Page 67 of Forging Darkness

“Why do you allow the matches to get so . . .”

“Vicious?” Thorne finishes for me.

“Yeah.”

Thorne faces me, and I mirror him, glad for an excuse to block out the sights and sounds from the training pits around us.

“How else do you expect them to get strong? If they fight with blunted weapons and padding, they’ll never be able to survive in either realm. Angels will pick them off in this world and the Nephilim in the other. Learning to fight through pain is an advantage in battle.”

“But they’re tearing each other apart. Surely using half your army as training fodder isn’t a wise strategy.”

“The Fallen and Forsaken heal quickly.”

“What about the Forsaken who’ve taken human vessels? They can’t regenerate as fast.”

A shadow crosses his face as he twists his mouth into a frown. “I don’t allow Fallen to use humans as vessels, so that’s a non-issue among my subjects.”

I consider Thorne. Not allowing Fallen to use humans for vessels is interesting. Just the idea of it appears to anger him. Could there be some hidden humanity lurking beneath that poker face?

“Human vessels are weak,” he continues. “Fallen trapped in a human shell have only done themselves a disservice. I have no use for them in my army.”

Well, there goes that theory.

“Why did you want me to see this?” I ask, tipping my head toward the field we just slogged through.

“I want you to get used to the way they fight. Learn these techniques as well as the ones the angel-borns no doubt drilled into you over the last several months. We’ll start training here in the mornings, both in powers and fighting skills.”

“But . . . why? For all intents and purposes, I’m your enemy. Why would you want to teach me anything?”

I should keep my mouth shut. Getting stronger and learning more about my powers and abilities is a better way to spend my days in captivity than being trapped in a cell—no matter how lavish that cell may be. But Thorne’s interest in me is baffling.

Reaching forward, he takes my hand. The gesture feels more friendly than suggestive, but I still have to force myself not to yank from his grasp. I don’t like being touched.

“You and I are the same, Emberly. We could never be enemies,” he says by way of explanation. He tips his head away from the training fields. “Come. I have more to show you.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The creatures lash against the bars of their cages, rattling the metal and shaking their prisons. I’d almost forgotten about the mysterious beasts that had been unleashed in the arena. Was that only yesterday? It feels like weeks have passed.

“What are they?”

We’re in the depths of the coliseum, having entered through an exterior door and then twisted through dank tunnels and down stairs for a solid ten minutes before coming upon this chamber. Rows of cages large enough to fit a man line both sides of the low-ceilinged room. There are twenty cages in all, each holding a single beast.

“They’re called barghest.”

The serpentine, dog-like creatures emit keening howls, making short ripples in the air of the spectrum world. It’s almost too much for my sensitive hearing, but I don’t allow myself to wince.

“Bar-guest?” I parrot, having to raise my voice to be heard. “Never heard of them.”

“I’m not surprised. I told you the Nephilim couldn’t teach you about our world the way I can. There are many things you’ll never learn if you remain in their clutches.” His face hardens. It’s clear he wants to continue disparaging the angel-born, but he moves on instead. “Barghest are common in some human mythology, even though they’ve never set foot in the mortal realm. You’re probably familiar with a more common term—hellhounds.”

Oil-spill scales cover the howling creatures from the ends of their elongated muzzles, down their bodies to the bottom of their claw-tipped feet. Spikes streak along their spines in parallel rows that extend at least a hand’s length. Tufts of needle-like hair shoot up from the tops of their heads as well.

The creature in front of me gnaws on a metal bar of its cage, trying to saw through the solid material to reach me. I have a perfect view of its shark-like teeth—several rows of triangular, jagged blades, dripping with sticky saliva. I scrunch my nose. The sweet smell of the spectrum world is swallowed by the stench of sulfur.

“Hellhound” is a fitting name.

“And to think I used to like dogs,” I mumble.

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