by Alyssa Cole
“Skean dhu, a short single-edged blade, name derived from the Gaelic Sgian-dubh, meaning hidden, as the blade was something that could be kept on the body after other weapons were deposited at the door of a dwelling, per Highland tradition. Usually worn tucked into the stocking in Highland dress. Not to be confused with . . .” She put the blade down and sifted through the knives, picking up a similar blade. “. . . the mattucashlass, which is a double-edged blade worn under the armpits and used in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Portia—”
She didn’t look at him, simply dropped the knife down and picked up a knife with a longer blade and a slimmer hilt, this one in bronze. “Those knives are earlier versions of this baby, the Scottish dagger known as a dirk. It’s a long thrusting dagger descended from the medieval ballock dagger, but became an integral part of Scottish weaponry.”
She turned to him, batting her lashes even though she would rather have chucked the dagger in his general direction. “As for clothing, do you mean an actual suit of armor? Functional or decorative? Or more like a brigandine, a padded vest, traditionally canvas or leather, lined with steel plates? We can talk mortuary swords, claymores, broadswords, the compound Sinclair—”
“All right, Freckles.” He held his hands up, probably to shut her up but she liked to think of it as a sign of defeat.
“I can do this all day,” she said. “I told you, I’ve studied lots of things, and what I don’t know I look up instead of just assuming. You should try it sometime.”
Now that she was done and Tav was just staring at her, embarrassment started to creep up her neck. The man was an expert in swordmaking and a literal master. And she’d just thrown her 101 knowledge at him and expected what exactly?
Tav was still looking at her, then he . . . smiled. Really smiled. She could see his teeth and everything. Dammit, she’d thought she’d won that battle for a second, but if she’d known it would pull this reaction from him she would have let him go on thinking her silly.
Tavish McKenzie sporting a glower was sexy. Tav with those full lips curved up and crow’s feet framing his eyes because he was grinning so hard? Her stomach lurched like she was on a crappy carnival ride and she realized with horror that despite not doing crushes, despite definitely not doing bosses, she liked Tavish. For real. She hadn’t had a butterflies-in-her-stomach crush smack into her full force like this since senior year of high school when she’d wanted Hector Washington to ask her to the prom SO BADLY. He’d asked Reggie instead. She’d gotten over that short-lived infatuation quickly and she’d get over this one even faster.
“Okay. You win,” he said. Light, casual, as if he’d always been capable of talking to her like this. “You can work the table. If you can do that at the table, I’m sure we’ll have no problem with sales.”
Relief flowed through her and she let out the breath she had been holding. If she wasn’t mistaken, the stats were New Portia 2–Thigh Man 0 in whatever weird Hot Jerk Challenge they had going on. 3–0 if she counted the macing.
It was strangely arousing to know that despite his stubbornness, Tav was able to concede his mistakes. She might have to retract his addition to Fuckboy Monthly, the fake periodical she and Ledi had started, which was now mostly filled by Nya’s online dating encounters since Ledi was monogamous and Portia was celibate-ish.
No “ish,” bish. Celibate. Focusing on self. Not getting ideas about your boss.
“Erm . . .” Tav shoved his hands into his pockets. His muscles flexed beneath his snug-fitting T-shirt as he lifted his shoulders in an awkward motion, so Portia fixed her gaze on his left nostril. Nostrils were safe. “What are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.
Could he be . . . ? No. No way was he asking her on a date. Her body went tense because she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, despite her mental pep talk.
“I’ve got the after-school lesson with the weans if you’d like another apprentice duty. Bit more fun than packing boxes. You should come help if you aren’t afraid of breaking a nail or somesuch.”
“Oh.” Portia’s annoyance pushed any appreciation of his attractiveness, and the mingled relief and disappointment that he was still talking strictly business, to the background of her mind. “If you’re going to rely on sexist clichés, at least get some fresh material. And if I do break a nail off, it’ll be someplace extremely unpleasant for you.”
He chuckled and stepped around her as he headed for the door. “The class starts at five.”
Chapter 8
Hey, welcome to part two of so you think you’re a hot mess. Don’t forget to hit that subscribe button below because if you’re anything like me? You won’t remember to do it at the end of the video. You might not even make it to the end of the video if something else distracts you. So hit subscribe and then we can talk about the elephant in the room: ADHD!”
Caridad sprayed two cans of confetti foam at the screen and Portia hit pause and stared out at Tavish and his students.
ADHD?
She’d never really considered it. She’d always been told that she was flighty, flakey, lazy, scattered, impulsive . . . but she was also curious, and super engaged when something interested her. Still, the negative always outweighed the positive, and she’d always figured that she was just . . . a fuck-up.
Something in her loosened with relief as the possible diagnosis repeated itself in a loop in her brain. ADHD! ADHD! ADHD! She had a word to use for her behavioral patterns. There were other people who felt the same way she did, maybe.
Still . . . it was strange thinking of herself as having a medical diagnosis for her behaviors. For years, her parents had subtly guilted her for not doing more with her life when she “didn’t have Regina’s issues.” Reggie had been kicking ass since she’d left the ICU and went into a physical therapy program; she’d certainly never seen herself as having any “issues” that could stop her from achieving her dreams, and neither had Portia. But their parents’ expectations had become a wedge that Portia had used to push herself away from everyone, even her sister. Things were different now, but what if someone had paid attention earlier? Or what if her parents had just accepted her instead of constantly comparing her?
She decided to stop getting ahead of herself. She still had to take the online ADHD assessment linked under the video before she started getting all emotional about it. It would be nice to have at least some explanation, but maybe she’d take the test and the results would read “Nah, you just suck at adulting.”
“All right, we’re gonna take a short break,” Tavish bellowed from the floor of the gym, drawing her attention to him. She was relieved for the distraction. Her impulse was to take the test immediately, but she was technically on the job. Instead she snapped a quick pic of Tavish standing before the kids, all with their backs to her but clearly enthralled, and posted it across the armory’s social media feeds.
Sir Tavish and his rapt audience. Portia had to admit, he had a way with the youths. The kids, ranging from ages six to ten, were a handful, but they were all seemingly enamored with her boss, making her feel better about her less than professional thoughts earlier. He apparently had some sort of appeal that shone through his grumpy demeanor.
She’d participated in the class a bit: handing out Styrofoam swords and making sure shoes were tied and the kids were lined up as Tavish talked to the parents dropping them off. She’d also dodged invasive questions about whether she was Maestro Tav’s girlfriend. Children were nosy as hell, honestly, but she’d made sure they knew she was just an apprentice.
Mostly, she’d hovered on the bleachers beside the pile of lunch bags Cheryl had dropped off for the kids to take home with them. Cheryl had explained that she packed enough for two meals now after the students had talked about sharing the meal with their families. The classes were offered for free to kids who lived in nearby council housing, and apparently not having enough to eat wasn’t a rarity.
Tav taught one class for kids per week, and two for teens, and t
hose were free, too, though he could have easily charged an arm and a leg to the neighborhood’s newer occupants. He offered food, provided equipment, and maybe most valuable of all, he gave up his time . . . it had to add up. She thought about how pigheaded he was about the business, and how much pressure it must have added to have the well-being of Bodotria’s youth at stake in addition to his livelihood. Not to mention Jamie’s. And Cheryl’s.
It didn’t excuse his behavior, but no one had ever trusted her enough to depend on her before—though she realized with a start that these people were all depending on her, too, now. She was the apprentice and the armory was in trouble. If she didn’t help turn things around, Tavish wouldn’t be the only one that suffered.
Maybe it was above her pay grade, and maybe he hadn’t asked for the help, but he sure as hell needed it. She’d give it to him, not because of Project: New Portia or to impress him, but because for the first time maybe ever she felt she was the perfect person for the job.
A pale girl with frizzy red hair smiled as she bopped a boy in high-water pants and glasses too big for his face on the head with her foam sword. A tan-skinned, dark-haired boy who Tavish had already disciplined twice ran up to the girl and snatched her sword away.
“Syed, stop it!” the girl shouted. She was on the younger end of the class’s age range, and her face was screwing up into a wail when Tavish intervened.
“Syed, I’m not going to tell you again,” he said in a firm but gentle voice that Portia perhaps enjoyed a bit too much. “You have to pay attention, and do what I tell you to do. And you should be nice to your friends. Apologize to Lacey.”
“This is bollocks,” Syed said, dropping the foam swords and staring at Tavish in challenge. “I don’t have to apologize to anyone. And I want a real sword.”
Portia expected Tavish to growl at the boy but instead he simply raised his brows and seemed to mull it over. “I could give you a real sword, I suppose, but why should I when you can’t use a foam one properly?” he asked, scratching his head. The other children tittered. Portia crossed her arms in annoyance; Tavish’s rationale was familiar.
Good to know he treats me the same as a misbehaving eight-year-old.
“Come on, Syed,” Lacey said. “You’re wasting our time. Let’s just have fun, yeah?”
The boy sucked in a breath and his shoulders hunched. Portia wasn’t that familiar with kids, but she’d witnessed enough subway and supermarket meltdowns to divine that this situation was on the verge of spinning out of control.
“Oy! Let me show you all something,” Tavish said suddenly, tapping the boy on the shoulder and then walking toward an area covered with thick rubber mats. His voice was still firm, but a bit more playful, conspiratorial. “Come here, Syed.”
The boy approached slowly, eyes wide and body braced as if he were about to be punished, but Tavish placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, demonstrating to both Syed and the other students that all was well. Syed glanced up anxiously, but relaxed a bit.
“Sometimes in battle, a knight would drop his sword. He’d get into trouble and have to get out of it without the help of his trusty weapon. Now, I’m going to grab you and show you how to get out of those kinds of scrapes. Is that okay with you, Syed? It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay,” Syed said, the anger and petulance gone from his voice. “I want to learn!”
Tavish spent the next five minutes grabbing the boy by the arms in ways that made Portia worry he might accidentally hurt him, but by the end Syed could slip out of the holds easily and with confidence. The boy’s eyes were bright and he smiled victoriously, his earlier agitation gone.
“Did everyone see how we did that?” Tav asked. His hand rested on Syed’s head and Syed glanced up at him with adoration in his eyes. “The thing is, you have to think a few steps ahead. You can be afraid, but you can’t let your panic or your anger rule you. You have to be in control, yeah? Let’s all try it now.”
“Lacey, come let me show you,” Syed said, holding his hand out to her. “It’s fun!”
Parents began filtering in to pick up their children, apparently unfazed by the sight of them wrestling with their huge instructor. There were squeals of laughter from the kids as each of them managed to escape, and then Tav packed them off to their parents with a reminder not to use what they’d learned outside the classroom. Portia handed each child a bagged meal as they passed by, smiling at their shy thank-yous and tas.
There was one bag left, and she turned to see Tav kneeling next to Syed, who was talking quietly with his gaze on the floor. Tav clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke to him for a few minutes, and Syed nodded along before running to Portia, grabbing his meal, and heading for a woman wearing a purple hijab who waited by the door.
“Ya mama, say thank you to the woman, eh?” she said. Definitely his mom.
“Thank you!” Syed called over his shoulder.
The woman waved goodbye as Syed handed her the food and excitedly grabbed at her arms, eager to show her what he’d learned.
“You handled that well,” Portia said to Tavish, beginning to gather up the play swords that had been abandoned on the floor. “I guess you are capable of being nice to others.”
Tav scrubbed a palm over his jaw and grunted. She expected a riposte, but his brows were drawn and he was still staring out the door Syed had just passed through.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She immediately regretted her instinctive question; he’d probably tell her to mind her business. Surprisingly, he met her gaze, his eyes bracketed with worry lines.
“Eh, Syed says some lads have been teasing him and other weans at school. Weans who don’t ‘look’ Scottish. Telling ’em that they’re gonna get sent back to where they came from, and they saw it on telly so it must be true.”
Portia had spent K-12 as one of the few students of color at her prep school, so she wasn’t shocked that students could be so cruel. Syed had seemed to lash out at his friends for no reason, but of course there’d been a reason. She knew from experience that when you tried to bottle your feelings up inside, you inevitably sprang leaks in places that seemed entirely unrelated.
“He’s been acting out the last couple of weeks. Now that I think about it, that’s when the immigration debates made it onto the front pages again, with knobs in suits saying we need to block our borders and ‘preserve our heritage.’ Fucking hell.” Tav ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving his palm splayed atop his head. “You know, you think this shite is done with, and then you see weans spouting the same rubbish you heard when you were one.”
His gaze flashed to hers in preemptive challenge and his hand dropped to his side. “Mum is Chilean. And her husband, my real dad if not biological, is Jamaican. Kids thought it was funny to taunt about going back where you came from when I was growing up, too. Except they usually thought I’d taunt along with them.”
This was a champagne problem compared to other forms of bigotry, but she had her own uncorked bottles courtesy of her wealth and lighter complexion. She wasn’t going to downplay the fact that it had been really shitty and confusing for him, despite the fact that he was privileged in other ways.
“Racists suck, and I imagine being expected to hate on your family sucks too,” she said.
Tav shook his head.
“I’m fine. People assume the A in Tavish A. McKenzie stands for Alistair or some shite and not Arredondo, and that the McKenzie comes from some venerable Scottish clan and not a Jamaican slave owner.” He shook his head. “But Mum always told me how welcoming people were to her when she arrived. How there was a sense of solidarity with those who had suffered elsewhere and had to leave everything they knew behind, not a desire to keep them out.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “People have always been wankers, but I never thought she was wrong. I look at Syed and wonder if she is now, though. He shouldn’t have to feel unwelcome in his own country.”
For the first time she met him, he seemed mor
e than irritable—he was furious.
She adjusted her armful of foam. “He shouldn’t, but he has you to talk to. And to show him sweet wrestling moves.”
Tav made a grunt of acknowledgment.
“Aye. I wish I could do more. Half the weans are worried their parents will be kicked out of their homes after benefits are cut, the other half that they’ll be kicked out of the country with all this talk of borders and nationality and refugees. It’s not right.”
Portia’s instinct was to raise a hand to his face to soothe him. Instead, she took two steps back. That wasn’t how this worked. It wasn’t how it worked at all. She was at her job, and just because Tav looked handsome while brooding over the well-being of children didn’t change the fact that he was her boss.
“I’m sure having this program helps,” she offered instead. “You’re doing something.”
“It’s not enough. And with the way sales are going . . .” He shook his head and she imagined she knew what he felt—the sick, impotent knowledge that some things were beyond your control. She would’ve suggested they get a pint, which had been her usual remedy for that malady, but that was her old game plan.
“What’s your favorite type of sword?” she asked, continuing to gather the foam ones scattered on the ground.
“Medieval claymore,” he said without hesitation. “A nice heavy, long two-hander.”
Portia fumbled the swords she’d collected and shot him a look, but she realized that he wasn’t trying to be funny—she was the only one whose mind had taken a running leap into innuendo land.
“Why?” she asked. “What do you like about it? How does it handle compared to, say, a broadsword?”
Tav picked up the last length of foam from the floor and poked her in the arm with it. “Are you trying to distract me from the woes of the world, Freckles?”
She grinned at him. “Is it working?”
“You don’t have to ask questions to distract me.”
