Sweet Shadows
Page 31

“Not helpless,” I explain. “Out of my element. I can split a two-inch-thick block of wood with the palm of my hand, but I have obviously never trained in manticore-fighting tactics.”
She stares at me as if I’ve told her the Loch Ness monster is alive and well and living in San Francisco Bay. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be such a shock, considering the sea dracaena Grace and I saw climb out of the water the other night.
“You’re a black belt?” she repeats. “For real?”
“Of course.”
“But you seem so …” She waves her hand up and down at me. “Fragile.”
I purse my lips. “I prefer elegant.”
“Fine, elegant,” she throws back with an eye roll. “You look like a stiff wind could take you down. Like you’d shatter into a million pieces if a monster got too close. And those shoes …”
I glance down at my heels. They are the height of fashion and, after years of wearing nothing less, I’m as comfortable in them as Grace probably is in tennis shoes.
“You shouldn’t judge a girl by her exterior,” I say, although I know I am occasionally—often—guilty of doing the same. Even when it comes to my sisters. “Besides, tae kwon do is a barefoot endeavor. My shoes come off easily enough.”
“Show me something,” she says, as if she still doesn’t believe me.
“A demonstration?”
She nods. All right, that’s a challenge I’m happy to accept.
I step out of my shoes and set them next to my purse. I move to face Grace, a few feet in front of her, and stand in ready position.
“Block me,” I say.
“What—?”
Before she can finish, I execute a swift jab with my right hand, landing it softly against her neck. Regrouping into ready position, I explain, “Stop me.”
Grace spreads her feet—clearly Gretchen has taught her the benefit of a solid stance—and makes her hands into fists. This time, when I come at her with my left, she swings a forearm up to block my strike.
“Nice,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re giving me tae kwon do lessons. I thought for sure I had you beat when it came to combat.”
“Had me beat?” I swing my right foot around in a roundhouse, pleased when she casually blocks it with her left arm. “This is not a competition, Grace.”
“I know that.” She blocks a series of punches and kicks without really concentrating. Either Gretchen taught her well or her instincts are strong. I suspect the answer is a bit of both. “I just … I thought I was ahead of the curve.”
“I’m sure you are in something,” I assure her. “Just not this.”
She shouldn’t feel bad about her training level. In fact, for someone so inexperienced, her moves are quite advanced. This explains how she defeated the harpy.
I go at her harder, testing her defensive reactions. She deflects most of them, but as I increase my speed and start delivering more advanced moves, she starts to lose control. Backing away rather than fail under my onslaught, she waves her hands up in surrender.
“See,” she complains. “I can’t even defend myself properly.”
“You defended yourself excellently,” I say, settling back into ready position. “Far better than I expected from you, with such limited training. Besides, there are times when retreat is the better defense.”
“Oh.” Her posture softens. “I guess you’re right.”
I know we are both picturing the other night, when the monsters sought us out at our homes. Probably the one place we each let our guard down. Fighting wasn’t an option. Grace fled by autoporting to Gretchen’s loft. I fled by speeding through red lights and ignoring one-way street signs.
My heart raced harder in those moments, in my sprint from the front door to the garage, in the desperate chase from my home to the loft, than it ever had in my life. Training in martial arts is one thing, but an actual fight-for-your-life battle is another. If I am being brutally honest with myself, I was terrified. At night I’m haunted by nightmares where the giant grabs me before I can run, where the bear claws through Grace’s throat before she can autoport away, and where we don’t get there in time to save Gretchen from the manticore. Every time I fall asleep, I wake up in a cold sweat.
I’ve been telling myself the fear was exhilarating, that I’ve never felt so very alive, and so very proud of my abilities. I try to reassure myself that I reacted quickly and decisively and those reactions saved my life. As Grace’s saved hers. But my hands still shake and the nightmares still come.
Fear is not a familiar emotion. In my normal life, I insist that fear is for the weak willed. I am not afraid to tackle any social situation, academic project, or other challenge that comes my way.
In this new, unfamiliar world, I find myself fighting to hide my fear, to keep up the cool, calm, collected facade I’ve perfected over the years. Because the thing that scares me most of all is the thought that I won’t be able to hold it all together.
I refuse to allow that to happen. Stiffening my spine, I push the fear aside and focus on the moment. On the training. On Grace. If she can face these fears, so can I.
“We’ve proven that I have human-fighting technique,” I say, “and that you have had excellent defense training.” I take a deep breath and say, “Now I’d like you to give me some real training in monster hunting.”