It had been kind of exciting…and fun. Instead of standing around, waiting for Edgar to translate a sticky bit of magical instruction that no one really understood, Damarion had attacked me in gargoyle form, moving very slowly and exaggerating all his strikes, fully allowing me to smack and hit him with any weapons at my disposal. With Mr. Tom standing behind me, rooting me on, I used weapon after weapon, dodging blows, working in close, and smacking him with Ron the bludgeon or Carl the war hammer. As I did so, I felt flutters and fire radiating from my middle, shooting out in fits and starts, bursts of potent magic that blasted the sky or raked across Damarion’s middle, leaving angry red gashes. He’d taken it all, although he’d backhanded me a few times on reflex. Or, at least, I assumed it was reflex—those magic attacks had clearly hurt.
“You need to know that is coming, miss,” Mr. Tom had shouted multiple times, disappointment plain in his voice as Ulric helped me up. “You need to develop some reflexes. Rolling across the grass like a weed in the wind is embarrassing for you. Get up and go at him again!”
“Or hell, just duck,” Ulric had said, laughing. “Now, go give him hell. Make him bleed.”
“Welcome to your new life, Jessie,” I’d muttered, squaring off with the enormous, lethal gargoyle yet again. “Anytime, Edgar. We can start the magical lesson anytime.”
“The magical lesson has already begun,” Edgar had replied, not looking up from the large book, his long, bony finger moving across the page. “Damarion is clearly a great instructor. You’ve made more progress today than you have since we started. But we don’t want you covered in bruises for tonight—the non-magical people will think you’re a victim of domestic violence.”
“I am a victim of domestic violence,” I’d grumbled.
“You’ve barely scratched him, Jacinta,” Niamh had yelled from the sidelines, her fists balled and her desire to join the fight evident. “You have a fecking war hammer, girl. Use it!”
Back to the present, standing in front of the mirror, I turned to look for those bruises. Just like the one across my cheek, where I’d thwapped a tree with my face, they were all gone, the only traces left in my memory.
In comparison to Damarion, I’d gotten off easy. That poor guy had been smashed with very heavy battle weapons, poked with a spear, blasted across a clearing, tossed into the sky, and the torture had only worsened once Edgar got his act together with the book—Damarion had been slammed with solid air, gouged with invisible claws, and forced back into his human form, which had left him curled up and panting, waiting to heal.
I’d felt horrible, running to his side and crouching down to put a hand on his large shoulder, asking if he needed ice, or maybe a tourniquet. Everyone else had clapped. The man was a saint.
“Here we go. Number three.” I headed downstairs with a wrap draped across my shoulders. I couldn’t go out with nothing at all, or the non-magical people in the town would ask questions.
I’d already decided that if this date didn’t go well, that was it for a while. This whole process was for the birds—so much time and preparation went into it, especially online dating, and for what? It was usually a total letdown, or in the case of Gary, an actual horror show. The pressure of finding “the perfect match” was messing with my head, even though I wasn’t in the market for anything serious. It was all just a lot of hassle.
A long, low whistle dragged my attention down the hall. Ulric walked toward me, an appreciative smile on his face.
“You look a picture. Wow.” He bowed deeply as he reached me. “Gorgeous, milady. You’ll have kings and princes fawning all over you.”
“Who are these kings and princes, anyway?” I took his outstretched arm as we reached the stairs. “There aren’t many of them around anymore. I think all the royal men in the modern world are married and/or don’t speak English.”
“Magical kings and princes. They only hold titles in the magical world, but most of them have extensive companies and holdings in the non-magical world. They are kings of their domains in magical society, and kings of capitalism in the non-magical world. A good chunk of the filthy rich people of the world are magical royalty.”
I lifted my eyebrows as we reached the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t feel Damarion in the house or on the grounds. I’d be really put out if he’d decided to cancel and hadn’t mentioned it. It would be ten times worse than the run-of-the-mill version of getting stood up.
“That’s…interesting,” I said as Mr. Tom met us in the foyer. His tux was freshly pressed, his chin raised, his air important, and a white towel was draped across his bent forearm. He looked like a caricature of a butler instead of an actual butler, especially with his “cape.”