He blocks me. Barely, but it’s a victory, and I reward him with a smile. Then I divide up my group and set them to sparring with each other while I study all twenty-three trainees and size them up.
Jodi has potential. So do two of the boys and, to my utter surprise, Sylph. Smithson, now that he’s recovering from his gentlemanly instincts, isn’t half-bad either, and neither is Thom, though I knew that already. I turn to study the other groups and find several who’ve developed decent instincts, strength, and agility. A man in Quinn’s group can block almost any blow aimed at him. Another kicks with enough power to knock Quinn off balance. Even a few of the boys in Willow’s group aren’t half- bad. Elias, who is a year older than Smithson, and Derreck, a man with creases in his forehead and strength in his arms, move like they’ve been training for months instead of weeks.
But the real star is Ian. The flirtatious charm he uses to turn most of the girls in camp into starry-eyed idiots is gone. He fights with focused intensity, and his blows are swift and precise.
A frown digs in between my brows as I study his moves. He dances around his sparring partner, a girl of about eighteen with long brown hair and wide eyes who grips her practice stick like she isn’t quite sure how it came to be in her hand. Ian jumps forward to deliver a light tap the second she drops her guard. Which is often. When she finally decides to take a swing at him, he pivots to the left and lunges forward as if his weapon is an extension of himself.
Where did he learn to fight like that? And why is he in the sparring session for beginners instead of in the postlunch session for those who are more advanced?
I’m halfway across the field, intent on pulling Ian aside and getting some answers, when the girl swings wildly as his head. He ducks, executes a half turn, and taps her smartly across the back with his own stick. She flinches and releases her stick so she can press her hand against the skin he bruised. He grabs her arm, spins her around, and drives her to her knees.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
I walk faster.
“Hold the stick steady. Use the core of your body when you swing. And whatever you do, don’t take time to deal with your injuries until your opponent is dead. Why am I having to repeat this to you? A girl your age should be able to hold her own.”
My fingers curl around my Switch. “Ian!”
“She knows better than to drop her weapon,” Ian says, straightening slowly. “You’d think she’d never given one thought to self-defense until we started these sessions.”
“Maybe she hadn’t,” I say. “Certainly she never thought about it until the city burned. Have you already forgotten Baalboden had a protocol that required girls to be dependent on male Protectors?”
He looks away. “I was just trying to help.” Reaching his hand out toward the girl, he says, “I’m sorry. You can take a free swing at me if it will make you feel better.”
“I’m fine,” the girl says as she picks up her stick and lets Ian help her to her feet. “He’s right. I know better than to drop my weapon.”
“Sometimes I forget that all Baalboden girls aren’t as experienced as Rachel and Willow. Plus, you’re beautiful, and that’s an unfair distraction,” he says, and she returns his smile.
Ridiculous. Between the girls throwing themselves at Ian’s feet and the boys panting after Willow, you’d think we were at a Claiming ceremony instead of learning how to fight.
“I’m not a Baalboden girl,” Willow says softly, and her voice carries an edge I don’t often hear from her.
Ian winks at her. “You are now.”
I watch to see if Willow’s golden skin will turn pink as well, but she seems impervious to Ian’s charms. Instead, she hefts a sword, hands it to Adam, who stands beside her, and says, “I didn’t say we were finished for the day. Back to sparring.”
Slowly, the twenty-three recruits regroup, some with practice sticks and some with swords. I keep my eye on Ian as he faces off with Quinn, but the skill he displayed earlier is nothing compared to the lethal force of Quinn’s movements. Maybe Ian only looked good because he was sparring with a girl who can barely manage to hold on to her weapon.
Or maybe he has more experience than he wants to let on.
Either way, I decide Logan needs to know that Ian might be hiding something from us, and that Adam isn’t going to stop causing trouble in camp until he accepts Logan’s leadership.
I hope Logan has a plan for how to ferret out secrets and stop rebellion with typical Logan-ish practicality, because if he doesn’t, I might suggest giving me and my Switch five minutes alone with each of them. We have to worry about the Commander lurking somewhere in the Wasteland, Rowansmark’s bounty on our head, and gangs of highwaymen who will surely see us as easy prey. We shouldn’t have to add idiots from our own camp to that list.
Chapter Three
LOGAN
Striding into my tent, I toss my cloak onto my bedroll and crouch beside my tech bag. The machine I built to dig the tunnel is down.
Again.
This time, it’s a stripped gear and some broken teeth. Last time, the battery cables were pulled loose. The time before that, I found my stash of spare parts strewn across the basement floor. Either some of the younger kids are getting a thrill from messing with me, or someone is disgruntled with my leadership but lacks the courage to say so to my face.
It’s childish nonsense, but still, it takes time. Time we don’t have. I want to tunnel at least one thousand yards into the Wasteland before we surface so that the trackers who come to Baalboden won’t have any signs to follow. I can’t do that if my machine keeps breaking down.
Jodi has potential. So do two of the boys and, to my utter surprise, Sylph. Smithson, now that he’s recovering from his gentlemanly instincts, isn’t half-bad either, and neither is Thom, though I knew that already. I turn to study the other groups and find several who’ve developed decent instincts, strength, and agility. A man in Quinn’s group can block almost any blow aimed at him. Another kicks with enough power to knock Quinn off balance. Even a few of the boys in Willow’s group aren’t half- bad. Elias, who is a year older than Smithson, and Derreck, a man with creases in his forehead and strength in his arms, move like they’ve been training for months instead of weeks.
But the real star is Ian. The flirtatious charm he uses to turn most of the girls in camp into starry-eyed idiots is gone. He fights with focused intensity, and his blows are swift and precise.
A frown digs in between my brows as I study his moves. He dances around his sparring partner, a girl of about eighteen with long brown hair and wide eyes who grips her practice stick like she isn’t quite sure how it came to be in her hand. Ian jumps forward to deliver a light tap the second she drops her guard. Which is often. When she finally decides to take a swing at him, he pivots to the left and lunges forward as if his weapon is an extension of himself.
Where did he learn to fight like that? And why is he in the sparring session for beginners instead of in the postlunch session for those who are more advanced?
I’m halfway across the field, intent on pulling Ian aside and getting some answers, when the girl swings wildly as his head. He ducks, executes a half turn, and taps her smartly across the back with his own stick. She flinches and releases her stick so she can press her hand against the skin he bruised. He grabs her arm, spins her around, and drives her to her knees.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
I walk faster.
“Hold the stick steady. Use the core of your body when you swing. And whatever you do, don’t take time to deal with your injuries until your opponent is dead. Why am I having to repeat this to you? A girl your age should be able to hold her own.”
My fingers curl around my Switch. “Ian!”
“She knows better than to drop her weapon,” Ian says, straightening slowly. “You’d think she’d never given one thought to self-defense until we started these sessions.”
“Maybe she hadn’t,” I say. “Certainly she never thought about it until the city burned. Have you already forgotten Baalboden had a protocol that required girls to be dependent on male Protectors?”
He looks away. “I was just trying to help.” Reaching his hand out toward the girl, he says, “I’m sorry. You can take a free swing at me if it will make you feel better.”
“I’m fine,” the girl says as she picks up her stick and lets Ian help her to her feet. “He’s right. I know better than to drop my weapon.”
“Sometimes I forget that all Baalboden girls aren’t as experienced as Rachel and Willow. Plus, you’re beautiful, and that’s an unfair distraction,” he says, and she returns his smile.
Ridiculous. Between the girls throwing themselves at Ian’s feet and the boys panting after Willow, you’d think we were at a Claiming ceremony instead of learning how to fight.
“I’m not a Baalboden girl,” Willow says softly, and her voice carries an edge I don’t often hear from her.
Ian winks at her. “You are now.”
I watch to see if Willow’s golden skin will turn pink as well, but she seems impervious to Ian’s charms. Instead, she hefts a sword, hands it to Adam, who stands beside her, and says, “I didn’t say we were finished for the day. Back to sparring.”
Slowly, the twenty-three recruits regroup, some with practice sticks and some with swords. I keep my eye on Ian as he faces off with Quinn, but the skill he displayed earlier is nothing compared to the lethal force of Quinn’s movements. Maybe Ian only looked good because he was sparring with a girl who can barely manage to hold on to her weapon.
Or maybe he has more experience than he wants to let on.
Either way, I decide Logan needs to know that Ian might be hiding something from us, and that Adam isn’t going to stop causing trouble in camp until he accepts Logan’s leadership.
I hope Logan has a plan for how to ferret out secrets and stop rebellion with typical Logan-ish practicality, because if he doesn’t, I might suggest giving me and my Switch five minutes alone with each of them. We have to worry about the Commander lurking somewhere in the Wasteland, Rowansmark’s bounty on our head, and gangs of highwaymen who will surely see us as easy prey. We shouldn’t have to add idiots from our own camp to that list.
Chapter Three
LOGAN
Striding into my tent, I toss my cloak onto my bedroll and crouch beside my tech bag. The machine I built to dig the tunnel is down.
Again.
This time, it’s a stripped gear and some broken teeth. Last time, the battery cables were pulled loose. The time before that, I found my stash of spare parts strewn across the basement floor. Either some of the younger kids are getting a thrill from messing with me, or someone is disgruntled with my leadership but lacks the courage to say so to my face.
It’s childish nonsense, but still, it takes time. Time we don’t have. I want to tunnel at least one thousand yards into the Wasteland before we surface so that the trackers who come to Baalboden won’t have any signs to follow. I can’t do that if my machine keeps breaking down.
