Marko Moroz killed his former mentor with a pen. Stabbed him right through the eye, or so I’ve heard.
Professor Howell continues: “The likeliest and most effective weapon to find at hand is a knife.”
Howell is short, compact, and deeply tanned, with close-cropped black hair and a silver whistle perpetually dangling around his neck. He rarely employs said whistle, because his voice dwarfs his size, powered by whatever limitless battery lives inside of him.
He’s trained the soldiers of several nation’s armies, his speed and accuracy more than making up for his wiry frame.
He hands out our training knives, which are blunt and flexible, but still hurt like hell if someone gets a good poke on you.
My torso is already dotted with ugly purple bruises from the last time I sparred with Leo. So is his, proving the old adage that “nobody wins in a knife fight.”
Leo grins at me, gripping the handle of his knife overhand like Professor Howell taught us.
“So glad we get to do this again,” he says. “I think it’s good for a friendship if both people know there’s a level of mutually assured destruction in trying to murder each other.”
“I think I could get you,” I say, grinning back at him. “I’d just wait for my opening, which would be you trying to make some dumb joke—”
Faster than I can blink, Leo swipes his knife toward my belly. I leap backward, the dulled blade still catching and tearing my gym shirt.
“You dick!” I say. “I’ve only got two shirts.”
“Only one shirt now,” Leo chortles, circling around me. “Don’t worry, you can borrow one of—”
I interrupt him with a quick slash toward his cheek, then a stab downward at his shoulder. Leo twists with eerie speed, narrowly avoiding my knife.
He really does have phenomenal reflexes. You wouldn’t think it on a guy his size, but Leo is the most athletic person I’ve ever met, and it absolutely translates to fighting.
I think I’ve gotten ten times faster just from training with him.
“Tricky, tricky.” Leo shakes a finger at me, laughing his irresistible laugh.
Thanks to Leo, I’m also immune to taunts. His shit-talking game was honed on the basketball courts, where making your opponent lose his cool is a near art form.
“Come on, you big baby,” I goad him, taking a couple feints in his direction. “You wanna dance, or you wanna fight?”
“Both.” Leo grins, charging me and slashing his knife every which way like a coked-up Michael Meyers.
I try to keep my free arm in a guard position in front of my chest and stomach like Professor Howell showed us. As Leo jabs at me, I chop his wrist with my forearm and counter with a stab to his side that makes contact. As I twist away, Leo slashes me down the back.
“Ow, you fucker!” Leo complains, rubbing his side.
“Same to you!” I say, feeling my back to see if the dull blade drew blood.
We’re both sweating in the stifling heat of the Armory.
It’s the warmest autumn I’ve seen at Kingmakers. The castle doesn’t have air conditioning, relying on the thick stone walls to keep us cool. Even Professor Howell looks dewy just from watching us spar.
“Come on, use your blocks!” he barks at us. “This isn’t boxing—you let your opponent make contact in a knife fight and you’ll find your guts in a pile on the floor.”
“He has such a way with words,” Leo says, slashing at me again.
“A modern poet,” I agree, successfully parrying.
When Professor Howell finally calls a stop, Leo and I race for the water fountain to drink a gallon or two each. We shove our heads under the faucet, then shake the water out of our hair, making a mess all over the mats.
“Clean that up!” Professor Howell yells at us.
“I was going to,” Leo says to Professor Howell, then to me, “I was not going to.”
“Here,” I say, chucking him a towel.
“Thanks, buddy,” Leo says, mopping up the mess.
Leo really is my best friend at Kingmakers. He might be my best friend anywhere, which is a funny thing to say about someone who doesn’t know your real name.
I’ve wanted to tell him the truth a million times.
Leo is a good man. I think I can trust him.
But I promised my mother I wouldn’t confide in anyone outside our own family.
It’s just too risky. The relief of sharing my secret would be nothing compared to the devastation if someone betrayed it.
Even though I can’t confide in him, Leo has been more of a comfort to me than he could ever understand. His relentless cheerfulness is the only thing that keeps me going sometimes. I’ve never seen him lose his optimism, except during our first year of school when he was on the outs with Anna.
Leo runs off a belief that things will turn out for the best.
My mom is powered by an absolute refusal to quit.
And what about me? What motivates me?
I suppose it’s a sense of duty. My family is everything to me. I can’t let them down.
“What are you thinking about?” Leo asks me, flopping down on the nearest stack of mats.
“Just thinking how slow you’ve gotten . . .” I tease him.
“Compared to you I’m the fucking Flash, old man!” he laughs, deliberately poking the biggest bruise on my arm.
Dean and Bram drop down on the mats next to Leo.
“Why is it hotter than the gates of hell in here?” Bram complains, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. His shirt is soaked through with sweat in the front and the back.
“Shakespeare called it Halloween Summer,” Dean says, proving yet again that he’s surprisingly well-read.
“Americans call it Indian Summer,” I say. “I dunno if that’s racist.”
“Probably,” says Bram. And then, turning his scowl on me, “How come you’re being all chummy with that Malina brat? I thought you knew what a fucking snake her father is?”
“I don’t care about her father,” I say.
The biggest lie yet.
“You should,” Bram says darkly.
I can feel Dean watching me.
There’s a strange dynamic between us these days. Dean’s a lot more chummy with Leo since he and Cat visited the Gallos in Chicago over the summer. I think the feud between their two branches of the family is finally at an end.
I wasn’t there to see it, ‘cause I have to lay low over the summers so that nobody who knows me as Ares sees me anywhere they shouldn’t. Or vice versa, for anyone who would recognize who I really am.
On top of that, I don’t think Cat trusts me, which means Dean doesn’t trust me either.
It’s nothing specific. Just too many little things that I’m sure Cat has noticed.
“I like Nix,” I say to Bram. “She didn’t do anything to you. So quit giving her shit.”
“It’s not me you have to worry about,” Bram says. “Her own cousins hate her fucking guts.”
“Oh man, I wonder what that feels like?” Leo says.
Dean laughs—still a relatively new sound, coming from him.
“What kind of a dick hates his own cousin?” he says.
I push up from the mats, feeling jealous even though I know how stupid that is.