Guess my time on the Fantasia is at an abrupt end, but truth be told, I miss my house and my bed.

  “What about One Bean?” I ask since he seems to be in a semi-agreeable mood.

  “What about it?” he counters, but it’s rhetorical. “Keep doing your job and when you’ve come to your senses about the prophecy, we’ll get to work on figuring it out.”

  Keep dreaming, I think.

  “Besides,” he adds, a taunting glimmer in his eyes. “I can only imagine you’d like to find out what happened to your sister and whether she’s still inside that body to be saved.”

  Crap. That managed to get me straight in the feels, as my heart lurches at the thought of Fallon being stuffed down in some deep, dark, figurative box, trapped and all alone. It almost makes me relent.

  The only reason I don’t is because I’ve got the means to do some figuring out myself. Titus will be training me, and he’ll be sympathetic. He can put me in touch with the right people who can possibly tell me what happened to Fallon. Worst-case scenario, I can try to track Echo down and see if she can help. At this point, I’m not above contributing money for her meth habit if it can get my sister back. I try not to cringe inwardly at how low I’m stooping to even be thinking that, but I will do what I have to do to save Fallon if she can be saved.

  With that all safely secured as a game plan in my mind, I don’t rise to take Carrick’s bait. I merely say, “Have Titus call me, and I’ll get back to training.”

  Carrick nods and once again pivots to walk away from me. I watch him for a few seconds before heading back into the houseboat. I still have plenty of work to do, although something tells me that I’m going to be even more distracted than I was before.

  CHAPTER 6

  Finley

  “Nice move,” Titus praises as I block a low Thai kick meant to buckle the back of my knee and take me to the ground. I counter with a backfist aimed at the side of his head, but he’s so damn quick that just a tiny jerk of his body to the left and I connect with nothing but air.

  He goes on the attack, coming at me with a flurry of punches and elbows, and my arms fly just as fast as he backs me across the gym. I manage to block every single one. When he finally throws a right cross, I block it from inside out, wrap my arm around his, and move into his space. I use my right arm to land four hard uppercuts to his gut, which, although he grunts, my knuckles feel like they are banging on a brick wall because his muscles are so tight.

  Titus counters by moving his free arm around the back of my head, squeezing my neck within the crook of his elbow. It’s the start of a grappling move and I know once he takes me to the ground, it’s all over.

  He bends my body so my head is level with his hip, and it twists my arm holding onto his so painfully I have to release. His other hand goes to the back of my leg, and I know he’s going to pick me up and slam me to the floor.

  My mind races for any maneuver he’s taught me to escape this hold, but I come up with nothing. And then I remember something Duane had taught me when we first started training and we were talking purely practical tips to get away from an attacker.

  There were the obvious ones like ‘knee a man in the nuts’ or ‘slam your fist across the bridge of his nose’.

  But there was one other he taught me, and he said it was guaranteed to make someone release their hold.

  With my right arm free and currently trying to pull his arm off me, I let him go and let it dive in between his legs. Not to the nuts because I don’t want to really hurt him, but rather to the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. I grab a chunk with just a forefinger and the side of my thumb, squeeze tight, and twist as hard as a can. Hairs rip loose, skin is abraded, and Titus screams like a little girl as he releases his hold on me.

  “Goddamn it, Finley,” he growls as he bends over and presses a palm to the area I’d just pinched. “That hurt like a motherfucker.”

  I’d never heard Titus use language like that, and I can’t help but smirk. I’m free, and I won that battle. “I could have gone for your jewels, so be happy I just gave you a little pinch.”

  “Little pinch?” he growls, tenderly rubbing at the spot, but then offers me a nod of admiration. “Okay… I’ll give that to you. Well done.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, dipping into a deep curtsy.

  “Hand-to-hand is over,” he declares, actually limping slightly as he moves to his duffel bag. He roots around and as he does so, I do a quick glance around at the gym Carrick secured in just twenty-four hours. It’s fully equipped, and it was very clearly a working membership gym as it is stuffed with multiple pieces of the same type of equipment. I suspect Carrick just used his considerable wealth to get it. He probably walked in and made a cash offer the owner couldn’t refuse.

  And now, it is all mine to train in.

  Titus rises, having pulled the whip out of his duffel. Carrick said I could continue training with it, and I was more than ready. Before my birthday party, Titus and I worked a solid two weeks, six days a week, and at least two hours a day on my whip skills. It was something that practice absolutely made perfect. I not only had basic strikes down, but I was learning some flourishing moves like figure eights and helicopter whirls.

  Titus presents it to me, the handle laying in his hand palm up. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  As I take the whip, my gaze lifts to meet his. “What’s that?”

  Titus jerks his head to follow him, and he leads me through the main area to a back room that’s about thirty-foot-by-thirty-foot with a wooden floor. It’s completely empty except for four tall items along one wall, which are obscured by black coverings.

  Giving me a mischievous grin, he moves that way and pulls the cloth off the first one. My jaw drops as I see it’s a life-sized and human-shaped target that resembles a crash-test dummy. They’re mounted on wooden posts with a cross base for stability.

  Titus sweeps a hand. “Your enemies.”

  “I can make actual strikes,” I murmur in appreciation. So far, I’ve only been learning how to whirl and crack my whip, which, at most, would keep someone at bay. I’ve never struck anything—except my shoulder and my calf—but now I need to learn timing and distance to make this a weapon of attack.

  “Carrick bought a bunch more of these as he fully anticipates you’ll demolish them, but we’ll start with these four.”

  A rush of elation and a tiny hint of fondness for Carrick makes its way through me, but I quickly push it aside. Grinning eagerly, I nod at the dummy closest to him. “Let’s get started.”

  Laughing, Titus easily moves the first mounted dummy to the middle of the room and then enters a closet I hadn’t noticed. From within it, he pulls out large sandbags to put on the base to hold the entire target upright. I doubt I could even drag one of those bags across the floor by myself, but Titus grabs one in each hand, and he easily carries them as if they were no heavier than jugs of milk.

  After my target is set up, Titus takes some time to explain judging distance in relation to what my goal is. Making a close-enough strike to slice skin is one thing, but I’d need to be closer if I want to use the whip to coil around an arm or a leg.

  I’m instructed. I’m ready. The whip feels right in my hand again.

  Of course, it takes me a good forty minutes before I can even land a solid strike. I’m often too close or too far away, so I’m pouring sweat when I manage to finally take a chunk of plastic off the dummy’s left shoulder.

  “Excellent,” Titus praises, and he orders me to start again.

  Another hour later, I can barely hold my right arm up. Although I refuse to quit, I’m grateful when Titus calls it a day.

  I immediately collapse on the floor to lay on my back, feet planted to get my breath back. The whip handle is still held securely in my hand. Titus rummages through his duffel again, and I turn to watch him. He pulls out a few things I don’t recognize, then brings them over to me.

  When he sits on the floor opposite me, I go ahead and hoist myself up to see what he has.

  “The whip is yours to keep.” This means Carrick is gifting it to me permanently. I’m shocked.

  He hands over an item, and I take it to study. It’s made of brown leather, two simple strips about three inches wide. They interloop with one another and each has a thick button snap that can be released to open one of the loops. One loop is much larger than the other.

  “What is it?” I query.

  “A holster,” he replies. “You can thread the small loop around a waist belt at your hip, then the other around the coiled whip. You just need to make sure you coil it in a way so your handle is situated to easily grab.”

  He picks up the whip I set on the floor, loops it for me, then demonstrates the correct way to secure it so the fall and handle are secured tightly with the leather and the handle is angled in a way for me to easily reach it.

  “You can also wear it cross-body style if you want, but it takes far more time to release it. Remember, seconds can be the difference between life and death. I recommend the hip holster.”

  I nod, eagerly anticipating having my weapon at the ready.

  But then Titus bursts my bubble. “But you can’t walk around Seattle with a whip on your hip for constant protection. I’m afraid it will only do you good going into a known battle.”

  And just like that, I realize I’ve chosen the wrong weapon. I should have just gone with an iron dagger.

  Picking the whip up, I hold the iron handle and rub my thumb along the raised rose carvings. It feels so damn right, like it belongs to me.

  That’s when inspiration strikes. “Wait a minute,” I say as I scramble up from the floor. I dash back into the main workout room, grab my backpack, and return to Titus.

  I plop down opposite him, open the bag, and dump out the contents. I don’t even think about being embarrassed when a tampon rolls out.

  Titus watches as I take the leather holster loops and unsnap the smaller one to release it. I thread it through a carabiner clip on the right side of the bag that sits about level with where the shoulder strap connects to the bottom. After I coil the whip, I slip it inside the top of my backpack and don’t secure the top. Instead, I let the flap lay loosely. I pull the handle out, let it hang down the side, and secure it with the leather holster held by the carabiner.

  Proudly, I hold up my invention to Titus. “I’ll have to get a new backpack, of course. One that has a drawstring opening on top so I can pull the whip out quickly, but this gives me access to the handle and lets me conceal what it is.”

  Titus’ eyebrows rise before he laughs heartily. “That’s brilliant.”

  “Thanks,” I exclaim, feeling accomplished.

  “Another reason you should become an annihilator,” he says in that deep voice that sounds like an earthquake in his chest when he talks.

  I blink in surprise. “Because I can holster a whip to a backpack?”

  “Because you’re sharp-witted and clever,” he replies. “Add your fighting skills, which are coming along very well, and you’d sail through the Academy and the gauntlet.”

  I’m intrigued. “The gauntlet?”

  Titus brings his knees up, plants his feet onto the wooden floor, and leans back on his palms. It causes all the muscles in his arms to ripple and lock tight. “The gauntlet is an incredibly difficult test you have to pass after you graduate from the academy. But with the wits you have, I’m sure you’d ace it.”

  Sighing, I imagine a life on the Semper Terra he described to me before. Tropical waters, green jungles, and the ability to fly.

  Also the duty to learn how to destroy Dark Fae and daemons, and that right there is my hesitation. I don’t know that I have it in me to do that. Titus said that most people who go to the Academy are generational students, following in a family member’s footsteps. They’ve had lifetimes to grow to hate the danger fae and daemons can present. Killing would come much easier to them than me.

  And while yes, I’ve seen a succubus up close and personal, and I know they are killing machines, I’m just not sure how to destroy a life. Maybe it will just come to me when in a situation that calls for it. I’m sure I could do it if it were life-or-death or in defense of someone. But could I go out and hunt one down to kill because I’d been told by some higher-ups in Semper Terra to do so?

  It’s moot, really. I’m a coffee shop owner in Seattle. I have no interest in leaving here.

  Just as I have no interest in being part of a prophecy.

  And so why did you agree to keep training? that little inner voice asks.

  “Tell me what’s going on with you,” Titus says, and it jolts me out of my thoughts.

  My eyes snap to his. “What do you mean?”

  Titus lets his legs stretch out, crossing them at the ankle but still leans back on his palms. He merely cocks an eyebrow.

  “Oh,” I drawl dramatically as if a light bulb had just gone off. “You mean what’s going on with me since I saw my sister become a Dark Fae, had a weird white feather tattoo show up on my leg, and found out I’m part of a prophecy that could ruin the earth?”

  My last few words took on a sarcastic tone that bounced right off Titus. He grins. “Yeah… that.”

  And despite the fact I feel like I want to laugh at the way he’s teasing me, he’s asked me a question where the answers are a heavy burden on my soul. Before I know it, my eyes are filling with tears.

  I don’t bother dashing them away or hiding them. Oddly, I feel so comfortable with Titus that I don’t mind him seeing me cry. Maybe it’s because he knows I’m a tough woman, and, on most occasions, fearless, that I don’t mind letting him see I have vulnerabilities.

  My head hangs as I let the tears just fall down onto my black workout pants.

  Titus’ voice is tender, and it washes over me. “Just let it out, girl.”

  And I do. I take a moment to let these pockets of grief that have been building up inside of me out, purging the heavy emotion with it.

  Titus stands. His tennis shoes squeak as he walks across the wooden floor and out of the room. He’s back in less than a minute, holding a wad of toilet paper he must have pilfered from the bathroom, which he sticks under my hanging head so I can see it.

  “Thanks,” I mutter in a watery voice and use the tissue to sop my eyes and blow my nose.

  When I look back up, Titus is once again sitting across from me with his legs kicked out. The expression on his face is tender, and I’m grateful it’s him and not Carrick who I decided to have a crying jag in front of. I imagine Carrick would look put out and frustrated, but Titus confirms I’m safe with him even if it’s just to have a snotty moment.

  “I’m sorry.” I give a little laugh. “It hits me at odd times.”

  “You just lost your sister four days ago, Finley. I’d cut yourself some slack.”

  I nod. He’s right, and I give myself the grace he suggests. “What’s worse than watching her change into a Dark Fae is not knowing if my sister is still inside or if she’s dead.”

  “Carrick and Zaid have been researching and reaching out to contacts all over the world. They’re trying to find answers as to what happened to Fallon.”

  I blink in surprise. I didn’t know Carrick was going to those lengths as he certainly hadn’t said that just yesterday when he came to the Fantasia. I had assumed he wouldn’t lift a finger to help me find out what happened to Fallon unless I agreed to join Team Prophecy.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “I don’t know what to do, Titus. I don’t want to be a part of this. I want to go back to my normal and dull life. I don’t want to see fae and daemons anymore. I just want to be a coffee shop owner and maybe date a cute, normal guy.”

  Titus’ gaze is sympathetic to my plight. “You’ve got a lot on you, and I can’t even imagine the burden. If it helps, I think your shoulders are strong enough to bear it.”

  “But I don’t want to bear it,” I reiterate.

  “We don’t always get what we want,” he points out.

  I glare. “Well, it’s not fair. Why do I have to be a player in a game I don’t want to play?”

  “Because most likely many people on this planet will die if you don’t,” he suggests.

  “So I’ve been told,” I mutter, then growl in frustration. “I just feel so alone, and I’m scared.”

  Titus shakes his head with an admonishing look, causing the long dreadlocks hanging over his shoulders to sway. “But you’re not alone. You have Carrick and Zaid. You definitely have me.”

  “Carrick can’t stand me, and Zaid hates everyone,” I reply petulantly. “And yes, I have you, but you have a life, too. You’re just here to train me.”

  “I’m your friend, Finley. You can count on me.”

  My lips tip upward in a fragile smile. “Thank you. You can count on me too, but not sure how a wimpy woman like me could help a big, badass annihilator.”

  Titus laughs, white teeth blazing. “I’d definitely have you at my back in a fight, Finley. You’re incredibly good.”

  “Well,” I say as I start shoving all the stuff I had spilled out of my pack back in. “I’m sure my sore muscles tomorrow will disagree with you.”

  “Same time tomorrow?” he queries as he pops to his feet and extends a hand to help me up. When I grab hold, he hoists me to my feet, backpack and all.

  Just as I start to shrug it on, my phone starts ringing inside. My body locks tight as my blood turns cold.

  Titus must sense something because he asks, “What is it?”

  “That’s my sister’s ringtone,” I rasp. It rings again. “She’s calling me.”

  Titus’ eyes flare. “Answer it.”

  “No,” I exclaim in horror.

  “See what she wants,” he urges.

  “Uh-uh,” I reply, shaking my head in denial.

  “Finley,” he drawls in frustration.

  “Titus,” I mimic back.

  The phone stops ringing, and Titus and I merely stare at each other for what must be a solid minute until I hear that little chime that indicates I have a voicemail.