by Dyan Brown
The button glows, but no alarms are sounds. I was hoping for an explosion of sound to scare the bastards away. I can hear faint whispering from the kitchen when the princess finally finds her way to the top of the staircase to investigate the crash she heard earlier. Thank God she’s still clutching her cell phone to her ear.
The men, both dressed in dark colored jeans and hooded sweatshirts partially hiding their faces, pull the butler door inside the kitchen so they can peer out into the foyer without being seen. They obviously don’t see the woman or me. The spiral of the stairs is blocking their view of her.
The first man flattens his body against the wall and silently side-steps around until he’s standing next to the grandfather clock, and then he motions with a low wave for the other man to follow. That’s when the bride-to-be does the one thing that always makes me want to smack every victim in every horror movie I’ve ever seen.
“Hello?”
By the time I’ve found the strength not to roll my eyes or pointlessly shout at her, the two men are already flying up the stairs with large strides, one behind the other. As soon as they’re in sight, she screams, and in a panic, she throws the only thing she can at them—her phone. It shatters on the floor near my feet as I cross to the stairs, trailing after the men.
The woman has fled down the hall and locked herself in the room with the broken vase. The men are outside the door, alternating shoulder slams into the door to break it open. Hopefully, she pushed the dresser in front of the door. I don’t remember if there was a phone in that room, but the police should be along soon.
“Genevieve!” one of the men calls, drawing her name out tauntingly. “We’re coming to get you!”
I can hear her sobbing on the other side of the door.
“Why are you doing this?” Genevieve screams through her tears, the terror apparent by the way her voice shakes and cracks.
“Why don’t you ask your father?” the second man shouts. “He laid off half the company to save his own ass. Now, six months later, he’s in the news giving you a million-dollar wedding?” He switches shoulders for another go at the door.
“Do you know what happened when he laid me off?” the other man continues, her only reply deep sobs. “I lost my house, my car, and my family. My wife left me to move to Illinois. That bitch took my kids away. Now, I’m going to show your jackass of a father what it feels like to have his child taken away!”
Grunting with force, he’s abandoned the shoulder slams and is now kicking the door.
Just as I’ve been taught, I’m trying for a minimal amount of intervention. It’s not until I see the kicking edging the door open and feel the tug on my diaphragm that I’m forced to act. As the frame of the door starts to crack under the force of his kicks, I decide he should know what the door feels like.
Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I plan my actions carefully, stepping behind and to the side of the man who ‘lost everything.’ I center my weight and move into my Joon Bi stance, my feet shoulder-width apart. My left foot is forward and my right is back; my fist is at chest level and ready to strike.
I’m parallel with the door behind which Genevieve is hiding, giving my right leg as much force as possible when propelled forward. As my foot contacts the side of the destitute’s head, he’s thrown headfirst into the door and then falls like a sack of potatoes to the ground. The shorter, second man is taken aback—in shock from the attack, but still quicker to react than I thought.
I reset to roundhouse Shorty, but he’s on the defensive and blocks my kick easily with a raised forearm. I guess they can see me now. Crap!
He grabs hold of my calf with his other hand, twisting it so I’m thrown off balance. There’s a dull pain on the front of my calf where his arm hit. Using my hands to brace my fall, I sweep my left leg under and around, knocking Shorty off his feet. He lands on his tailbone with a thud, cursing as he goes.
I push back up into to my Joon Bi stance, resetting for the next attack. I’ve got most of the taekwondo basics down thanks to Grayson, but I’m still working on my speed—especially when transitioning from one stance to another. Cedrick says I should think of moments like these as opportunities to train for the war. These guys are just my practice dummies, so I let myself emotionally disconnect from the situation.
Destitute is already standing. Blood is starting to trickle down from his temple. “Where the hell did you come from?”
I keep my voice low so Genevieve can’t hear me, her sobbing still audible from the hallway. “You didn’t really think she’d be unprotected, did you?” I arch my brow, challenging him, knowing I only need to keep them busy until the police get here.
“Whatever, bitch.” He comes at me with his full body, his head bulldozing into my waist, lifting me off the ground and slamming both of us into the wall. The impact knocks the air from my lungs and sends my head throbbing. I clench my teeth to help me think past the pain. Using my right arm to force down my left, I elbow Destitute on top of his shoulder. He cries out in pain and loosens his hold as he braces himself against the wall.
Finally, without his weight against my chest, my lungs inflate. I fill them quickly, trying not to lose the advantage I have while he recovers. With such little distance between us, I’m only able to short kick him in the ribs. When the top of my foot comes up under him and makes impact with his torso, I hear a crack from within his body. He falls to the side, cursing repeatedly under his breath and moaning.
See, Sam? This isn’t so hard.
I doubt he’ll be getting up anytime soon. Bracing myself against the wall with one hand, I try to catch my breath and glance around. The cops should be close, right? Close enough to see their lights from one of the front bedrooms. I turn toward the first room on the left since it faces the front of the house but don’t get far before I see Shorty has recovered.
Oh, shit. Shorty’s back.
“I’m not done with you, little girl!”
Okay, I guess it’s one down, and one to go. I turn back, ready to rain hell on him for calling me a little girl, but I see something shiny in his hand. Gleaming in the dim light of the hallway is a six-inch switchblade.
17
I push back the panic as bile rises in my throat. He’s not more than five feet from me, so avoiding this confrontation is not an option. I remain silent, even though thousands of thoughts are running through my mind, the foremost of which concerns the whereabouts of Cedrick when I’m about to be gutted. Isn’t he supposed to keep me safe until the war comes?
Breathing deeply to center myself, I reset into my fighting stance, staring him down. There’s no time for fear. This is what I’ve been chosen to do. God will protect me, and I trust that.
Shorty gives a small nod, understanding that I mean to take him on. He makes a small jump at me, trying to spook me, but I don’t react. Instead, I concentrate on his eyes, narrowing my own in return. The amount of focus it takes to use precognition in a fight is exhausting, but it’s the last weapon in my arsenal.
Sensing his want to lean to the right, I ready myself to move to my right. I am correct, and as he comes at me from the right, I step slightly to the side and avoid the blade. Keeping my center of gravity low, I throw a few punches at him, landing most of them. We circle in the narrow hallway, trading punches and missed knife thrusts.
He catches me with the sharp edge of his blade on my forearm; I feel the burn of the slice and the warmth of blood running down to my elbow. Despite the wound, I keep my fists up and tight, taking a step back. I need to disarm him before Destitute decides to try for a third helping. These past few minutes have felt like hours. Where are those freaking cops?
There is a fraction of a pause from both of us as we regroup. Suddenly, I see something that makes the corner of my lips turn upward. His brows press together in confusion. I lift my head slightly, gesturing to the red-and-blue flashing lights I see behind him. He turns his head slightly to see what’s made me happy, and I know I can’t waste this ope
ning.
I reach for his outstretched hand, grabbing the back of his wrist. Using my other hand to push the back of his hand, I break the strength of his grip and force the blade away from my body. Stepping backward, I turn to the side until his balance is thrown off and he’s thrown to the ground from the leverage.
Bending the back of his wrist over my knee, I push the handle of the knife down toward the floor and force it from his hand, grabbing the hilt and throwing it with force down the hallway. It lands embedded in the floor like a chef’s knife into a butcher block.
There’s little time to celebrate that badass throw of mine, because Shorty’s already trying to roll back over and gain control. I know the police are almost here; I can’t let him take control again. I twist over him, pressing my knee into his chest and forcing his shoulder blades into the fibers of the carpet runner beneath us. While still holding his wrist with one hand, and before he has any time to react, I quickly jab his nose. There is another satisfying crunch. Unfortunately, neither the pain nor the blood now pouring from his nose seems to slow the fight.
We’ve fought our way so far down the hall we’re now just a few feet from the top of the stairs. I see the opportunity as clear as day and roll my body to the right, grabbing his hand and taking it with me. The momentum pulls Shorty’s body up and over mine as we grapple. Finally, I get him positioned between me and the stairwell. With my knee still tucked up against his chest, I press my feet flat against his pelvis and kangaroo kick him down the stairs.
Keeping my body low to the floor, I watch him tumble like a rag doll down the stairs, building momentum as he goes and finally crashing through the banister and falling into the foyer. My heavy breathing and pounding heart are the only noises still resonating in my ears. High-beam, police-grade flashlights stream through the front window and illuminate the foyer where he landed. It doesn’t take the police long to break down the door. I back farther down the hallway to make sure I’m not seen as I feel my body calling me back home.
I can feel the softness of my bed coming up to meet me, supporting and cradling my body. I squirm and reposition myself on my belly, hugging my pillow and groaning with relief to be home.
“Whatever is behind a moan like that can wait until after I’ve left,” Cedrick says. “Or, if you’re into it, I can just watch while you finish…”
It rarely surprises me anymore when Cedrick shows up at random intervals throughout my day and night. Without lifting my head, I reach over to my nightstand, grab the tissue box, and chuck it in the general direction of my desk, where he usually sits during his sporadic visits. “Seriously, Cedrick, this can’t wait like, five hours? I just got back, and I want to go back to sleep. It’s not like you helped at all back there.”
“One, you missed. Two, my job is not to help you, it’s to train you.” I hear him get up and come closer to me. “Three, I think you’ll have a tough time getting the blood out of your sheets if you don’t let me wrap your arm.”
“What?” My head finally pops off the pillow, and I quickly scan my immediate surroundings, noting that Cedrick has ‘beamed’ my Kleenex box soundlessly back onto my nightstand. I start to roll my eyes and remember the appearance of the knife during the fight. There is a sting running down the underside of my left forearm.
Crap! “Grayson’s going to trip.”
“Nancy should grow some balls. His act is getting a little old.” Cedrick comes and leans against the wall beside my bed, waiting for me to get up. “Bathroom now, O Chosen One.” He sweeps a hand out, gesturing for me to lead the way.
Begrudgingly, I throw my legs out of bed and make my body follow, only because my arm really does hurt. I grab a tissue on my way, wiping at the SOP nosebleed that is now little more than a trickle. In my bathroom, I toss the tissue and hop onto the counter beside the sink and let my legs dangle while I rest my back on the mirror and look down to examine the gash; what I see shocks me.
“Shit!” I hiss. I thought he’d only scratched me, but what I’m looking at is far deeper than I remember. It’ll need stitches for sure.
“Cuts to the soul dig deeper than those to the flesh,” Cedrick repeats.
“No shit, Sherlock!” I snap sarcastically. When he frowns, I feel a pang of guilt. “Sorry. It just hurts and I’m tired. Can you really fix it?”
“I can help,” he says shortly. From the expression on his face, my apology doesn’t seem to have hit home.
He opens the cabinet beneath the sink and produces a first aid kit and a paper cup. He fills the cup with water and gives it to me. Of course, when I look in the cup, the water has turned to wine, so I gratefully sip it while he gets out a curved needle and some blue thread. When I see his tools, my eyes practically pop out of my head and I down the rest of the wine in one swig.
“Hold still.”
“Is that really necessary?” I ask, my voice squeaking into higher octaves. “Can’t you just wave your magic wand and fix it?”
“I’m not a fuckin’ fairy, Sam; and no, I can’t just make it go away,” he snaps, taking my cup from me and refilling it without question.
Damn! What’s his problem?
I decide not to press any more buttons on the guy about to sew my skin shut, so I take another gulp of wine and try to make my voice sweeter. “Is there numbing stuff in there?” I ask, nodding toward the kit.
“Don’t know if you deserve it.”
It’s my turn to look confused and hurt by his attitude.
“Nancy needs to work on your knife defense more.”
I repress another eyeroll. “Yeah. That’ll go over well.”
“We do not have time for you to heal from these types of wounds. It takes more restraint than you know to stay out of your fights, especially when I see you doing stupid shit like going up against a jackass with a knife.” He fills a syringe with clear liquid and starts to inject small amounts into my skin around the gash.
Oh, now I get it. Who would’ve thought Cedrick actually cared about me? Ha!
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m still working on it.” I keep still as he administers the shots, which have never really bothered me. “I’ll do better.”
“I need you to stay in one piece. It’s time to start recruiting. You don’t think you can take on the Harvest Guild on your own, do you? The HG is going to come down on you harder than you think, and I need you to be prepared, not injured. You’ll have a hard time convincing others to join you if you can’t even protect yourself against two untrained burglars.” He presses down on the area around the wound to see if the numbing agent has started to work. When he’s satisfied it has, he grabs the threaded needle and begins to sew up my arm.
“I really am trying, Cedrick. It’s not like I had any weapons of my own other than a little foresight.” I try to look anywhere but at my arm as he sews. I have a strong stomach, but I don’t want to test it.
“Well, there’s one more thing I can teach you that’ll help, but it’s a little premature at this stage in your training.”
“What’s that?”
I try not to sound as eager and curious as I really am, but I can tell it doesn’t work because he stifles a laugh and then stays silent for the remainder of the stitching. Once he ties off and cuts the string, he looks as if he’s processing the thought more than before. My guess is he’s contemplating whether or not to even tell me.
“I can handle it,” I say firmly.
His eyes shoot to mine, checking for any waver in my will. I lift my head, taking a breath that drops my shoulders and puffs my chest, trying to look tough. He finally releases a faint smile.
“Fine, but I’m not letting you know how to do it just yet; I’m just showing you what is possible.”
Turning to the shower behind him, Cedrick opens the curtain. The familiar rasp of tiny beads rolling over a metal rod echoes in the smaller room. He grabs my conditioner and puts it in the farthest corner from us, then slowly raises his hand toward the bottle, palm facing out.
&n
bsp; I assume angels always have the glow of the divine around them, but there is a different, yet familiar, glow that begins to illuminate Cedrick’s raised hand. Remembering the sensation, my right hand warms as if it were bathed in lukewarm water.
He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Keep quiet; you don’t want to wake the princess. Now, this is only on a small scale…”
He flexes his fingers back, making his palm move forward slightly. As he does this, the light that started in his hand condenses into his palm and shoots forward toward the conditioner, burning a hole straight through the center.
I cover my mouth to stifle a squeal. “I can throw, like, energy balls? Hellz yeah!” Grinning like a moron, arm forgotten, I do a victory dance from my seat on the counter.
He rolls his eyes at my antics. “Oh, yeah, you can totally handle it,” says, pulling the shower curtain back into place. “Very mature. We’ll start your advanced training immediately.”
Before I have the chance to snap back with my own sarcastic reply, he slams his hands down on either side of me, his face inches from mine. All humor and sarcasm are gone from his face. He is all business. “What makes you think we have time to fuck around?”
I stop breathing and flush with embarrassment. “I was… I… I just…” I bite my lip for a moment to stop stuttering. “I’m sorry, Cedrick,” I say, trying to regain the confident tone I’d used only moments ago.
He breathes out heavily, the air from his nostrils warming my skin. His jaw twitches with stress, and his purple-and-blue-swirled eyes give me a once-over. They dip down around my body. I’d swear that he lingered on my breast and lips before he squints, leans back, and allows me to vacate the bathroom countertop. I feel tension rise in my shoulders and knots form in my muscles as I head back into my room with Cedrick on my heels. Sitting at the foot of my bed, I watch his large, over-muscled body elegantly resume his place in my desk chair.
