“No. I could see that you weren’t. You’re tensing too hard. Restricting the gold to one spot. That’s one of the reasons you’re not able to control it. You need to let it flow through your entire body. Here. Watch.”
Hawkins opens a path into my mind. He’s not trying to break through my shield—I’d feel the shock at the back of my neck if he were—but he is doingsomething.
I watch him in fascination. His forehead twitches a little, hinting at the mental strain transpiring behind his eyes. His veins begin to ripple, liquid silver swelling through his arms. But it’s not just his arms. The silver surges in the veins of his hands, running up his throat, flickering across his collarbone. I suspect his legs and chest are also glowing beneath his clothing.
Finally, the silver begins to ebb and his eyes open.
“Did you see? You want it to consume every inch of you. You expend less energy that way. Once you have the gold in your hands, let it travel to the rest of your body. When everything is contained in one spot, like your fists, for example, you only end up struggling to keep it in place. You’re not making the best use of the gold.” His dark eyes pierce my face as he utters my new least favorite words. “Try again.”
Chapter 11
I head to the indoor shooting range after leaving the Temple, and the moment I enter, I feel right at home. I breathe in the familiar scent of metal and gunpowder and can’t help smiling.
I approach the large weapons cage by the entrance, where I’m greeted by an older man in black trousers and a gray sleeveless shirt. Intricate black tattoos wind from his wrists all the way to the base of his neck.
“You must be Darlington.” He gives me a welcoming smile. “I’m Zak. I basically run this place.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Come. Let me show you around.” He leads me into the cage, where he’s quick to explain their weapons protocols. “We store all the range firearms in here. When you’re done with a weapon, it goes back in the locker until it’s checked out again. And this always stays locked. If someone wants a gun we don’t have on-site, you can send a comm to the armory and they’ll bring it over.”
That’s simple enough. I follow him back out, and he shows me where to find ear protection, safety glasses, and other equipment. Zak is personable and easy to talk to, and I find myself quickly relaxing in his presence. When I admit I prefer long-range shooting, he tells meabout an Old Era rifle they keep in the armory, then regales me with an entire history of the sniper rifle in general, emphasized by dramatic hand gestures and a lot of enthusiasm.
Eventually, he wanders off to train with a dark-haired guy I’m told is a new operative at the Dagger. I’m tasked with training a teenage boy who’s just out of upper school. His name is Wells and he’d recently been recruited by the Uprising. He walks into the range, wearing a loose shirt and worn jeans, his gaze darting around nervously.
“This your first time shooting?” I ask him.
With a shy smile, Wells nods. “Yeah. Never even held a gun before.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll walk you through it.”
I grab a handgun from the cage. Nine-mil, lighter than I’d usually pick for myself. We gear up and go to the first stall, where I demonstrate how to hold the gun and the proper stance.
“Keep your arms slightly bent,” I advise, repositioning him. “And copy my stance. You want it to be a bit wider than that.”
He copies me, albeit awkwardly.
“All right, let’s line up your target.” I chuckle when he closes one eye. “Nope, keep both eyes open. And make sure to keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
I teach him how to aim, then take a step back as the eighteen-year-old gets ready to fire his first shot ever. I took mine when I was five years old. Uncle Jim wasted no time weapons-training me.
“Deep breath,” I tell him when he glances at me for reassurance. “Then exhale and fire.”
On a slow exhalation, Wells squeezes the trigger, jolting back from the recoil. The shot rings out, and I smile with pride when I see he hit the target. The very edge of it, barely a graze, but it still counts.
He smiles back, his entire face lighting up. “I hit it!”
“Killed it,” I praise. “Now do it again.”
I spend the next several hours at the range, leaving it only for lunch, then returning to get my own training in. Zak and I have an impromptu shooting competition, and when I beat him, he seems more amused than angry. It’s refreshing. Growing up, whenever I outshot the boys in my village, they griped and complained afterward, their sad little egos bruised.
By the time I return to my room, I’m in such a good mood that I link with Cross just so I can tell him about my day. For the first time since I got here, I actually feel like I have something to offer the Uprising. Like I can be a real asset to them.
I curl up in the cushioned armchair across from my bed, eager to hear Cross’s voice, but when he responds, I instantly sense something is off.
“You sound distracted,”I tell him.“What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
