Black Magic

Chapter Five

The following evening, I head for the mostly-unused gym where Sixten is apparently teaching his optional self-defence classes. They're every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night at eight PM, according to the posting in the administrative building.

As it's already 8:15, the hallway outside of the gym is completely empty. I push open the gym door only to be greeted immediately by a few dozen witches practicing very basic self-defence—techniques Raj and Kerani taught me years ago, before I was even in middle school. I slip inside as quietly and discreetly as I can, heading for one of the benches lining the wall nearest the door.

As I sit, my eyes immediately catch on Sixten. There's something so . . . demanding about his presence. He strides through the room, making small comments, correcting stances, and I can't help but stare at him. Even just walking, he commands attention. It's something about his height, something about the way he carries himself.

Apparently the other witches think so too. Some of them are genuinely trying, pushing themselves to learn what he's teaching. But the others—they're giggling amongst themselves, glancing at Sixten with fluttering eyelashes, and their flippancy makes my toes curl. They have no idea, they still think it's all some game, that there's nothing dangerous waiting for them. They're here to flirt and ogle. Hot anger pools in my chest. Our world is dangerous, especially for a witch, stuck on the bottom of the ladder with the shifters.

Sixten says something to one of the giggling groups of girls, correcting the positions of their arms, instructing them to widen their stances. They barely even try. It almost feels like a personal insult.

My nails scrape on the bench and Sixten glances my way, silvery eyes meeting mine across the room. He stares for a moment, cocking his head slightly, focused and intent. Neither of us look away until someone calls for his attention.

I stay seated on the bench throughout the entire hour and a half, tracing along the lines painted on the floor with the toe of my running shoes. Sixten moves like a natural predator, clearly trained to fight and fight well—but everything he's teaching these witches is something I've known for years. It's nothing but basics.

When the hour and a half runs up Sixten instructs everyone to pack up and head out. He's no-nonsense, all action and no fluff, no empty compliments as everyone leaves. I stay seated as everyone files out. Sixten tightens the bun sitting at the nape of his neck, tucking loose strands of long, black hair back into it, and neither of us says anything until the last witch has cleared out.

"Miss Nightingale," Sixten says as greeting once the door has drifted shut. His voice rings out clearly over the silence of the gym. "You're wearing workout clothing." He narrows his eyes at me, considering. "Yet you didn't participate."

I glance down at myself, fiddling with the bottom of my zip-up. "It wouldn't really help much." In one smooth motion I stand up. "Do you have any other classes? Anything more difficult?" It's clear that Sixten knows how to fight, but I won't gain anything from relearning moves I had drilled into my head years ago.

Something I can't name flashes in his eyes. "You have self-defence experience?"

Witches knowing how to fight is unusual. It makes me wonder why Sixten is even teaching this course. "I have a couple of shifter friends who taught me," I say instead of asking, watching as Sixten approaches slowly, long legs striding easily across the floor. "I've already learned everything you're teaching everyone else."

For a long moment, Sixten only stares at me. He's almost frighteningly pretty, a monster made to be beautiful to lure in prey, but there's a brightness in his eyes I've never seen in any full vampire. Nonetheless, being the full subject of his attention is nerve-wracking.