Heart of an Assassin (Circle of Spies) by Laura Pauling Page B

harder because if I didn’t release my aggression I wasn’t sure what I would do.
    Malcolm pushed me back from the fountain’s edge. My shoulder grazed the rounded stones as I fell on my butt onto the gravel path. The small sharp stones dug into my hands. My hair wrapped in snake-like strands around my neck and shoulders. Water dripped between my shoulder blades.
    “Stand up.” His face was like a mask, cold and hard, no flicker of any emotion.
    “No.” I brushed off the excess water from my arms with jerky motions, refusing the angry tears trembling, ready to fall.
    “Stand up and fight.”
    I glared, my eyes like slits, wanting to pummel him to the ground and into dust. He kicked me with his toe.
    “You knew about this?” The words hissed through my clenched teeth.
    “Get up and fight. Damn it!” he yelled and nudged me again, a little harder. “What? You thought training would be lifting weights and sparring with wooden poles? Maybe a leisurely trip to the target range? Sorry, sweetie. That’s for the movies.”
    “You could’ve warned me about this,” I spit out.
    He laughed, the sound shallow. “Will has about a thousand ways of approaching training. I had no idea he’d pull this trick.” His voice turned bitter. “He doesn’t exactly confide in me.”
    The itch started in my fingers and spread up my arms. A feeling. A desire to hit, to scream, to run. The urge raced through my nerves, spreading, exploding. As soon as I got to my feet I lunged at him. My arms wrapped around his waist and we fell to the ground with a thud, his body a hard line underneath me.
    “Is that all you got?” he gasped and pushed me off.
    Back on our feet, I attacked again. Fists flying, I pounded his chest, his arms, his stomach. The fear, the shock, the anger released with every hit. He finally pushed me away and gave it back. He punched. I ducked. He kicked. I swerved to the side and took out the one leg he was standing on. We went at it. Both fighting. Sweat stung my eyes. Muscles burned and my lungs complained for air.
    On my last lunge I clung, my arms wrapped around his chest, my body hanging off him.
    “Keep going. If you’re fighting for your life, no one’s going to give you time to recover because you’re past the point of exhaustion.”
    I swung but missed. He punched my arm.
    “Use what you can. Find a weapon. Fists aren’t all you have available and you won’t always have your choice of knives or guns.”
    He punched again. My body cried out for relief. The tender spots throbbed where his fists had made contact. I wanted him to stop, for the garden to stop spinning. I stumbled away. Find a weapon. Find a weapon. Find a weapon. I crashed through the careful landscaping, tripping over the bushes. And then I saw it. A rake lay on the ground with nice pointed tines. I grabbed it and turned, my fingers digging into the wood.
    Malcolm nodded in approval.
    I rushed, jabbing the rake. He grabbed the end, right below the tines, and yanked me close. I stumbled. The rake fell and we landed in a heap in the grass. For the second time, I lay on top of him, breathing hard, wincing in anticipation of his harsh words or taunts. None came. His chest rose and fell. His breath hitched and the mask slipped and feeling flickered in his eyes. He didn’t hate me and his lips were so close. Memories of our last kiss lingered and pulled me toward him.
    But I rolled off, my chest heaving. The sky spun above, taunting me with her carefree attitude and light, wispy clouds. Every one of my bones cried out and my muscles complained. I couldn’t move.
    The clapping started softly at first and then grew. And then the whistles. I turned my head. Bartholomew, Janelle, Will and Edith stood at the edge of the yard, whistling and cheering. They meant to encourage and congratulate, but instead, each clap and whistle grated against my nerves, drawing up the bitterness from the deep well inside me.
    “Savvy.” Malcolm touched my arm, but I