The morning dawned bright and early.

Painfully early, on account of the fact that the tubby tabby, Sir Jacob-Francis, was the one to wake me up. By sitting his furry cat-ass right on my upturned face. It was like being smothered by a Wookie. I shot up with a muffled string of curses on my lips and frantically tried to push the oversized furball off, which earned me a feral growl and a flurry of scratches across my neck and face. Finally, I managed to dislodge the hissing demon before tossing him unceremoniously onto the bed beside me. The cat landed gracefully and immediately flopped onto his side, licking his paws and eyeballing me like I was the bad guy in this whole situation.

Meanwhile, I found Cal leaning up against the wall nearby, damn-near doubled over as he laughed at my misfortune.

“You’re right,” Renholm said from the nightstand, “that was worth the effort.”

“Hey you chuckle fucks, that cat could’ve clawed my goddamned eyes out,” I growled, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

“Don’t be a cry baby,” Cal said, wiping away a tear as he straightened. “You’ve done way worse things to me, and I didn’t have supernatural, Wolverine healing factor either. Remember that time you and Roddey ducked tapped me to the wall after I drank that entire jug of Boone's Farm Watermelon Wine and passed out?”

“Hey man, how could we have known that a possum was going to try and build a nest in your hair?” I asked. “Also, that was partly on you. I told you not to drink all that jug wine like fifteen times. It doesn’t even taste like watermelon.”

“Yeah, because it tastes better than watermelon,” he said. “It’s like eating a delicious, alcoholic Jolly Ranchers—”

“Maybe if a watermelon Jolly Ranchers fell beneath the seat of a gutted El Camino,” I grumbled.

“The point is,” Cal continued, “you’ve done way worse and this was funny. Plus, in my defense, I was super bored. There’s a lot of downtime being a spirit. Also, Renholm is a bad influence on me.”

“If anything,” Renholm offered, “I would say the imbecilic spirit is a shockingly good influence on me. I suggested murdering you and stealing all of your succulent Affinity Scales and he managed to talk me down to the cat thing.”

“God, you’re both the absolute fucking worst,” I muttered under my breath. “Why did you even wake me up?” I eyed my window. “I have like an hour before I’m supposed to be down in the courtyard.”

“Because we found something,” Cal said, nearly bouncing on his toes. “Since you’ve been busy around here, I decided to go snooping with Renholm for clues about the whole murder situation. It was way more interesting than watching to get your ass kicked—although there was a lot more larceny than I expected. I mean, I expected some larceny for sure, but this was next level. And weird. He stole every left shoe he could find and just chucked ’em through a portal. I also watched him pry out some poor schlubs molar and then there was this one guy’s fake eye…”

“One should never leave body parts unattended,” Renholm replied, deadly serious. He flitted over and settled down beside Jacob-Francis. The cat purred and flicked its tail back and forth as the pixie scratched at his ears. “Blood, teeth, hair. Anything tied to the corporeal form can be used by Fae with ill intent to work powerful magics.”

“So what are you gonna do with it?” I asked.

“Well, nothing,” the pixie replied with a shrug. “Like the spirit, I was also bored. Stealing that man’s eyeball was just funny. But I could work powerful magics if I wanted to. I could bewitch his dreams or track him halfway across the face of the world.”

Good to know that Renholm was just as petty and vindictive as ever. With a groan, I headed over to the washbasin and splashed some cold water across my face. “Hows about you get to the part where you tell me why I should care about any of this,” I said, before toweling off the moisture. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got shit to do.”

“Akser Erdemir,” Cal said with a proud grin.

“Should that mean something to me?” I asked.

“It’s the name of one of the murder victims,” Cal replied. “Akser Erdemir was the merchant they found dead, but it turns out he wasn’t strictly a merchant at all. What he sold wasn’t of the material variety.”

“Meaning?”

“He was an information broker, dude,” Cal said. “The guy traded in secrets. The whole merchant thing was a cover.”

Hmm. Now that was interesting. One of the other victims was a political advisor to the King. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were somehow connected.

“Any chance this guy was some kind of covert agent working for the crown?” I asked on a hunch. If so, maybe there was a political bent to these killings.

“Not likely,” Renholm replied drily. “My steed and I were also able to track the man’s Fate back to a slum in the Sprawl, which is the dank, ramshackle, filth-encrusted den of human misery located outside the city proper.” The pixie materialized an intricate golden ring that looked like a coiled serpent with a pair of tiny, ruby eyes. “Before his death, he frequented what appeared to be an unmarked flop house.”

“But it’s not,” Cal said excitedly. “The place is crawling with lookouts and all of them have rings just like that one.”

“Did you get a look inside?” I asked while manifesting my armor with a swirl of silvery smoke.

“Tried and failed,” Cal said with a shake of his head. “That was the other red flag. This flop house? Looks like a bag of ass on the outside but it has spirit sigils all over the place, just like Arturo’s chapel. I don’t know what the hell that place is, but it’s warded to the gills and I’m positive there’s some shady shit going down inside.”

“Cat-ass aside, good work you two.” I pulled out a pair of Glamor scales from my coin pouch and flicked one to each of them. “I’m pretty sure Niels will break my legs if I miss training. You too can hang out here if you want. Just keep a low profile and please avoid stealing anything from any of the Vigils while I’m gone. If I hear about an eyeball or a boot turning up missing, I’m gonna lose my shit. Tonight, we’ll head over to the Sprawl and start kicking over rocks—see what comes scuttling out.”

***

I left the pair of them behind and shut the door tight, engaging the warded lock while muttering a silent prayer that they would behave themselves and not actively set anything on fire.

With Cal and Renholm present, it was a complete coin toss.

I grabbed a quick bite to eat at the mess hall—just a couple of hardboiled eggs and some goopy bland oatmeal—then headed over to the training yard. By the time I got there, the faintest edge of sunlight was starting to peek its face above the horizon. Vigils-to-be were milling about near the fountain of Raguel while the last few students trickled in like a leaky faucet. Naturally, Niels was already waiting, beef-slab arms folded across his barrel chest. There was no sign of Kerra, which wasn’t unexpected, but I found myself a little sad. She was annoying, overbearing, and had an asshole that was puckered up tighter than a snare drum, but she was starting to grow on me.

We waited for a few minutes more before Niels called us to attention with his booming voice.

“Today is training rotation day four,” he said without any preamble. Cohort One, you’ve got conditioning, and don’t be slacking off just because Justiciar Kerra is absent this morning.” He paused and stared at a young man with a mop of red hair. “I’m looking at you, Jansen.” The young man squirmed under Niels’s unwavering gaze. “Cohort Two”—Niels glanced at a group of younger Vigils somewhere between ten and twelve—“Section Overseer Blackmore will run you through the agility course. I don’t want you rushing things. Speed will come in time. What is it we always say?”

“Slow is smooth, smooth is fast,” came an echoing reply from every mouth in the courtyard.

I felt a moment of shock, because that was a saying I’d had drilled into my head a thousand times before. I could picture Drill Instructor Screw Y’All on a knee beside me as I snapped in, my rifled pressed firmly into my shoulder pocket, my cheek plastered against the buttstock. “Don’t rush it,” he would snarl. “Remember, one shot, one kill. Make it count. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”

“Cohort Three, you’re working hand-to-hand,” Niels continued, drawing me from my memories. “Overseer Neira will be reviewing Lyvaski ground fighting techniques since I know several of you have been struggling with the take downs and counters. Pay particular attention to the leg locks. Don’t want to see any torn ligaments. Fourth and Fifth, you’ll be switching between the range and the melee weapons. Work in half-hour intervals—and I want to see good fundamentals out there. No shoddy footwork and keep your weapons in guard, eh? We all remember what happened last time.”

There was a good-hearted chuckle that trickled through the crowd.

“Vigil Boyd, you’re with me.” He hopped down from the fountain and waved for me to follow him. We zigged and zagged between groups of Vigils rushing to their various training stations. There were already several students practicing with melee weapons, but they quickly made space for us. I was in no way surprised to see that Niels had a pair of Suppression Manacles waiting for me. I felt a little better when he snapped a pair around his own thick wrists as well, wincing a little when the spikes sank down into his flesh.

“I know it is unpleasant,” he said, “but I have learned over the years that it is best to train without the use of enhancements. Strength, speed, power, all can be used to gloss over a lack of solid fundamentals. Enhancements are like a coat of polish: they make everything look better, shinier. But all the polish in the world will not improve a sword forged with flawed metal.”

I couldn’t disagree with his assessment even if the manacles were a pain in the ass, or wrists in this case. I snapped them on and felt power and life drain out of me.

“Very good. Before we can begin your weapon training, I need to see your unarmed combat. So…” he trailed off and smiled. “Have at me.”

I grinned and a small flash of excitement rushed through me. I didn’t know jack shit about how to fight with a sword or the best way to use a mace—other than to clobber the shit out of someone with it—but I knew how to brawl. Everything I’d learned prior to the Marine Corps came straight from the street of hard knocks. I’d been a fighter since the day I could walk, and I’ve always had a big goddamned mouth. So needless to say, I fought a lot as a kid.

I’d worked my way through the Marine Corps Martial Arts program, earning a black belt in the program, but I’d learned the most while sparring and fighting with other Marines. Corporeal Holmes had studied Mui Thai for years before enlisting. Staff Sergeant Eddy Lamb had a black belt in Brazilian Jujutsu and had been a wrestling state champion three years running in high school. Sergeant Murphy, with EOD, could throw your ass through a brick wall using Judo, and Lance Corporeal Palmer—a Motor T Operator by MOS—was a golden gloves amateur boxer that hit like an angry gorilla.

Though I didn’t have years of formal training, I had years and years of personal lessons from all of them. My fighting style was a Frankenstein monster of all the best pieces from all of those martial arts. I was tall, lanky, and fast, so I preferred to keep things on my feet if I could. Quick jabs and powerful kicks to maintain distance. If we ended up in a clench though, I was more than happy to throw knees and elbows until the cows came home and I could put a sumabitch on the floor with a quickness if I needed to.

If I had a weakness, it was definitely my ground game. I knew my way around a good triangle choke and could apply arm bars and leg locks without much trouble. But against someone like Staff Sergeant Eddy Lamb, who lived and breathed ground fighting, I wouldn’t last long unless I could land a couple of solid elbow strikes and get back to my feet.

I'd done this a thousand times before and didn’t shy away from the challenge.

I came in aggressive, aiming to control the fight. Then I reverted to what I knew so well. Niels was powerfully built, but without his preternaturally enhanced abilities, I was faster and I had a significant reach advantage. I threw jabs and crosses alongside big Mui Thai style shin-kicks aimed at his thighs. He bobbed and weaved, dancing away when he could and absorbing blows when he couldn’t.

He was exploring, I knew. Trying to get a sense of me.

After a few seconds, he shot in fast and low, going for my legs.

He caught a knee to the chin for the trouble and while he was reeling from the blow, I switched things up. I darted in, grabbed his arms, and pivoted sharply, dragging him across my hips in a brutal O Goshi judo throw. He landed hard but used his momentum and upper body strength to drag me down on top of him. Not ideal, but I’d manage. I immediately sprawled out, then snaked his arm. Before he could recover from the force of the fall, I pushed up with my hips, swept my leg around his head and turned, dropping onto my back with the arm bar already locked in place. He tapped a moment later and I released the hold and quickly gained my feet.

I wiped a little sheen of sweat from my face and noticed that the Vigil all around the practice yard and stopped doing… pretty much everything. A few were still pretending to drill, but most were stealing unbelieving glances in our direction.