poster for the new show. Damian, of course, was front and center, staring out over all who entered the hotel's opulent lobby. Next to him was a white tiger; on the other side, a huge polar bear. And behind Damian on the poster, stood a horse, a rider on its back.
A young Damian.
Nick.
ACCELERATED TRAINING
R EMEMBER HOW I SAID YOU WERE ON AN ACCELERATED training schedule?” Theo asked. He peered over his glasses as Nick painstakingly wrote the Cyrillic alphabet while his hedgehog looked on, bored.
“Yeah,” Nick murmured.
“Good. Because you and Boris have sword fighting at one o’clock.”
“Huh?” Nick looked up. “That's really funny, because I thought I heard you say sword fighting at one.”
“I did. And look, it's one o’clock now.” As if on cue, an enormous cuckoo clock's hands clicked to one o’clock. A door opened, and a strange-looking bird popped out and said, “One o’clock.” It ruffled its feathers, which were ebony and shiny and gleamed with a purplish sheen, then preenedthem some more. Finally, it looked down from the wall and screeched, “Nick! It's one o’clock on the dot. Get moving!” It squawked once more and disappeared behind the doors of the clock again.
“All right!” Nick snapped. “Fine. I’ll get going. But who's Boris?”
“I am,” said a deep voice from the doorway, which seemed to be blocked, casting the room into dimness. Nick turned around, and there stood the biggest man he had ever seen, with layers of muscle on layers of muscle and a shiny bald head—with eyes the same color as his own. Make that eye. His left eye had a black eye patch over it like a pirate, and an angry scar ran down his face. Boris looked like he could crush Nick between his thumb and index finger.
“Great,” Nick said. He glanced at Theo, stood, and followed Boris out into the hall. They walked down to the very far end, and Boris spoke to the door—this one heavy and wooden, like from some medieval dungeon. It swung open, and Nick found himself in a huge room with wooden floors covered in mats, and walls lined with strange costumes, swords, and plates of armor.
Boris gestured for Nick to stand in the middle of the room. He sized him up and then pointed at a sword. It flew across the room, its tip pointed right at Nick. He screamed and ducked. The sword fell clattering to the ground.
“Are you crazy?” Nick screamed. “No, make that, is everyone here crazy? Are they? You could have killed me.”
“No. I am finding a sword for you. Hold still!” At that, Boris pulled Nick back up to a standing position. “Hold still. You think I would risk harming a hair on your head? This is the only way.”
Boris began signaling at other swords, which flew toward Nick. They sliced through the air, making a faint whistling sound. Each one poised in the air, hovering, before crashing to the floor. Finally, only one sword remained on the wall. Boris gestured to it.
The sword flew through the air and circled Nick several times, before swooping down and placing its hilt gently into Nick's hand.
Nick held it up. The hilt was encrusted with three red rubies. “It's heavy,” Nick observed.
“Sure. Of course. You expect it to be plastic?” Boris snorted. He raised his hands and all the other swords rose from the floor and flew back to their rightful places on the wall.
“Now, we fight.”
Boris took off his white shirt, revealing a muscle shirt beneath that only served to show off his immense biceps. They looked like the boughs of a sturdy tree.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No.”
“You’ll pulverize me.”
Boris's sword flew to him from the wall, and Boris wrapped a thick, meaty hand around it. “We do not fight. Our swords do.” Boris let go of his hilt and the sword stayed suspended in midair, almost gracefully, as if it were as light as a feather. Nick let go of his sword, and it crashed to the ground.
“No!” Boris said. “You must take this seriously.”
Nick
A young Damian.
Nick.
ACCELERATED TRAINING
R EMEMBER HOW I SAID YOU WERE ON AN ACCELERATED training schedule?” Theo asked. He peered over his glasses as Nick painstakingly wrote the Cyrillic alphabet while his hedgehog looked on, bored.
“Yeah,” Nick murmured.
“Good. Because you and Boris have sword fighting at one o’clock.”
“Huh?” Nick looked up. “That's really funny, because I thought I heard you say sword fighting at one.”
“I did. And look, it's one o’clock now.” As if on cue, an enormous cuckoo clock's hands clicked to one o’clock. A door opened, and a strange-looking bird popped out and said, “One o’clock.” It ruffled its feathers, which were ebony and shiny and gleamed with a purplish sheen, then preenedthem some more. Finally, it looked down from the wall and screeched, “Nick! It's one o’clock on the dot. Get moving!” It squawked once more and disappeared behind the doors of the clock again.
“All right!” Nick snapped. “Fine. I’ll get going. But who's Boris?”
“I am,” said a deep voice from the doorway, which seemed to be blocked, casting the room into dimness. Nick turned around, and there stood the biggest man he had ever seen, with layers of muscle on layers of muscle and a shiny bald head—with eyes the same color as his own. Make that eye. His left eye had a black eye patch over it like a pirate, and an angry scar ran down his face. Boris looked like he could crush Nick between his thumb and index finger.
“Great,” Nick said. He glanced at Theo, stood, and followed Boris out into the hall. They walked down to the very far end, and Boris spoke to the door—this one heavy and wooden, like from some medieval dungeon. It swung open, and Nick found himself in a huge room with wooden floors covered in mats, and walls lined with strange costumes, swords, and plates of armor.
Boris gestured for Nick to stand in the middle of the room. He sized him up and then pointed at a sword. It flew across the room, its tip pointed right at Nick. He screamed and ducked. The sword fell clattering to the ground.
“Are you crazy?” Nick screamed. “No, make that, is everyone here crazy? Are they? You could have killed me.”
“No. I am finding a sword for you. Hold still!” At that, Boris pulled Nick back up to a standing position. “Hold still. You think I would risk harming a hair on your head? This is the only way.”
Boris began signaling at other swords, which flew toward Nick. They sliced through the air, making a faint whistling sound. Each one poised in the air, hovering, before crashing to the floor. Finally, only one sword remained on the wall. Boris gestured to it.
The sword flew through the air and circled Nick several times, before swooping down and placing its hilt gently into Nick's hand.
Nick held it up. The hilt was encrusted with three red rubies. “It's heavy,” Nick observed.
“Sure. Of course. You expect it to be plastic?” Boris snorted. He raised his hands and all the other swords rose from the floor and flew back to their rightful places on the wall.
“Now, we fight.”
Boris took off his white shirt, revealing a muscle shirt beneath that only served to show off his immense biceps. They looked like the boughs of a sturdy tree.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No.”
“You’ll pulverize me.”
Boris's sword flew to him from the wall, and Boris wrapped a thick, meaty hand around it. “We do not fight. Our swords do.” Boris let go of his hilt and the sword stayed suspended in midair, almost gracefully, as if it were as light as a feather. Nick let go of his sword, and it crashed to the ground.
“No!” Boris said. “You must take this seriously.”
Nick
Similar Books
