Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(13)

Tall, as most of the men in the room were, he had broad shoulders and green eyes that almost seemed too light, along with a full beard that was about a shade or two lighter than his darker hair.

With only the slightest of chin lifts, Celt acknowledged Z’s words.

“He’ll be overseeing your training. Only he will determine when you’re ready. I suggest you try and best him or you’ll never see the outside of this place again.”

But the question was, best him at what? He still had no clue who they were or what they did. Soldiers? Doubtful. Assassins? Maybe.

Z climbed to his feet, nodding back at Celt. “Training starts now.”



* * *



Any sense of understanding Niklaus thought he possessed about Celt disappeared the moment they were alone, and in another room with concrete floors and an array of weaponry in a glass case across the back wall. The first time they entered, Niklaus had been instructed to pick a weapon, any of the number that were on display.

With his body still healing, he had decided against his fists, choosing one that looked like a rather large stick. Niklaus was satisfied, at least until he saw the flash of a smirk on Celt’s face.

That should have been his first clue that this wouldn’t be nearly as easy as he had hoped.

Celt didn’t pick a weapon, and minutes later, Niklaus learned why.

He didn’t need one.

No matter how Niklaus struck out with his weapon, whether it be spontaneous or calculated, Celt avoided the blow, sidestepping each one.

“You’re too predictable,” he said, catching the stick the next time Niklaus swung, pulling it free from his grasp and tossing it across the room. “You’re showing me everything—that’s your weakness. You’ll be dead in an hour.”

The more he talked, the worse Niklaus felt. He already had enough baggage weighing him down, and worse were the memories that plagued him of how helpless he had felt in that house with Jetmir and the others.

They had so easily overpowered him, and the idea of that happening all over again had Niklaus tossing his other weapon, letting it clatter to the floor as he faced Celt once more.

Celt had his guard up, that much was clear despite how he tried to put on a relaxed air. It was obvious he expected Niklaus to attack him now, lash out because of his words, but he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Show me.”

“Show you what?” Celt returned, but Niklaus could tell by the way he asked the question that the man knew exactly what he was asking.

“Show me how not to lose.”



* * *



Sitting in the boiler room, shirtless, sweating, Niklaus kept his breaths even as Celt tugged on thick, black gloves, wrapping his hand around the handle of the rod sticking out of glowing red coals. As it was pulled free, the end of it glowed vibrantly, forcing his eyes to the symbol there.

He had been training for this moment even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

Six months spent in a padded room with Celt teaching him how to fight, and which weapons were best to use. His training was tedious, to the point that even in his dreams, he was assembling and disassembling weaponry, learning every little aspect there was.

It was one of Celt’s rules, one of the many that he’d told Niklaus over the course of their work together: learn your weapon, or die trying to use it.

It hadn’t just been Celt teaching him however. Over the next few months, there had been others, a team of sorts that came in and out his life sporadically.

After Celt, there had been Calavera, a specialist in knives that would have put Valon to shame. Though he sported more cuts than he would have liked after their time together, he appreciated the knowledge more.

After her came Skorpion, Grimm, and another man whose name Niklaus still didn’t know. He didn’t know where they came from, or where they went, but they had all offered him some knowledge that would serve him well for his duration with the Den.

All of it, more than thirteen months of training had led up to this point where there would be no turning back from the path he had taken. With a single mark, he would be branded with the very thing he needed to get the revenge he sought...

He had only a spare moment to take it in before Z signaled for two—ones Niklaus had worked with, but had yet to learn their names—to come forward and grab hold of him, keeping him in place.

Niklaus knew what to expect—Celt had warned him.

Dropping his head forward, he drew in a deep breath, trying to keep his wits about him. It was quiet for so long that Niklaus wasn’t sure if this entire process was only meant to frighten him, but just as he’d begun to relax, his shoulders slouching, Celt pressed the heated metal to his flesh.

The agony was enough to make his eyes water, but he gritted his teeth to get through it, refusing to cry out even as the pain threatened to force it out of him. He was sure he would pass out before the process was over, but worse was the overwhelming scent of burning flesh that suffocated him. It brought back memories better left to the past.

However, before he could sink too deeply into them, Celt pulled the rod away, the heavy metal clanging on the floor after he dropped it.

When the hands on him disappeared, Niklaus felt lightheaded and weak, almost to the point that he was seeing stars, but he managed to stay upright, blinking to clear his vision as they all circled to stand in front of him.