“M’lady?” he said quietly to Jenna, his expression unfailingly polite, “is there anything I may get you before I leave?”
She lowered her gaze back to Bob and shook her head. Still silent.
“Hedori, wait,” Darci said quickly, stopping him before he left. “Do you know where Echo is?”
“In the gym. With Aethan, I believe.”
Disappointment took hold. Seemed like she’d have to work on her own again.
With a smile of thanks, Darci walked out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs leading to the basement.
In a storage room, she found the old corkboard she’d stashed there and headed outside for the ten-minute walk. Brisk, tangy air stole her breath and she shivered, hastily buttoning her jacket, but it didn’t deter her as she marched past the gazebo on the lake, across the rolling lawns and the bright maple trees, toward the small shrubs edging the looming forest.
After she’d found the tall tree where she’d hammered a nail into two days ago, she put the board up then walked a short distance back and summoned her obsidian dagger.
Determination to get it right riding her hard, she pulled back her hand and flung the blade. The dagger took off like a tipsy drunk, bounced off the wood and fell to the ground.
Aww, man! Hands on her hips, she glowered at the fallen blade. Really?
A half-hour later, Darci groaned in frustration. If she could wound Finnén when he first attacked them at the castle six months ago, why the hell couldn’t she hit the stupid darn corkboard now?
“Problems?”
She glanced over her shoulder and met Týr’s smiling, toffee-colored eyes. Sighing, she walked over and retrieved the dagger. “I’m trying to improve my throwing, but it’s just not happening.”
He stopped beside her. “Pitch the blade again and let me see.”
She got back to her starting point, grasped the black hilt, and flung it. As if it had memorized its last trip to the corkboard, it tapped the surface in a taunting hello and fell to the leaf-covered ground.
“See?” she moaned, scrubbing her cold palms over her heated cheeks. “It’s hopeless.”
Týr rubbed his mouth. She was well aware he was hiding his smile as he ambled to the fallen dagger, picked up the weapon, and strolled back to her.
“Wield it like this.” He grasped the tip with his forefinger and thumb, pulled back his arm, and let it fly. Like black lightning, the blade winged through the air in a lethal hiss and embedded dead center in the corkboard.
He removed the dagger, came back, and handed it to her. “Now, you try.”
She held the blade like he had but before she could release it, he stopped her. “No, not so far from the tip. You need to control your weapon. Hold it like this.” He moved her fingers to the pointy end of the blade.
She arched a brow, eyeing the dangling weapon suspiciously. “And this will work?”
“Try. Pull back your arm and put force and your body weight behind it when you let go.”
Okay. He was a fighter, he knew best. Grasping the deadly tip the way he’d shown her, she drew back her arm, and with everything in her, she let it go. It struck the edge of the corkboard but stayed embedded.
“I did it—I did it!” she cried the air in elation. “Yes!”
“Just practice. Put a little more power into your throws, and you’ll take out all those fuckers—I mean demoniis we slay every night.” He grinned unrepentantly, masculine dimples denting his cheeks as he moved to the side. “Again. This time keep your focus on the bull’s-eye. That’s your ultimate target.”
Týr watched her throw a few more times.
When the blade finally embedded halfway through and just off center, he whistled in praise. “Nicely done. Now, let’s try holding the hilt and—”
“What exactly are you doing with my mate, alone in the forest, Norse?” A cool voice cut through her excitement like a whip.
Aww, darn it! Not now.
