Isle of Night

I swallowed hard. “I’m not a liar.”



“I had to make certain.” He gave me a courtly nod, as if granting me a point in a chess match. “Now tell me of this note you found. No”—he stopped me with an upraised hand—“I think I shall tell you. For I know more of it than you do.”



My belly turned to ice. Had Yasuo been found out? Was he in trouble? “How do you know about the note?”



He shook his head in mock sympathy. “Poor, sad Acari. I will always know more than you do.”



He studied me, and I wanted to squirm under his gaze. “Though you like that, I think. You’ve always dreamt of being instructed by one who knows more than you. It’s why I wanted you. You relish learning—you’re amused by the not knowing. You are seduced by it. Ever desirous of those moments your curiosity is finally gratified.”



He made it sound like a sexual thing, and my heart thudded in response. I became aware of his arm pressed against mine. What was happening? I felt out of control. I was drawn to him against my will. Because I didn’t want him. Did I?



“Your note isn’t from young Yasuo. Though I have been watching him. Just what is it about that child that appeals to you?” He tilted his head in brief, almost aggravated, speculation.



“What do you mean?” I asked warily.



Master Alcántara inhaled sharply, visibly shoving thoughts from his mind. “Your note is from Lilac. Yes, she laid a trap for you.”



Fury flared, roiling like acid in my belly. It made sense now. Of course it’d been Lilac. She’d had someone plant that note.



But then I felt cool relief quick on its heels prickling through me, loosening muscles I hadn’t known I’d tensed. “So Yasuo is safe?”



“You are fascinating to me, cariño. To endanger your life, to risk a prize I know you covet . . .” His look implied I might yearn for something—or someone—more than just the Directorate Award. “That you’d jeopardize it all, and for someone you met mere months ago.”



“Yasuo is my friend. I thought he was in trouble.”



He stared as though I were a particularly entrancing specimen of butterfly. “I value loyalty. And it is why you won’t die tonight. Any other girl caught as you have been would be made an example. But I find I want to spare you.”



He stroked my hair, easing closer. I became utterly still, thinking for a moment that he might kiss me. I held my breath. Did I want him to kiss me? I didn’t think I did. But still my eyes kept returning to those perfect lips.



Absurd notions flooded my head. Did vampires even kiss? Did they simply bite? Did Master Alcántara have fangs, and how is it I’d never seen them? Would his mouth be soft or hard? I felt my cheeks flame red, fearing he could read my every thought, but I couldn’t stop my mind from its musings.



He licked his lips. As though in answer to my unasked questions, they parted suggestively, flashing a glimmer of fang.



“Don’t be mistaken, querida.” His whispered words held me in thrall. But this time I was unable to push back, unable to look away. He grazed a thumb lightly over my lower lip. “My mercy has a price. But I’ve decided you shall owe me.”



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO



I’ve decided you shall owe me.



The words replayed in my head as I adjusted my sparring uniform, securing the black wraparound top into a snug knot at my waist. They’d haunted me all night, echoing in my dreams. They repeated over and over as I pulled my hair into one long braid down my back. As I tugged on the metal mesh face guard and gauntlets.



Watcher Priti had announced that today’s class would be spent practicing for our final combat tournament. Today’s weapon would be a Celtic short sword, with an additional dagger strapped to each student’s calf.



I did a few squats, making sure everything was in place. I generally felt good about my sword work, but Master Alcántara’s words distracted me, and that was bad.



I’ve decided you shall owe me.



Owe him what? I knew enough about vampires by now to surmise that couldn’t be good.



And then there’d been our weird conversation. His declarations had been almost intimate—that he’d sought me, that he’d chosen me. I’d found him mesmerizing. But creepy, too. The guy was technically dead, and yet he’d touched me like we were on some kind of date. Stroking my hair, cupping my cheek, rubbing his thumb along my lip. I shivered.



“You scared, Charity?”



Lilac. All day, I’d been trying to ignore the feel of her eyes boring into my back. Heaving a sigh, I faced her. “Of you? Hardly.”



She was silent. If Master Alcántara hadn’t told me already, the look on her face would’ve spilled the truth. She’d been giving me the same suspicious glare since we’d woken up.



She was shocked to see me alive.



She’d been the one to lay the trap. She’d convinced me Yasuo’s life was in danger, knowing that leaving our dorm at midnight would mean almost-certain death.



It was time to show von Slutling she was messing with the wrong girl. I plopped next to her as we all gathered on the bleachers. “I hope I didn’t wake you when I got in last night.”



I nonchalantly tightened the empty scabbard at my calf. “And don’t even think about tattling like you did with the iPod. There’s no way you can prove I went out after curfew.” I gave her my most sparkling smile. “You wouldn’t believe what goes on at those standing stones at night.”



Her shocked, gaping stare almost made my unsettling interlude with Master Alcántara worthwhile.



“It’s time, Acari.” Watcher Priti called us to attention. She went to the sparring ring and leaned a small chalkboard alongside. “Find your name listed among the pairs of challengers. You should already be familiar with our combat-sparring rules.”



She was right—I had them memorized. The Rules of Combat:1. Half point given for generalized contact above or below waist.



2. Full point given for “critical points” contact (eyes, groin, etc.).



3. A match lasts five minutes or until five points are accrued.



4. Knockout blow is an instant win.



5. Full-body throw executed in the first ten seconds is an instant win.



6. Only time elapsed, points earned, instant win, or unconsciousness may stop a challenge once begun.



I scanned the board and found my name three lines down. Drew vs. Claire. It was the pretty Idaho girl who, with Stefinne, had been the only other Acari to survive her group’s night hike.



She glared at me.



Great. My buddy Claire. She’d had me in her sights—and had been Lilac’s bosom buddy—ever since that night.



Two students were stationed at the weapons locker, handing out our short swords and daggers. We didn’t get the real thing for sparring. Instead, we were issued special blades that had the heft of real steel but with blunted edges.



Girls clustered in a circle in front of the locker. The humming sound of their whispers reminded me of a swarm of bees. Lilac stood at the center, the tall and leggy queen of them all. She caught my eye. “Good luck,” she told me brightly.



I gave her a wary nod. Her words had come out too friendly, and it worried me. I wondered what she had up her sleeve.



But I didn’t have time to give it much thought, because the matches began soon thereafter. The first two challenges went quickly, neither lasting the full allotted time. The first winner finished with five points to three, in an impressive two minutes of combat. The second scored a knockout blow to the back of her competitor’s skull in the first minute. For a moment, I’d thought Priti might need to call for the Tracers, but the girl shook it off and staggered from the ring.



It was a shock seeing girls go at one another so brutally. But in our sparring, no body part was off-limits. In fact, contact with sensitive anatomy—kidneys, head, kneecap, groin—earned higher points. Priti told us, as I’d been told so many times already, that this was because there were no handicaps in the real world. Real opponents would aim precisely for something like our eyes, and so we needed to prepare accordingly.



“Acari Drew versus Acari Claire,” Priti announced, calling us to the mat.



I climbed into the ring, bobbing on my feet, shaking out my hands, rolling my shoulders. I’d secured my sparring dagger at my left calf, and held my short sword in my right hand, swishing it, testing its weight with diagonal slices.



Idaho Claire stood in the other corner. She had a few inches on me, and some wiry, nature-girl muscles, but my small size made me fast, and I felt pretty good.



Watcher Priti struck the gong and the tournament clock reset, its numbers blinking to 5:00 for the challenge countdown. She struck the gong again, and we met in the center of the ring.



Claire hopped from foot to foot like a monkey, but I concentrated on the feel of the mat beneath me, repeating Priti’s mantra in my head. I am roots in the earth. I am water that flows. I am grounded. I am Watcher.



She sprang at me and I dodged her easily, imagining myself as a tree swaying in the wind. I am roots in the earth, I thought, marveling that I did feel grounded. My posture stable and steady.



I extended my weapon, and she came at me again, our swords meeting with a loud metal clang. The impact resonated up my arm, but I gave it no thought. I concentrated on my connection to the mat. I was unshakable, unflappable.



The key to successful combat was simplicity. A true fighter frowned on showy flourishes, avoiding elaborate footwork and unnecessary displays.



Mindful of this, I shuffled forward, my sword waving before me just enough that I could maintain a visceral feel for its weight, its length. I’d yet to attempt my first strike, and it made Claire overconfident. She couldn’t resist the flourishes and showed off with a quick feinting attack that I easily parried.



It was a foolish move. A short sword seemed light at first, until you were forced to extend it for any length of time. I read the strain of her efforts in the pinch of her brow, in the way she held her right shoulder.



With a rapid step-step, I was in Claire’s space. I slammed my sword into hers, sliding up the steel and catching her hilt with the tip of my blade. With a deft twirl, my blade wrenched her sword loose. It flew from her hands, over the ropes, clattering onto the gym floor.