TWENTY-FIVE
Mare
Even though my timeat the Notch was fraught with exhaustion and heartbreak, it still holds a corner of my heart. For once, I remember the good more vividly than the bad. Days when we returned with living newbloods, snatched from the jaws of execution. It felt like progress. Every face was proof that I was not alone—and that I could save people as easily as kill them. Some days, it felt simple. Right. I’ve been chasing that sensation ever since.
The Piedmont base has its own training facilities, both indoor and outdoor. Some are equipped for Silvers, the rest for Red soldiers to learn war. The Colonel and his men, now numbering in the thousands and growing every day, claim the shooting range. Newbloods like Ada, those with less-devastating abilities, train with him, perfecting their aim and combat skills. Kilorn shuttles between their ranks and the newbloods on the Silver training grounds. He belongs with neither group, yet his presence soothes many. The fish boy is the opposite of a threat, not to mention a familiar face. And he doesn’t fear them, like so many of the “true” Red soldiers. No, Kilorn has seen enough from me to never be afraid of a newblood ever again.
He accompanies me now, escorting me around the edge of a building about the size of an airjet hangar. But it has no runway. “Silver gymnasium,” he says, pointing at the structure. “All sorts of stuff in there. Weights, an obstacle course, an arena—”
“I get it.” I learned my skills in a place like that, surrounded by leering Silvers who would kill me if they saw one drop of my blood. At least I don’t have to worry about that anymore. “Probably shouldn’t train anywhere with a roof or lightbulbs.”
Kilorn snorts. “Probably not.”
One of the gymnasium doors bangs open and a figure steps out, a towel around his neck. Cal scrubs sweat off his face, still silver-flushed with exertion. Weight lifting, I assume.
He narrows his eyes and closes the distance between us as quickly as he can. Still panting, he puts a hand out. Kilorn takes it with an open grin. “Kilorn.” Cal nods. “Taking her on a tour?”
“Ye—”
“Nah, she’s going to start up with some of the others today.” Kilorn speaks over me, and I resist the urge to elbow him in the gut.
“What?”
Cal darkens. He heaves a deep breath. “I thought you were going to give yourself more time.”
Kilorn surprised me in the hospital, but he’s right. I can’t sit around anymore. It feels useless. And I am restless, with anger boiling beneath my skin. I’m not Cameron. I’m not strong enough to step back. Even lightbulbs have started sparking when I enter a room. I need release.
“It’s been a few days. I thought it over.” I put my hands on my hips, bracing myself against his inevitable counter. Without even realizing it, Cal settles into his patented arguing-with-Mare stance. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, feet firmly planted. With the sun behind me, he has to squint, and after his workout, he reeks of sweat.
Kilorn, the rotten coward, backs away a few steps. “I’ll see you when you finish having a moment.” He tosses a shit-eating grin over his shoulder, leaving me to fend for myself.
“Just a minute,” I call at his retreating form. He only waves, disappearing around the corner of the gymnasium. “Some backup he is. Not that I need it,” I add quickly, “since it’s my decision and this is just training. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
“Well, half my worry is for the people in the blast zone. And the rest . . .” He takes my hand, using it to pull me closer. I wrinkle my nose, digging in my heels. Not that it matters much. I slide along the pavement anyway.
“You’re all sweaty.”
He grins wrapping one arm around my back. No escape. “Yep.”
The scent isn’t entirely unpleasant, even though it should be. “So you’re not going to fight me on this?”
“Like you said. Your decision.”
“Good. I don’t have the energy to bicker twice in one morning.”
He shifts and pushes me back gently, to better see my face. His thumbs graze the underside of my jaw. “Gisa?”
“Gisa.” I huff, brushing a wisp of hair out of my face. Without the Silent Stone, my health has vastly improved, down to my nails and hair growing at a normal rate again. Still gray ends, though. That’s never going away. “She keeps bothering me about relocation. Go to Montfort. Leave everything behind.”
“And you told her go ahead, didn’t you?”
I blush scarlet. “It just slipped out! Sometimes . . . I don’t think before I speak.”
He laughs. “What? You?”
“And then Mom took her side, of course, and Dad didn’t take a side at all, playing peacemaker, of course. It’s like”—my breath hitches—“it’s like nothing ever changed. We could have been back in the Stilts, in the kitchen. I guess that shouldn’t bother me so much. In the scheme of things.” Embarrassed, I force myself to look up at Cal. It feels horrible complaining about family to him. But he asked. And it spilled out. He just studies me like I’m battlefield terrain. “This isn’t something you want to think about. It’s nothing.”
His grip on my hand tightens before I can even think to pull away. He knows the way I run. “Actually, I was thinking about all the soldiers I trained with. At the front, especially. I’ve seen soldiers come back whole in body, but missing something else. They can’t sleep or maybe they can’t eat. Sometimes they slide right back into the past—into a memory of battle, triggered by a sound or a smell or any other sensation.”
I gulp and circle my wrist with shaking fingers. Squeezing, I remember the manacles. The touch makes me sick. “Sounds familiar.”
“You know what helps?”
Of course I don’t, or else I’d do it. I shake my head.
“Normalcy. Routine. Talking. I know you don’t exactly like the last one,” he adds, smirking slowly. “But your family just wants you to be safe. They went through hell when you were . . . gone.” He still hasn’t figured out the proper word for what happened to me. Captured or imprisoned doesn’t exactly carry the right weight. “And now that you’re back, they’re doing what anyone would do. They’re protecting you. Not the lightning girl, not Mareena Titanos, but you. Mare Barrow. The girl they know and remember. That’s all.”
“Right.” I nod slowly. “Thanks.”
“So about that talking thing.”
“Oh, come on, right now?”
His grin splits and he laughs, his stomach muscles tensing against me. “Fine, later. After training.”
“You should go shower.”
“Are you kidding? I’m going to be two steps behind you the whole time. You want to train? Then you’re going to train properly.” He pokes me in the small of my back, making me stumble forward. “Come on.”
The prince is incessant, jogging backward until I match his pace. We pass the track, the outdoor obstacle course, a wide field of close-cut grass, not to mention several circles of dirt for sparring and a target range more than a quarter mile long. Some newbloods run the obstacle course and the track, while a few practice alone in the field. I don’t recognize them, but the abilities I see are familiar enough. A newblood akin to a nymph forms columns of clear water before letting them drop to the grass, creating spreading puddles of mud. A teleporter navigates the course with ease. She appears and disappears all over the equipment, laughing at others having a more difficult time. Every time she jumps, my stomach twists, remembering Shade.
The sparring circles unsettle me most of all. I haven’t fought someone for training, for sport, since Evangeline so many months ago. It was not an experience I care to repeat. But I’ll certainly have to.
Cal’s voice keeps me level, drawing my focus back to the task at hand. “I’ll get you on your weights routine starting tomorrow, but today we can jump into target and theory.”
TargetI understand. “Theory?”
We stop at the edge of the long range, staring at the mist burning off in the distance.
“You came into Training about a decade late for that. But before our abilities are in fighting form, we spend a lot of time studying our advantages and disadvantages, how to use them.”
“Like nymphs beating burners, water over fire.”
“Sort of. That’s an easy one. But what if you’re the burner?” I just shake my head, and he grins. “See, tricky. Takes a lot of memorization and comprehension. Testing. But you’re going to do this on the fly.”
I forgot how suited to this Cal is. He is a fish in water, at ease, grinning. Eager. This is what he’s good at, what he understands, where he excels. It’s a lifeline in a world that never seems to make any sense.
“Is it too late to say I don’t want to train anymore?”
Cal just laughs, tipping his head back. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck. “You’re stuck with me, Barrow. Now, hit the first target.” He stretches out a hand, indicating a square granite block ten yards away, painted like a bull’s-eye. “One bolt. Dead center.”
Smirking, I do as asked. I can’t miss at this range. A single purple-white bolt streaks through the air and hits home. With a resounding crack, the lightning leaves a black mark in the center of the bull’s-eye.
Before I have time to feel proud, Cal bodily shoves me aside. Off guard, I stumble, almost falling into the dirt. “Hey!”
He just steps away and points. “Next target. Twenty yards.”
“Fine,” I huff, turning my eyes on the second block. I raise my arm again, ready to aim—and Cal shoves me again. This time my feet react more quickly, but not enough, and my bolt goes wild, crackling into the dirt.
“This feels very unprofessional.”
“I used to do this with someone firing blanks next to my head. Would you prefer that?” he asks. I shake my head quickly. “Then hit—the—target.”
Normally, I’d be annoyed, but his smile spreads, making me blush. It’s training, I think. Get a hold of yourself.
This time, when he goes to push me, I sidestep and fire, clipping the granite marker. Another dodge, another shot. Cal starts to change up his tactic, going for my legs or even burning a fireball across my vision. The first time he does that, I hit the ground so fast I end up spitting dirt. “Hit the target” becomes his anthem, followed by a yard marker anywhere between fifty and ten. He shouts the targets at random, all while forcing me to dance on my toes. It’s harder than running, much harder, and the sun turns brutal as the day wears on.
“The target is a swift. What do you do?” he asks.
I grit my teeth, panting. “Spread the bolt. Catch him as he dodges—”
“Don’t tell me, do it.”