Chapter 9 #2
The closer we get to the door at the top, the more difficult it is for me to catch my breath.
“Lysander—” I call out through tight lungs.
Fear’s starting to set in. “The sun.” I’m slowing down, every step becoming more laborious and difficult.
The distance between me and the door seems to grow by the second.
“Keep up,” Lysander says. He’s already at the door, his hand on the handle, waiting.
I suck in as much breath as I can and continue on. By the time I reach him, my skin tingles with heat, burning.
“The sun…” I begin again, confused how he can seem so unaffected by the daylight hours. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does,” he replies. “But I have built somewhat of a tolerance for pain.”
What an odd thing to say. Again, I wonder who my friend really was before his change, before I came around. I truly don’t know much about him. He’s full of secrets.
Lysander opens the attic door, and the harsh brightness filling the room stuns me. I step down, my eyes drying instantly. My face stings, and I gasp at the sharpness.
He walks inside. The space is massive and empty, with a slanted roof and a few small arched windows.
None of their panes are covered, allowing the sun to shine freely through.
Strips of white light cut across the boarded floor, and in the rays, flecks of dust dance and sway, while forgotten furniture is covered in white sheets and covered in cobwebs.
“Tolerance to light can come with the years. Or you can train yourself, like I have.” Lysander moves so I can join him. “And step lightly. Many of the boards are loose or missing.”
Looking down, I see that he is right. Pieces of the wood are either gone, splintered, or rotting away. A thick layer of dust covers everything, disturbed only by scattered footprints. Looks like Lysander has been up here a lot.
Closing the door behind me, I press my back against the wall so the light from the windows don’t touch me.
Lysander, though, moves with cat-like grace across the room, dodging the sunny spots with ease, and goes to a metal trunk at the opposite end of the room.
Opening it, he rummages through and then pulls out two long swords.
“Are we really going to practice up here?” I ask.
“Yes,” Lysander replies, “is that a problem?”
I glance at the windows ignited with early morning light and then at the wide gaps between the floorboards at my feet. One misstep and I could be burned alive. Or could fall through to the floor below.
One of his blond brows rises as he waits for my answer.
Despite my anxious thoughts and the tension in my body, I shake my head as a reply.
If this is what I need to do in order to train myself, so be it.
Lysander has always been known to be a great fighter, and if he’s willing to teach me, then I’m going to listen.
Even if his methods are a bit off the cuff.
He hands me a sword, and the weight of the weapon surprises me. I’ve never held one before so I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it’s light and fits nicely in my grip. I twirl it in my hand and swing it back and forth to get a better feel of it.
“Be careful, Avrum. You don’t want to hurt yourself before we even begin.”
I stop, but can’t fight the grin spreading across my lips. I feel like a child again, trying something new and exciting for the first time.
Stepping into the middle of the attic with his own sword in hand, Lysander gestures for me.
“We will begin with your footwork,” he says as I stand in the spot he picks.
A strip of light from the center window separates us like a transparent wall.
“Have you ever touched sunlight, Avrum? After your change?”
What an odd question. “Of course not.” I was taught very early on by Henri to never step foot in the daylight again or risk being destroyed.
To my horror, Lysander reaches one hand out toward the beam of light.
I hold my breath.
His hand begins to hiss and crack, turning black from his long fingers to his wrist. The smell of burning flesh hits my nose, and my stomach turns. But Lysander only closes his eyes and tilts his head back, his face clear of any pain at all.
I can’t even believe what I am seeing. The blackened skin begins to curl back and flake, catching the air and flying away, turning to ash. He’s disintegrating before my eyes.
“Lysander, please,” I say, wincing at the sight of it. It’s so disturbing; I can’t take it a moment longer. “I get it. Stop this.”
Opening his eyes, he withdraws his hand, his face still an emotionless mask. I don’t know why he did it, but he got his point across. Ten fold.
“It’s a slow death,” he murmurs, holding his hand up and examining the cracked skin. “Slow yet final.”
I swallow, fear creeping in. I’m not so sure about this anymore. Having to dodge Lysander’s sword was one thing. Avoiding being burned to death by the sun? This training sessions is feeling more like agreeing to a suicide pact.
Slowly, Lysander’s skin starts to knit together and restore itself to its natural glossy, pale color. He flips it front to back to show it’s fully restored. Not a blemish or scar to be seen.
“The sunlight and the missing floorboards will help with your footwork and your attention,” he says as he holds out his sword and points the sharp tip at me. “Are you ready?”
Nervous, I glance about the attic. Another patch of sun cuts across my right, dangerously close. If I move the wrong way, I can quickly look like Lysander’s hand. Or with one wrong step, I can fall through the ceiling to the floor below.
Am I ready? Absolutely not.
Before I can even raise my weapon or answer, Lysander takes two quick swipes at me.
I’m forced to leap sideways, my body meeting with the sun.
Immediately, I’m hit with pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
Like thousands of little sharpened needles are being stuck into all my exposed skin—my hands, my face, my neck, all at once.
Clumsily, I jump again out of harm’s way, only to lose my footing to avoid a missing board and almost topple over.
“Watch yourself!” Lysander demands. “You must be aware of your surroundings as well as yourself.”
It takes me a second, but I’m able to right myself again. Lysander’s sword is too quick to allow me any time to fully recover. I scramble away just before the blade can catch my shoulder.
Breathing hard, I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, not yet.”
When I glance behind me, I find that Lysander has already backed me into a dark corner. There’s nowhere else for me to go except forward, closer to Lysander’s sword.
He approaches with a predator’s poise, his blade glinting as he passes it from one hand to the other. “Come on, Avrum. You are making this too easy. I like a challenge,” he says. “Raise your sword! I do not train cowards.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“Show me then.” Lysander thrusts his sword, and I manage to twist and dodge it. Barely.
Lysander growls in annoyance. “Where is that drive you had before? Where is that anger? Or do you want Henri to continue to have his way with Haven?”
His words spark the terrible memories from before, and the feelings that come along with them. Something awakens inside me, something wild and full of anger. I’ve been betrayed by Henri. Haven has been tormented and abused. And I need to help her.
My grip tightens around the handle of my own sword. My determination grows. This time, when Lysander swing his sword again, I meet it in midair with mine. The metal sparks between us, and we pause for a moment, staring at our crossed weapons.
I grit my teeth as I try to keep my elbows locked. “Of course I don’t. No one deserves to be treated that way.”
“I thought so,” Lysander says, a smirk lifting his lips. “Again.”
My eyes follow Lysander’s sword as it flies through the air. I block it before it can make contact with my hip.
“And again.”
Lysander side steps, causing me to do the same. I move around the sunbeams and avoid a wide gap in the floor at the same time. With every blow I block, my arm shakes and my muscles clench. I duck, step back, step forward, and our swords clash.
“Again,” Lysander says with more vigor. “Come on, Avrum!”
I try to match his movements, toe for toe, but my next step sends me sinking into the floor. I twist last minute but my knee gives out and I fall backward, hitting the planks with a hard thud. My sword falls away, out of reach, and when I look up, Lysander’s is already at my neck.
“You’re dead,” he says, before lowering it and offering me his hand instead.
My shoulder aches and my legs wobble, so I allow Lysander to pull me to stand.
“You’re doing pretty well for your first time,” he comments. “You were beginning to find your rhythm there for a moment.”
I rub the back of my neck. My shirt’s damp with perspiration and we haven’t even been at it that long. “You could go easier on me though.”
“Easier?” Lysander laughs and shakes his head, any loose gold hair dancing before his face. “That’s as easy as it gets, I’m afraid.”
He walks over, picks up my sword, and tosses it to me. Luckily, I’m able to catch it by the handle with both hands.
“And it isn’t over yet,” he says and raises his weapon again. He slides the blade against mine so that the rubbing metals let out a piercing screech. “Again.”