Crossroads (Crossroads Academy #1) (6 page)

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“So much for enjoying the quiet life,” I
sigh, shutting off my favorite iTunes playlist, which includes my
new band of choice, Vs. the Earth. Apparently solitude sucks when
you’re trapped in a 20 x 20 dorm room. I decide to take a walk and
finish exploring the grounds before dinner. I’ve already exhausted
the options within my room and have successfully rummaged through
all of the drawers and cabinets to get a lay of the land. I’ve also
discovered that Crossroads has some sort of housekeeping staff. The
bed I left a twisted mess this morning is now perfectly made, and
the wet towel I threw carelessly on the bathroom floor has been
collected and no doubt whisked away for washing. I’ll have to be
more considerate in the future, I think. I left the room a mess
this morning in my haste to get to class.

Might as well see what else Aldo has in
store. I pull the key ring Anya gave me yesterday from my shoulder
bag and decide to check out the garage. The key ring has a tag
indicating the vehicles’ position in the garage. It’s the same as
my room number so it will be easy to remember and even easier to
find. As I stare at the key, I have a pretty good idea of what I
can expect to find, and I’m not disappointed when I arrive.

The garage is a cavernous gray metal building
that was designed to be functional rather than aesthetically
pleasing. The exterior has none of the charm of the main building.
I enter through the front door and flip on the lights. I’m greeted
by rows and rows of cars, most of them luxury models. No surprise
there. The air reeks of motor oil and rubber although the cement
floors are spotless, save for the yellow traffic signals painted on
them. Using the overhead signs for guidance, I locate spot 139 and
give a low whistle when I see the vehicle occupying the slot. It’s
beyond wicked!

The car is a black Audi TTS Coupe, and it’s a
thing of beauty. A quick inspection reveals deeply tinted windows
and a 5-speed transmission. After disabling the alarm and sliding
into the supple leather drivers’ seat, I decide it’s best to think
of the car as a loaner. Never in a million years did I think I’d
ever own a car like this, and it’s less overwhelming to think of it
as borrowed. I slip the key into the ignition and can’t help but
smile as the car roars to life. I’d love to take it for a spin, but
first I’d better check the rules for leaving campus with Anya.
While I know I have privileges, I’m certain they come with strings.
Doesn’t everything?

I turn on the radio and begin to deftly
search for alternative stations. The car’s even got satellite
radio, which I figure is probably a lifesaver being this far from
civilization. There probably aren’t a lot of great stations out
here in the mountains.

After programming my favorites I shut the car
off and drag myself back to the real world. I’m drawn to the
vehicle like a moth to a flame and find myself caressing the hood
gently, compelled to run my hands over it one more time before I
go. I’ve always loved the freedom of an open road, and this car is
meant for driving. At least now I’ve got something to look forward
to other than homework.

Next stop on my tour de Crossroads are the
stables. According to my map it’s not far from the garages, and a
glance at my watch tells me that I can probably afford to do a bit
more investigating before dinner. I’d read that the campus has an
impressive fleet of horses, but I’ve never really been around
equine before and don’t know much about riding. Perhaps this will
be another challenge to fill my hours here at Crossroads.

I follow the stone path from the garage to
the stables and again find myself admiring the beauty of the
campus. The vegetation here is more natural than that along the
driveway, and there are no roses to be found. Thick evergreen trees
provide lush cover for the campus, and I’m enveloped in the scents
of late summer, as I walk alongside them. The aromas of fresh cut
grass and wild berries abound and I inhale deeply enjoying the
intoxicating vitality of it all. I sense the forest is alive with
activity this afternoon. My ears pick up the sounds of the wildlife
with ease, and I try to identify the animals within based solely on
these audible clues. I’d read that Vermont is home to moose, gray
wolves, and black bears among other smaller, less challenging game.
I doubt any animal with a strong sense of self-preservation would
venture too close to the school with both the Pazitor and the
student body underfoot. I encounter two of the guardians on the
trail. Like the guards from last night, they are broad shouldered
and their faces are hard and uninviting. I don’t bother to say
hello and they don’t bother to acknowledge my presence, forcing me
off of the path to let them pass. They appear to be patrolling the
perimeter. Too bad.

What I wouldn’t give to be on the hunt
tonight with a full moon in the sky. Another activity that I’m
quite sure is not allowed. Back in Romania, hunting with Aldo was
one of my favorite things to do. He’d taught me to move silently
and to kill swiftly, respecting the passing of a life that would
prolong my own. Above all else, the thirst has taught me to respect
life. I stare longingly into the forest, wishing to catch a glimpse
of the wildlife beyond its borders.

Compared to the temptation of the forest, the
stables are anti-climatic. They’re made of red pine and look like
just about every stable I’ve ever seen on TV. I push aside the
large sliding door and let myself in. I wander by the stalls not
the least bit deterred by the disgruntled cries of the animals
inside as I invade their space. I drift quietly from one stall to
the next admiring the inhabitants. I don’t know much about horses,
but these creatures appear impressive by any standard. Like my own
species, no two are the same. They come in different colors and
sizes and are painted with a variety of markings. I suppose they’re
different breeds. Some appear smaller and lighter, better suited to
long runs and great speeds, while others are large and sturdy,
their power evident in the taught muscles of their legs and
chests.

I’m intrigued to find that there is a trainer
in the corral outside and approach quietly hoping to observe and
perhaps learn something about these animals. I’m bummed to discover
that, today, I’m not the only observer. There is a girl sitting on
the fence post watching. I avoid making eye contact and go directly
to the corral. I place my forearms through the sturdy metal
railings allowing the gate to support my weight as I lean in for an
unobstructed view.

The boy is good with the animal. I watch for
several minutes admiring their unspoken communication. He moves
swiftly, guiding it with gestures that I’ve no doubt the creature
understands. After a few simple tricks and a trot around the ring,
he mounts the horse and leads it through a series of marches
finishing up with an impressive leap over the back wall of the
corral, leaving myself and the other spectator in the dust.

“He’s showing off now,” the girl laughs,
descending lightly from her perch to my right. She’s positively
tiny, and I feel like a giant towering over her. She might be 5’1
on a good day. Scratch that. She might be 5’1 on a really good day—
with heels. Her gray eyes are warm and friendly, and when she grins
it lights up her whole face. She’s got one of those radiant smiles
that shows all of her teeth and not a trace of self-doubt. Although
her clothes are oddly out of date, her short black hair is cut at a
stylish angle so that the front brushes her shoulders. “Keegan is a
very gifted trainer, but sometimes he gets a little full of
himself. I’m Shaye by the way.”

“Katia.”

“Welcome to Crossroads. How do you like our
illustrious school so far?” She crosses her arms over her chest and
leans one shoulder casually into the fence post as she waits for my
take on the school.

“It’s… different,” I reply carefully. That’s
true at least. Probably best to avoid lying since I’ve been
striking out with my attempts at deception this week.

“A little different than what you’re used
to?” she returns softly. She’s got a gentle way about her; she’s
probably always been shy.

“You could say that.” Her assessment couldn’t
be closer to the truth. How could she possibly know? Duh. She’s
probably commenting on the rumors that have been circulating all
day, trailing me through the halls and apparently out to the
stables.

“It gets better. Just give it time. And don’t
let the politics get you down. This place is overrun with gossip.
In fact, I’d say our cup runneth over with bullshit,” she finishes
emphatically with a mischievous grin. I notice that her smile
extends all the way to her eyes, crinkling the corners even as she
begins to laugh at her own joke. There’s nothing fake or
pretentious hiding behind her laughter.

Shaye’s directness makes me laugh out loud,
and I decide instantly that I like this girl. Finally someone who
says what they really mean and who doesn’t seem to care about
pedigree. Too bad I don’t really have time for friends. Shaye might
actually be one of the good ones. “I need to get back and clean up
before dinner,” I tell her by means of escape. “Nice meeting
you.”

“See you around.”

I’m
energized when I enter the training center for the first time. The
combined scents of bleach, musk, and spilled blood greet me warmly
like an old friend as I step under the bright lights of the gym.
I’m dressed in a fitted red tracksuit that I chose carefully in the
event we are working hand-to-hand today. My hair is pulled back in
a high ponytail, and I’m wearing a pair of light and comfortable
running shoes. I feel great and am anxious to get started.

My classmates and I line up at the edge of
the blue sparring mat and await the arrival of our instructor. I
notice it’s a relatively even mix of girls and guys and that we
range greatly in size. Not that it matters. Experience has shown me
that size can easily be overcome by skill and strength. I know that
even the smallest opponent can pose a deadly threat, as each and
every being here has the purest of blood pulsing through their
veins.

The training center door opens and our
instructor comes sailing in with Nikolai close on his heels. I do a
double take to make sure it’s not my imagination and scold myself
for being so obvious. What the hell is he doing here anyway?

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name
is Andres Garcia, and I will be your instructor this semester. You
may call me Garcia. This fine young man at my side is Nikolai
Petrov. Nikolai is one of my most advanced students, and he will be
assisting us this semester.” Nikolai gives the class a less than
modest nod of acknowledgement and I feel an overwhelming urge to
kick him in the shin. “Nikolai will participate in both the
instruction and the administration of the skills tests. A directive
from Nikolai is no different than one you receive directly from me.
You’ll do well to remember that. Now, to the mat.”

We rush forward as instructed and spread out
on the mat as Garcia continues. Nikolai remains fixed in place
watching from the foreground. I pretend not to notice him although
I feel the heat of his gaze settle on me.

“Each of you has been placed in this class
because you have some level of experience with martial arts or
weapons training. In order to better assess your skills, we’ll be
testing you today. I need to see how good you really are.” Garcia
eyes the class skeptically. I steal a quick glance at him as he
passes me by.

Garcia looks every bit the picture of a
trained killer. His steely black eyes are attentive and wary. His
long black hair is bound tightly at the nape of his neck, and his
hairstyle is as functional as his attire: cargo pants, military
boots, and a utility belt that contains at least one knife that I
can see.

“This will be a no holds barred test.
One-on-one,” he continues. “We’ll start with two volunteers. The
victor remains in the circle to face the next challenger. By the
time we leave today, I will know who is the most skilled fighter
among you.”

As the others jostle to be first, eager to
demonstrate their abilities, I hang back choosing instead to watch.
I prefer to study their techniques and look for weakness.

Garcia chooses two students, both males, to
start the competition. Physically, they’re total opposites: one
tall and wiry, with skin the color of night, the other bulky and
muscular with sandy blonde hair. The boys circle one another, both
assuming a fighting stance. I’m curious to see what they can
do.

The blonde boy is anxious and charges
immediately. His counterpart is more patient and easily dodges the
rush, landing a glancing blow on his attackers’ neck. Although he’s
got his back to me, I’m certain the blow has surprised the larger
boy. His guttural growl confirms that he didn’t see it coming. He
whirls on his opponent and bares his teeth, his fangs extending to
full length. Anger flashes in his eyes.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he challenges,
spittle flying from his mouth. The dark skinned boy does not
respond and maintains his defensive position. He’s studying his
opponent and does not waste time or energy on psychological
taunts.

The blonde boy charges again and this time
his speed and force are used against him. The dark boy rolls as his
attacker makes contact. He throws the blonde boy from the mat and
sends him sailing into the crowd, as though he was no more
consequential than a paper doll. He lands on the cement with a dull
thud. I recognize the move immediately. It’s the same one I would
have used.

Without delay, a new contender steps forward.
This time it’s a girl. Taller than me, she’s more evenly matched to
the victor in terms of weight and height. Not that it helps her
much. He disposes of her just as easily as he did the first
challenger.