Storm of Shadows, page 11
We don’t give them the chance to find any. I march straight over to the girl, some curvy thing with big blue eyes, grab ahold of her upper arm and drag her from the bed. She’s wearing panties and nothing else.
“Out!” I order her, flinging her in the direction of the door. Covering her tits with her arms, she scurries away, leaving the boy I assume is Stanley scrabbling to pull on a pair of boxers.
“What the hell,” he mutters.
He’s tall and built with a little muscle. Not as lean as most of the kids from Slate Quarter. Probably stronger than them which is why he’s been throwing his weight around. Although why the fuck he’d hurt our girl, I can’t understand.
“Stanley?” Beaufort asks him.
“Yeah,” he says, pulling a shirt over his head and trying to stand up tall as if he isn’t intimidated by us, when it’s clear he is.
My bond brother lifts his hands again and this time sends the asshole flying across the room and smashing into the broken wood and glass.
He hits the debris with an oof.
“Hey man, what I–”
Beaufort sends another blast of magic hurtling towards him, hitting him right in the belly. He groans, folding over in half.
“I don’t know what this is about but I–” he mutters.
Beaufort isn’t in the mood for talking. He targets him with a volley of vicious magic. It’s not enough to kill or maim. It is enough to hurt – possibly scar. The boy jolts around on the floor, moaning and groaning with every impact, curling up into a tight ball.
Beaufort stops, his shoulders heaving. He turns and looks at me.
“Want a go?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
I walk over to the far side of the room, splinters of glass crunching under my boots, and grab hold of the boy by his neck. His eyes are swimming around in their sockets as he struggles to focus on our faces.
“Know who we are?” Beaufort asks him.
“Yeah, but I don’t know what–”
“The girl,” he says, as I squeeze his throat, “you don’t touch her ever again.”
“The girl?” his brow crinkles in genuine confusion. “That girl just now?”
“Briony Storm,” I tell him, liking the sound of her name in my mouth.
“Briony!” he says, eyebrows leaping up his forehead and a smirk forming on his lips. “This is about Briony? Man, she’s not worth–”
I swing back my fist and slam it right into his mouth. Despite my gloves, I feel a tooth crack against my knuckles and when I withdraw my hand, his mouth is full of blood.
“The black eye,” Beaufort growls from behind me. “You gave it to her. Only seems right that we repay the favor.”
I hit the boy again, this time right against his cheekbone. Tomorrow he’ll have a shiner blacker than the depths of night and everyone will know who gave it to him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Briony
I don’t sleep nearly as well as the previous night. There are too many thoughts spinning around my head and even lying in an actual bed with a mattress and covers isn’t enough to lull me into sleep. Which means, despite no longer having an injured ankle (or ribs – it seems Beaufort may have inadvertently healed those too), I am not in the best shape for our first lesson the next morning. More torture with the gruesome twosome. At least this time, that torture consists of running. Something I am not so bad at. In fact, I’m pretty fast. I’m just not sure I’ll be that fast today after a night of no sleep.
We assemble on the field in our dull gray tracksuits, the shadow weavers in their shiny black ones, the cold morning mist swirling out in front of us and listen as the more talkative of the twins explains the route our run is to take and informs us that the girls will be running first.
I glance towards Fly, giving him a little pout of disappointment – running along with Fly would have made this morning a million times better – then flinch when I catch sight of the brunette who tried to kill me. I haven’t seen her since, but today it’s impossible to miss her. Around her neck sits a golden collar – just like the one that boy was wearing yesterday. She’s smiling smugly, a crowd of admirers forming around her.
For a minute I think … but then I glance towards the shadow weavers and find the Princes all glaring at me. I jolt and avert my eyes.
Okay, so the situation hasn’t changed. Someone else has obviously claimed that girl as their thrall.
“Look,” I whisper to Fly, nudging him in the ribs, “that’s the girl who pushed me off the net. Hopefully that means she’ll no longer have murderous intentions towards me.”
“Hmmm,” Fly says, peering her way. “That’s Odessa Gunvald. She’s from my Quarter and she’s a giant bitch with constant murderous intentions. I’d watch your back when she’s around.”
“Great,” I mutter, then along with the other girls, shuffle towards the start line.
The other twin lifts his arm, then trumpets on his whistle, and we’re racing away.
It’s hard to know what tactics to employ – especially when my brain is too tired. Do I set off fast – lose the others and run this race in peace but risk running out of puff pretty quick? Or do I slump along at the back and risk being trampled by the crowd?
In the end, I decide to run my own race at my own pace which means I’m racing away from the other girls from Slate and Granite Quarters but am hot on the heels of those from Iron. The shadow weaver girls shoot ahead, soon out of sight entirely. It’s not long before the academy is out of sight too as we jog down a slope, across rough ground and out towards the woods we’d trudged through the night we arrived.
The field is so spread out now, I can no longer see the girls behind me and lose those in front as they squeeze through a gap in the fence and duck under the trees. I follow them, the ground soon a carpet of dead leaves, fallen branches and snapped-off twigs. I run through the debris, ravens cawing above me, five minutes into the depths of the wood when I find my way blocked by five girls.
At first, I assume something has happened – someone is injured or hurt. Then I conclude they must be taking a break – perhaps choosing to bunk off the lesson.
Then I realize, no, they’re waiting for me.
I slow up warily, coming to a halt a few feet away from them. In a flash, they’re forming a circle around me, hemming me in. I try to calm my breathing, resting my hands on my hips and adopting my blank expression.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Slate scum?” the girl immediately in front of me says. Like the others she’s athletically built and she’s tied her black braids away from her face. “Are you trying to beat us?”
The girl beside her, a little taller, thighs strong and thick and about twice the width of mine, tosses her head. “Do you think by running fast they’re going to let a little shit like you into our Quarter?”
The other girls laugh.
I don’t say anything. I learned long ago that it only antagonizes them – makes the beating twice as hard. Because I’m pretty sure that’s what’s coming. Like everyone else in my life, they want to teach me a lesson.
Yeah, just when I’m injury free, it looks like I’m about to get a host of new ones.
“What?” the first girl says. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you dumb as well as stupid?”
She smiles at me and a weight hits me violently from behind. I try my best to keep my footing, but I stumble down onto my knees and the girl from behind me takes a fistful of my hair. She shakes me as the first girl aims a kick at my recently mended ribs.
I struggle against the hand gripping my head and try my best to climb back onto my feet, but another kick – this time to my stomach – has me doubling over and gasping for air.
“Stay away from us. Keep to your own kind. Do you understand?” the taller girl hisses.
I close my eyes, flinching in anticipation of the next strike, but then a noise cuts through the trees.
A loud bark, followed by the thundering of paws hitting hard ground.
I open my eyes, I can’t twist my head around because the girl still has a grip of my hair, but I can see the girls in front of me are peering over my head and off into the distance.
“What’s that?” the first girl asks.
“A wolf!” one of the girls behind me says.
“A white wolf!” another says, as the ground underneath us seems to vibrate with the coming beast.
The tall girl looks down at me in shock.
“Shit, she’s not …”
“Fuck!” the girl gripping my hair says, releasing her fist and sending me tumbling into the dirt.
And then they’re off, scattering through the trees as the pound of those paws comes dangerously close, so close I can smell the beast, can hear its panted breath.
It’s too late for me to run. Instead, I stay as still as I can, face down in the dirt. Maybe it won’t see me and will take after those other girls instead.
Except I’m not that lucky, because in the next moment, I hear the wolf come to a skidding halt and then it’s padding softly towards me.
There are many ways I imagined dying at this academy – especially after my fall from the net. None of them involved being mauled by a wolf.
I try to calculate how far behind the other runners must be, whether they’d even help me if they reached us in time.
Without moving my head, I glance around, searching the dirt for a weapon – a rock, a stick, anything at all. However, there’s nothing big enough to fend off a giant wolf.
I curse myself. Day four and I’m already tapping out. All those plans I had, all those promises I’d made to her in my heart. All of it’s come to nothing.
I hear the wolf sniff the air, padding closer and closer, its breath coming in loud huffs.
And then it stops. I pray it rips out my throat – at least that will be quick.
But nothing happens. For several seconds the world is as still as I am and then suddenly I feel something wet and slippery hit my ear. I jolt, expecting the sharp cut of teeth to follow. They don’t, just that wet slippery object again.
A tongue!
The wolf’s tongue.
He’s licking me, drawing his tongue over my ear and my cheeks, under my chin. He pants excitedly and I’m reminded of Baxter, my old dog from home, how he’d jump up and lick my face whenever I returned home or whenever I needed cheering up.
Is this the same? Or is the wolf simply sampling me before he devours me completely?
I decide I have nothing to lose.
I roll over and sit up, and the wolf comes charging at me, his tail swinging side to side in excitement. He licks my face again, then at my hair that’s come loose from its tie.
I can’t help myself – I miss Baxter, about the only thing I do miss from home. And so I bury my hands in the thick fur around his throat and stroke him.
“Well, you’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?” I coo, as the wolf attempts to lick at my hands. “And I don’t think you realize, but I owe you one. You just saved me from a beating.”
The wolf stops licking at me, and gazes off through the trees, sniffing at the air. I take the opportunity to stroke up his head and along his fluffy ears.
He’s about three times the size Baxter was, and Baxter was a big dog – one my dad brought home with the intention of making a guard dog (not that we had anything to guard). Fortunately, he proved to be a big softie – just like this wolf.
“You look pretty terrifying,” I tell the wolf, as I rub at his sternum, his eyes drifting shut in pleasure, “but you’re really a big softie, hey?”
The wolf opens his eyes and snarls quietly at me as if he understands and doesn’t like that observation.
I laugh and raise my hands.
“Sorry.” I giggle.
He butts his snout against my right palm, demanding more petting. I oblige and he takes the opportunity to give me a good old sniff, starting at my neck and making his way right down my body, burying his face right into my crotch.
“Hey,” I say, pushing at his snout, “that’s a little bit too forward. We only just met.”
The wolf, however, doesn’t take too kindly to that, growling at me and rubbing his nose right between my legs.
I scramble up onto my feet.
“Bad wolf,” I tell him, knowing that this wolf might turn on me any second. He’s a wild animal after all – not tame like Baxter.
The wolf ducks his head in an attempt to capture my pant leg between his teeth, but then something obviously captures his attention. His ears twitch. He lifts his head. His ears twitch some more, then he’s tipping back his head and howling. The noise is deafening, thundering through the forest.
I swing my gaze around, trying to determine what’s bothered him, but then he’s off, chasing through the trees, leaving me alone with my newly bruised ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dray
As usual, I’m the first over the finish line and the first to hit the showers. The shadow weavers’ wash room is separate to the commoners’. I’m also betting it’s a hell of a lot nicer – more a hammam than a locker room, with scented steam drifting through the large open space; the walls, floors and ceiling tiled in a decorative green and the lighting dim. It makes the place feel as if you’re walking on the sea bed.
Under the circle of showers that hang in the center of the room, I wash away the grit, grime and sweat from my body, reliving that run. Reliving one part of it in particular, closing my eyes and letting the scene play out against my eyelids. My cock’s rock hard and standing to attention between my thighs. I wrap my hand around it and run my fist up and down.
“Fuck,” I mutter into the water, letting it run down my body like a soft caress.
I pump my cock in my hand, but as my balls tingle and begin to tighten, I stop, biting down hard on my lip – so hard I probably draw blood.
I want to save that for tonight.
I smile. Yeah, tonight is going to be fun.
My cock’s not happy about it, dribbling pre-come into the water and twitching in agitation.
I cut off the shower and march over to the plunge pool. I dip my big toe into the water. Ice-cold. This is going to hurt. I smile to myself and jump right in – the cold water hitting my body like a thousand sharp knives. I go right under, the water soaring over my head, and my feet hitting the bottom of the pool. I kick off and shoot right back to the surface.
“Shit, yes!” I mutter as I break through the surface and shake the water from my eyes and my face.
I remain in the water even though it makes my lungs ache and my skin sting as the rest of the shadow weavers begin to trickle in – Beaufort one of the first. Thorne is faster – only a little slower than me, but he’ll have gone back to our rooms to shower in private.
I drag myself out, not bothering to tie a towel around my waist – the other dudes can look if they want to feel fucking inferior – and stride to the hot, bubbling pool. I slide into the warm water, groaning with a different kind of pleasure, and lean back against the side, big-ass grin pinned to my face.
Beaufort, soaping himself under the shower, examines that grin, shakes his head and turns his back on me.
He says I’m too easy to read. That I wear my emotions written all over my face. What do I care? I have nothing to hide.
Beaufort isn’t the only one who notices how smug I’m looking.
“What you grinning about, Eros?” Kratos calls across the bathroom, washing his meager-looking cock under the water. “Like something you see?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, “I can’t exactly see it from over here. Too small.”
The other boys cackle and Kratos scowls at me.
“I wouldn’t be looking so fucking pleased if I were you,” he sneers. “I saw that girl out there on the field – still no fucking collar around her neck.”
“There’s no rush,” I say, leaning back against the side of the pool and closing my eyes like his words don’t grate me when really they fucking do.
“You choose the ugliest, skinniest freaking girl in the academy from the actual shithole of the realm and even she doesn’t want to be your thrall. It’s fucking hilarious.” He laughs, his brothers chuckling along too – although none of the other boys are brave enough to join in with him. Several drop their gazes or look away, not wanting to get involved.
I open my eyes and grin even wider.
“Ahhh Kratos,” I say, “haven’t you figured out by now that it’s no fun if they hand it to you on a plate, if they drop to their fucking knees before you’ve even asked? Where’s the fucking fun in that?”
“Really?” Kratos says smirking at his brothers. “I’ve been very happy with how willing our little thrall has been to drop to her knees. We all have.”
“The mouth on that girl,” Prentice mutters, biting his goddamn fist.
“Yeah,” Beaufort says, yanking off his shower and walking over to join me in the hot tub. “I hear that mouth’s been busy all around the Iron Quarter.”
“Fuck you,” Kratos says, striding out of the shower towards us.
“With that cock? No thanks.” I laugh.
He raises his hand but his brother, Nathan, catches ahold of him and pulls him backwards.
Beaufort stands, his body tense and his magic loud and dominant in the bathroom.
“Get the fuck out of here, Kratos,” he orders.
Kratos glares at him but doesn’t resist as his brothers haul him away.
Beaufort waits until he’s gone, swings his gaze around the remaining men, all barely daring to breathe, and then sinks down into the water.
“He’s getting too fucking big for his boots,” I mutter.
“His mouth has always been bigger than his mettle,” Beaufort says. “He’s no threat.”
A year ago the Hardy brothers challenged us and we wiped the floor with them.
“Yeah,” I say. “But it’s not going to stop him from being a fucking nuisance.”
