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He'd technically been up all of the Academy's night and had probably only just gotten back.
Ugh. I wouldn't have been so quick to encourage him to help her if I'd known it'd result in this.
"Well," I said hastily. "I guess that means practice is canceled—"
"Be quiet and put these on." She handed me some training mitts. They were similar to boxing
gloves but not as thick and bulky. They shared the same purpose, however: to protect your
hands and keep you from gouging your opponent with your nails.
"We've been working on silver stakes," I said sulkily shoving my hands into the mitts.
"Well, today we're doing this. Come on."
Wishing I'd been hit by a bus on my walk from the dorm today, I followed her out toward the
center of the gym. Her curly hair was pinned up to stay out of the way, revealing the back of
her neck. The skin there was covered in tattoos. The top one was a serpentine line: the promise
mark, given when guardians graduated from academies like St. Vladimir's and agreed to serve.
Below that were the molnija marks awarded each time a guardian killed a Strigoi. They were
shaped like the lightning bolts they took their name from. I couldn't gauge exact numbers, but
let's just say it was a wonder my mom had any neck left to tattoo. She'd wielded a lot of death
in her time.
When she reached the spot she wanted, she turned toward me and adopted an attack stance.
Half expecting her to jump me then and there, I quickly mirrored it.
"What are we doing?" I asked.
"Basic offensive and defensive parrying. Use the red lines."
"That's all?" I asked.
She leapt toward me. I dodged—just barely—and tripped over my own feet in the process.
Hastily, I righted myself.
"Well," she said in a voice that almost sounded sarcastic. "As you seem so keen on reminding
me, I haven't seen you in five years. I have no idea what you can do."