“Faster!”
“Sorry,” said Tabby after her aunt blocked her uppercut and kneed her in the abdomen. Tabby huffed air and retreated a few steps.
Aunt Patrice got in her face. “You better be faster than this.”
Tabby quickly realized after just a few minutes training with her aunt that she’d taken her training back home in Denver too easy—despite how tough the various trainers had been through the years, many of them ex-military. She had to get her head straight.
Tabby nodded. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that I’m used to working with Cal—”
Aunt Patrice hissed, then said, “No names, goddamn it.”
“Oh, fuck, sorry.” She glanced around the neighborhood gym. It wasn’t a fitness gym, with shiny machines lined up against windows and walls, it was a real training gym for fighters on the eastern outskirts of Kansas City, Missouri.
There was a boxing ring on one side of the large space and a dozen or so heavy bags dangling throughout, at least half of them in use. No one was close to them, but she needed to be more paranoid.
* * *
“Faster!” yelled Calico, her face bright red—they were Irish, after all.
Tabby smiled, but she didn’t pick up the tempo. Calico ducked and drove a padded fist into Tabby’s stomach. Her little sister was really good, and she was trying, but Calico would need something more than fists to hurt her big sister.
So little sis used the nuclear option. Just one word.
Tabby hated the word. Hated it. “You did not just call me the C-word!” Tabby regretted her action before she’d completed it, but she couldn’t stop the push-kick into her sister’s padded chest.
Calico huffed air as she flew back into the basement’s wall, her head smacking into the concrete. Even with the headgear, it was a scary loud sound. “That’s—that’s better,” she muttered before passing out.
Tabby sprang forward, panic skittering through her. “Oh, shit, Callie! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Tabby cradled Calico on the floor of the basement. Their parents had converted nearly the entire space into a gym. Three of the walls were gray concrete decorated with posters of various fighting forms and equipped with weapons on hooks, while the fourth wall was covered in mirrored tiles so they could observe their form. They’d spent a hell of a lot of their childhood in that basement.
Calico finally opened an eye and winced. “Ow.”
“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” said Tabby, easing off the headgear from her sister.
“No, you’re not,” said Calico, pushing weakly against Tabby and trying to sit up.
“Easy now.”
She helped Callie into a sitting position. She probably should have yelled for Mom and Dad but couldn’t bring herself to do that, feeling guilty about losing control.
“I think I’m concussed,” she said, swatting at Tabby.
“Well, you were trying to get a rise out of me.”
“You saying this is my fault?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fine, but you were holding back—that is, until you tried to kick me through the wall.”
“I have to hold back. Obviously,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah, just ‘cause you’re bigger, faster, and stronger. But I’m the better fighter.”
“Ha!” It came out as a bark. “I mean, sure, whatever you say.”
“Screw you. Now help me up.”
Tabby hopped lightly to her feet and took Calico’s hands and gently pulled. Calico was still wobbly.
Tabby really was a lot faster and stronger than her baby sister even though they’d both been trained by the same trainers since they were kids. But Tabby’s abilities were quite literally in her blood.
Calico’s smile faltered. “I—I know you don’t like me to talk about this—”
“Then don’t. Please.” A surge of anxiety and anger went through Tabby.
Calico sighed. “Don’t you feel like this is just, I don’t know, too much of an obligation?”
“You mean my vigil? It’s my duty. But, hell, Callie, it’s also something I want to do. It’s, you know, a fucking honor! What I don’t understand is why you don’t understand.”
Here they were at the crux—neither understanding the other. And it was so much more than sisters getting on each other’s nerves.
Calico said, “What if it’s not real?”
“What if what’s not real?” She knew what Calico was talking about but didn’t want to hear it. Again.
“You know what I mean. The weird stuff. The supernatural stuff. We’re in our twenties and we’ve never seen anything even slightly out of the ordinary.”
Tabby raised an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side, “Hello? Me? Aunt Patrice?” It was all so obvious; she just couldn’t see why Calico had such a difficult time with it.
Her sister nodded. “Yeah, you’re special. But what if that’s just exceptional genes? You know what I mean. What if you’re the Lebron James of freaky strong women.”
“And Aunt Patrice?”
“There could be two in the family.”
Tabby shook her head in disbelief. “So they’ve lied to us our entire lives. Just made it all up.”
“Well, not them, exactly. But it’s been handed down through the family. What if we’re that weird cult family that believes in stupid-ass shit that can’t possibly be real? Don’t you think—isn’t there some part of you that doubts? Even a little? Just a little? A tiny bit?”
Tabby looked at her sister sadly before she said, “No. Not even a little.”
“You lying sack.”
“You’ve read the family chronicles; you think it’s all made up?”
Calico looked away.
“You have read the books, haven’t you?”
“Well, yeah. Sure. You know, a lot of it. Some of it.”
“Jesus, Cal, you’re going to be my seanchaí—like Mom is Aunt Patrice’s. You gotta know what’s in those books so you can help me out and I know you didn’t forget you have to record my—”
“Your what? Your exploits? Seriously? We’re in the real world, Tabs. How many times have you heard of monsters hurting or killing anyone? Real horrorfest monsters. Fangs and claws. Slavering gaping mouths with rows of pointy teeth. Glow-in-the-dark eyes. Monsters. You really believe in that shit?”
Tabby felt empty inside. “The sad thing is that you don’t.”
Calico looked away and the two were quiet. After several moments, her little sister smiled, though it looked forced. “Okay, monster killer. Time to do some bag work. Can’t kick me through any more walls.”
Tabby winced. “I am sorry about that.”
“Just go beat the shit out of the bag.”
Tabby tried to smile back but probably failed as well and went to work on the bag.
“I don’t want to believe,” whispered Calico.
Tabby looked around the bag at her. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Calico looking surprised. Tabby didn’t think she meant to say that out loud.
Tabby kept looking at her.
“What?” said Calico.
“It’s going to be okay. I’ve trained my whole life for this. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I know you’ll come around. I trust you.”
Calico started crying as the two locked eyes again.
“Don’t,” said Tabby.
“Fuck you. I don’t want you to go on your vigil.” Calico didn’t wipe her eyes, sniffing loudly. “I’m going to miss you, you c—.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tabby wiped at her eyes, pushing the memory of Calico to the background. “Have to get my head straight. I’ve always had to hold my punches, or I’d break people.”
Aunt Patrice looked pissed and ready to tear Tabby’s head off. She was a few years older than Mom, putting her at fifty-seven, and stunning. Her face showed few lines, looking closer to forty than sixty. Her brownish-red hair was just past her shoulders and tied into a single braid. In
tight workout shorts and tank top, her aunt’s body was flawless and sculpted, maybe in better shape than her twenty-four-year-old niece’s. They were both the same height and the family resemblance was strong.
“You fight like this on the streets and you’re dead.” Aunt Patrice turned away as if disgusted. It would take some getting used to her aunt. Tabby mistakenly thought she’d be a substitute for Mom and Calico. Boy was she wrong.
“I need to watch you fight,” said her aunt, looking across the gym at six men in their twenties and thirties. Two were sparring in the ring, wearing headgear and groin protection. The other four watched and offered pointers. They all looked to be in fighting shape. A couple of them were about the same five-foot ten as the women, the others taller. In the ring, one of the men used kickboxing techniques while the other favored Taekwondo. Both knew what they were doing.
Aunt Patrice walked to the ring. “Hey, fellas, my fighter needs to spar. She has a match coming up and her training partner didn’t show. Any takers?”
The men in the ring kept fighting, but the others glanced over, two of them ogling her aunt and then Tabby. After a moment of silence, one of them shrugged. “Sorry. We’re in the middle of training, ourselves.”
Aunt Patrice nodded. “I get it. You’re afraid to lose to a girl. How about I give a hundred bucks to any of you who can knock her down? Hundred bucks.”
The two in the ring stopped and looked at her aunt. There was interest, at least.
“C’mon, ma’am, no offense, but we could hurt her pretty bad. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Two hundred.”
They went quiet. They were seriously considering it. The youngest of them suddenly grinned. “Two hundred and she goes out with me.” He was one of the oglers.
“Deal,” said Aunt Patrice. “Let’s do this.”
Tabby watched the transaction with amusement. They’d never see the money and she sure as hell wouldn’t be going out with the lunkhead. The other men didn’t seem too keen on the idea, exchanging glances. Dubious. But they didn’t try to stop it. One of them shrugged, and that seemed to be the consent they were all looking for. Another dropped from the side of the ring, looking Tabby over.
Before she could tell him to fuck off, he said, “Size eight? Ten? Let’s get you some sparring gear. The name’s Milt.”
He shook her hand firmly, but he wasn’t a prick about it, trying to crush it. Not that he could.
“I’m Beatrice. Bea for short.” She’d started her vigil, there was no more using her real name.
He walked to a row of lockers and opened a few of them. They all held various gym gear. “Ah, here we go.” He pulled out gloves, headgear, chest protection, and shin guards. “Try these on.”
Padded up, she danced on the balls of her feet inside the ring and tried not to smile, but she was ready to show her aunt what she could do. She pushed aside feeling sorry for Henry—that was the poor sap she was about to bloody in the ring. She’d try not to break any bones, except maybe his nose if it got in the way. But whatever she did, Henry would feel it in the morning. More likely for the next week.
Henry only wore head, groin, and shin guards. She motioned toward him. “Uh, you might want to wear the chest guard.”
He smirked. “I think I’ll be fine.”
She looked at Aunt Patrice, who’d gotten her phone and held it up to video her niece. Deadpan, she said, “Don’t kill him.”
A couple of the men laughed.
Henry said, “So, Bea, what kind of food do you like? For our date?”
“You premature with everything, Hank? Let’s fight,” said Tabby.
Henry chuckled and moved to the middle of the ring. Tabby joined him, raising her hands to tap his, and the two backed off.
Aunt Patrice said loudly, “Ding, ding, already. Fight!”
The man took up a defensive position, but he wasn’t serious about it, his arms lax, his legs almost straight, not balanced on the balls of his feet. Tabby moved in and tagged him on the cheek, hitting the headgear. Her fist popped like a gunshot. The man’s head whipped to the side and his legs did a little wobbly dance before regaining his balance.
The men’s laughter stopped, a couple of them whispering, “Whoa,” in unison.
Milt said, “Dude, I think she’s serious.”
Henry gave the kind of cockeyed smile of bravado that signaled just how shocked he was. His stance immediately improved, his hands up, weight forward, his eyes glued to her instead of glancing toward his buddies. “That one was free.”
Tabby looked him in the eyes. “You ready now?”
His stupid smile disappeared.
She moved in fast again. He jabbed with his right, but so painfully slow, telegraphing it like Western Union. She blocked and clipped him in the chin. She didn’t mean to hit him so hard, but he sat down.
“Did you slip?” asked one of his friends.
Henry blinked at her and looked utterly confused.
Tabby backed away. “Get up. I need you to be serious.”
“You better get serious,” said one of the other men, “or she’s gonna light you up. Chick’s wicked fast.”
Henry tried to leap to his feet, but his knees were too weak. He tried bravely, or stupidly, to pretend he wasn’t hurt. The silence from his friends told her none of them bought it.
“Come on, Henry. Stop jacking around.” Translation: Don’t embarrass us.
Henry nodded. His stance got too serious. Too conservative and tight. Tabby glanced at Aunt Patrice, who nodded to her. Tabby shrugged. “Okay.”
She moved in, but more slowly. By keeping his hands raised and too rigid, he left his midsection open. She eased off on her strength and speed, striking him hard, but not enough to break anything. He tried to dance away, but she followed. His eyes reflected his defeat, but she wouldn’t take pity. Couldn’t. This was practice and, like Aunt Patrice said, it was serious. As she moved in again, he tried to grapple with her. She put a knee into his abdomen. He huffed air and backed away.
She followed, punching at his head again. He kept retreating and tried not to get pinned in a corner. He swung wildly and she evaded it, striking him in his exposed ribs. He cringed and swung. It turned pathetic quickly. She hit him in the ribs again. When he contorted to protect his midsection, she tapped him in the side of the head to put him out of his misery. He went down. Still conscious, but probably not all that aware of where he was.
His friends stayed quiet for a moment, then they rushed the ring. She whirled to defend herself, but they were grinning.
“I get next,” one of them said a moment before the others said something similar. He held out his hand. “I’m Clay.”
She shook hands and waited for him to gear up. He opted for chest protection.
“That was amazing,” said Milt. “Where’ve you been training?”
Two of them went to their downed friend and helped him to his feet. He was still wobbly but could stand. He removed the headgear and then shook his head. “Wow. How do you hit so hard?”
Aunt Patrice came into the ring. “You can all have your chance, but I need to talk her through her mistakes.”
One of the men guffawed—brayed like a donkey. “If that’s her making mistakes, I’d hate to be her next opponent. Where do you compete?”
“Please, gentleman.” Aunt Patrice motioned for them to step aside. Grudgingly they did, but they didn’t go far. Clay continued putting on his gear.
Tabby smiled. “Not much of a workout.”
Her aunt didn’t smile. “You have a lot of bad habits to get rid of.” She raised her phone and tapped the screen, showing Tabby the video. “You’re shifting too much weight before you hit. Keep better balance so you don’t announce your next move so goddamned blatantly. Let’s run through these boys so I can get more video. We have a lot of work to do.”
Tabby felt like she was failing her aunt, failing her whole family. She’d never felt like that before. She’d been so wrong when she thought
her other trainers had been hard-asses.
Aunt Patrice turned. “Next man up. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lorcán stepped closer to the human, enjoying his pain. The man writhed on the ground and screamed. Balor the daemón was forcing its way into his body, quite painfully it would appear. There was a loud crack of bone breaking. The screams grew hoarse, but the man still thrashed on the floor with the same fervor.
Another bone cracked. The man’s right arm stopped moving. A third crack and his right leg went limp. Lorcán wondered if the human would survive the possession.
Another crack and the human’s right thigh bent nearly in half. The man went quiet, his face pale and slick with sweat, his eyes closed. Bones in the other leg cracked. His back nearly bent in half, then the body went complete still. But Lorcán still heard the man’s heart beating faintly.
Lorcán said, “What went wrong?”
The daemón whispered, Fragile.
That was an understatement.
“He still lives,” said Lorcán. “Is he of any use to you?”
No. But do not drink of him, his blood is unclean now. A shadow, like a mist, rose from the human.
“It is unfortunate you cannot bond with a vampire. I could create the perfect specimen for you.”
I shall go in search of a worthy host in a few days. This attempt has weakened me. The shadow returned to the rowan heartwood box.
Lorcán spoke to his nestlings. “Dispose of the human. Take no blood, it is tainted.”
Ciarán and Garbhán were young men or had been. Lorcán found them both strung out in a park wearing clothes so dirty, he could not tell their original color. But more importantly, Lorcán saw the emptiness of their minds, both ripe for control.
Now they wore tailored suits, hair coiffed, nails manicured. Their vagabond friends would not recognize them. Their names had been Mickey, like the mouse, and Trevor. Lorcán baptized them in dark power as Ciarán and Garbhán.
His nestlings picked up the crumpled human. There was the slightest murmur of despair and pain from the bloodied lips.
“I do not mean ‘dispose’ in our normal sense; there is no need for the acid bath. Since we have not marked him with a bite, you can leave him somewhere on the streets a few miles from here.” Lorcán’s lips flickered in a smile as he dressed. “Do not kill him. Let him suffer.”
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