back the canteen. “I want to go on the next mission.”
“How long have you been here? About three weeks?”
“Five. I’m ready.”
“That’s up to your instructors, and you have three more weeks to meet the minimal eight.”
“I’m ready,” Marichu repeated and walked away to stretch.
Fallon waited for Travis, waited until he’d seen the last man over the course, ordered his squad to hit the showers before the next round—tactics, the classroom session their father taught today.
“Marichu,” she said.
Travis nodded, guzzled water. Lanky, his hair sun-streaked, and lately sporting a trio of thin braids on the left side, he glanced toward Marichu as she headed for the barracks with the others.
“Strong, smart, and freaking fast. Damn near elf fast. Well, a slow elf.”
“But she’s not an elf, right? Faerie.”
“Yeah. She’s the one who escaped the PWs before they got her to one of their compounds—but not before they’d raped her, knocked her around, and busted one of her wings beyond repair.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“She was in pretty bad shape when we stumbled on her—heading here, she said. That was me, Flynn, Eddie, and Starr. Fever from infection, half-starved, still hurting bad. Still, she had a stick she’d sharpened like a spear, and would’ve jabbed the shit out of us if she could before we convinced her we were the good guys.”
“I wasn’t here when you brought her in. The healers tried to fix her wing. Mom tried.”
“Couldn’t. Too much damage, too much time between the break and when we got her back. Rough for her, but I gotta say, she’s compensated. She’s good with the bow—not great, but she could be. Sloppy with a sword yet, but … She’s got speed, endurance, agility—nobody in her group comes close.”
“Thoughts, feelings?”
He blew out a breath. He’d been raised not to poke into people’s private thoughts—not that he hadn’t done so now and then. Now, since Petra had infiltrated and attacked, it was part of his job.
“She’s good at blocking out the poke, I gotta say. But I get she’s pissed, more determined, but pissed, too. She wants to fight. She likes learning to ride, wants to learn to drive. It’s normal stuff, Fallon. No underbelly there, I can feel. Oh, and she’s figured out Colin’s got a thing for her.”
“What?”
“He keeps it to himself, because she’s kind of young, and a recruit. But he’s got a little thing there. I didn’t poke in—I could see it. Anyway.”
“Anyway,” she echoed for lack of anything else. “How many are ready for a mission?”
“You should ask Dad.”
“I will. And Poe and Tonia and Colin and all of the instructors. Now I’m asking you.”
He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets as he chewed it over, bite by bite. The fact he’d think carefully was the very reason she’d asked him first.
“Four, maybe five. Anson, Jingle, Quint, Lorimar—and maybe Yip. NM”—non-magickal—“elf, witch, NM, and shifter. In that order.”
“Okay, thanks. See you later.”
She moved over to where Tonia’s archery group rotated out.
Duncan’s twin—and it was impossible to look at her and not see him even though Tonia’s features were more delicate, her eyes a summer blue instead of a forest green. The humidity had her hair curling wildly as if it fought to free itself from the restricting band.
She nocked an arrow, let it fly. And hit the straw-man target heart center.
“How’s it going?”
Tonia nocked another arrow. “Not too bad. I’ve got one or two in the batch I just finished with who probably won’t shoot an arrow or bolt into their own foot.”
“Do you work with Marichu?”
“Sure. She’s got potential, and I’m thinking of switching her to a crossbow. She’s got the strength, and I think she’d work better with a crossbow than a compound. She tends to drop her left shoulder—and that’s probably from the damaged left wing. We’re working on it.”
She shot a third arrow. The second had pierced the straw head between the eyes. The third went straight through the groin.
“No straw babies for you,” Tonia said, and smiled. “Music in the gardens tonight. How about we hang?” Before Fallon could answer, Tonia laid a hand on her arm. “We reclaimed it, Fallon. We won’t let Petra or her bitch of a mother take it from us. You said it yourself.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Petra, she thought, her cousin, daughter of her birth father’s brother—and murderer. Blood of her blood.
She pushed it back. “I did,” she repeated. “We won’t.”
“But you hardly ever come. Plus, there’s a guy I’m looking over. You could give me your take.”