Validus vale academy boo.., p.9
Validus Vale Academy: Book One, page 9
The dud’s mouth keeps opening and closing, trying to form words, but I keep her cut off. My brain is a frantic mess, trying to map out what to do next. That’s when I remember Striker, the best investigator on this coast. Sure, she also works for The Conclave, but her loyalty lies with cold, hard cash, not them. And I can pay her exceedingly well.
Without a second thought, I fire off a message.
ME: PRIORITY JOB - NO $ LIMIT
Striker’s reply flashes back almost instantly.
STRIKER: machete - midnight - cash
ME: Tonight?
STRIKER: <:-|
Fucking Striker, she always plays this stupid emoticon game with me. I turn my phone on its side and still can’t make out what that's meant to mean.
ME: TONIGHT?
STRIKER: Y
Hmm, going to Machete tonight sounds like just what the doctor ordered. Machete is the only bar-slash-fight club in the area. I’ll be able to fill Striker in and work off a little steam.
“C-c-cosmo,” A garbled whisper comes from the dud’s lips.
My head snaps up. How the fuck can she speak? In a strangled voice that sounds like it’s being dragged across gravel, she tries to continue, “D-Dart…”
My interest piques. I release my hold on her vocal cords, granting her permission to speak. Her words tumble out in a rushed, disjointed mess.
“D-d-dean Dartmouth. None of this makes sense. The dean, he told me. The twins. I had to… stop pestering them. Said I was stalking. You see, I’d written to the school, trying to get in touch…”
Dartmouth?
“Slow down. What the fuck are you talking about, dud?” My voice is sharp.
I watch her try to calm down. It looks like she’s doing some kind of hippy breathing exercise. I leave her to it for a minute, then snap my fingers. “Speak.”
“Yes, O-o-K. What I meant was, the dean before Crankshawe, the one who retired…”
“Dartmouth,” I supply.
She nods. “Yeah, him. He told me I had to stop trying to contact the twins or the school would file a restraining order. You see, I emailed the school, a w-week or t-two after I g-got home,” she stutters, her breath catching in her throat. “I just couldn’t believe they were ghosting me; it felt like something was wrong. So I contacted the dean. But if Donovan and Wes weren’t even here at the time. Cosmo, why would Dean Dartmouth say that? I don’t understand?”
I ignore both the dud and the tears running down her face and think about the ex-dean. What had he been covering up? What the fuck was going on? “Forward me the email you got from Dartmouth,” I command.
She takes her phone out and fiddles around until I hear the whoosh sound. “Cosmo…” she whispers. “Wh-wh-what about you? When was the last time you saw them? Heard from them?”
I decide to answer, just in case her little brain holds another piece of this fucked-up puzzle. “It was the day after you left. They’d shoved all their crap into storage and were heading off to England. I said they were weak, pussy-blinded idiots, not worthy of being Elites.” I wince when I think of the bitter words I’d flung at my brothers. “Then I told them not to bother contacting me until they’d got their shit together. That’s where we left it.”
Her brow furrows with visible effort, and she pushes out more words. “M-m-must… speak t-to p-p-police…”
“STOP,” I tighten my mental grip, silencing her again.
The police? Absolutely not. Involving the authorities is not part of my plan. I’m going to find Dean Dartmouth and drag the truth out of him myself, whatever it takes, and that could get messy as hell.
“C-c-cosmo?”
The dud is still stuttering. If she can withstand even a sliver of my control, there’s more to her than meets the eye, and that presents me with a problem. Simply compelling her silence clearly isn’t enough; I can’t risk her running around, blabbing my business to anyone who’ll listen. And if the twins are in trouble, this is one hundred percent my damn business.
A coil of darkness stirs in the pit of my stomach. I want to punish her, and what better way than making her bound to me? Until I have my brothers back, this little mouse is going to be at my beck and call.
She trembles at my feet, and I make the decision. “I’m binding you,” I tell her. “Show me your neck.”
Fear flares in her eyes, and Gods, I relish the sight. With shaking fingers, she pushes aside that rat’s nest of hair, exposing a pale, vulnerable stretch of skin from her chin to her collarbone. Bare and ready for my mark. I draw the darkness up through my hands, then send the swirl of power forward. I don’t bother trying to be gentle.
She cries out as the mark burns into her fragile skin. It’s over in a moment. “Now stand,” I command, stepping forward to examine the black sigil etched into her. I’ve only marked two others before, the ‘traitors’ my father gave me to practice the skill on. Controlling them had been satisfying, a tangible extension of my will. But this binding suddenly doesn’t feel exhilarating; it’s more like ashes in my mouth.
“I’m now your master,” I tell her, my voice flat. “And will be until I decide otherwise—understand?”
“I understand,” she whispers, her voice barely a breath.
“Good. Now fuck off. I’ll be in touch soon.”
She stands frozen for a beat, then whirls and bolts for the door. I hear the frantic echo of her footsteps receding down the corridor as she runs, like she’s trying to outrun the devil himself.
Good luck with that.
My hand moves to the invisible mark on my own skin, a mirror of the one I just branded onto her. Gods, I’m so fucking tired.
Tired and empty. I’ve never truly felt whole, but the closest I ever came was with them, my brothers. How the hell could they just walk away?
And why haven’t they come back?
13
The little Nymph stumbles out of Electis Tower.
The wind carries her scent, and I smell distress through the sweat of her body and salt of her tears.
And something else. She’s been drenched in the stench of Elites—and dark magic.
Those Elite devils
Violence ripples through my body, and the urge to destroy is pulsing through me. Long ago, I’d learned to keep to the shadows; it was the only way to avoid the pain. The excruciating pain.
Shaking my head to dislodge the fingers of despair from my brain, I move quickly to follow the nymph. I shadow her all the way back to my, her—our—basement. Relief fills me when I see her disappear down the staircase. In the twenty-four hours since I first saw her, I have experienced more emotions than the rest of my adult life put together.
The eternal state of numbness is leaving me.
Once I determine she is staying safely back in her room, I retrace my steps to stalk the devils and find which one hurt her.
Approaching the tower, I see the entrance door opening, and press myself into the deep dark. I hear footsteps, quick and impatient. I see the blonde Elite, the one who lives on the top floor. As he passes by, not seeing me, I smell the nymph all over him. It enrages me. He hurt her, so now I must hurt him. There is no other option.
The Elite devil heads to the school garages where the rich boys keep their cars. If he’s going off the grounds, I’ll follow him. It may be better to hurt him away from the Academy anyway.
My bike is close to the garages, behind a low wall covered with a brown tarp.
After a couple of tries, it fires up, and keeping my headlight off, I follow the Devil’s dark blue sports car as he drives past security guards and cameras. There is someone I don’t recognize at the guard house, a man in a black leather jacket who watches the Devil’s car with interest as it shoots off onto the country road. The stranger and I meet eyes, and for a second, I think he’s familiar. The jagged scar running the length of his face itches in my brain.
The next moment, the man with a scar is left behind as I ride fast. I push my bike to its limits to keep up. I don’t often experience pleasure, but speed makes me feel temporarily alive.
Scenery blurs as I tail him. I think I know where we’re heading.
Passing through the town and out to the farmland beyond, the narrow road leads to an old building that’s been converted into a place for drinking and fighting. All the devils like to slum there. The blonde one skids to a halt, parking carelessly as I push my bike behind a dumpster. There are dozens of vehicles in the lot. The sound of shouting and beating music leaks out of the doors as two men wave him in. A minute later, I’m also entering with no fuss or bother. The men at the door nod, like they recognize this is a place I belong.
The scent of aggression is everywhere, along with alcohol, cigarettes, and stale sweat. Even though the place is packed, the Devil still draws attention as he heads to the bar. No one notices me, which is how I like it.
He orders, then throws back a shot, quickly tapping the glass on the bartop, calling for a refill. That’s good. Alcohol dulls reflexes and loosens tongues, which is why I do not drink it.
A small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I welcomed the numbing effects of alcohol when I’d been in the circus. The ringmaster would give me drinks before whatever performance I was slated to do.
‘Take a shot, then go do your party tricks, little boy.’
A figure suddenly appears next to the blonde devil. Where the fuck did she come from? As I move closer, I can hear the devil say, “Striker.”
The woman, who is tall and broad-shouldered and dressed in black from head to toe, nods. “Drakeward,” she replies.
Drakeward.
I file the name away in the part of my brain that remembers best, then push closer. My gray coveralls help my invisibility, and I’m so close I could reach out and snap the Drakeward Devil's neck. My fingers itch with a desire to do so, but I tamp it down. I probably will kill him, but not yet.
Instead, I focus on what my enemy is saying, though the baying crowd makes it hard to hear.
“...Hart…no trace…” Drakeward says.
The Striker woman replies with, “How long?”
Drakeward passes Striker something, a bundle of banknotes perhaps. I wish I could hear his words, because Striker tightens both her eyes and her lips. I know that look, it’s what people do with their faces when they are unhappy.
Yells are coming from the back of the room where the cage is. A man comes stumbling through the crowd. When he collapses in a pool of his own blood, no one goes to his aid.
Striker moves off into the crowd, and I stay where I am because I want to see what Drakeward will do next. There is an energy crackling off him; I can almost taste the blue sparks of electricity that flare from his fingertips. His Elite magic is not quite under control. A bell in the cage clangs. Another match is done. That’s when the blonde Elite raises his voice.
“I’m bored,” he drawls. “Any takers?”
The room gets quiet. I’ve been here before and understand the scene. If no one is leaping to put Drakeward in his place, then he must be a decent fighter.
But I know he’s not the best fighter here.
Maybe allowing myself to be visible for a moment might be worth it. Visible but not traceable. I’m wearing the Academy janitorial coveralls. If he sees them, he’ll know where I’m from, and I don’t like that. When I’m usually at Machete’s, I wear the coveralls with no logo printed on them.
A simple solution occurs to me. I keep on the black beanie that hides my distinctive white hair, but I unzip the uniform, step out of it, and place the folded material on top of an iron strut. Pushing my way to the cage, the men at the entrance widen their eyes. I hardly see them because I’m focused on my target. Stepping into the ring, I’m wearing a woolly hat, and my boots—but that’s all.
Then I wait.
The Elite joins me. His eyes travel over my body. “I guess we have a contender,” he says, pushing his voice out of his chest so it booms around the space. He thinks I’m a joke. I’m used to that. “Cosmo Drakeward,” he says, nodding to me.
I don’t reply with words, but I do crack my knuckles. That seems appropriate.
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, alright then.”
I wait while he shucks off his sweatshirt.
“I’m keeping my pants on,” he announces, and laughter sounds. “Ready?” he asks.
More than. I give a slight nod, but stay stock still, waiting for his swing. It heads towards my flesh with nothing to stop its destruction.
Apart from the fact that I drop suddenly.
I may be big, but I’m not slow. The Drakeward devil snarls somewhere above my head, and it makes me feel that temporary pleasure inside. The inside pleasure increases as I reach up and jab my fist into his side. Unfortunately, he swings and hits at the same time. My jaw whips around. That’s not right.
Flinging myself up and forward, the blood in my veins pumps hard. Drakeward stumbles and quickly rights himself, and I allow my arm to act as it needs to, deploying my fist towards his temple. It can be a killing blow, but I pull back slightly, just enjoying the moment my knuckles split open on his skull. He straightens faster than I think possible and starts punching back.
For a spoiled Academy man, he can actually fight—and he has grit. Though when I get a jab into his ribcage and feel the bend of his bones, he allows a groan to pass his lips. I make the mistake of enjoying the moment, and he swings his forehead towards my face. I shift just in time to avoid the snap of my nose, and our brows collide. I imagine this is how it would feel to meet Thor’s hammer. I have to give myself a second because everything in my body stops working. Sliding my eyes to Drakeward, I’m pleased to see he’s in the same state.
We meet eyes.
“That fucking hurt,” he says through bloodied lips. Then, the strangest thing, he smiles at me. I usually only ever see fake smiles, and I’m used to those, but this, I think, is genuine. His eyes are lit up with fighting energy and pleasure. He hauls himself onto his knees, gaze not breaking contact. I mirror his movements, and we both stagger to our feet at the same time.
And Drakeward reaches out his hand.
I look at it, then at him. He grins again, showing bloody gums. A small part of me wishes I could shake, but I can’t. I take one step forward and punch his lights out.
Ding ding.
Don’t mess with the nymph.
14
I lie on my bed, hands on my chest, trying to feel if my heart is still broken.
Yes, it continues to be in three terrible lonely pieces. Having the guys back, sandwiching me from both sides with their love, is the only thing that would fix it.
That’s not the only part of me that’s broken. The binding mark Cosmo placed on my neck throbs. Telling myself it doesn’t matter, that it’s totally inconsequential compared to my missing twins, doesn’t help.
Fuck Cosmo Drakeward. Seriously, fuck him.
I let my fingers trace over the brand again. It's painful, but less than before. I did some research as soon as I got in; the illegal binding mark will be invisible by tomorrow. Everyone knows being marked and bound by an Elite is illegal, but possible.
Never in a million years did I think it would happen to me. Whatever. The only thing to do is ignore it and get my priorities straight—finding the twins.
And to that end, Cosmo banned me from talking to the authorities, but he didn’t say I couldn’t do my own investigation.
I pull out my tablet and fire it up. One thing Cosmo Drakeward doesn’t know is that the twins fully trusted me. Wes let me use his computer all the time. He’d told me all his accounts had the same password, and I was welcome to poke around to my heart's content.
With a sigh, I type the details into Wes’s email.
USER NAME: WHART
PASSWORD: SWEETTHEO4EVA!
A couple of seconds later, I’m in.
Hundreds of unopened emails sit in the inbox. Most are school notices or automated messages from subscriptions. I click back and forth until I reach November of last year. The last thing Wes clicked on was from something called Store-U-Stuff.
It’s a contract and receipt for a storage unit in town. One-year lease; paid in full.
Next down is an unopened message from Dean Dartmouth. I skim what it says, and learn that last November the dean expressed his disappointment with the twins' withdrawal from school.
I keep digging and find an unopened email from Haven Airlines, confirming their upcoming flight to London Heathrow. I follow the links to see a flight booked for November 1st. Several days later, Haven Airlines sent another email noting that Mr. W. Hart and Mr. D. Hart did not board their flight. The email offers options for rescheduling, none of which Wes has used.
Sitting up, I lay the tablet in my lap and look blankly at the mildew stain on the drywall. Wes and Donovan had left the Academy but never made it onto their flight. I’m filled with a confused mix of dread, worry, and a smidge of elation.
They’d been on their way—to me! Yay!
But then…what? They went somewhere else? Changed their minds?
It’s all unknown. But my guys are strong and smart, the last people who’d, I don’t know, get kidnapped or something? But what else could have happened? Had they gotten in a car wreck, and somewhere there was a rusting car, home to their dead bodies? No, no. Not that. They’re not dead. I’d know if they were. I’d have felt it, I know I would.
And anyway, why would Dean Dartmouth pretend they were still at school here? That’s what throws everything off. I hold my hands over my heart, willing it to lead me to my loves.
Take me to them, please, please, please.
Just a hint, anything to guide me in the right direction.
◆◆◆
The next thing I know, the morning alarm on my tablet blares, forcing me awake. Once again, I’d dreamed of Wes and Donovan, and once again, the dream quickly slipped through my fingers and was gone before I could make sense of it.
That’s OK, I want my real guys, not their dream versions.
