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The second the door closed, an awkward silence fell over the Oratory.
While most agents would have fallen into a natural rhythm, taking advantage of every second they’d been allotted, the friends stood motionless on the mats. Staring at the stranger who’d been given sudden control over their lives.
Michael Ackerton? Aria’s eyes swept him up and down. I’ve never even heard of him.
When comparing the supernatural and common worlds, agents of the Privy Council were equivalent to something like star athletes. Their stats were quoted by children. Their exploits were lauded by adults. The more dangerous the mission, the greater the acclaim. Words like ‘confidential’ fell along the wayside as gossip flew back and forth. Until Carter had put a stop to it, an unofficial gambling ring had actually started deep in the Oratory for people to place bets on their favorites.
But the agents were just the players. And every player needs a good coach.
Their names were almost as famous.
Jennifer Jones—a nightmare in person, but responsible for some of the greatest talent the magical world had ever seen. Tom Lancing—the unsmiling ex-fighter pilot who’d been responsible for Devon and Julian’s ascent to greatness. Jason Archer—the kingmaker himself.
But never had the friends heard of a Michael Ackerton.
“So,” Benji forced a tight smile, “how’d you get stuck as our trainer?”
It was a delicate way to ask a delicate question.
Since the friends were born, people had been lining up for the job. Fellow agents volunteered their time. Great names had offered to come out of retirement. To be honest, Aria was almost surprised one of their parents hadn’t decided to take up the responsibility themselves.
Michael lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly and Benji flushed.
“Just drew the short straw, I guess.” His eyes sharpened as they swept the teenager up and down. “Which one are you?”
Benji glanced up in surprise, unable to remember a time he’d met a member of the supernatural community who didn’t already know his name. “Benjamin Fodder.”
Michael moved closer, shooting a cursory glance at his arm. “Cheetah...and electricity?”
In his defense, it was a little hard to tell. Like most hybrids, Benji’s tatù had presented in a way that was unique to himself. At a glance, it was nothing more than a jungle predator. Only with a closer look could one see the dangerous shimmer of electric current haloing above.
Benji nodded quickly, eager to get back on track. “Yes, sir.”
“And you’re all eighteen?” Michael continued, looking over the others. “You’ve been given a chance to work with the ink for two years?”
They shifted nervously, suddenly wishing they’d had more time.
“All except Lily,” Jason interjected suddenly, gesturing to the slender girl standing by his side. “She just had her birthday a few weeks ago.”
For the first time, Michael softened ever so slightly. Perhaps because the young psychic was staring at him with a look of silent terror.
“Just turned sixteen,” he murmured. “In that case, I’d be pleased if you’d managed to tap into your power at all. Am I correct in assuming you’re a hybrid as well?”
It was the perfect thing to say. That debilitating fear vanished on the spot, replaced with the faintest note of pride. Lily nodded quickly, straightening up to her full height.
“I’ve already had one vision, and...” She trailed off, suddenly uncertain.
Clairvoyance wasn’t the only power she’d tapped in to. She’d managed to freeze someone as well. Granted, it was a PC agent patrolling after curfew. Shortly after, she’d panicked and left him standing in the woods. Aria had only managed to salvage the situation by erasing his memory and leaving him with instructions to abandon the patrol altogether and take a relaxing bubble bath.
“...and I’m working on the rest.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully, moving down the line.
He stopped when he got to Aria—who almost defiantly held his gaze.
The initial shock of their invitation had begun to wear off, and she was concerned with logistics instead. She hadn’t been waiting eighteen years to get stuck with some sub-par understudy who hadn’t even bothered to learn their ink. There was too much at stake to risk some unknown stepping in at the last minute and taking the reins. This was their training. This was their future.
“So I’m assuming Carter handed you that short straw,” she began innocently, studying him just as closely. “Did he pick you himself?”
Benji elbowed her discreetly in the ribs, but she held her ground.
She liked the man’s confidence and he’d given a stirring speech, but none of that meant anything if he wasn’t up to the task. He wasn’t old, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he was older than their parents—who were considered the peak of vitality and strength. They didn’t even know his ink. Aside from severe intimidation, they had no idea what the guy could do.
His lips curved in a smile. This from a man who clearly didn’t smile often.
“Is someone already having doubts?”
She could practically feel the glares of the others. Furious sparks were dripping off Benji’s hands, burning angry little holes in the mats. But she didn’t back down.
“I don’t mean any disrespect,” she said quietly. “But we don’t know you. There’s a lot of trust that goes into this sort of thing...and we’ve been waiting a long time.”
But as it turned out, not knowing each other seemed to be exactly the point.
“Let me be clear...I don’t care what your name is. I don’t care what your ink is. I don’t care who your parents are, or what kind of privileges you think you’re entitled to at this school. The only thing I care about is the training that goes on in this room.”
He stared straight into her eyes, demanding a return gaze.
“My reputation isn’t the one on the line here, Miss Wardell. Between the two of us, you’re the one who has yet to prove herself. I understand these things require trust, and that trust goes both ways. I’m perfectly willing to put in the time. But if you’d rather work with another trainer, someone you’ve chosen yourself, you’re more than welcome to do just that. There’s the door.”
Not for a second had he raised his voice. Not for a second had he lost that perpetual air of calm. When he was finished he waited a moment, then gestured once again to the mats.
“Now, shall we begin?”
Her eyes glowed as a thrill excitement began stirring in her chest. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
ALL HER LIFE, ARIA Wardell had been getting into fights.
She fought her friends, she fought her parents. She fought random cafeteria bullies, then fought the faculty when they tried to punish her for breaking the rules.
High-spirited. That’s what her mother called her.
But never had she felt the way she did when stepping into the ring with Michael. Never had she experienced the sudden spike of adrenaline when she lifted her hands—
—only to end up on her back.
Crash!
She could practically feel her ribs splintering as all the air rushed from her chest. The mats cratered with the force and the ceiling spun in a slow circle before steadying back into place.
It was a clear knock-out. But for the life of her, she couldn’t understand what had happened.
“That was good,” Michael called, beckoning her forward. “Again.”
That was GOOD?
She picked herself up slowly, blinking stars from her eyes. She hadn’t even seen him coming. She’d only just lifted her hands, when she felt the impact and found herself on the floor.
What tatù was he using? What could possibly give him so much speed?
The others paused their sparring on the other side of the room, looking as anxious as they were impressed. She waved them off with a flush and stepped forward painfully.
“Head’s up.”
Instead of trying to fight back, she simply braced—instinctively knowing there was nothing to be done. The floor flew out from under her once again as her teeth sank into her lower lip.
...which promptly ripped in half.
“That’s good, Aria. Let’s try again.”
Is he serious?
The room tilted precariously as she pushed to her feet, dipping one hand down for balance. It seemed a futile exercise, but the moment she could stand she made her way back to Michael.
“I think,” she panted, trying to catch her breath, “we have different definitions of good.”
The man actually chuckled, lowering his hands.
For the last thirty minutes, they’d been working one-on-one. So far that ‘work’ had included her stepping into the ring to fight, then seeing how much impact her body could absorb before it eventually broke in half. There was no longer any ego. There was no longer any pride. After the first few rounds, those things had disappeared—leaving her breathless and spinning in their wake.
“What tatù are you using?”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. It was the exact same question she’d been wanting to ask herself, but she’d been holding back. Mostly because, for the first ten minutes of the session, he’d been insisting that ink was superfluous. That they must first master the basics and perfect their craft.
“...a cheetah.”
When it came to a fight, she usually went with her father’s. In this case, she’d thought the speed would give her some kind of edge. She’d been sorely mistaken.
Michael nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what I’m using as well.”
Her head snapped up in astonishment. Benji threw them a secret look from the other side of the room. For a split second, she had no idea what to say.
“...really?”
For the last two years, not a day had gone by that she didn’t enjoy the unparalleled benefits of her best friend’s tatù. They’d played with it endlessly. She knew it like the back of her hand.
But she never would have imagined...
It was like Michael was reading her thoughts.
“It can be that fast. You can be that fast.” He studied her for a moment before gesturing to the mats. “Now clean off your face and let’s try again.”
A hand drifted to her chin in surprise. She’d all but forgotten about her torn lip, but trickles of blood were dripping down her neck, staining the collar of her shirt. Her pulse quickened at the sight, but instead of trying to heal herself she took a breath and wiped it with the back of her hand.
What’s a fight without a little blood?
With a look of fierce determination, she stalked back to the ring...
* * *
FOR THE NEXT HOUR AND a half the four friends redefined what it meant to be broken down, pushing themselves past every limit they’d ever known. For the first time in their lives, they found themselves against an opponent who truly didn’t care if he hurt them. He never pulled his punches, he didn’t catch them when they fell. It wasn’t long before Aria found herself secretly aching for that safety net she’d ranted against in the past, for just a few seconds of those despised coddling hands.
They’d also redefined what it meant to lose a fight.
“Flippin’ hell!”
Jason cursed as he hit the mats with enough impact to dent a car, rolling uncontrollably before slowing to a painful stop. He was just as battered and beaten as his friends, and he’d made just as little progress. But, unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t fighting with a tatù.
Then again, neither was Michael.
It wasn’t until the end of the first hour that Benji had been brave enough to ask about his tatù. The answer was a simple as it was confusing. The man was a storm.
It was hard to give a precise definition but, needless to say, whatever kind of magic someone brought to a fight would be amplified straight back at them. And then some. He couldn’t hold on to the ink when it was gone. In a bizarre way, considering its destructive capacity, it was a purely defensive tatù. But as far as the friends could tell, by his very definition, the man was unbeatable.
The second he told them, several things clicked into place.
The look of respect on their parents’ faces. Devon’s wistful jealousy that only the children would be allowed to spar. In essence, it was like fighting the best possible version of yourself. It was almost impossible to win. It was very likely you’d lose. But there was no better way to improve.
Of course, it was kind of hard to appreciate that when you were bleeding out on the floor.
Sparring with Jason was a bit like fighting a ghost. Not only had he been perfecting his father’s lethal technique since the age of three, but the addition of his ink often ended the fight before it had even begun. Aria had many painful memories of thinking she had him beat, only to feel a sudden chill whisper across her neck just seconds before she plummeted into the ground.
But today he wasn’t allowed to use his tatù.
The first time he’d tried, eyes flickering with that deadly silver glow, Michael had calmly moved to the far cabinets before draping an inhibitor around his neck. They were to fight as mortals, he’d said—smiling at the look of indignation on the young man’s face.
But only one of them was really fighting. And Jason was feeling that mortality now.
“Son of a—”
“Language,” Michael said sternly, waiting for him to return.
With a scarcely controlled expression, Jason pushed back to his feet—wavering slightly as he marched angrily across the blood-stained mats.
“Remind me again why only I have to wear the inhibitor.”
His teacher stared back without an ounce of remorse.
“Because it’s almost winter, Jason. This place is cold enough.”
Aria bit her lip to keep from grinning, bursting it open all over again as she quickly turned back to her archery target. So the man has a sense of humor after all.
Jason failed to find the comedy.
“I want to see what you can do without any powers,” Michael continued calmly, waiting until his student was back in place before approaching once again. “Your particular technique is slightly different than the PC-based training of the others—I assume it comes from your father.”
Jason froze where he stood, staring warily back. “...yeah?”
“It’s very advanced,” Michael said with a simple shrug. “I want to see what we’re working with before leaning on the help of your tatù. In most fights, I imagine you’ll scarcely need it.”
Jason flushed with a hint of pride.
Considering how rigid the man was ninety-nine percent of the time, there was a softer side to him as well. Maybe ‘soft’ was too generous a word. But he wasn’t unkind. He knew how far to push each of his students. And he knew when they needed a moment to pull back.
“I was worried they might make me change something,” Jason admitted, taking his eavesdropping girlfriend by surprise. “Most of these people are pretty by the book—”
“Nonsense,” Michael cut him off shortly. “Most of the people who train in this room wish they had even half your father’s talent. Points are given for success, not for conforming to style.”
A little smile crept up Jason’s face, and he nodded quickly.
“Now, again,” his teacher demanded. “This time—you come at me.”
The smile vanished, and with a look of great trepidation Jason began his wind-up across the mats. To be fair, he got farther than most of them did. He even managed to flip around once in the air before Michael caught him by the wrist and sent him flying.
There was a muffled crack, followed by a quiet groan.
“Good, Jason. That was very good.”
Good.
Aria had begun to hate the sound of the word.
“Hang in there, Alden,” Benji called from across the room. The guy was feeling significantly braver now that he wasn’t the one standing in the ring. “You heard what Michael said—he only cares about progress. And at this point, you can only hope to improve.”
The others laughed in spite of themselves as Michael gave him a dry stare.
Yep—definitely doesn’t smile easily.
“You know what I care about?” he asked dangerously. “Your disciplinary record. Because if you rack up too many demerits, you no longer get to train. Is that understood?”
Benji paled with an involuntary shudder. “Yes, sir.”
Sounds like someone will be studying for that English quiz after all.
As the others quickly turned back to their targets, Michael gestured Jason forward. He took one look at what was obviously a dislocated wrist before dismissing him to the medic—waving Aria forward instead. “Wardell, you’re up.”
Her heartrate spiked, though she hurried forward with secret glee.
Never before had she been so challenged. She realized now it was a stepping stone that could only be reached with a stranger’s guiding hand. Carter and the others had been wise to seek out an unfamiliar face to train them. She wondered how long they’d been at the search.
It was also easier to smile when she didn’t have to wear an inhibitor.
Jason peeled it off his neck and tossed it defiantly behind him as she and Michael squared off in the center of the room. The man never asked what ink she might be using. His own reflexes were such that by the time she’d selected something, his tatù had already mirrored its reply.
“Wind,” he said in surprise as she slipped into one of her mother’s favorites. “And here I would have thought it would be fire and brimstone all the way.”
She flashed a grin but kept herself together, trying to mimic some of his endless composure.
“It’s not one of my favorites,” she admitted. “My mom always used it for—”
“I have no interest in that,” he cut her off suddenly. “Rae Kerrigan is not a part of this discussion. This tatù is yours. I want to know what you have done with it.”
She straightened up slowly, caught completely off guard. No one had ever spoken to her like that. A discussion of her own powers was always framed in the context of her mother.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered awkwardly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t be sorry,” he interrupted again. “But before we go any further, there’s an important question you need to ask yourself: Is that your goal? To be as good as your mother?”
She dropped her eyes with a blush.
If I could be even half as good...
But Michael wasn’t having it.
“You are the next generation,” he said firmly. “Your tatù has progressed, grown more powerful. And that’s before blending it with the strength of your father’s. If you walk out of this room as good as Rae Kerrigan, I will have failed my job.”
The room fell silent as he looked directly into her eyes.
“You will be better.”
