Page 31

Carver stands with the other instructors, the four of them waiting at attention, hands tucked behind their backs, heads held high as they stare us all down.

Ever’s eyes are already glowing, the mere anticipation of a fight riling up her inner wolf. “I’m so excit⁠—”

“Silence.” Carver’s command forces her mouth—and every other students’—shut. “I won’t hold your hand through this class. Vanguard generally routes you to a career in the Paranormal Guard, and on the off chance that you pursue another path, you can still be called upon by the ruling council to serve if circumstances are dire enough.”

Every able body, trained or not, would technically have to answer conscription, but the ruling council would start with those in Vanguard.

Carver sends a hard look through the crowd of students. “What do we fight?”

The magic buzzing along my lips slackens. Another student steps forward to answer. Not that I had intended on humoring Carver’s little performance. The big bad mage can cast a silencing spell. So what?

“Demons,” the student says when Carver points to him.

Our instructor shakes his head. “No. Evil. We fight evil. Demons or other.” He pauses, letting that nuance settle over us.

My brow wrinkles. What’s more evil than demons?

“We’re going to learn the art of battle here on this floor. It will be bloody. Painful, even. Once we get to weapons work, if you’re too weak, you won’t live through it.”

I swear he looked at me when he said that.

“It’s my job to teach you how to stay alive.” With a nod, he glances at his clipboard. “Rogers and Saunders. On the floor. The rest of you, find a seat.”

Everyone scurries to obey—myself included—though not by choice. The tingling sensation of his casting makes me shudder. Fucking mindcraft. Nerves rankled, I perch on the edge of my seat, attention focused on the students standing in the center of a ring.

“The rules are simple. You don’t stop until the other person submits. There will be no weapons or magic today.”

“Seriously?” Rogers’s eyes glow as he protests.

“Demons can steal power with a simple touch. What will you do then?”

“Fight it with my bare hands,” Rogers answers, looking sullen.

Carver nods. “Like I said. No weapons. No magic. May the better paranormal win.” The mage instructor glances between the students. “Until the other stays down,” he reminds them, crossing his arms and standing a few feet away from the ring. “Go.”

The two paranorms slam together. A fury of fists and kicks, hisses and grunts. Rogers doesn’t shift, even though I half expect him to defy direct orders. Without getting a good look at Saunders, I’m not sure if he’s a mage or vamp, but when he sinks his fangs into Rogers’s neck, I find the answer.

“What the fuck!” Rogers shouts. “He’s cheating!”

“His teeth aren’t an affinity,” Carver calls back. “Are you going to keep whining or fight?”

Rogers digs his thumbs into Saunders’s eye sockets, and the vampire instantly releases him, putting several feet between them. Rivulets of blood rush down Rogers’s throat, though the wound is already stitching itself back together.

“You’re going to regret that,” he snarls. He charges the vampire, who, without being able to shadow walk, can’t flit away. Rogers’s shoulder barrels into the vampire’s stomach, and the two of them drop to the mat with a thud. Rogers pummels Saunders, and the vampire manages to hit the shifter in the ribs a few times before Rogers rears back and clocks him hard enough to break his neck.

A sickening crunch fills the air.

My gaze shoots to Carver, but he simply nods in approval and gestures to the other instructors who move toward the mat. Rogers climbs to his feet and glares at the vampire, touching his healed neck as though it were still fresh. Rowan pushes him toward the rest of us, and reluctantly, the shifter leaves the floor. Rowan and Bellamy carry Saunders over to a healer I hadn’t noticed before.

Paranorms can recover from broken necks on their own, but a healer will have him fixed up in a few minutes.

Carver calls up the next students; each fight is more brutal than the last. Some students have clearly never been in a fight, and their demise is always swift. There’s a stark difference between the Foundations and the Ferals. The Foundations have clearly practiced, their movements precise and clean, obviously coached by someone who knew what they were doing. Then there are those who fight like their lives depend on it, their movements more wild, more desperate. The plight of a Feral.

When Mr. Peters first threw me into the fighting rings, that’s all I knew. The more he put me in there, the more determined I was to learn how to hold my own, and eventually, after enough ass kicking, I started practicing whenever I had free time. My form may not be as artful as the Foundations, but it’s practiced and I’m strong.

“Raina Stone and Tweed.” Carver’s sharp voice pulls me out of my head.

My gaze skips to Melody, who is smirking at her friends. “This will be easy,” she says, laughing with them.