Page 31 of Validus Vale Academy 1
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 haulshimself onto his knees, gaze not breaking contact. I mirror his movements, and we both stagger to our feet at the same time.
