Chapter 16 Shadow #2
His wings catch and buffet us, first rushing us in one direction and then another before we stabilize. The air gusts across my face, and my eyes are still firmly closed.
“You have to look if you want to see where we’re going, otherwise I might as well have transported us there!” he calls over the roar of the wind.
I force my eyes open and blink against the gale.
The fear eases away as I look out upon the vast Forge, nestled against the mountains, castle walls, and the volcano.
Exhilaration fills me to the brim instead, nearly making me laugh out loud in astonishment.
I’ve never been so high up in the air and it’s absolutely amazing.
Freeing beyond measure, though when the wind buffets us, a swoop races through my gut and I grasp hold of Draven more tightly, catching the smirk on his lips as I cling to him.
We follow a trail that wends forty feet below us down a small decline where there’s a large building I haven’t seen before, nestled between the Forge and the volcano.
Draven and I leave shadows across the wild golden fields that blanket the ridge leading down to it, the space less manicured than the rest of the Forge.
He moves us with such flowing ease we might as well be streaking through water. Hesitantly I move one trembling hand from around his neck, holding tight with my other.
I let one arm open wide, hand spreading until the air is slipping through my fingers.
It feels as though I can grasp hold of the wind and make it submit.
I’m surprised when a small laugh escapes my chest, a burden releasing its binding on my ribs.
My attention shifts from my outstretched hand to two hawks flying just beyond it.
Something shifts in Draven’s chest, and I find him chuckling, his smile so bright I swear it could warm even the cold recess where my heart once ticked.
“What?” I shout over the wind, though a grin tugs at my lips. I can’t stop myself from taking in his dark hair flying like a banner, the defined shape of his jaw, the stark drop of his cheekbones, and the wild lavender in those eyes. His smirk softens, some of the rowdiness edging away.
“I’ve never seen you smile before. Not really.” His gaze flicks to my mouth.
“Did you think I’d be afraid?” I grin in challenge and his own smile brightens. A heat strikes between my legs. “Go faster!”
The mischievousness returns to his expression in full force, pupils widening, grin so broad it leaves crinkles in his narrow cheeks and the corners of his eyes.
He clenches me more snugly against his chest, and we burst ahead, his wings working in quickening tandem.
He dips us down, banking hard to the right.
My hand no longer lazily glides through the wind like a buffeting sail.
Instead, I’m clasping tight to him again, a little thrill-loving sound escaping my throat as he spirals us into a corkscrew dive, spinning us closer and closer to the ground before rocketing back up, racing the sun.
As we reach the height of this magnificent arc he hollers, “Hold on!”
My smile drops along with my stomach and suddenly I’m trying to climb him like a cat as we plummet straight toward the ground.
His laughter in my ear is infectious. Even though I’m nearly certain he has a death wish, I stop fighting the fear, letting my hands drift skyward.
His eyes widen, he grips me harder, and then he spins through the air, barrel-rolling us until up is down again and again.
My hair is in my face and mouth. Still, all I can do is laugh about it.
He darts us down along the volcanic river, the heat diminished but still roasting this close, before pushing up, summiting the hill.
His wings rush forward to slow us, as the building’s rotunda comes into view.
Draven’s feet skid across the space in front of it, and he finally settles my quaking legs to the ground.
I collapse to my backside in a fit of laughter as he stands over me, hands on his knees, panting. He shakes his head, a grin still on his lips, looking at me as if he’s never seen anything quite like me. Standing straight again, he arches his back, his wings drooping to the black sand.
“I haven’t gone that fast in a while, my shoulders hurt.” His hand is against his chest, steadying his heart. “I cannot believe you liked that.”
“Gods, it’s the most fun I’ve …” I trail off.
I wasn’t about to say “in years.” I was about to say “ever.” I turn tack, not wanting to put too much into that fever-pitched moment, or into him.
“It was so freeing.” I heave out a breath, putting my hand flat over my brows to block the sunlight reflecting off those oil-spill downy wings. “I can’t wait to have my own.”
His smile falters a bit. “Not everyone gets wings, but I’ll be surprised if you don’t.”
I admire the way his shine in darkest teals and deepest purples depending on how the sun hits them. “I’ll hate it if I don’t.”
His wings pull tight, no longer drooping, and I wonder what it feels like to have extra limbs like that. Ones you weren’t born with. “Well … if you don’t, we’ll just have to get you a pet wyvern.”
I grimace. “Not the same.”
His head tilts, his grin like a wildcat’s. “Or you can always ride me.”
My cheeks heat. “Judging by how out of breath you are, I don’t think you could handle me.”
His pupils blow out, and he gives a hard smile at the challenge. “Oh, Rune, there’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Heat ignites between us, as unbearably scorching as if the volcano suddenly erupted once more. But this burning is just us.
“Finally, he deigns to show his fucking face.” A winged druid approaches us, making me jump.
He’s at least fifteen years our senior, with coal-dark eyes and warm brown skin.
His arms are crossed in front of his muscled chest, and he’s glaring daggers at Draven.
“You’re five hours late, but at least you’ve got your flight training done.
Time for sparring, and I’ve had hours to brood on it. ”
He looks to me, expression pinched as if he’s waiting for me to explain myself.
“This is Rune.” Draven buffers between our staring contest. “She’s the—”
“Other World Arcana,” the druid fills in.
“I know, you won’t shut up about her.” The druid grins in satisfaction when he notices how Draven can no longer seem to meet my eye, clearing his throat and running his hand through his hair instead.
The man introduces himself. “I’m Kenzo, not Ken, and only my two-year-old nephew gets to call me Zo.
I’m responsible for teaching this idiot how to fight and win. His father pays me well for it.”
“And I supplement that payment, both because he tolerates my tardiness, and so he doesn’t report anything too damning.” Draven grins at me, and I roll my eyes at him.
“Come on, you two.” Kenzo doesn’t deny it and walks back toward the open space with the glass rotunda above it.
It leads to a beautiful sparring courtyard, tropical plants fixed around the edges and lining the pathways, the stain of the glass above dappling the floor with diamond patterns of color.
Kenzo moves to a cylindrical container where different wooden and metal weapons are stored.
He grabs a solid steel bow staff and gestures for Draven to grab a sword.
I park on a ledge of a planter, happy to watch for now.
Anything to keep my mind off last night.
As soon as Draven has his hands on two swords, they break into training, the fight soon a frenzied battle.
Kenzo doesn’t hold back one bit, all bulk and strength next to Draven’s fleet agility.
Their fighting styles are entirely different, yet they’re both able to keep the other on their toes, staff clinking against the blunt swords.
It strikes me how much Draven holds back in the sparring gym, keeping his full abilities a secret.
Draven flips forward, his wings balancing him as he kicks out, slamming into Kenzo’s chest and knocking the large druid back.
He follows up with a double-bladed strike, slamming into the staff with a resounding clang, but then Kenzo buffets him back with the bow, butting the end of it into Draven’s jaw.
Draven staggers back, blood pouring out of his mouth. I go on edge as he puts the back of his hand against it. A second later he spits a tooth into his palm.
I jump to my feet, but Kenzo looks entirely unruffled. Draven just puts the tooth back to wherever it was cracked and summons the World card and the Empress, healing himself, the blood dissipating.
“Now I’m pissed.” Draven points a sword at Kenzo, who only smiles.
“Finally, you’re catching up.”
· · ·
DRAVEN’S SHIRTLESS, sweat gilding his skin and outlining every cut of muscle, the vascularity in his forearms standing out sharp against the tendons of his flesh.
Throughout the day he’s sustained a black eye, broken ribs, and more split lips than I can count, but none of it has stopped him.
A quick remedy from the Empress gets him up and going again each time, and he rarely pauses even for that unless something is seriously broken.
As Kenzo breaks for water, Draven points to the cards at my hip, his lip bloodied again.
“Practice time.”
“I thought my classes were canceled?”
“You need a one-to-one approach. Draw the Empress.”
His command pulls some strings within me, but I don’t think they’re driven by the vow.
I want to learn from him, even though the thought stirs something confusing in me.
My last personal teacher was as harsh as he was cruel, but as I meet Draven’s violet eyes I relax.
Draven is far from the Lord of Westfall.
He pads his lip. “You’re healing me from here on out, Wraith. Unless you like me better bloodied?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” I tell him, and he laughs before wincing, more blood dribbling down his chin.
I summon the World, then the Empress, its glow pure as starlight. My hand hesitates before reaching for his face and a smirk draws those lips like a thread is woven through one end. Surer of myself, I grip his chin with my spare hand. “What now?”
“Imagine the wound knitting back together, sealing as if it never existed, your power flowing from you to your cards to me.” He watches me closely, barely breathing, prone beneath my power. “Just picture what I looked like before.”
“You’re going to trust your face to my memory?”
“It’s not like you’ve never looked at my mouth before.”
I startle, hating how quickly he can rile me, yet his grin is genuine again, transforming his face from beauty to godly.
Fuck him. I tighten my hold on his jaw and he chuckles as I urge my power through the cards, like a flood through a pinhole.
I’m frustrated when his lip heals only slightly, enough to stop the blood but not to smooth his skin like glass again.
“You even heal angrily.” His hand covers mine, his power coming up, brushing my own. “It requires something softer.”
Healing is a gift you give yourself. I breathe into him, “I’m not soft.”
“But you are compassionate, loving, even kind.” He holds my hand to prevent me from pulling away, his tongue dabbing the split. He gives me a wry look. “Maybe not to me, but I’ve seen it.”
My chest crushes inward, and nothing but him exists in this moment.
“Rune’s turn.” Kenzo’s annoyed eye roll tells me he interrupted on purpose, and we split apart.
Draven’s shoulders tense, wings popping out in some kind of instinctual protection, but Kenzo just tuts at him.
“You want her to be your equal? Then do not stand in her way.”
Draven backs off, moving to where I’ve been sitting, giving me an encouraging nod as we pass each other.
Kenzo wipes the sweat from his forehead with a rag. “My father trained King Silas to fight. I’ve been training Draven since this wolf was only a pup.” He lowers his voice for just me. “I’ve never known him to let anyone in. He must think you’re very special. Be worthy of his faith in you.”
He returns his metal staff to the rack and grabs a wooden one instead. I move to seize the practice swords Draven used, but Kenzo clacks me on the knuckle. My jaw hardens.
“Baby warrior gets baby swords.” He gestures to the wooden swords with wrapped handles.
I grit my teeth but obey, grabbing them out of the rack and following Kenzo into the ring. I’m very aware of my body and Draven’s watchful eyes.
“Show me what you know.”
I spent years training as a Wraith, but the main traits of a spy are to be quiet, clever, and watchful.
I could throw knives and hit a target ten yards away on a moonless night, but the only swords I’ve ever held have been ceremonial.
I lift the right one and swing, then try the other only to find his staff sharply meeting it, and the wooden sword spins out of my hand.
“Weak wrists mean we start with one.” He begins to pace, walking a slow circle around me.
Knives were always my weapon of choice, typically easier to get a hand on, easier to conceal. Occasionally a recurve bow for anything requiring a greater distance. I grip my remaining sword with both hands.
“Align your knuckles. There, much better.” He clacks his staff against it, and though it dips, I don’t drop it. “Better. Now keep your knees slightly bent. Legs apart so you can’t be pushed over. What are you, some dainty maid in waiting or a lioness? Better.”
I wait for him, watching out of the corner of my eye anytime he paces around my back, ready for any sudden movements. He smirks at my unwavering observation.
“I see you’re new to the sword but not the fight.
So, Rune, show me—” But he doesn’t get the next words out, moving to strike when he was almost out of sight.
I spin and block him, my wooden blade bouncing back because I swung too hard, not used to the weight yet.
He moves so quickly for someone that large, but I’m used to bigger opponents.
After all, I was rarely sent to spy on women.
I block him once, twice, but then he strikes with the bottom of the staff, and I can’t move quick enough, so he takes me out at the knee.
“Good, get up. We go again.”