Chapter 7 Avery
AVERY
Afew more of Allen’s wolf friends joined us at lunch.
While I enjoyed a delicious pita, piled high with chicken kebab and all the fixings, Ian and I made polite but enjoyable conversation with those seated next to us.
There were two gregarious male wolves, who were definitely dating given where they had their hands most of the meal, and a soft-spoken brunette, who gave me her extra tzatziki and spent the entirety of lunch staring longingly at Ash.
After returning to my dorm to decompress, organize my assignments, and get changed, I tagged along with Ian as we hiked the short distance to where his schedule indicated Guardian training was held.
Neither of us knew what to expect from today, but it was safe to assume we wouldn’t be fighting any actual wraiths in the daytime, behind powerful wards, and weeks away from the New Moon.
So I ditched my trusty dark cargo pants and thermal shirt for workout leggings and a racerback tank top, which I wore under my oversized zip-up hoodie.
Instead of my beat-up combat boots, I’d slipped on my running shoes.
My blades sat in their comforting position pressed between my shoulder blades.
Ian was dressed similarly in track pants and a T-shirt from our high school swim team, his katana slung across his back.
We passed the state-of-the-art gym, which was set back a little further than the dorms. It housed a large weight room, dozens of rows of cardio equipment, and an indoor track.
Just beyond the gym lay what I’d have thought was a basketball arena if I’d been on a normal college campus.
The building was round, like a little Colosseum, and completely enclosed by a domed roof.
It had a sleek, modern look to it that didn’t match the historical feel of the rest of the buildings on campus.
That was our destination this afternoon.
Other students made their way in that direction, the Prime quads easily identifiable as they marched along, radiating smug confidence and barely constrained aggression.
Ordinary shifters were headed that way, too, some alone and deep in focus, while others laughed and joked with their friends.
I recognized a few of the wolf contingent.
Everyone was male, and they all wore some form of gym clothes in the black-and-gold colors of the Guardians—a stark contrast to the forest-green-and-silver colors of the college.
I shot Ian a confused look as we observed the others. “Almost no one has a weapon?”
He shrugged, his blue eyes sparkling. “More fun for us, then.”
We entered the building, following in the wake of the other trainees.
After a short trek through a dim hallway containing offices and locker rooms, we emerged into a vast arena.
The floor was maybe three times larger than a basketball court, and like the building itself, it was perfectly round.
Bleachers ringed the space, and a jumbotron hung from the domed ceiling.
While the bleachers were dark, fluorescent bulbs overhead lit the arena floor in harsh white light. A few rows of benches and some equipment storage lockers surrounded the edge of the arena floor. The floor itself was slightly springy, like the thin rubber mats you’d find in an average weight room.
Ian nudged me. “What in the world is that?” He pointed at a nearby raised platform that overlooked the arena floor. It resembled the control booth you’d see at a concert, except in places of the knobs and switches, there were rows and rows of softly glowing silver runes.
It was the most complicated array I’d ever seen.
“I have no idea,” I replied.
As we continued gawking at the space, it was slow to dawn on me that most of the class was gawking at us. It wasn’t until my beast flicked her ears in mildly aggressive interest, alerting me to the arrival of Heath and Wyatt, that I dropped back into the here and now.
Wyatt’s eyebrows hit his hairline as he realized that it was indeed the new girl from Shifter History class standing in the Guardian training class with two blades strapped to her back. Heath was also staring at me, his brow furrowed like I was a concerning situation he didn’t know what to do with.
The whispers of the dozens of trainees surrounding us intensified.
“You know, I get that this is a bit of a sexist operation,” I said to Ian, “but they could just let me train with them for an hour or two before they decide how aghast to be at my presence. Do they think my swords are just decoration?”
He laughed. “You’re adorable. Of course they think that.”
“All right, all right, everyone shut the fuck up,” a deep voice barked.
Several men strode into the room. The leader, the one who’d spoken, wore dark combat fatigues.
The black T-shirt plastered to his enormous chest bore the golden Guardians logo over the left chest. He looked a few years older than us, maybe midtwenties, and his dark blond hair was shorn close to his head in a military-style cut.
Flanking him were three other males dressed similarly, all of them radiating both irritation and menace. Probably the rest of his quad.
“Why is everyone standing around whispering like a bunch of fucking schoolgirls?” the leader demanded, marching onto the arena floor and turning to face us where we all lingered around the edges.
“Sir,” a guy piped up from somewhere to my right, “there’s two random new students here, and one of them’s a chick.”
“What?” he barked, his pale eyes narrowing as he scanned the group of us.
I sighed heavily. This better be worth it, Dads.
With my chin up, I stepped out of the crowd and under the harsh lights of the arena floor. Ian followed, sticking tight to my side.
The hostile stares of the entire room pricked my skin, but Heath’s and Wyatt’s were the only ones that burned the side of my face like a brand.
I gave the guy who I assumed was our trainer a friendly wave. “Yeah, hi. I’m Avery Baxter, junior. This is my brother, Ian. He’s a sophomore. We’re new trainees.”
He glared at me, his lip curled. “Is this a joke? We don’t allow females in the Guardian program.”
Murmurs of agreement sounded around me.
“We do have an Ian Baxter on our roster, Cash,” one of the other trainers announced, examining the tablet he held. “Fox shifter, Support Squadron candidate.”
“That’s not fucking fair,” someone griped from nearby. “The rest of us had to survive the freshman year cull to make it to the sophomore program.”
The lead trainer, Cash, flapped a dismissive hand at his quadmate’s announcement.
“I don’t give a fuck. No one is allowed in this program without the points and experience required for their class and section.
And you two”—he swung his glare back to us—“have exactly zero points or experience. Get the fuck out of my class.”
Ian snorted. Glad he thought this was all hilarious.
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve killed hundreds of wraiths. So has Ian.”
Cash scoffed. He nodded to the trainer with the tablet, who tapped away at it.
The jumbotron lit up. On the screens was a list of student names.
It was titled “Guardian - Quads,” showing Blackwell Quad leading by several hundred thousand points.
The next list was “Guardian - Individual.” Heath Blackwell was at the top by a nose, followed closely by Wyatt Gale, then Elijah Harrow.
Aiden Blackwell was a bit further down the list, but I suspected this had more to do with his lack of attendance at training than his skill.
The list flashed again, and “Support Squadron - Individual” appeared.
I recognized none of the names but noted that the point totals were a fair bit lower than the Guardian lists.
It was tough for a non-Prime shifter to kill a higher-powered wraith alone, so I supposed this made sense.
“I do not see any Baxters on this list,” Cash said with a sneer. “No points, no entrance into this program.”
Ian and I exchanged what was probably our seventh confused look of the day. “Are points for wraith kills?” I asked. “How do you track that out in the chaos? Is it an honor system or—”
A throat cleared politely next to us. A cute guy wearing the student training gear had sidled up next to Ian.
His big brown eyes were kind, and he had tawny brown skin and some seriously luscious dark curls.
“We accumulate points by facing the Simulated Wraith Invasion Magic, known as the SWIM,” he said, waving a hand at the rune-decorated control booth with an apologetic smile.
“It’s a marvel of complex and sophisticated magical constructs and illusions and the pride of the Guardian training program.
In sophomore and junior year training, we fight the SWIM’s conjured wraiths.
At the end of each school year, the bottom half of the leaderboard is cut.
Only those who make it to senior year start training out in the field against real wraiths. ”
I blinked, trying to process that.
Ian had no comment except to very unsubtly check out this very helpful and also very attractive student. Said student noticed, and a flirtatious smirk appeared on his face.
“Wait.” I squinted at Cash the Dickhead. “You mean all of the kills you guys are talking about are against magical illusions?” I waved up at the jumbotron. “All of those points are for killing pretend wraiths?”
“Watch your tone,” Cash snapped at me. “The SWIM is a near-perfect replica of the experience of a wraith attack and has been the foundation for the most successful Guardian classes in the history of the force since its inception. Our Guardian candidates come out of this program trained instead of dead.”
I gaped at him. Disbelief and anger coiled in my gut. My beast growled, pressing against the bars of her cage.
Ian’s beast was always sensitive to mine, and he squeezed my hand. “Calm, Aves.”
I shut my eyes, tamping down the fireworks.
When I opened them, I speared Cash with a distasteful glare.
“Ian and I have walked the streets of Fulton City with my family every lunar cycle since I was fourteen years old, trying to limit casualties in our small urban community, where the Guardians don’t patrol.
” Harried whispers started up around me again, but I was on a roll.
“We lost two shifters just last month to a particularly bad attack. We’ve lost more over the years.
And you’re telling me that all these capable power quads and other trainees have been here, less than ninety minutes away, slaying magical constructs when they could be lending a hand to vulnerable areas during the New Moon? ”
Heath and Wyatt had inched into my peripheral vision as I finished my tirade. They wore identical frowns, like they were suspended somewhere between disbelief and anger.
“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard,” Cash snapped. “Fulton City? A female killing wraiths? Get the fuck out of my class. I won’t tell you again—”
“Cash,” a deep voice boomed from somewhere in the darkness of the bleachers. “She stays. They both do.”
I searched for the source of that surprising and kind of bone-chilling order.
With the slightly enhanced vision my beast afforded me, I could just make out an enormous man reclining in the first row of the bleachers near the back of the arena.
He wore the same fatigues Cash and crew did, but he was much older.
He had a bushy beard and a bald head, and his tree-trunk-sized arms were crossed over his burly chest. He was watching the proceedings like it was a mildly interesting football game.
Ian’s new friend whispered, “That’s Ward Gale. Actual head of the Guardian training division. He’s rarely here, but he’s the big boss in charge.”
Gale. Wyatt’s dad? Probably. Unlike his son, Ward Gale was exactly what you’d expect a Prime bear shifter to look like.
“Ward, come on,” Cash griped. “You don’t believe that shit, do you?”
“I think a few rounds against the SWIM will determine the veracity of Miss Baxter’s claims, don’t you?”
Cash engaged in a short stare-off with his much larger and scarier superior before he huffed, relenting. “Have it your way.” He motioned to the booth, and one of the other trainers climbed inside.
This guy was as tall as Cash and only slightly leaner, and he had white-blond hair that contrasted sharply with his dark eyebrows.
He began chanting under his breath, his fingers tracing the runes, their silver hue brightening as he channeled what could only have been the lightest touch of magic into them, since it was the middle of the day.
The system itself would have to store a shit ton of magic, re-upped during a Full Moon, like an enchanted solar panel.
The overhead lights dimmed, and the ethereal light-blue glow of Moon magic consumed the arena floor.
“Because we have new trainees today, and because some of your brains are so fucking porous that I assume most of what you learned last semester has leaked out your ears over the holiday break, we’re going to review and demo like it’s your first fucking day,” Cash announced.
A few groans sounded.
“Look at us, making friends already,” Ian said, chuckling.
“You did make an actual friend, you butthead,” I griped, jerking my chin at Mr. Adorable Curls.
The boy grinned. “Brody,” he said, holding a hand out to me. “Ordinary lynx, junior, and number two on the Support Squadron leaderboard.”
“Hot,” Ian whispered.
I shook Brody’s hand. “Avery, undisclosed, soon-to-be top of the Guardian leaderboard.”
His big brown eyes widened, and then he barked a loud laugh. “This is fantastic! Those meatheads won’t know what hit them.”
“Blackwell! Gale!” Cash barked. “On the floor. I presume our current leaders are willing to demo even though you’re missing half your quad?”
My irritation receded and my interest was piqued. Even if I got nothing useful out of today, I’d at least get to watch half of the fabled Blackwell Quad put on a show.
Show me what you’ve got, boys.