Heaven Sent

Chapter Eight

Cassandra

My weightless body hits the mat, the unpleasant sound of the impact reverberating off of the thin walls, an indicator of strenuous combat. After a difficult morning, it's almost a release to revisit the simplicities of training, especially when Paris is the teacher.

He is all form, determined to remind me of sequences and uniformly precise techniques to take down someone stronger than me. Elijah is more lenient as a mentor, relying on instinct rather than study. It's comforting to know I haven't lost everything I learned, that I can still keep up with him... sort of.

My bones vibrate against the padding, and judging by how badly my poor human body aches, I know it's only a matter of time before Elijah bursts through the door, having also taken the beating himself.

"You're definitely not holding back," I gasp, pulling myself up.

"Will the opponent hold back?"

Before I'm even on my feet, he's caught me off guard, going for the strike. I catch his fist with my forearm, too weak to completely hold him at bay. I'm just strong enough to shove the blow in another direction, quickly skipping to the side. There's no time to catch my breath, not with a vampire on my tail.

He captures me from behind. My feet leave the ground.

Damien, whose watching from the sideline with an encouraging grin, calls out a demand to me. "Silver!"

I throw my hand back as best I can, pausing before impact. Immediately Paris swings me around, moving quick to make it known how inescapable it is to face a vampire. I take blows and land them.

For Paris, my marks leave no dent. I, however, taste blood.

I scramble up, sensing defeat, unable to withstand anymore. "Okay, I give up."

Paris half-laughs, determined to strike me with a bit of reality.

Giving up is not an option.

I push his advance, ducking his charge, only to be caught from another angle and dropped to the mat.

"Come, Cassandra! You used to do this without an issue!"

I hack up blood, struggling to rise. He's pushing me, knowing the disappointment ringing through in his voice will stir up my own temper. I fight fatigue, rushing on him. He blocks my knuckles, where silver would be strapped.

"Paris... maybe you should take it easy," Damien suggests hesitantly, but aggression doesn't settle between us. Paris lands a swipe, only because I'm deterred by a shift in my senses, recognizing another presence amongst us. On my knees, gasping, I wipe my mouth, glancing over to the entrance of the room.

Elijah is leaning into the doorframe, withholding any qualms he may have about the state of my appearance. Part of me, knowing he's watching, jumps into overdrive, needing to impress him.

It may hurt. It may leave it's mark, but I am resolved.

He needs to know I can defend myself.

I leap up, past my weary bones, meeting Paris in attack. He is silent, stealthy while I am choking, grunting, wincing at the difficulties of the fight.

"Fucking beat him!" Damien encourages from the sidelines, my own personal cheerleader.

"That's enough," Elijah says, not needing to shout. He knows we can all hear him, are abnormally attuned to him. Paris begins to retreat from me at his master's command, but I am undeterred.