Chapter 21
T he next week fell into a pattern.
Every morning, Lorcan showed up at my door to escort me from the Drakhold.
We didn’t fly again, and I could only assume that meant Lorcan hadn’t stumbled upon another glomarid.
He didn’t volunteer that information, and I didn’t ask.
For one thing, I didn’t want to know. For another, it was too dangerous to discuss.
So we walked through the forest in silence, the trees observing our progress. At some point, Vander appeared, and the three of us continued deeper into the woods.
We took a different route each time, wending our way around fallen logs and meandering streams. Sometimes we walked for an hour. On other mornings, our trek stretched until my legs ached and a stitch formed in my side.
But eventually the scenery grew familiar and Vander muttered the vor to take us into the Everless.
Inside, everything changed.
The men shed the roles they wore in the Drakhold, their cultivated animosity giving way to a camaraderie that became more apparent with each passing day.
Vander made an art form out of disturbing Lorcan’s calm. The obedient captain of the guard disappeared, and an irreverent troublemaker took his place.
At first, Lorcan seemed constantly on the edge of losing his cool. More than once, however, I caught a flash of exasperated humor in his dark eyes, or a suspicious twitch of his lips.
But both men took my training seriously. They pushed me for hours, running drills for everything from the vor scapa to swordwork. For the latter, Lorcan produced Dark Dream, which transformed into a slim, flexible blade so light it felt like it might float out of my hand.
“Are you sure I can actually hurt someone with this?” I had asked the first day he gave it to me.
Folding his arms, he’d offered one of his mild expressions. “Stick the sharp end up a man’s nose, and you can turn his brain into minced meat.”
“Gross,” Vander had said from the bench.
At first, the featherlight blade seemed more like a toy than a weapon. But after thirty minutes of Lorcan’s instruction, my muscles burned and my chest heaved with effort. He took me through fluid drills that resembled a dance but left me soaked with sweat.
Vander’s approach to combat training was different.
“You’re unlikely to take down a seasoned fighter,” he said bluntly, “but you can outwit one. Look for their tells. For example, Lorcan favors his right leg.”
“No, I don’t,” Lorcan said. He frowned, as if Vander’s statement offended him more the longer he thought about it. Lorcan scoffed, shaking his head a little. “That’s absurd.”
Winking at me, Vander lowered his voice. “His real tell is that he’s far too easy to make fun of.”
Lorcan’s frown turned into a glower. “You won’t outwit someone by being an asshole.”
Vander turned his wink on Lorcan. “Works just fine on you, sweetheart.”
As the days wore on, that sweetheart lingered in my mind. And my curiosity ran wild. What were they like together? What happened when they stopped bickering and yanked each other into a kiss?
And why couldn’t I stop thinking about it?
It kept me up at night, long after exhaustion tugged at my lids and my aching muscles begged for sleep. My body buzzed, and my thoughts returned again and again to the memory of Lorcan and Vander sprawled on the grass in the Everless, their hips working against each other.
By the seventh day of training, the images were a steady presence in my mind—and a constant source of distraction.
“Dead,” Vander said, touching the tip of his silver-eating sword to a spot above my heart. He danced backward, jogging in place on the balls of his feet. “That was a mortal blow, Princess.”
Lorcan observed from the bench on the edge of the grass. Clad in black as usual, he’d stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles.
I scrubbed my forearm over my damp brow, then fell into the ready position Vander showed me earlier in the week. “I’m not mortal.”
“You can still be killed,” Vander countered, his sword belt jangling with his movements. “One jab in the heart and your opponent can throw you to the ground and take your head. Not even an immortal can live without a brain.”
“Some manage it better than others,” Lorcan murmured, his eyes on Vander.
Vander just smiled, his attention on me.
Narrowing my eyes, I waited for him to show a weakness or, as he called it, a tell. So far, he didn’t appear to have any. He alternated feet, his russet hair catching the light as he bobbed up and down.
“Will you stop moving?” I asked, exasperation flaring.
“Why, so you can stab me with”—his lips twitched as he glanced at the steel in my hand—“Dark Dream?”
Lorcan frowned from the bench. “Don’t make fun of my sword.”
I feinted left, then backpedaled when Vander anticipated the movement and deflected my blade. The vibration of the blow traveled up my arm to my shoulder. I clenched my jaw.
“Don’t clench your jaw,” Vander said. He shuffled his feet, bouncing harder. Up and down. Up and down. His unusual sword left blue streaks in the air as he whipped it around his body.
“What do you call your sword?” I asked him. Maybe if I kept him talking, I could tire him out. He was a big man. He couldn’t jump around like an idiot forever.
“It’s a feyblade,” he said. “Cast in Veradorn.” Haughtiness touched his features. “The elves don’t name their weapons.” He sprang forward, swinging his sword down in a powerful sweep.
Gasping, I parried, our blades clashing in a scream of metal. But Vander kept coming, driving me backward with so much force that I lost my footing and landed hard on my ass.
Pain shot up my spine. Vander tapped the flat of the feyblade against the side of my neck.
“Dead.”
Growling, I knocked away the sword with Dark Dream, and I ignored his extended hand as I kicked my skirts out of the way and clambered to my feet.
Vander stood back. “You’re waiting for me to tire. It’s a decent strategy, but it depends on what your opponent is going to do. It’s a passive move.”
My lungs burned, and the muscles in my arm and shoulder throbbed. We’d been practicing for so long, our boots had flattened the grass.
When I finally caught my breath, I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “I don’t know why you insist on teaching me swordplay. You already said I’ll never best a warrior.”
“Perhaps not with a sword,” Lorcan said, standing. He crossed the grass and took Dark Dream from me. Instead of sheathing it, he leaned it against the bench. Then he returned, his cool gaze falling on Vander. “There are other ways to disable an opponent.”
Vander groaned. “Not this again.”
“Put down your nameless sword, Sir Vander.”
“What kind of ways?” I asked, my curiosity sparking.
Lorcan gave Vander a sympathetic look. “If you’re too nervous, we don’t have to show her.”
“I’m not nervous .”
“Of course not.”
Snorting, Vander went to the bench and leaned his feyblade next to Dark Dream.
Lorcan turned to me. “You’ll probably want to back up a little for this. Vander takes up a lot of space when he falls.”
“Now who’s being an asshole?” Vander asked, rolling up his sleeves as he moved in front of Lorcan.
Lorcan’s eyes gleamed as he angled his body sideways and lifted his hands. His fingers curled loosely, he crooked a finger at Vander. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Vander’s throat bobbed. Then a determined look descended over his features. Copying Lorcan’s pose, he gave a short nod.
For a moment, neither man moved. Then they charged each other at the same moment. Vander thrust an arm out, his hand angled like a blade.
Lorcan dodged the blow, spun in a blur of black, and landed a flurry of light blows on Vander’s lower back, upper thigh, and forearm before spinning back to his original position.
“Fuck,” Vander grunted, doubling over. Bracing a hand on one knee, he panted like he grappled with severe pain.
“Do you need to stop?” Lorcan asked.
“No.” Vander straightened, then shook out his arms. Taking a deep breath, he resumed the ready position he’d adopted before.
Lorcan did the same. Again they faced off, neither moving. Then they rushed each other. This time, Vander was more graceful, spinning with the same fluidity as Lorcan.
But Lorcan was faster. Once again, he evaded Vander with no trouble. And once again, he landed another quick series of blows that were little more than taps.
Cursing, Vander hopped backward, favoring one leg.
“Need a break?” Lorcan asked, smoothing his hair.
Vander huffed. “Not unless you do.”
Lorcan assumed the ready position. “Not at all.”
They clashed again, spinning and maneuvering in a sort of dance. Lorcan’s movements were both precise and fluid, his body flowing in a graceful, mesmerizing glide. Vander obviously did his best to hang on, but he was outmatched. Within minutes, he crashed to his knees and then fell onto his side.
“Fucking fuck!” he yelled, his eyes screwed shut. His legs trembled like a moth’s wings.
I started forward.
“No,” Lorcan said, putting out a hand. “You’ll make it worse.”
“What did you do to him?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Vander croaked, his face tinged green. “I just…need a minute.” He dragged in a ragged breath and then spoke on a whimper. “Fuck you, Lorcan.”
“Language,” Lorcan murmured, not looking the least bit concerned. He met my stare. “You don’t always need a sword to make a statement, Princess.”
Vander flopped onto his back. His chest heaved, but his color had returned to normal. He cracked an eye open and looked at me. “It’s called Matasi . The Drachvi invented it because they’re dicks.”
“It’s an art ,” Lorcan said, stepping over him. Taking my hand, he smoothed his thumb down the center of my palm and then curled my fingers over so my hand formed the bladelike angle he’d used on Vander. “There,” he said, a soft smile touching his lips.
My skin tingled where he’d traced his thumb. “Can you teach me to do what you just did?”
Lorcan looked up. “It takes years of practice.”