Dust

XVI

"If this a good thing, why do I feel horrible?"

The next morning, Damien, Gael, and I are at the headquarters' training branch, in the arena where Sloane and I instruct the kids. No one is supposed to be here for training until noon today, and Dame and I don't have a mission until the afternoon. So, so far, the day has been slow. Elliott and Jeremiah have been locked up until their trials, Sloane is trying to run things despite her family situation, and now Gael is sharing his worries like a scared preteen girl—not that I'm saying anything.

Damien spins a throwing knife in his spindly fingers, standing in the center of the headquarter's arena. This one, admittedly, is better quality than the one in my basement; the supplies and weapons are new and shiny, targets are replaced each week, and the dummies are kept patched and cleaned. The floors are of polished ebony concrete, the walls soundproof and strewn with informational posters.

Throwing his arm back, Damien lets the knife fly, and it lands squarely in the bullseye of a colorful target at the back of the room. Dusting off his hands, he turns toward Gael and I; the two of us are standing near the arena's wall of weapons as I adjust a pistol someone has misplaced. "You should feel horrible," Damien says.

Done with the pistol, I whirl towards Damien. "If that's your idea of making him feel better—"

"He asked a question," says Damien, coming towards us and reaching over my head to retrieve another throwing knife. "I answered it."

"Not quite," Gael contradicts. He folds his arms, bones moving beneath the caramel color of his skin. "Why should I feel horrible?"

"Because this, being here all the time, gives people the chance to figure you out," Dame elaborates. This time, his eyes lock on the half-body of a dummy, beside the target he just hit. With little effort he throws the blade in his fingers, and it lands right in between the dummy's unpainted eyes. This is, I'm assuming, right where he wanted it to land.

Gael snorts. "As if they don't have a chance already."

"I'm saying the chance is increased," Damien tells Gael. Instead of walking over to retrieve his thrown knives—which are a short amount of steps away—he simply appears at his targets, vanishing from in front of us and leaving Gael as wide-eyed as he always is. As Gael tries to shake it off as if he's not stunned, Damien pulls his throwing knives free. "Being a hunter is a major cause for injury, and if one person sees that you don't heal like a healer should..." Damien shrugs, then appears suddenly behind Gael, leaving nothing but tendrils of black mist that soon settle into nothing. Gael jumps, exhaling in audible unease as Damien, from behind him, presses one of his beloved knives to Gael's throat.

I reach out to stop this madness before Damien's joke goes wrong, but Damien just chuckles as he finishes his past sentence with a whispered, "You're dead, my friend." He then withdraws his knife without me having to ask, and replaces both it and his second on the weapons wall.

"Enough of that," I say. "You'll be fine, Gael. No one will figure you out; you can stay in Maris as long as you want to."

Gael smiles at me like he means it, moving away from Damien, who only laughs because he knows Gael is afraid of him. It may be weeks since Gael first arrived in Maris and met Damien, but everyone knows he still fears him. "Thank you, Gem," he says, and I return his grin.

Damien, beside me, goes still.

All is still, in fact, until a knock sounds on the entrance to the arena. Our trio looks up to find Sloane in the doorway, clothed in a formfitting violet dress; though everyone knows Sloane hates being dressy, it's what is required when working in the office. She is much more comfortable in the protective gear worn when hunting and training, but has to meet what her job—all aspects of it—demands of her.