CHAPTER 11
n agent should never be caught without a knife,” Viviane barks.“A Morning light spills through the tall windows. I slept so much in the past twenty-four hours that everything still has a dreamlike haze.
We’re standing in a large hall with wood floors and vaulted stone arches.
Weapons gleam on the walls. Twenty-two cadets stand dressed in fighting clothes—sheer, Fey-style dresses for the women, tight clothes for the men.
We’re here to learn how to kill.
As my terrible luck would have it, my first class at the academy is self- defense, taught by the woman who threatened to slit my throat in my sleep.
She’s wearing a short black dress with long sleeves, a belted knife holster, and tall boots.
“A knife is an agent’s best friend,” Viviane says. Her heels clack over the wooden floors as she paces around the room, scrutinizing us. “As you all know, I’m a very friendly person.”
Someone chuckles. She pivots and gives him a cold, piercing stare. The chuckle dies.
“That’s why I keep a lot of my friends on me!” Her voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling. “A knife in my belt, a knife in my sleeve, a knife in my boot.
When I’m on a mission with no boots, or belt, or sleeves, I keep a knife in my knickers.”
Some people shuffle uncomfortably. The image of Viviane walking around with a knife in her underwear is a vivid one.
“Sometimes, a particularly stupid student asks why we bother with knives
and swords. After all, guns still work. The British military has them. And the answer is because we are not bloody soldiers, we are spies, you absolute fucking moron. Your job is to blend in, not to go into battle. The Fey use arrows, swords, and knives, so we use arrows, swords, and knives. So, listen carefully when I tell you what you need to know about knives.” She shifts her arm, and a long blade slides from her sleeve into her hand. She flicks it in the air. It twirls a few times, and she catches it, pointing to the tip. “This is the pointy bit, and you should stick it into your enemy.”
Her gaze slides around the room to make sure we grasped that.
“I’ll divide you into pairs, and I want to see how you implement this complex technique I just outlined,” she finally says. “You’ll be using rounded knives so you don’t accidentally murder each other.” She points at a wooden block by one of the walls with a bunch of hilts jutting out of it. “At least, in theory, you won’t murder each other, but we have had accidents before. Join your partners when I call your names. Serana and Darius. Liam and Clara.”
I listen to the names attentively, hoping to be paired with Tana. It would make sense, after all. We’re about the same size and— “Nia and Tarquin.”
Godsdamn it. She matched me with a Pendragon on purpose, didn’t she?
My muscles tense as I walk to the wall and pluck one of the training knives from a block. I test the blade, reassuring myself that it’s dull. When I turn, I see Tarquin smirking at me. Today, he’s wearing his hair slicked back and shiny. His friend from the banquet leers at me.
“Horatio.” Tarquin’s slick auburn hair gleams under the chandelier light.
“How long do you suppose it will take for me to bring her down?”
Horatio snorts. “She seems like the sort who will let you do whatever you want.”
“She’s going to get us in and out of the veil. That’s her role, isn’t it? The transportation. A public bus,” says Tarquin, his pinched expression brightening. “That’s what she is. A public bus. Everyone gets a ride, don’t they?”
Gritting my teeth, I cross over to him. I won’t let them get in my head.
“Okay,” I say, as I stand in front of Tarquin. “We should—”
He lunges forward, his dulled blade smashing into my stomach. Although it isn’t sharp enough to cut, the force of the impact steals my breath. A second later, the pain blazes through my abdomen.
I double over, holding my stomach.
“Wait,” I wheeze.
He rams the knife at me again, this time jamming it into my collar bone.
The impact makes my teeth snap shut. I taste blood.
“Killed you twice, public bus,” Tarquin hisses. He turns with a crooked smile. “I don’t know why we let all these commoners in. Do you know,
Horatio? Reeks of desperation.”
Somewhere nearby, Horatio guffaws.
“They’re trying to prove a point about equality, but it’s nonsense, isn’t it?” Tarquin adds. “Letting in the unqualified and unskilled just to seem modern.”
His gaze flicks back to me. “What is your parentage, exactly? Did your mother walk the streets? Is Camelot so inclusive now we’ve got whores’ children walking through our hallowed halls?”
He swings again. I shift to the left out of reflex and desperation. The blade whistles by my ear. Tarquin is momentarily out of balance. But I have a knife, too. Frantically, I lunge and try to stab, but by the time I do, he jumps back.
I’m panting, already feeling the crushing wheeze in my breath. Serana gave me tips before we stepped into class, and I’m trying to follow them.
Stand ready. Watch my opponent’s eyes. Wait for an opportunity.
He lunges at me clumsily, and I jump back. He swipes again, and I move.
Sure, he’s strong, but I’m small and probably faster. That’s how you beat someone like him, I imagine. Tire him out. Shift out of reach. Wait for the moment.
A cry rings out to our left, and Tarquin glances that way, distracted. This is my chance. I leap forward— He pivots and grabs my wrist, bending it. Pain shoots up my arm. With a grunt, I drop the knife. In a smooth movement, he shoves me to the floor.
Before I can push myself up, he’s sitting on top of me. Adrenaline crackles through my veins, and my heart flutters. He wasn’t distracted, nor was he slow at all. That was a trick.
He’s pinning me down, gripping both my wrists in one of his hands. A strand of his slick hair comes loose, and his cheeks go red, eyes wild with glee. At the end of his long, thin nose, his nostrils are more flared than ever.
With his free hand, he presses the knife against my throat. I can’t breathe.
“Got you where I want you.”
A voice, angry and venomous, echoes in my mind. You need to be put in
your place. You should have been nice when you had the chance, and now look at what you’ve done. Whore.
I can’t answer the voice. Tarquin leans closer to me, a drop of drool glistening on his lower lip. “Killed you again,” he whispers. “And again. And again. I told you. You’re not meant to be here. They’re letting you in because you’re the transportation. You’re just a cheap ride.”
His face is so close to mine that I can see every pore. I struggle, but I can’t push him off. I try to knee him in the back, but my leg hardly moves.
My lungs burn, and my vision darkens. My chest feels as if I might explode with the pressure. I need to breathe— Suddenly, he’s off me. I inhale a long, ragged breath, the world swimming into focus. I cough, gasping for air. I feel half dead.
This has been a disaster.
But somehow, Tarquin is injured, too. He’s lying on the floor, groaning, blood dripping from his lip.
I turn to see Raphael standing above us both. “That wasn’t going well.”
I rasp, “It really wasn’t.”
Raphael’s frigid gaze slides to Tarquin. Sighing, he slides his hands into his pockets. “If you kill one of our only two Sentinels, Pendragon, I will end your life.” He flashes a dark smile. “And I don’t give a fuck who your great- grandmother was.”
“You’d better give a fuck, demi-Fey.” Tarquin dabs at his bloody lip.
“And how does this mongrel expect to function out in the field if she can’t even take a bit of training?”
“Mate, mate,” Horatio brays. “Why is she even here?”
“It’s her first day of training,” says Raphael coolly. “Murdering someone isn’t education.”
“Raphael.” Viviane’s sharp voice echoes in the room.
Everyone has stopped practicing, and they are all staring at Raphael, Tarquin, and me. Looks like we’ve put on quite the show.
I hate being the center of attention.
“This is my class,” Viviane says. “And I think I can manage on my own.”
“It didn’t look like it.” Raphael’s pale eyes glint. “It looked as if we were about to lose one of our Sentinels.”
Viviane folds her arms calmly. “I saw what happened, and it looked fine.
I didn’t see any good reason to interfere with her training. Nia was learning a valuable lesson.”
“Viviane, if you suddenly find yourself with the rare skill that Nia possesses, then you can be a bit more careless with her welfare.”
Viviane narrows her eyes at him. “Get out,” she says through clenched teeth.
Raphael gives me a curious look, then turns and stalks gracefully from the room.
Viviane whirls, her cheeks pink. “Okay,” she says, “that’s enough for today. Put your training knives back and get out of here.”
She stands by the knife block, arms folded.
I let Tarquin and Horatio go first to avoid looking at them, and then I
return my training knife to the block.
“Nia, are you okay?” Serana asks me.
My chest feels bruised and crushed. “I’m fine,” I choke out. “No worries.”
“No worries?” She cocks her head, peering down at me. “Tarquin better pray not to be paired with me next training session.”
I smile at her. “Yeah.”
Darius crosses over to us, his eyes wide. “I cannot believe Raphael did that. He just ripped Tarquin off you. Tarquin practically flew in the air like a posh little rag doll.”
“I wish I could have seen it,” I say ruefully.
Viviane clears her throat, and her expression looks furious. “Nia, I want a word. You two, piss off.”
Darius grimaces at me, and he and Serana cross to the door.
Viviane glares down at me. “What was that today?”
“Tarquin lost it.”
“I don’t care about Tarquin.” Viviane narrows her eyes. “He can take care of himself. He’s a good fighter. I’m the self-defense instructor, and it’s my job to make sure that out in the field, you’ll be able to take care of yourself and your allies. And right now, Nia, it doesn’t seem likely.”
“I’ve never trained for this,” I protest. “I work in a bookstore.”
“Really? And when you’re on a mission, will you ask them for mercy because you’re just a harmless little reader of books?” She shakes her head.
“I’ve never seen such a pathetic display of survival instinct. Tarquin is a big man. How do you beat a big man?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I need to be faster?”
“Don’t be absurd. You can’t be faster. He’s been training from a young
age, and you’re weak.”
I bite my lip “So…I should tire him out. Keep my distance until—”
“Aren’t you asthmatic? The longer the fight is, the worse your chances are.”
“I should use his weight against him?” I ask desperately.
“How? Scare him with diet tips?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me the answer? How do I beat him?”
“With everything you’ve got!” she snarls.
“Sorry, what does that mean?”
“Why didn’t you bite his nose off?”
My jaw drops. “You want me to bite his nose off?”
“He was on top of you. Inches away. All you had to do was lunge forward and bite his nose off. Really grip that nose with your teeth and gnaw at it until you rip it to shreds. Or distract him, then gouge his eye out with your
fingernails.”
“You wanted me to blind him?”
“I want you to try!” she shouts. “Why didn’t you stab him with your
hidden knife?”
My eyes widen. “What hidden knife?”
“The one you should have on you.” She raises her arms in frustration.
“You’re small and weak. You should always carry a hidden knife. And some poison. Don’t be an idiot, Nia. Raphael is right about one thing. Whether I like you or not, you are one of our only two Sentinels, and you have to stay alive. That means doing whatever it takes.”
I clear my throat. “Then you won’t try to kill me?”
“I will if you prove yourself to be a traitor. Otherwise, no. I dislike you on a personal level, but we can use your skills. And for that, you need to stay
alive.”
“I do plan to stay alive.”
She looks me up and down. “From now on, I’m training you. Classes start every morning at eight, so I want you here at six before breakfast. We’ll do one-on-one training.”
“Sounds wonderful.” The idea of waking up every morning to get yelled at by Viviane sounds like my own personal hell. “For how long?”
“Until. I’m. Satisfied.” She turns away.
My heart is thumping as I hurry out of the hall. To my relief, Serana is waiting for me in the stone hallway. “What did she want?” Serana asks.
I sigh. “She wants me to do extra training.”
“That’s not too bad.”
“Every morning at six.”
Her jaw drops. “That is literal torture.”
“Better than dying, I suppose.” I pause to consider it. “Slightly.”
BY THE TIME we arrive at our Fey language class, the rest of the cadets are seated in benches that line a long hall. The stone ceiling is etched with Fey words and gorgeous carvings of vines and flowers. Serana and I slide into some seats.
Amon, the man I met the day before, steps in through a wooden door and walks down the center of the hall. He strokes his blond beard, rings gleaming on his fingers.
“Good morning,” he says, his deep voice echoing off the ceiling. “I hope you all did your essays from the last lesson.”
“Oh, bollocks,” Serana mutters. “I forgot.”
“Let’s see.” He looks around the class until his gaze lands on a student with white-blonde hair. “Moira, if I were to say, ‘Sliha, ma an bealach lasifria,’ what would you answer?”
“Um…” She gives a frozen smile. “Smola?”
He purses his lips. “That would do. For now. And if I say, ‘Tavoi iti chuig an féasta,’ what would you answer, Serana?”
Mentally, I translate that he’s just invited her to a banquet.
“Uh.” Serana fidgets. “I’d say…”
“Le pléksiúr mo stór,” I whisper at her, hiding my lips with my hands. I’d be happy to, sir.
“Le pleksisigur mo sotror,” Serana shouts.
Amon frowns. “I don’t know what my uncle has to do with it, and he would never do that to a cow. Nia, since you seem to know the answer, what would you say?”
I clear my throat. “Le pléksiúr mo stór. Ani rak gúna nua de dhíth.”
He raises an eyebrow and asks me in Fey, “You already know some Fey?”
“A bit,” I answer back in Fey. “I’ve been told my accent isn’t great. I
learned from books, and it doesn’t have much similarity to other languages I
know.”
“How many other languages do you know?”
I start counting on my fingers. “English, French, Italian, Spanish, and some Arabic. I like languages, and there were so many language books in the shop where I worked.”
“Language is the cloak of the gods,” he says.
It’s a line from a Fey poem, and I answer with the next line, doing my best to make my accent sound like his. “But silence is their true form.”
There’s a hint of a smile underneath that beard of his. “Well,” he says, “I don’t know if you were told, but this is a very basic class. I think you belong with my more advanced students.”
