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  “There are no winners here today. You’re the worst bunch I’ve ever had the misfortune to train. Based on this performance, I find it hard to imagine anyone from the Elemental College winning. I have half a mind to just leave you lot to it,” Master Akerman said tiredly.

  “I’ll say it one more time even though I very much doubt whether it’ll pierce your thick skulls,” he continued, holding up two fingers. “The Five Finals are won by a pair. Two people. Not one. This is not an individual competition. It will be won by a pair or not at all. That’s why there are no winners today, since there’s no team left standing, or floating, as it were.”

  Master Akerman stared at them, all standing, shivering, and shaking like wet and bedraggled dogs before him. “Mr. Fan complained I wasn’t being fair. If any of you bunch of idiots had bothered to actually think about it, you’d have realized that I was actually being exceedingly fair. If you counted the number of rocks per pair rather than per person, you would’ve found that every pair was getting the same number of rocks. If you had shared the burden, perhaps there would actually be a winning pair today. Instead, half of you chose to watch and do nothing as your partner was dragged under water.”

  He shook his head as if convinced that there was no hope for any of them. “This is about teamwork,” he continued. “There’s no point surviving if your partner doesn’t. In the past, anyone who allowed their partner to die in The Five Finals was thrown into the Between and left there for a week, to survive, alone. With nothing but the Revenants to keep them company. Not many ever returned alive, and of the ones that did, few managed to keep an intact mind. In these softer times, we don’t open the Gates anymore, so you lot are spared that particular form of punishment. But believe me, allow your partner to die in The Five Finals and you’ll not enjoy the punishment. And should you survive it, you’ll still be considered the lowest of the low, barred from ever using your Gift again.”

  He lowered his head and pressed his fingers into his eyes. “Now get out of my sight.”

  Chapter 7 – Allyra

  Afternoons were set aside for each pair to do as they wished. Most spent the time in combat training. There was no Master Akerman to shout insults at them, no audience, and certainly no help if Jason decided he wanted to kill her after all.

  Sparring rooms were assigned to each pair. Large, square rooms, bare except for one wall filled with every weapon imaginable—thick, brutal swords, gracefully curved katanas, daggers, throwing knives, axes, spears, and others Allyra simply didn’t know the names of. A vaguely sour smell of sweat and blood clung to the air, the kind that no amount of cleaning would ever wash away. The floors and walls were lined in some kind of springy, spongy material, possibly in an attempt to limit the damage they could do to each other. It was a nice thought, but facing Jason down, Allyra was under no illusions. Jason had already proven that he was willing to play dirty and take any opportunity to hurt her.

  Jason was already waiting for her. He was wearing a bored expression and a new shirt that he’d found somewhere to replace the ones that she’d shredded.

  Allyra glanced the weapons wall. “So, what should we start with?”

  Jason smirked. “It’s sweet you think I need a weapon to beat you.” He lifted his fist and an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

  Allyra lifted her arms, turning the back of her forearms out for a more defensive stance. She started to move, not toward Jason but sideways, buying a little more time to size him up.

  Jason had other ideas.

  He burst forward, coming straight at her, using all of his Inferno Gifted speed.

  Allyra managed to duck past his first swing, his fist punching through the air, mere fractions of an inch from her nose. His next kick was so well aimed, so precise, she struggled to avoid it, managing only through a clumsy scramble and worse, by turning her back to him.

  Damn, he was quick…

  Before she had time to berate herself on breaking the cardinal rule of combat, never turn your back on the enemy, Jason wound his arm around her neck. He snapped it back painfully, forcing an unnatural arch into her spine. Having positioned her, Jason drove his fist straight into her kidney.

  He loosened his grip on her, and she dropped to the ground, as limp as a ragdoll, gasping at the pain spiraling from her back. She was vaguely aware of him towering over her.

  “I remember you being better than this,” he spat out. Blunt and to the point. He never did mince his words.

  “And I remember beating you in the Final Trial,” she retorted, the impact of her words diminished by the uneven gulps of air she was trying to pull into her lungs.

  He didn’t bother acknowledging her words, and his lips twisted in contempt. “Again,” he said.

  “Give me a minute.”

  Abruptly, Jason dropped to his knees and grabbed hold of the front of her shirt, jerking her forward until they were separated by no more than a feather’s breadth.

  Instinctively, she swung to fight him off, but he was too quick for her, grabbing her wrists with brutal efficiency and pinning her arms to her side, his fingers digging into her flesh. This close, she could see nothing but his indigo-colored eyes, almost black in their intensity.

  “Do you think anyone here will care if you’re hurting?” he asked, biting out each word like they were poison on his tongue. “No one will ever give you a minute, so don’t expect me to either.”

  He shoved her away and rose to his feet gracefully. “Again,” he repeated.

  * * *

  Allyra thudded to the floor. Again. It had happened so many times she’d lost count.

  The flooring was soft, this much she could attest to, but no amount of cushioning could protect her from the pain exploding from her already bruised ribs or the blood flowing freely from a nasty cut above her eye.

  Vaguely she wondered if her body cut a graceful arc through the air or if she more closely resembled an ungainly sack of potatoes.

  I’m losing my mind.

  Pull it together!

  Jason stalked toward her—his movements graceful and economical, not a single joule of energy wasted in his pursuit. She scrambled to her feet. She’d learned the hard way that Jason wasn’t above kicking her when she was down—literally.

  “Pathetic,” he said coolly. “What have you been doing for the last month?”

  What have I been doing?

  She had allowed herself to forget. The pain and exhaustion. The blood and sweat shed. The lessons Alex had pummeled into her under the gray skies of the Between. She had forgotten what it felt like to face an opponent as capable and ruthless as Jason. She had allowed the sharp edge of her skill to grow blunt.

  She didn’t bother trying to come up with an answer for Jason. Maybe she just didn’t have the energy.

  Jason slowed his prowl toward her and stopped in the middle of the room, watching her undignified scramble toward the wall. He narrowed his eyes at her. “If you can’t even beat me, what do you think the Fifths are going to do to you?”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence, partner,” Allyra spat out. She was angry, more at herself than Jason at this point.

  “I’m not here to make you feel better. We’re here to win. Your failings become my failings. Now get your head into the game!” he said, his voice low and controlled, but beneath the calm, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of pure poison.

  Jason stalked from the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

  Allyra dropped to the ground with a sigh, leaning her head against the wall. As much as it pained her to admit it, Jason was right.

  She repeated it in her mind.

  Jason was right.

  The very idea of it made her feel slightly nauseated. Allyra rubbed the back of her hand across her nose, and it came away with a smear of blood. She looked at it in disgust—why did it always take a beating for her to come to a resolution?

  I am going to survive.

  No. I am going to win.

  And in winni
ng, she would fulfill all her promises. As a winner of The Five Finals she would be in a position of untold power. A position that would allow her to find the answers to her questions and get vengeance for her father, for Emma, and for Pierre.

  Never again a pawn.

  Allyra got to her feet. There would be no more beatings. She was better than this. Alex had trained her better than this. She had deluded herself into believing the training she’d done would prepare her for The Five Finals. When it came down to it, Rob and Jamie would always treat her like something fragile. Luckily, Jason didn’t suffer from the same restraint, and Allyra resolved to take every advantage of it. She would use Jason to hone her skills back to the sharpness of a knife’s edge.

  Allyra tightened her fingers into a fist and steeled her resolve like a suit of armor around her. With her mind shocked into sudden, painful clarity, she wished Jason had stuck around for a few more rounds of sparring. There was now an excess of energy fizzing beneath her skin, and nearly overwhelmed with it, Allyra slammed her fist into the wall.

  Suddenly, she was falling into a memory.

  She was still in the sparring room.

  A man was sitting on the ground with his back against the far wall. His head hung low, held down by his long fingers interlocked against the back of his neck, with his elbows resting on his knees.

  Even without seeing his face, she knew instinctively who it was.

  Alex.

  There was no mistaking his long, elegant lines and strong, tightly coiled muscles.

  She took an unconscious step toward him, and as if he could sense her, Alex lifted his head and their eyes met.

  Swirls of blue with golden starbursts rising from the depths. His eyes were almost exactly as she’d remembered, perhaps just a little more carefree and less weighed down by regret. But they lacked none of the ferocity, energy, and passion she remembered so well. Her heart thudded out an unsteady rhythm in her chest. She ached desperately to touch him.

  “Alex,” she breathed out.

  The dragon tattoo on Alex’s forearm came to life, reappearing as a short dagger in his hand. He tilted its tip toward her.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice quiet and controlled. But she knew him well enough to recognize the faint note of dread.

  The combination of his words and the undercurrent of fear hidden deep within them forced her backward. It struck a jarring and discordant note—she’d never heard fear in Alex’s voice.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “No,” he whispered to himself. “No. Please go away. I want no part of these visions.”

  Allyra studied him more closely. His left arm was bare, but the familiar, silver tattoo of two intertwining dragons was on his right forearm. He chest was bare, and it bore no semblance of the jagged scar from the Ancient’s blade. Perhaps she’d always known it from the very first moment she’d seen him sitting against the wall, but now the realization was clear in her mind.

  This was Alex from before, one who didn’t yet know her. One who was still struggling to come to terms with his visions of the future.

  He was here. They were together. In the same place but separated by more than a hundred and fifty years.

  Alex’s Gift for the future and her Gift for the past. Together, they could reach across the void of time to see each other.

  Allyra took a careful step forward toward him. Slowly and gently, much as he’d once done for her. “Alex…” she whispered.

  He shook his head harder, as if he could block out the sound of her voice.

  “No. No. No. Please leave me alone,” he begged.

  The door opened and Allyra turned at the sound. She found herself staring at Mandla. One so different from the Mandla she had known that it was almost impossible to imagine they were the same person.

  It was the same body, but here, in a memory of a time before, Mandla was as he should’ve been. Strong and sure, with merry mischief dancing in his hazel eyes.

  He was crunching on an apple and held one out for Alex.

  Allyra felt a hollow ache take hold within her. It was a reversal of roles. How many times had she seen Alex holding out food to Mandla?

  Alex didn’t look up.

  “Alex?” Mandla asked, his forehead creasing with concern and almost instant understanding.

  He dropped to the ground next to Alex to put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Did you see something again?”

  Alex nodded, without opening his eyes, keeping his head low. He lifted his hand and pointed toward her.

  “A girl.” Alex whispered. “A gray-eyed girl, standing over there.”

  Mandla looked up, his eyes searching the wall behind her, where Alex had pointed. “There’s no one there.”

  Alex opened his eyes and stared directly at her, and she knew that he could still see her, but he kept his expression neutral and nodded carefully.

  “You’re right,” he said with a tight smile. “There’s no one there.”

  Mandla studied him carefully, as if he knew Alex well enough to know that he was lying. “So, are we going to spar or what?” Mandla asked with forced cheerfulness, getting to his feet. “I don’t need the practice, but I thought you were getting a little rusty.”

  Alex looked at her for a second longer and then averted his eyes. The dragons came to life on his arm and snaked upward, appearing as two bright and silver swords in Alex’s hands.

  He smiled again, this time a little more naturally. “I’m ready.”

  Allyra loosened her grip on the memory, and she came thundering back to herself, back into her own time. The vision was so clear, so real. Almost as if the power of Alex’s Gift had enhanced her own, pulling her back into the past with more force.

  There was a lingering sourness on her tongue, one of dissonance and discord. It was more than a little disconcerting to see a version of Alex that wasn’t perfectly sure of himself. One that was vulnerable and yet to become the person she’d known. But this wasn’t the reason she felt foggy and unbalanced. Alex had told her to use her affinity for the past to find out the truth of the Betrayal. What disturbed her was the idea that he’d known all along what she would find.

  Chapter 8 – Jamie

  The string of fire flickered between red and orange. It was almost alive, constantly moving, coiling around his fingers as Jamie considered his options.

  Eva watched him carefully, her eyes never leaving his, her expression giving none of her thoughts away. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. She was watchful but relaxed. Ready, not tense.

  Slowly, Jamie tightened his hold of the red Fire threads. He weaved them together, binding them with his own energy. The flame steadied and brightened in intensity, red turned to white to blue. Hot enough to turn steel to liquid, fierce enough to kill in an instant.

  Still, Eva gave nothing away. Not hint of what she was thinking or, more accurately, what she was plotting. But one thing was clear—the first move would have to be his. Jamie shot his arm out, and the roped coil of fire flashed through the air toward Eva’s neck. It happened in an instant, measured in fractions of a second. Yet, Eva had time to shake her head at him, her eyes narrowed with disappointment.

  With one lazy wave of her hand, Eva dumped a curtain of water over his rope of fire. Jamie fought to keep it alive, pouring more of himself into it, and for a moment, water turned to steam. But ultimately, the laws of nature defeated him, and the fire dissipated with barely a sizzle.

  “Pathetic,” Eva announced. “Again. But try thinking out of the box this time.”

  “Come on, Eva,” Pete interjected. “Enough already. You’ve beaten Jamie. You’ve made your point—water does indeed put out a fire.”

  “You want to take a turn?” Eva taunted. “Think you can beat me.”

  Pete sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “We aren’t even supposed to be sparring,” Gemma said, taking up Pete’s argument. “We’re supposed to be learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses so
we can combine our Gifts in combat.”

  Eva started to clap slowly, somehow making the sound seem scornful. “Well done, Gemma, that was perfect—almost word for word delivery of our instructions. If we ever need a parrot on our missions—remind me to nominate you.”

  Gemma wilted instantly under the sarcasm, retreating with her eyes downcast.

  “Stop, Eva,” Jamie snapped. If there was one thing he hated, it was a bully. And Eva had been behaving like a particularly obnoxious bully since they started Cleaner training.

  “And—here’s white knight Jamie, riding to the rescue,” Eva said, her words strung together with a mocking lilt. Is that why you’re not with Allyra anymore? She didn’t need your help anymore and you couldn’t stand it.”

  Angry, Jamie took a swift step toward Eva. Her cat-like eyes hardened, and with a quick curl of her fingers, Eva gathered the water spilled on the ground and called it to her hand.

  “So, you are ready to go again,” she said. “What’s the score now? Fifteen nil to me?”

  “What are you trying to prove, Eva?” Jamie asked quietly.

  “I’m trying to help you think out the box. I’m trying to make us a stronger team. I didn’t join the Cleaners to be a healer’s helper or stack books in the library. I want to be part of the army, to see some action. So, you lot better pull your socks up and start showing me some spine.”

  Jamie shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s it at all. I think it’s personal. I think you’re trying to prove you’re not afraid of fire, that you can beat an Inferno.”

  Eva reached up and touched her left collarbone, tracing her fingers over a dark, geometric tattoo that snaked across her chest and down her arm. It was a reflexive, knee-jerk reaction. One which Jamie had only noticed recently.

  He’d never paid much attention to Eva’s tattoo before. It wasn’t particularly artistic, and its dark color did nothing to draw the eye in. But since he’d been forced into such close quarters with Eva, he’d started to notice the way she touched it instinctively, almost reluctantly, whenever she was under pressure. It was enough to raise his curiosity, and Jamie had taken a closer look. Underneath the ink, the skin was imperfect and thickened with scar tissue. The tattoo wasn’t decorative; it was hiding something. It was hiding a moment in time Eva would rather forget, a moment when fire had left its mark on her otherwise flawless skin. And Jamie was willing to bet it was an Inferno who had left that mark. Or, more specifically, one particular Inferno—Jason.