anyone, much less a death-speaker.

“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 do you care?” I know what he’s thinking—she’s just a human.

“I don’t. Anyways, 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 like a parasite. It’s a chaotic energy that compels 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 another 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.

“Regardless,” Jacobi continues. “If Vera sees Natalie picking fights, she’s in for it.”

Yeah, if Vera’s there to see it.

I keep that thought to myself, instead clearing my mind of the clutter that’s been distracting me and focusing 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 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 swiping toward my chest and the other coming 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 rising and falling. This time, Jacobi’s smiling.

“I almost had you.”

It’s 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 flashing under the fluorescent lights. His left remains aloft, on defense, prepared for my counterattack. 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 first began, 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.

My gaze falls to Jacobi at my feet. His head is down, his hair spills over his face, and his heavy breathing punctuates the air. It seems like every time we enter this room, we end up in this position, and each time, it takes longer for the commanders to give us the green light. I think they hope to embarrass Jacobi into performing the way they want, but that’s not how he operates. Jacobi’s not interested in fighting battles. He prefers hacking databases and stealing identities. Every time Roundtable has gone down, it’s been because of him.

But the Order doesn’t care half as much about those skills as they do our ability to fight. Because no matter where we’re placed in the hierarchy after graduation, our first duty is as soldiers.

And yet I still don’t like holding blades to my best friend’s neck.

Finally, the green light flickers to life overhead. I uncross my blades with a zing and step away. Jacobi exhales, and his shoulders fall. He reaches for his second blade and gets to his feet. A clear, robotic voice sounds in the training room over the intercom.

“Jacobi, report to Commander Quinn.”

While those orders don’t necessarily mean anything bad for Jacobi—Commander Quinn is his mother—dread swirls in my stomach. Valryn aren’t really all that nurturing.

Jacobi turns to me, and though he’s smiling, I still see the defeat in his lackluster eyes and drooping shoulders. Part of me wants to apologize even though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. It’s just a darkness has been crowding my thoughts for some time now, a sense that every time Jacobi and I face off, it might be his last.

Which is stupid.

The only reason I’ve started to think this way is because I’ve recently learned the current head of the Order, Luminary Maximus DuPont, is dying and that his son, Roth, will ascend to his place. That means change, and change under Roth isn’t something I’m looking forward to. Not to mention it’s coming at a time when the world seems to be drowning under Influence, and I don’t think Roth’s the one who’ll bring us out of it. I think he’ll push us further from the surface.

“See you tomorrow,” Jacobi says.

He places his fist to his shoulder and bows his head. I do the same—a sign of respect among the Valryn. I watch Jacobi leave before I move toward the door but find my exit is blocked by a tall Valryn with square shoulders and dark, buzzed hair. He’s dressed like me, only far more decorated—not with medals like humans but with thread. Gold entwines his waist, crawls up his chest, and wraps around his shoulders and upper arms. They’re the markings I want one day.

As he moves into the training room, he claps. The tips of his wings drag the floor.

“Elite Cain,” I salute him.

Cain is the head of our branch of the Order. He oversees the commanders. Consequently, I don’t see much of him as a knight-in-training, so the fact that he’s crashing my training session makes me nervous.

“Bravo,” he says, surveying me from head to toe. “Your father must be very proud.”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes. I look over Cain’s shoulder to where my father always stands—in the shadow of his elite. He’s hard to miss. I look just like him. People like to tell me that, like they think I’ll forget I’m related to him. Like those eyes—the color of deep water and just as cold—would be narrowed in disappointment at anyone other than his son.

“I hoped I might have a word with you.” Elite Cain pauses, watching me with unmoving eyes, and I work to hide my surprise.

“How can I be of service?”

A slow, tight smile cracks across Cain’s face. “I’m sure you’re aware of Commander Savior’s importance to my team.” Commander Bastian Savior, my father, is one of four commanders Elite Cain has at his disposal. They carry out all manner of orders—orders that take them away from their families more often than not. “Your excellence in training has been noted, and I assume you will prove an asset like Commander Savior, which is why I’m entrusting you with an assignment.”

I look for a reaction from my father, but he’s vacant, like a human after death.

“An assignment, Elite Cain?”

“Your first to prove if you’re ready to be a knight of the Order.”

I offer a nervous laugh and quickly shut my mouth. Part of training is learning to hide emotion—emotion means enemies finding weaknesses, and weaknesses mean death. “It’s an honor for you to say, Elite Cain, but I haven’t graduated yet. I still have nine months of training.”

“Do you wish to challenge my judgment?”

“No, Elite Cain.”

“You are at the head of your class, far more advanced than any knight-in-training your age. I know your father has given you no unfair advantage. This is in your soul.”

I keep his gaze, even though his words make me feel uncomfortable. He twists on his heels, hands behind his back, and starts to make a circle around me. I flex my fingers, ignoring the instinctual pull to reach for my weapon.

“It is a simple enough task. Think of it as…a test of your loyalty.”

That feeling of discomfort intensifies, raising the hair on the back of my neck.

Loyalty.

That word has been used a lot recently, especially with my family, and I don’t like it.

“Successor Roth has requested Council and will lead in his father’s stead. He’s asked our best knights to attend.”

My heart beats faster.

“I’m appointing you as his guard for the duration of his stay. That means seeing to his safe arrival and return to and from the airport and anywhere in between.”

I deflate, punctured by the blow.

You have to be kidding me.

I hate Roth DuPont. And this may sound like an honor, but basically it’s being his glorified gofer.

He’s arrogant and self-serving, and he cheats in battle, though he claims otherwise; it’s the only way he can beat me. I’m not the best choice for this job, seeing as how I’d like to shove his face into concrete. I want to say as much, but my honesty wouldn’t be appreciated, especially by Elite Cain, who sees this as a lofty assignment. Who wouldn’t want to protect our luminary-in-training?

Me.

Still, now that I have had time to consider, why would Roth call Council? He’s not luminary yet. Did it have something to do with the plane crash? Maybe it has something to do with the shadow knight who died in New York a month ago, his soul stolen right out of his body. It is clear darklings are getting stronger and bolder. The only way to fight them is to ferry lost souls into Spirit, a gift the Valryn once possessed but lost. Now the only thing we can do is protect as many humans as possible.

It’s getting harder.

Soon it will be impossible.

Those of us who still believe in Charon think he’ll send our salvation—the Eurydice, the only one who is granted the power to summon the Adamantine Gates and ferry souls into Spirit to heal and reincarnate. It’s also our job to support and train her.

I know I won’t have answers unless I haul Roth around in my Jeep.

As bad as it’ll be, I’ll suffer through it to attend Council.

“When should I expect him?” I’m proud of how steady my voice is—all business—even if I want to spit blood every time I hear Roth’s name.

“Friday.”

“So soon?”

“I hope you don’t have plans.”

I know just as well as anyone that a shadow knight’s first obligation is to the Order; everything else in life comes second. There is no room for negotiations. My father shows this on a daily basis, and my mother learned it the hard way. Still, the simple dismissal of my life outside the Compound makes my blood boil. I may not care that much about school, but it’s still part of who I am.

“Of course not, Elite Cain. I just did not expect to serve so soon.”

Cain offers the same splintered smile. I always imagine him as a doll—his features painted in lifelike color but his expression hollow. “Then this is an honor.”

I place my fist to my chest and bow my head in acceptance of his task, but it feels like poison in my veins.

Elite Cain turns, and for a moment, I’m left with a clear view of my father. I haven’t seen him in about three days, so it makes sense that the first thing out of his mouth would be criticism.

“Your footwork was slow,” he advises.

I should hold my tongue, especially in front of Elite Cain, but I can’t. “I’m not looking for your approval.”

I haven’t made any attempt to get along with my father recently. I’m never good enough for him, so I’ve stopped trying.

As Elite Cain reaches the door, he pauses and calls over his shoulder. “We expect you at precisely six o’clock, Shy.” Exactly one hour before the football game. He turns his head to look at me. “You are lucky to be living in this time of change.”