Scent of a Wolf: Great Falls Academy, Episode 3, Page 2

  I wish I had a way of getting in touch with Lunos, but I don’t, so I will make do. Being immortal, we’ve the time to wait—so long as I ensure we are all still here, alive and sane when help comes. So long as I don’t do more harm to the males than I’ve done already.

  “Are you listening?” Gavriel demands, his voice rising. “You are the Protector, Lera. The least you can do is pay attention.”

  My head snaps to him, the thoughts spinning in my mind finally stopping. Gavriel cares nothing for me or the males, for the fact that the five of us are shattering, each in our own way. And I’m done with him. With all of it. “No.” I meet the man’s eyes, my chin lifting. “I’m not your personal prophetic puppet.”

  Gavriel rocks back on his heels, as if struck. “But the Protector—“

  “I don’t care.” I step in front of Gavriel, cutting off the man’s path. My chest feels heavy, my nerves raw. If River were here, he’d probably be going over the wall come hell or high water. But he isn’t. I am. And the world is better—safer—without my meddling. That is a proven fact. “I don’t care about your prophesies, about the magic seeping into the mortal realm. I care about none of this. So leave. Me. Alone.”

  For the first time since I’ve met Gavriel, the man’s self-assurance falters, the depth of his disappointment in me clear in his eyes. When I start walking, the librarian doesn’t call after me.

  3

  3. Lera

  Pulling open the stable door, which slides smoothly on well-oiled rails, I inhale the familiar, wonderful scent of horse and hay. The Academy’s grand stables are the largest I’ve seen, with long rows of large stalls, an overhanging loft with hay, and a grain room for storing oats and feed. True to what I’d expect of a military academy, everything is kept in simple, gleaming order, the rafters and stalls built from a pale pine wood that’s been polished to a high sheen, not a speck of dirt or hay out of place. The hostler, who is standing to meet me, is much less welcoming, his heavy-lidded gray eyes saying exactly how he feels about having to climb from his bed just to hold a pitchfork out to me.

  “This is your bloody punishment, not mine,” he mutters under his breath, thrusting the handle into my hand with more force than necessary. “Stalls are here. Horse shit is inside. Wheelbarrow is somewhere. If you’ve questions, figure them out yourself or ask the damn horses.”

  Right. I’m near certain the man is sleep-talking and cringe as he nearly walks into the wall on his way out into the cold and toward his bed. You’d think the stable hands would be grateful for the assistance of a student made to muck stalls for several hours daily, but at this hour of the morning, all bets are off.

  Closing the door behind him, I survey my battlefield, the pitchfork in my arms too heavy for my aching muscles. Curious heads of gorgeous horses hang out of their stalls, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and hope of an early breakfast. At the end of the aisle, I see a gorgeous gray stallion standing on the crossties, a tall and equally gorgeous young woman rubbing down the horse’s coat. From the looks of it, the pair were out exercising. I blink. Rub my eyes. “Katita?”

  The princess turns to scowl at me. “What are you doing here?”

  I raise my pitchfork in answer. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t like riffraff touching my things.” Unclipping the stallion, she walks him into a large corner stall and adds water to his bucket before closing the door. “Keep your hands off my horse,” she says, striding past me to the exit. “Don’t exercise him, don’t brush him, don’t bloody look at him.” Stopping with her finger on the handle, she turns, blond hair swinging in a perfect arc, blue-green eyes flashing. “Actually, that goes for everything that is mine. Stay away.”

  Right. I wait for the door to close behind Katita before shaking my head. I remember Katita’s cold eyes on me in Shade’s office yesterday as she ushered in Tye, and I think I know what “everything” she’s talking about. In the stall beside me, Coal’s stallion, Czar, glares at me, clearly relaying that trampling me into the ground would be his preferred way of spending the morning.

  “Get in line,” I mutter, reaching into my pocket. Empty. I’ve not been to the dining hall and thus have apples neither for the horses nor myself. Walking to the other side of the aisle, I burrow my face in my mare Sprite’s neck.

  Sprite snorts softly, her breath tickling my skin. At least someone here remembers me.

  “Let’s get your stall cleaned, girl.” I reach for the lead rope hanging at the perfect height for someone a head taller than me—and yelp like a cat with a stepped-on tail. If I thought reaching down to pull my boots on this morning was difficult, reaching up toward a hook is damn near impossible.

  “Good stars, lass, what are you doing?” Tye’s voice, coupled with the soft whisper of the opening door, jerks me around.

  Tye stands in front of the door, slid closed once again, studying me with a feline mischief in his emerald eyes that sends a wave of heat through my body. Even in the barn’s dim morning light, the male’s tall, muscular body, sharply angled features, and thick floppy red hair have an ethereal beauty that makes my head spin. Mine and everyone else’s at the Academy—I’m certain Katita has the male listed on her property inventory.

  “Have ye swallowed a stick?” Tye asks in his low, lilting drawl. Dressed in a tighter version of the Academy’s training grays, Tye moves with a stiffness few but I and the males would ever notice behind the well-rehearsed swagger. The memory of his bruised back—a whipping from River for sneaking out of the Academy with me—makes my jaw clench.

  The one damn thing you need to do in order to not make things worse, Lera. That includes not pitting the males against one another.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Tye.

  Tye winks at me. “Looking for something I desperately need.”

  My skin heats, but I step back. I swear I can see through the thin fabric of Tye’s shirt to the injured flesh beneath. Do no harm. “You’ve an odd notion of what you think you need.”

  “No, I don’t think—I’m certain.” Tye points overhead to one of the sturdy horizontal beams crossing the aisle. “It’s one of the best bars in the place, outside the proper training grounds. Mother Shade won’t let me train on the outdoor setup because of the shoulder mishap, and I can’t afford to miss the morning. So, here we are.”

  Hopping up to the bar, Tye hangs loosely for a moment before pulling himself up in a slow, controlled arc. Touching his chest to the bar, the male then lowers himself down again, his body just as taut and controlled as before. Up again. Down. Up, his bare arms intricate fields of flexing, twitching muscles, though he hardly seems to be straining.

  Shaking off the hypnotizing perfection of Tye’s movement, I point my pitchfork toward his shoulder. “If Shade is so worried about your shoulder, why is he letting you train at all? It doesn’t seem like indoors should be any different from outdoors.”

  “Och, he isn’t.” Tye grins, swinging back and forth with increasing speed. When the male lets go, I barely have time to pull the pitchfork away before he lands a foot from me, his powerful thighs flexing slightly to absorb the landing. “But if he happens to stop by, I’ll just claim I came for this.” Leaning forward, Tye impertinently presses his warm mouth over mine.

  4

  4. Lera

  I gasp, and Tye deftly brushes his tongue between my parted lips, inviting himself in. His warmth, his taste, are achingly familiar. My mouth tingles, the sensation racing through my nerves and spine. The male’s exercise-kindled heat spreads over my skin, his clean masculine scent filled with pine and citrus. Before I can consider the wisdom of what we’re doing, my treacherous body responds to Tye’s provocation, mouth opening to let him take me deeper. Pulling him against me until our bodies are flush, his breath hitching at the invitation.

  But he takes it no further than that, simply sweeping through my mouth with slow, savoring strokes. A sweet kiss. Kind. Delicious. Polite. But not predatory. The Tye my soul cal
ls to claim my mouth and body—this one aims to please. Nothing more.

  I pull away, clearing my throat. “What was that about?”

  “A thank-you. For standing up to River last night.”

  I feel a flash of reflexive indignation—that Tye should give a kiss as a thank-you gift, assuming it’s wanted—but it sputters out just as quickly at the memory of Tye’s bruises. “It was too little too late.” I shake my head. Nothing I can say will make up for the stripes Tye wears because of me. In fact, probably the less of me he has in his life just now, the better. “I am sorry about your back. It looked painful.”

  “Lass.” Raising his hand to my face, Tye brushes a lock of hair aside, his thumb coarse as it scrapes my cheekbone. “It wasn’t my first thrashing. Or third. Or last. I little mind it once it’s over. And given the choice, I’ll take a thrashing over mucking stables.”

  I pull back. “I mind.”

  “I noticed.” The mix of concern and incredulity in Tye’s eyes—as if despite his own protective nature, the male can’t imagine another caring for what happens to him—tightens my chest. Shaking himself, Tye puts a knuckle under my chin and lifts my face, his mouth twitching mischievously as his tone lightens. “I also noticed you can’t move to save your life just now.” The thumb that traced my cheekbone moments earlier now presses against a neck muscle so sore that I rise onto my toes, a sudden exquisite pain rippling from Tye’s touch.

  “Stars take me.” I glare at the male. “That was a low blow.”

  Tye whistles. “Forget sore. You’re halfway crippled, lass.” Easing the pressure, Tye’s fingers spread to my shoulders, finding a whole field of agony-filled balls beneath my skin. Ignoring my yelping, Tye works the knots for a few minutes before shaking his head with a sigh. “There is no chance in hell you will be moving like anything resembling a human by morning training. That said, I think we might get you to be a slightly better imitation of a stick figure before Coal has a run at you. Come, I’ll stretch you out a mite.”

  “Oh no, you won’t.” I step back. The last time Tye stretched me—at the Council’s orders to lead serious training—the pain was enough to bring tears. As sweet as the male can be, he also takes anything athletic to absurdity. In an odd way, Coal is more gentle.

  A frown skitters over Tye’s perfect face, and for a second, I wonder if he’s remembering the same exercise. Then he shakes his mane of red hair, and the memory, if it was ever there, disappears from his gaze. “You’ll thank me later, I promise,” he says, his long arms collecting me easily. Turning me around until my back is toward him, Tye slides his hands down over my arms with tantalizing slowness.

  “Deep breath,” Tye says, pulling my arms open like wings, his hard body pressing into my back. His lips brush my ear, the hypnotic whisper tickling the sensitive skin within. “Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.” The pressure grows with each heartbeat, shifting between pain and molten pleasure. “Seventeen. Sixteen.”

  A soft moan escapes me. Then a hiss as the pressure keeps growing. Pain. We are definitely heading into pain. My shoulders. My arms. My chest. Everything. “That hurts.” I struggle against Tye’s hold, discovering it as unyielding as iron. “Let me go.”

  The bastard chuckles. “I’ve seen more flexible stones, you know.”

  “Then go torment them.” My words come between clenched teeth, only the solid feel of Tye’s body against my back grounding me to safety.

  “Breathe, lass,” Tye murmurs, a firm note of command beneath the sympathetic tone. “Halfway there.” Tye’s hips press into my lower back, arching me like a bow. “Nine. Eight. Sev—”

  “—tree was watching you?” a male voice calls from the outside, the noise getting closer to the stables. “Did it chase and bite you as well?”

  I jump away from Tye with a muffled yelp, suddenly painfully aware of how little I appear to be working right now—for all I know, River too actually measures the change in manure levels.

  “That’s not what I said,” a younger man answers, his adolescent voice breaking and strained. “I just felt watched. And then this happened.”

  Releasing me, Tye massages my arms as he returns them to my sides. By the time the barn doors open, the male and I are both busy distributing flakes of hay to the horses, my chest and shoulders tingling through recovery. They do feel better—though I won’t be telling Tye that.

  “Tell me one thing, Rusty, why is it that things just happen only to greenies?” A tall black-mustached guard in his forties steps aside to let Rusty through, their horses following. The young guard’s blue eyes glisten, his whole body hunching around one of his arms while he struggles to keep a stoic face. His reddish-blond hair is drenched in sweat, and his face is a sickly gray. The older guard whaps the back of the boy’s head. “You’ll find that no one here takes kindly to wild stories, so you might as well speak the truth. What are the pair of you doing here?” The last is barked at Tye and me.

  “The lass is here on punishment detail from Headmaster River,” Tye says, dropping the last of the hay in his arms into Sprite’s stall. “And I’m around to try and get under her skirts.” Tye grins so broadly that for a moment, both the guards and I only stand blinking like owls. By the time we return to our senses, Tye has already taken Rusty’s horse and subtly maneuvered his body between him and the older guard, creating an illusion of privacy. “What happened to ye, lad?”

  “N-nothing.” About sixteen, the boy shifts his weight from foot to foot, plainly mapping an escape route that I know Tye doesn’t intend to give him.

  “Stupidity,” the other guard calls, huffing as he goes about putting away his mount. “Mix a lack of wit with an abundance of imagination, and you can brew up anything.”

  Tye raises a brow, his gaze intent on Rusty’s tight face.

  Coming up on Rusty’s other side, I feel a sharp tang of corruption tickling my nose, similar to what I smelled on the sclices two days ago—when their own stench of rotting garbage wasn’t overpowering it—but different too. Something all its own. A quick glance at Tye shows his own nostrils flaring delicately, his emerald gaze concerned behind a mask of cavalier ease. The nothing that happened to Rusty doesn’t belong in the mortal realm. Another symptom of the cracking wards and ripping fabric. My heart pounds.

  Summoning the brightest smile the early morning allows, I reach for the boy’s arm. “Can I take a look?”

  “It’s nothing. Like Mic said.” Rusty tenses, readying to bolt. His blue eyes have grown even more glazed in the short time we’ve spent with him, darting about wildly.

  “Rusty,” Tye drawls, jerking his chin toward me. “Which would ye say rates higher on the cadet—the breasts or backside?”

  “What?” Rusty and I say in unison.

  Tye’s gaze sharpens on mine for a heartbeat, somehow holding both a warning and an apology, and flicks to Rusty’s arm. By the time the silent order registers, the male is already back to blinking conspiratorially at Rusty. “I’d rank the breasts higher myself, but with those curves, it’s a tough call.”

  The boy’s face reddens.

  Tuning out discussion I will castrate Tye for later, I peel away Rusty’s sleeve. Patches of bubbled yellow skin cover the boy’s forearm, looking almost like wrong-colored burns. Several of the sores grow before my eyes, the leaking pus carrying a corrupted stench that makes my stomach churn.

  “Master Shade warned me to watch for poison oak around these parts,” Tye says, loudly enough to ensure the boy’s partner overhears. “I wouldn’t risk Shade’s wrath myself by keeping this from him, but that’s me.”

  “That is no poison oak,” I mutter once the pair of guards departs. “That’s—” I don’t finish my sentence. That is exactly the mess I need to be steering clear from until someone who can differentiate his ass from his elbow—magically speaking—can draw me a bloody map. With my track record, I’d trek the that all over the Academy.

  “I’ll pass word to Shade about Rusty,” Tye says, his voice low. “If the lad d
oesn’t find the infirmary, it will find him. But that’s as far as I go. Challengers have been barred from the Prowess Trials for lesser reasons than meddling in fae craft.”

  “The Prowess Trials are—” I catch myself cold, Coal’s agony-filled scream echoing again through my memory. I’d been about to blurt something unamendable, telling Tye that his Prowess Trial track is nothing but a spun illusion.

  “Are what?” Tye says.

  “Are coming up sometime after Ostera celebrations, right?” Reclaiming my pitchfork, I busy myself with cleaning a stall, breathing deep against sudden panic. This is further proof that I have to be careful—very careful. Perhaps keep clear of the males altogether until I can get my tongue under control. The veil’s magic is no jest. Just as my veil kept memories of Zake alive in Leralynn’s new backstory, Tye’s veil didn’t invent Prowess Trials for him—it built on wounds already there.

  Once, before the quint call bonded him to River and the others, Tye was destined for the top athletic title in Lunos. He and his family had given up everything for Tye’s training, including his connection to the tiger that his soul yearned to shift into. Tye was a commoner born into nothing, whose talent and training and sacrifice let him challenge the crown prince himself. Or would have let him, if the night before the final challenge, the prince—in a message left in Tye’s mother’s blood and broken bones—hadn’t forced Tye to forfeit the game forever.

  Yes, the Tye standing before me remembers nothing of that, but the wounds went nowhere. The Prowess Trials are the magic’s stand-in, and ripping Tye from them just might tear his soul into bloody strips.