Chapter 9 #2
August wasn’t a violent person. In fact, he’d never once been tempted to fist-fight with any of the Gilded brats who’d teased him over his family’s ruined finances.
Only once, when Theodore Lancaster had taken a shot at August’s father from beneath his foil mask, had August lost control.
He’d thrown his sword on the piste and ripped off his and Theodore’s masks.
“Why don’t you say it to my face, Lancaster?” he’d spat.
Lancaster balked. He’d never expected his rival to stop the match over an insult, so he muttered a weak apology, which August met with a shove before he stomped off the piste, effectively ending the match. This display of unsportsmanlike behavior had earned him a second Black Card.
So, when August suggested that we have a sparring match, I was understandably hesitant.
I was weak from my self-imposed starvation and wallowing, and I had no interest in grappling with August on the piste.
The pain of losing my father was still raw, and my nerves were frayed.
But seeing as he had given me little choice, I begrudgingly dressed and followed August to the fencing court.
Reluctantly, I stepped out of the locker rooms to meet August on the court. He was already wearing his foil mask.
He assumed the starting position, with his right foot forward and his sword held aloft. “Prêt?” he asked to see if I was ready.
I hadn’t even bothered to slip my mask on yet. “Not particularly,” I grumbled.
He huffed in frustration. “Put on your mask, Arden, unless you want to risk me poking one of your eyes out.”
I sighed melodramatically but put on my mask and forced my feet into position opposite him. Merely standing en garde had my thighs trembling from the effort.
We had no referee, so August shouted, “Allez!” and then lunged.
Immediately, I realized that despite my condition, he was not going to go easy on me. His aggressive lunges forced me to retreat again and again, though I tried to parry once or twice. Compared to August’s deadly precision, I was sluggish and fumbling.
“Come on, Arden,” August growled as he advanced again and again. “You aren’t even trying to fight me.”
But the lights were too bright, I was too weak, too tired to fight. I wouldn’t last.
August exploited my weak parries with swift ripostes. He was relentless. While dodging one particularly nasty riposte, I slipped and went crashing backward onto the floor. I lay there, sprawled with my sword at my side, glaring up at August through my mask.
“I surrender, alright? You win,” I said, tearing off my mask so I could breathe properly. My atrophied muscles were burning from the exertion. I desperately wanted a shower and a nap.
In answer, August took his mask off as well, his expression furious. “I don’t accept your surrender. He glowered down at me. “We’re not finished here.”
“You can do whatever the fuck you like, August, but I’m done,” I snapped back.
August refused to let up. “I know that fight is still in you somewhere, Arden. I won’t let you give up.”
I stared at the gloved hand he was offering me. His eyes were begging me to accept it.
“Arden,” he said again, and maybe it was the sound of my name that spurred me to do it, but the next moment I found myself reaching out and taking his hand.
He pulled me up, slipped his mask on, and when we began to spar again, something sparked inside me.
Rage and grief boiled in my veins, but instead of allowing it to drown me, I poured it into every lunge and riposte, into every thrust of my sword.
When I finally collapsed on the mat half an hour later, bruised and sweating, August gave an approving nod.
As we rested on the benches to rehydrate from our spar, August said pensively, “You know, I think I prefer the violent, hot-tempered Arden to the one I saw this morning.”
I rolled my eyes at him, but was unable to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. Out of sheer irritation and in an entirely illegal move, I had flung my body weight against August’s hip, throwing him off balance and knocking him flat on his back. I was more than a little proud of myself.
“You can hardly blame me for being violent after you unceremoniously forced me out of bed this morning,” I replied, but then conceded, “I will admit that in spite of being an unbearable know-it-all—”
He scowled.
“You’re not the worst fencer I’ve ever seen.” I smiled, knowing this backhanded comment would trigger his ego.
He snorted and flashed a self-satisfied smirk. “Arden, please, don’t be absurd,” he chided. “I’m the best.”
I knew his smugness wasn’t entirely related to his fencing performance, but rather to the fact that he had successfully shaken me from my wallowing.
An almost imperceptible wave rippled through the air, warping their faces, and when I blinked, I was shocked to see Casimir sitting so close, his lips tight and his eyes narrowed.
With a gasp, I wrenched my wrist from his grasp, nearly falling off the bench in my haste to get away from him.
What was worse, from the wary look on Casimir’s face, he seemed to expect my reaction.
I raised a hand to my cheek and was surprised to find it wet.
It wasn’t real.
Casimir was watching me carefully. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“I—” I couldn’t form the words to express what I was feeling, so instead, I spluttered, “What the fuck was that?” I stared down at my hands and realized they were trembling.
His mouth quirked to one side at my colorful language, but he spoke calmly. “I used a glamour to access your memories. Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to fight me off the first time.”
But I hadn’t fought it at all. I’d simply succumbed to the memory, to the state of mind I’d been in. Everything he’d told me leading up to the training had immediately ebbed from my mind as soon as I’d beheld August’s face in the memory.
“I need a minute,” I said, closing my eyes.
Though I didn’t want to admit it to Casimir, reliving the memory of that day reminded me of everything I admired—had admired—about August. He was the only person who had known how to shake me out of my despondency, how to take the rage and grief I was feeling and forge it into something razor sharp.
But I was also angry. Angry at Casimir for violating my mind and witnessing a deeply private moment between August and me.
And somehow, this violation felt worse than that night he’d eavesdropped on my conversation with August in the Labyrinth.
“Farrow?” Casimir said.
I opened my eyes in time to see him surveying me with furrowed brows. Tentatively, he reached out a hand as if to comfort me, but quickly reconsidered and drew back.
Hot tears sprang to my eyes. “You—” I rasped, the accusation on the edge of my tongue. “Why, out of all the memories, did you choose that one?” I met his open gaze and saw reflected there my own vulnerability. My weakness.
I gathered he’d expected me to react with irritation, perhaps even anger—but from the way he was looking at me now… I wondered if he hadn’t quite anticipated this. Hadn’t imagined that the memory he’d stumbled upon would shatter me so thoroughly.
“I warned you this would not be easy...” he replied, his expression like granite. “What do you think will happen next time you see Devereaux, if you aren’t prepared? If you don’t learn how to resist him?”
His exasperation only fueled my contempt, my temper in danger of exploding.
“You lied to me,” I shouted. “You don’t just create visions or conjure emotions—you violate people’s minds!”
“And what does Devereaux do?” he retorted, rising to his feet to tower over me. “What might he force you to do, the next time he bends your body to his will?”
The flecks of gold I’d noticed earlier seemed to gutter into shadow as he averted his gaze.
“But if your pride is more important to you than that—if you’d rather just give up—”
“Fuck. You,” I spat, packing every syllable with venom. “You didn’t warn me about what memories you might access.” I rose to my feet. If only he’d had the decency to warn me, I might’ve been more prepared. “Just like you didn’t tell me that you were going to burn your name onto my fucking thigh!”
He had the nerve to roll his eyes. “You love to bring that up.”
“Maybe,” I ground out, “Because it’s still there.”
His eyes dipped to my thigh, where he knew his name was concealed beneath my jeans. “Quit changing the subject, Farrow. I did warn you that the glamours wouldn’t be pleasant. Besides, I hardly think the memory we used was particularly gruesome—”
“That’s not the point! That wasn’t for you to see! It was private!”
I was furious, and the way his eyes were boring into wasn’t helping me regain control of my breathing.
I couldn’t block out his scent, like salt and leather, and something indiscernible, like the mist that rises after a hard summer rain.
It overwhelmed my senses, making me dizzy.
I fought to shut him out, focusing on my anger.
I hated him for the broken shards he’d dragged up from the depths of my shattered heart. My head ached with the effort.
“You want to know something?” I bit out. “Every day that passes, I wish more and more I’d never met you.”
His returning smile was cold. “If we’d never met, you’d likely already be dead, Farrow.”
For a moment, his words bludgeoned me into silence. Collecting myself, I countered, “There are worse things than dying.”
A tense minute passed during which neither of us spoke, both unwilling to break the furious silence.
Finally, Casimir gave a bitter laugh and sank back into his chair. “I suppose that’s true.” After a moment, he blurted out, “So, are you going to train with me? Or is this where we part ways?”
All at once, the fight drained out of me. A throb continued to build at my temples. “Fine,” I bit out.
He’d won. Again.
He nodded, rising to his feet. “We’ll take a break from glamours and refresh your combat training.”
“Alright,” I agreed, though somewhat cautiously.
“Tonight.”
Tonight? I balked, “I have actual work I need to do, you know. I can’t just spend every evening on this bull-”
Casimir interrupted, “If you feel your homework is more important than learning to protect yourself from Devereaux, be my guest.”
I groaned. “Fine. Where?”
“The Labyrinth.”
“The library closes at midnight,” I pointed out. Not that it had ever stopped him before.
“I’ll reserve a room. No one will bother us there.” He cast me a droll smile as he turned to go. “Eleven o’clock. Don’t be late.”