It was snowing in the living room. Last week, the curtains had caught on fire. And the week before that, a minor tornado had besieged the sofas and armchairs.
That’s what it meant to have a ten-year-old angel-in-training in the family.
I waved my hand to dissolve the snowflakes turning the living room into a winter wonderland. “Let’s try this again,” I said to my son Nero.
I aimed a punch at his chest. Nero grabbed my arm and stepped out of the way, using my momentum to push me down. I’d been teaching him ways to use his opponent’s power against them, since he did not yet have any magic to speak of.
“Good,” I told him, rising from the wooden floor.
I really needed to talk to Damiel about putting down a few training mats in his living room. It didn’t hurt too much when I hit the floor—but it wasn’t pleasant either.
My father, the archangel General Silverstar, who’d trained me to be an angel since I could walk, would have denounced the use of mats. He was a firm proponent of the what-doesn’t-kill-you-only-makes-you-stronger philosophy. And of the hardship-builds-character mantra. And the you-won’t-make-him-an-angel-by-coddling-him school of thought. That last one was a direct quote.
“Next exercise,” I told Nero.
This time when he grabbed my striking arm, he twisted it behind me as he stepped aside. Unfortunately for him, I was far stronger than he was. I flipped and spun around. And he hit the ground.
“Again,” I said, though I hardly needed to.
Nero had already pushed himself off the floor, ready to try once more. He always got up again. He might not have any magic yet, but he had the willpower of a fully-initiated soldier in the Legion of Angels. And that was the most important part of surviving the gods’ Nectar: having willpower to spare.
Nero went through the same move again—and fell even harder this time.
“List the categories of Sea magic spells,” I said as we repeated the exercise.
He hit the floor again, but I knew he was learning from every failure, just as he improved with every victory.
“Steam, rain, hail, and snow,” he answered my question.
Even as I trained his body, I quizzed his mind. An angel had to be smart, as well as strong.
“And the five types of snow?” I asked, striking.
He twisted, I spun, and he fell.
Nero jumped up. “Powder, crud, crust, slush, and ice.”
I met the devious spark in his green eyes. “The snow classifications in magic, not skiing, smartypants.”
“Frost, flurries, snowstorm, snow burst, and blizzard,” he rattled off, completely unabashed. And his eyes still shone with mischief.
“Your opponent attacks you with an ice spell. What do you do?” I asked him.
“Shatter the ice with a psychic punch.”
“And if you’re only a level four soldier?”
“I cast a fire shield.”
“And using only vampire powers?”
“I use my strength to smash through the ice.”
“With Witch’s Cauldron?”
“An Ice Eater potion.”
“Siren’s Song?”
He hesitated a moment, his brows drawing together. “I compel my opponent to jump in front of his own ice spell.”
I nearly laughed. “New scenario. Your opponent uses his earth elemental magic to grow an unfriendly tree out of the ground. The tree attacks you. What do you do?”
“I use my elemental water magic to evaporate the moisture from the tree, then I use my fire magic to set the dried-out tree on fire.”
His answers were spot on, but he was having less luck with the physical exercise. He hadn’t managed to pull off the move yet. I was too strong.
“Giving up?” I asked as he stood there, a contemplative look on his face.
“No.”
I was about to attack him again, but he didn’t wait for me this time. Powering forward with all his weight, he slammed his head into my chest. I was so surprised by his maneuver that he managed to bowl me over.
I looked up at my son in shock.
Laughter filtered into the living room from the open kitchen door. Damiel stood in the doorway, his ocean-blue eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
“I don’t need to ask where Nero learned that move,” I said drily to my husband of twenty years.
Damiel also trained our son, but his methodology was decidedly different than my own. His sessions resembled street fighting more than preparatory schooling for the Legion of Angels.
“The enemy doesn’t always stand in orderly lines, Cadence, waiting for a handshake,” replied Damiel. “The universe is a dark and dirty place, full of miscreants. And you can’t always assume you’re going to be the strongest person in the room—or on the battlefield, for that