--Chapter Two--

Monday afternoon, after classes got out for the day, Brianna stopped by the apartment and retrieved her bow and arrows, and caught the subway uptown to the college campus, where she'd been taking archery classes since she was six.

Her father, Jared, had been passionate about archery. Though Jared wasn't really her father, he'd passed that passion on to her.When Bree was six, he'd found her in his office, staring with awe at the oak recurve bow he'd inherited from his father, displayed on the wall. That week, he'd enrolled the two of them in classes at a community college.

Brianna sprinted across the lawn to the archery field. She greeted Mr. Archer with a grin. He'd explained that his family had long been bowmen, and the name had stuck sometime in the fourteenth century. He even had an English longbow from the Middle Ages in his Manhattan apartment.

"Brianna, you're early," he said. "How is my best student?"

"I'm having a good day. I aced my trig test."

Mr. Archer nodded. "That's to be expected. There is a lot of math in archery."

Bree sat on one of the benches and removed her bow from the sturdy case she kept it in while traveling. It was a recurve, very much like her father's. Her dad had given it to her for her sixteenth birthday, instead of a car, which would have been impractical, anyway.

The instructor sat back and watched as she slung her quiver over her shoulder, then calmly nocked an arrow, sighted, and fired, all in one smooth movement. Her form was perfect, and her aim flawless. He'd never had a student such as Brianna, who could draw a 120-pound without any visible effort. He'd tested her once, with his expensive compound bow, a test that all of his more arrogant, male students always fell short of passing. They would be so sure they could fire it, and would fail.

Brianna had lifted the bow, examined it, and proceeded to use it to punch an arrow through three consecutive targets and into the wall of the gym.

After that, they'd moved class outside and faced the brick wall.

Everett Archer still remembered the day Jared MacArthur had brought in his little girl, who had thrilled over every detail. She'd picked up his 30-pound shortbow that first day, and while the reach was too long for her, she had still been able to pull it back.

She'd only continued to impress him.

Brianna strode to the target and calmly pulled her arrow from the centre of the board. As she returned to the bench, to wait for the other students to arrive, she saw that Mr. Archer was watching her.

"Have you considered entering the Olympics?" he asked quietly.

"Once or twice. But I don't do this to compete and win contests," Bree replied.

"Why do you do it?"

She thought about that for a moment. "I like it. Other than that . . . I don't know. It's just . . . me."

The teacher nodded. His brown hair was greying, and balding a little in the back. But his blue eyes were still sharp. "I like that you aren't competitive. You'd slaughter everyone."

Bree laughed, embarrassed. "You're exaggerating."

"What would you say if I told you I'm not?"

Her blue eyes went wide. "You think I'm that good?"

"Brianna. Bree." He shook his head. "I know it. Archery is in your blood. It comes naturally to you. But, I suspect, if you had taken up track, you would have excelled at that. You probably still would."

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You have a natural grace, one that doesn't apply to dinner parties and social events. I would almost say . . . you are a warrior, Brianna. You were born to it."

Her classmates began arriving then, postponing any further conversation.

But her teacher's words made Brianna wonder.

You are a warrior, Brianna. You were born to it.