Fate aside, companionship couldn’t be the only reason that the devil wanted me, could it? But then again, why else? I had some interesting abilities, but nothing the devil could gain from, right?
When I ruminated on this topic, Andre’s words always echoed back: power. This was all a power play. I just couldn’t yet see how I’d give the devil more power.
I stretched and grabbed the laptop Andre had loaned me. Well, technically he’d given it to me, but I didn’t exactly need another computer.
Still, I made good use of it, emailing Grigori, Oliver, Caleb, and the head Politia about where I was and the events that took place last night.
An email sent from Grigori’s phone came back right away, asking me whether I was okay and informing me that due to the bad weather conditions and the upcoming holiday, all Politia officers had received the next two days off.
Holiday? I checked the computer’s calendar. “I’ll be damned.” It was Christmas Eve. Somehow, between everything that had occurred since my birthday, I’d forgotten.
I turned my attention back to the email and typed up a message to Grigori letting him know I was alright and how to get ahold of me now that my phone was probably lying under a foot of fresh snow.
Once I sent the message, I leaned back, feeling useless. I grabbed a pastry from a nearby platter, my fifth one this morning and probably my twelfth since last night. After the devil crashed our little party and majorly ruined the mood, Andre had gone back to tending to me.
I downloaded a video chat app onto the computer and decided to give my mother a call. The line connected, and my mom’s smiling face showed up across the screen. My eyes pricked at the sight of her.
“Merry Christmas Eve, sweet daughter of mine,” she said.
With effort, I pulled myself together. “Merry Christmas Eve, mama,” I said.
In the background I could hear carols playing over the radio, and a pang of homesickness hit me. I should’ve been there with her. But she couldn’t afford a plane ticket for me, and I couldn’t just buy one with my own money. Not unless I wanted to tell my mother just how I came to be a millionaire dozens of times over.
“Did you get my package?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Er, no,” I said guiltily. I probably would’ve if I’d been on the Isle of Man. But I wasn’t, and she couldn’t know that her teenage daughter was staying in a new country. “But I’ve heard that international shipping to the Isle of Man is a nightmare.” Inwardly I cringed at the lie.
“Aw,” her face fell, “Well, maybe it will arrive today. I’d really hoped you’d get to open it on Christmas.”
We chatted for a long time after that, catching up on good books, TV shows, and what we’d done since we last talked. It was pleasure and pain, talking to her, since I missed her so dang much. And guilt always seeped in when I had to lie or omit the truth.
Just like right now.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Peel Academy’s library,” I said, not missing a beat.
“Wow. Some library,” she said, noticing the gilded molding and the marble side table next to me. “They let you eat and talk in there?”
Whoops. “Ah, no, but the place is abandoned during the holidays.”
“Oh, well honey, I hope you’re not spending all your time in there when you could be celebrating with your friends.” She looked genuinely concerned. If only she knew the truth. She’d go ballistic.
She smiled over the screen. “In case I don’t talk to you tomorrow, Merry Christmas,” she said, “I love you.”
“Love you too. Merry Christmas.”
Thuack.
The knife made a solid sound as it embedded itself into the target. I’d discovered Andre’s training room late in the afternoon, and I’d lingered ever since.
I spun a knife in my hand. I’d forgotten how good it felt to exert control over something—even a simple weapon. It was almost cathartic after the last few days I’d had. Not to mention feeling my muscles catch and release with exertion. There was some basic satisfaction to being capable of defending myself.
Power tickled over my skin as I stared at the target—someone else’s power. Andre was waking up, and that meant that I might be able to train with him. The thought had the corners of my mouth curling up. Between Andre and me there was enough pent up sexual tension to make for some very interesting grappling.
I threw the knife in my hand, watching it tumble hilt-over-blade, before sinking into the target with a satisfying thump.
Another bull’s eye. I stepped back a few yards and glanced down at the belt I wore. Three knives were still strapped into the sheaths that circled my waist.
Two months ago, when Andre began to train me, I balked at the idea of training with swords and knives—medieval weapons. But now, I understood. In a fight, a knife, a sword, a battle-axe, arrows, throwing stars—all these weapons and more could be retrieved and reused, unlike modern weaponry. A spent bullet could never be procured again in the heat of battle.
Not that this stopped supernatural beings—Andre included—from using guns. All and all, they were still quite effective.
But the other equally important reason Andre trained me with swords and knives was that these weapons required muscle control, good form, dynamism, and—when one was engaged in combat—improvisation.
Thuack, thuack, thuack. I threw the rest of the knives in quick succession, a pleased smile dancing along my lips when they hit the target exactly where I had intended.
“Remind me never to piss you off.”
I started at the voice. I swiveled around to see Andre standing in the doorway, arms folded.
“You’re getting even better,” he commented, dropping his arms and sauntering into the room. “Though I still would’ve gotten the drop on you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” I said, turning back to my target to retrieve my knives. As I did so, my face heated. Even with our hard-to-ignore connection, Andre was still able to sneak up on me.