Valkyrie's Claim (Academy of Immortals 2)

Emotion rushes though me, bright like a light.

I grip her, holding tight, and step through the painting, taking her with me.

29

Hildi

The first thing I notice is the air—warm and humid—different from the atmosphere of the Academy. The second is sunlight warming my face. The most startling is my change in wardrobe. I knew these were enchanted portals, but I didn’t know they could alter our appearances. Miya’s wearing a dark silk robe, hanging loose, over a gray top. A thick skirt hangs from his hips, with a formal-looking tie at the waist. I look down and see that my robe is a pale green, with a deep purple band at the waist. My hair has been swept up in a knot behind my head. Sandals are on our feet.

He inhales deeply, like he’s taking the first breath in a long time.

“Is this really your home?” I ask, looking ahead at the small hut.

“No, not specifically. It’s a chashitsu, a teahouse. In my endless lifetime, it’s the one thing that doesn’t change. Not in centuries. They’re always the same, from the garden to the structure, to the nourishment provided inside.”

There’s a softness to his voice I’ve never heard, and I can’t help but notice how tightly his fingers grip mine. Like he’s truly worried I’ll take off.

“Show me,” I tell him.

He smiles and directs me to the basin, instructing me to wash my hands. He dips a ladle in the deep, clear pool of water and then pours it over my hands. He does the same and then he takes the lead, and I follow him up the wooden steps and into the small, airy chashitsu. We remove our sandals and enter, passing through a small alcove. He slides the door shut, closing us in.

The single room is sparsely decorated, but every object seems to have meaning. Miya speaks in a low, reverent tone, pointing out the scrolls decorated with flowers, small, smooth vases, and candles lighting the room. A small fire pit sits in the middle of the room. There are thick mats on the floor and he urges me to kneel, and he vanishes in another sliding door across the way. Already I feel calmer, like the air here is cleaner, doused with something purifying.

It’s only a few moments before Miya walks back in the room carrying a tray in his hands. He walks toward me, settles on his knees, and lays the tray on the floor. First, he sets a bowl between us and gestures for me to take one of the round balls inside.

I pop it in my mouth, tasting the sweetness on my tongue.

He proceeds to make the tea, using scalding water to fill a bowl large enough to fit in two hands. The process is slow and in excruciating detail. I watch in fascination as he uses the whisk and shifts the bowl in various direction. It all happens in the warmth of the tiny space, our knees close, our breaths mingling. As he goes through the ritual, I feel the tension easing in my neck and shoulders. The anger and violation I’d felt before walking through the painting lifts, dissipating like the steam wafting from the tea.

Miya’s expression is calm, peaceful. His lips purse as he concentrates. I study the sharp slant of his cheekbones, the flat tip of his chin. He’s not a warrior in these walls, the killer’s edge is gone, and the person I look at is a man of deep history.

He finishes his preparation and holds out the bowl, shifting it in various directions, before offering it to me.

I take the glazed ceramic bowl in my hands and it heats my fingers. He watches me closely, with deep emotion in his eyes, as I tip the bowl back and take a sip. The liquid warms my entire body, down to my toes.

I have no idea how long we’re in the teahouse—how long we’ve left the world outside—but Miya stands and bows. I do the same. His fingers reach out and graze down my cheek, and his dark eyes peer into my soul.

“Better?” he asks, always worried about my well-being.

“Yes, thank you, for allowing me to experience this with you.”

He smiles, it’s slightly bashful, a side of the man I’ve never seen. His eyes drop to my mouth, almost in question. I lift my chin in reply, relieved when he steps closer and slips a hand behind my neck. The brush of his lips is gentle, the feel of his mouth, tranquil. The lick of his tongue, transcendent. My body swells with emotion, connection, purpose. We pull apart and I see the heat in his eyes, but it’s tempered. He’s good. So good.

There’s no mistaking what he’s trying to teach me. Slow down. Keep my emotions in check. Follow the process. Nourish my mind and body.

It’s a gift—he’s a gift, one that I want to unwrap slowly, like a cherished gift, when he’s ready and I’m ready.

Then we’ll tip the scales.

30

Hildi

Something strange happens following the ransacking of our room. In the hallways it’s subtle, guarded, but after being on the other side of snide, hostile looks for weeks, I can sense it.

“Did you see that?” I ask Luke after passing a group of students.

“See what?”