Chapter 1–Eight Months Later
Sark awoke five minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He had done that now for five months. It took some adjustment; before he met Henry, Sark didn't awake until noon most days. But that was his former life.
Sark immediately jumped out of bed, clad only in his boxers. He dropped on the floor, and started a series of pushups and sit-ups. He allowed himself to breathe shallowly as he lowered himself closer to the ground with each pushup. His muscles started to burn after the 30th repetition, which was a vast improvement from the three it took eight months ago.
Breakfast followed his shower, served by Gilean, a manish sort of maid. The food was always good, but starting to be boring for Sark. The thought must have been quite visible on his face as his mentor walked in.
"Your disdain for elegant food and lifestyles isn't very flattering, Sark," Henry started. "You should be grateful I saved your pathetic, bony body from the police when I did."
Sark suppressed a laugh at the lecture. It had become quite standard in the mornings now, and often the lectures continued throughout the day. But then again, Sark was in training.
"You have been teaching me to like these luxuries so I can seem more luxurious. And it's my impression not to show that I'm wooed by luxury so I can seem more fitted to it." Sark accentuated his statement with a sip of fresh orange juice. "Why did you save me if I was so pathetic? Come now, I've been training for months without much of a clue as to how or where I'll apply it, and I still don't have a first name!" Sark realized these complaints were not very coherent, but all had truth to them.
"I rescued you from the police because you would have been caught then, or if not then, at another time in the middle of a stupid and petty crime. This way, you have no file with the government, no red flags. I've saved you for a better work," Henry said. "And as for your name, Sark is a vast improvement from Fabian Ross, which undercuts any hint of power or authority."
Sark started to butt in, but Henry continued and cut him off.
"And it's just Sark, because it gives you a mysterious element which makes you seem more dangerous than you are or ever will be!" Henry huffed and sat down to his poached eggs and toast.
"I actually thought that my bank robbery was quite ambitious, considering my age," Sark added. Henry huffed again.
"Your age! It was eight months ago! Besides, you can do much more and much better. Especially for a 17-year-old." That settled the two into an almost companionable silence.
Two poached eggs later, Sark started up again.
"What more can I do?" He looked down at his juice, not daring to look at Henry as he waited for an answer. Henry ignored the question.
"Well, I'll see you in the basement. Let's start with target practice."
Target practice had steadily improved as well. In his seventeen years, Sark had never handled a gun. He had never thought to resort to it in any crime either. But he had to admit, the handle of a gun felt natural in his hand.
Looking down at the target, Sark's eyes narrowed in and out of focus. He automatically tightened a hold on his breathing. His fingers were loose but controlled. He could hear Henry hovering behind him.
"Go." With Henry's command, Sark quickly snatched a magazine and slipped it into the handle of the gun. His eyes were already on target. He fired in quick succession, and felt the gun kick and get lighter with the disposal of each bullet in the clip.
When he counted off the last shot, he didn't hesitate to replace the clip and continue at another target.
He finished his routine by calmly placing the empty gun on a table. Sark turned to face his mentor. He noticed a discarded shell on his shoulder, and flicked it away with little more than a smirk.
Henry nodded approvingly. He hit a button, sending the targets their way. The first target centered precisely on the heart and head. The second had shots through every joint and area intended to wound and disable.
"Sparring time. I have someone new for you to try."
Sark stretched his hands, flexing them open and closed as he eyed his new sparring partner. He could tell it was a woman, but she was covered in all-black sparring attire, including a face mask. The fact that she was a woman, though, made him wonder if Henry thought he was too easy to beat and needed a break.
"Whenever you're ready," Henry prompted. Sark nodded, and the woman started to advance.
She started with a simple jab, which Sark dodged easily. He responded with a blow to her stomach. She took it with less than a blink, and lashed out a kick to the side of his thigh. His leg buckled and the sparring picked up in pace.
She was good, he realized as she nailed him in the chest. He flew back onto the sparring mats, but quickly picked himself up. He launched a series of punches and kicks, dodging here and there. But he hit air most of the time, merely glancing a hit a couple of times.
Sark was getting flustered. The woman put him on the defensive. He jumped above her kicks where he could, rolled back from hits that connected, and every now and then remembered to try and hit her.
His final attempt was a gutzy and irrational move. The woman spun around with a kick, and Sark jumped backwards away from her. He spun around with his own kick, only to be thwarted by being swept off his feet, literally. He jumped back up, and for some reason (which he would analyze for a long time later) did a sort of cartwheel away from her as she advanced again. The result, miraculously, was his feet connecting with her chin as he cartwheeled away.
He stopped with a thud to the floor, never having mastered the landing of a cartwheel. His breath was ragged and short, but it wasn't alone. Sark looked up to see the woman gingerly stroking her chin. He watched as she removed her mask, and his breath stopped altogether for a moment.
Sark shifted his gaze abruptly to Henry, but he was watching the woman as well.
"Well?" he asked her, ignoring Sark for the moment. Sark looked back to her. She had long brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail. She was beautiful, in a classy, don't-even-think-about-it way. That was partly because she looked like she was in her forties. That thought jabbed Sark.
"It's worthwhile to continue," she said smoothly. With that, she spun on a heel and walked out of the sparring room.
Sark gingerly lifted himself up, his damp blond hair curling at his skin. He felt something inside, something he would rely on the rest of his life. His instincts—they told him that those few words from his opposition meant more than just continue training. Sark had the sickening suspicion that they were an approval that allowed him to live.