I moved the blade back and drew steadying breaths, the way Demos had shown me over the weeks.
“Good,” he said, looking between the sword tip and me. “Steady the muscles in your abdomen and focus on that line of energy from there to your fingers. Try moving like that.”
It was a thousand times harder going through drills under Raphael’s watchful eye than Demos’s, but I followed his instructions. A jab, a block, and a swipe rolled from my entire body in sequence once, then twice.
Satisfied with whatever he saw, Raphael nodded. “Let’s spar again. This time, be more careful with aiming. Your body moves faster, but you still need to target carefully, especially when your opponent can move out of the way as fast as you can move. Try to disguise your plans and watch how I telegraph my own moves.”
We began anew. This time, I held the anger back and focused. Shoving aside all of my thoughts that kept bubbling up, I leveled the sword at shoulder height, keeping my wrist loose and my eyes focused on Raphael’s body. The feet were one of the best places to look, Demos had explained. I could hear the slight crunch under the front foot where more of his weight was, the packed dirt shifting ever so slightly. Before lunging, I imagined my sword hitting square on his shoulder, the one primed to move forward with his own strike.
The blade met steel a scant inch from its target, closer than any before. I’d almost landed a hit.
Then Raphael retaliated, countering my strike. But still—I’d almost succeeded.
The next strikes weren’t so lucky.
I’d thought this kind of training would be easier as a vampire. It wasn’t.
I wound up on my back more than once. But Raphael was an utterly patient teacher, which was even more infuriating than the fact I was failing. I tried to let that fury go. Strategic. Analytical. Back and forth we sparred. Thea left at some point, and it was just the two of us.
“Too sloppy,” he decreed. “Again.”
We’d been at it for hours. I was growing tired, the sword heavier and heavier.
But I wasn’t willing to stop swinging a blade at Raphael either.
“Again.”
Steel clashed. He never aggressed, never pushed me back with more than a counter, but still, there was the stink of losing.
Losing to the one who turned you.
Strategicandanalyticaldisappeared. My swings grew more wild, more frenzied. Demos would have chastised my technique, or lack thereof, but he wasn’t here.
“Focus, viper,” Raphael said, blocking my blow to his side once more. “Your frustration is making you sloppy again.”
I wiped the sweat off my brow and launched another attack, failing immediately. The blade was damned heavy in my hands.
“Aren’t I supposed to be stronger now?” I hissed. “Isn’t that the trade for my humanity?”
Raphael blocked with enough force that I stumbled. “The trade was for yourdeath,” he reminded me. “And you’ll be weak as long as you fight your vampire side.”
Fightingit? I was succumbing to it, hour by hour. Memories of how the grimoire had burned at my touch, rejecting me now that I was one of them, slammed into me. The way I woke with my nails bloody, my throat clawed because I ached to drink.
I slashed at him again, and to more of my shock than anything, the blow landed, grazing Raphael’s bicep. He was normally so much faster than that . . .
But the thoughts ebbed as a delicious scent tinged the air. I dropped my sword, my attention fully taken by this new arrival. Warm, inviting. It was like I’d swallowed sand, the irritation in my throat acute, and suddenly I was near a waterfall.
Blood.
The hunger was painful. I watched his white shirt stain red—my feet rooted, my hands balled into fists at my side. Raphael watched me silently.
I wanted it.
But I didn’t want the vampire side to win.
I don’t want it fromhim.
Because I could still lie to myself.
