"If they were, you'd be dead." Snapping back to a waiting stance, he glanced critically at her hand. "You need to change your grip. The way you're holding it now, I could break your wrist with a single hit."
"Show me."
He did, adding, "The rapier is, at heart, a thrusting weapon. Use it."
The rest of the morning passed in an increasingly grueling manner.
Three hours later, she was dripping sweat, and they'd drawn a crowd of curious onlookers. Galen didn't let up, ordering her into another sparring session. She could feel her wings dragging, her leg muscles quivering.
Bastard.Refusing to let him drive her into the ground, she avoided his blows with deliberately sluggish movements . . . until he dropped his guard for the barest fraction of an instant. Then she lunged. The rapier hit his shoulder, sinking in several inches.
Red dripped down the tanned skin of his chest.
A horrified gasp from the onlookers. But Galen just wrenched his body away from the blade, lowered his own weapon, and held out his hand for hers. "Good. You should've done that an hour ago."
Wanting to stab him with it, she handed over the rapier. "I've got the basics, but it'll take me time to become effective with this." Time she didn't have.
"We'll focus on throwing knives later, but you need some skill with a longer blade in case you have to fight in close quarters." Pale green eyes locked with hers. "If you plan on surviving Lijuan's idea of a ball, you need to stop acting human and go directly for the jugular." He left the training ring without another word.
All she wanted to do was collapse in a puddle of jelly, but pride kept her upright.
No one got in her way as she left the ring, though she felt eyes on her the entire distance to Raphael's stronghold. Guns and knives, she thought as she entered, were the lightest, most versatile weapons for everyday use. The rapier was a bit too long, but a shorter sword . . . yeah, that might work.
Too bad about the miniature flamethrower in her stash. It wouldn't exactly be easy to carry around on a day-to-day basis - and while it'd be effective against vampires, it'd only enrage an angel. The best she could hope for with an angel was to disable him - or her - long enough to get a head start.
She was so busy going over her options that it took her several minutes to realize she'd turned right instead of left after entering the main hallway. Might as well keep going, she thought, too damn exhausted to turn back - the passage would eventually spit her out into the central core. Rubbing the back of her neck, she saw the walls here were hung with lush jewel-toned silks that shifted in the breeze coming in through the windows high above. The carpet underneath her feet echoed the theme, being a deep rose accented with the faintest hint of amethyst.
A giggle carried on the air currents.
She froze, realizing the import of her surroundings. Rich and exotic and almost too vibrant, the colors stroking over her with velvet fingers. The last time she'd been in a place this soaked with sensuality, it had been the vampire wing of the Tower. And Dmitri had all but f**ked a woman in front of her. It didn't matter that they'd both been clothed; that curvy little blonde had been a whisper's breath away from orgasm.
It was too late to turn back. Steeling her spine . . . and sensing the familiar, primal scent of a tiger on the hunt, she began hauling ass. But her head insisted on turning toward an open doorway, insisted on glimpsing that sleek, muscled back of flawless brown touched with gold, insisted on watching that silver-maned head bend over the neck of a woman who sighed in unmistakable sexual submission.
A woman with wings.
Her feet bolted themselves to the floor. Naasir was feeding from an angel, and from her breathy moans, the way her hands clutched at his biceps, it was obvious who held the reins. Unable to look away, she watched Naasir close his fingers over the flesh of one plump breast. The angel's head fell back, exposing her neck - begging for another blood kiss - as he lifted his head. As he turned. As those eyes of liquid platinum locked with Elena's.
Shivering, she wrenched her own head back around and continued on her way as fast as her legs would carry her. It was a relief to exit into the central core of the house with its vaulted ceiling and abundance of light.Dear God. There'd been sex in those eyes, on that face, but there'd also been a darker need, a darker hunger . . . as if he'd as easily tear open his lover's chest and drink straight from her still-pumping heart as f**k her.
Goose bumps broke out over her spine. She pitied the hunter who ever had to track that silver-eyed beast of prey through the night.
Twenty minutes later, she was clean, a towel wrapped around her body as she sat on the bed rubbing her calves, and contemplating the walk to Jessamy's classroom. But her mind insisted on returning to the disturbing tableau she'd glimpsed in the vampire wing, the foreignness of it all suddenly overwhelming.
This place, with its piercing beauty and secrets, its violence wrapped in peace, it wasn't home. She was mortal in her heart - and there were no mortals here. Cranky taxi drivers zipping by in the rain, snappily dressed investment bankers with cell phones surgically attached to their ears, bruised and bloody hunters cracking jokes after a difficult track -
that was her life. And she missed it all until she couldn't breathe.
Sara would understand.
Holding the towel more firmly around herself - wings and all - she picked up the phone.
Hoping desperately that her best friend was awake, she listened to it ring on the other end.
"Hello." A deep, masculine tone, as welcome as Sara's would've been.
"Deacon, it's me."
"Ellie, it's good to hear your voice."
"You, too." Fisting her hand on the towel, she blinked away unexpected tears. "Is it late there?"