The whole display took about six seconds.
I glanced over at Jacob, who still seemed a little incredulous. I rolled my eyes, wondering what it would take to impress this guy. “Show him again, Tanya. But slower. Walk him through it.”
Tanya danced through the movements again, explaining the kata—one of the very first she had ever learned—as she went: the grab and stomp to pin the assailant in place, the elbow to the solar plexus to drive the air out and force the attacker forward in time to meet the next elbow, which would shock and disorient the attacker long enough for the victim to step forward, deliver a strong back kick to their assailant’s face, and then…
Tanya shrugged. “Depends how much damage I want to do.”
I turned to Jacob and explained that, in theory, Kenpo was all about reaction—that its function was primarily one of self-defense. In practice, however, the easiest way to feel secure was to make sure the attacker was too maimed to hurt you or anyone else, ever again.
The best defense was a strong offense, in other words.
“What if it was just someone asking for directions?” Jacob asked, smirking.
“Then they should’ve used their words, not their hands,” I replied, shrugging.
Jacob’s smirk faded, his expression thoughtful. “Do you spar during the advanced class?”
I noticed Tanya’s face had paled considerably. “We do,” I responded. “But there’s no one here I’d pair ye with, at your level.”
Jacob nodded absentmindedly before meeting my eyes. “I’ll spar with your best, then, and go easy.”
Chapter 10
Jenny bowed to Jacob, her opponent, then pulled her long blonde hair into a functional ponytail. I’d considered teaching the presumptuous bastard a lesson myself, but she’d insisted. “I like pinning the cute, cocky ones,” she said, when I told her what he’d said. She and I had exchanged looks, a laugh, and that was that.
A girl likes what she likes.
I checked to make sure they were ready, then called for the fight to begin and backed away, keeping a close eye on both; it was my job to track points and watch for any illegal strikes.
Jenny adopted a balanced stance and worked her way from one side of the mat to the other, her forearms weaving as she maneuvered her guard in response to Jacob’s slight body language cues. His own stance was surprisingly mobile, his hands high by his face, one leg slightly forward, both knees slightly bent.
“Muay Thai?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Jacob almost smiled, but then focused his attention back on Jenny. He poked out a punch, but she simply slid out of reach, careful to maintain her distance until she knew what he was capable of.
Unfortunately, he didn’t give her that kind of time.
The side of Jacob’s foot arced towards Jenny’s head with surprising speed, missing only by a hair as Jenny danced away. True to the Muay Thai style, Jacob let his momentum carry him until he was facing her once again.
At least he didn’t seem bored anymore.
I took a second to glance at the crowd, all of whom seemed eager for a blow to land. I had to admit, so was I; fights like these always got my blood up. But then I noticed Jenny hesitate out of the corner of my eye, like a startled deer caught in the headlights, frozen in place. That’s when Jacob launched himself at her, shoulder pressed against her thighs as he rose and twisted, bringing her down in a motion so smooth it might have been called art had it not ended so violently.
Jacob was mounted over her hips before she could react, one hand pinning both her wrists up and behind her head, the other raised over her face and balled into a fist, the implication clear.
“Enough,” I said.
Jacob glanced at me, shrugged, and rolled off.
Tanya, who stood a few feet away, approached as Jacob waded into the small crowd of students—many of whom were too shocked to be congratulatory. I frowned, ignoring the nagging sensation that I’d missed something.
“I’m sorry,” Tanya said once she was within earshot. “I wanted to say something sooner, but while he was signing the waiver, he kept asking about fights here. It sounded like he was itching for one.”
I patted her shoulder. “Don’t ye worry about it,” I insisted. “Some men are like that. Besides, Jenny’s a big girl, she can handle gettin’ tossed around a wee bit.” As if to prove it, I padded over and offered Jenny my hand. Casual conversations began to bubble up as the class realized what time it was. “Not like ye to freeze,” I remarked as I drew Jenny to her feet.
She turned away. Embarrassment, maybe? His takedown had been smoothly executed, but Jenny should have seen it coming. I decided not to press. “Alright class,” I yelled, “that’s all for today!”
“You didn’t see his face,” Jenny whispered as she brushed past me. I frowned after her, but—before I could follow and ask what she meant—I found Tanya at my elbow once more, looking down at her feet, her brow furrowed.
“Was there somethin’ else?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. He, uh…well, he asked me a bunch of other questions. About you. I thought you should know.”
I scowled and quickly scanned the crowd, but couldn’t find Jacob among the sea of black gis; he must have already left. I turned and shrugged. “Men are like that, too,” I said, wryly. “I t’ink it’s best to avoid ‘em whenever possible.” I winked and was gratified by Tanya’s small, tight-lipped smile.
Especially because that meant she couldn’t see the alarm bells going off in my head.
Chapter 11
By the time I made it to my aunt Desdemona’s townhouse, I’d managed to shake off the icky feeling I’d left the dojo with after learning I had a potential stalker on my hands. It helped, of course, that I was headed to my childhood home; if I hoped to feel safe anywhere, it was here.
The townhouse was one of those reclaimed colonial buildings that Boston is known for: brick on stone on brick, the glass and white window trim older than most presidents. I’d grown up in it, trading in sets of furniture over the years, slowly conforming to Dez’s eclectic, precolonial tastes.
As I crossed the threshold, I spotted the picture of the two of us looming over her mantle—her dark, classically pretty features a fierce contrast to my thick red mane and a face that most found more fascinating than attractive. We wore classic ballgowns, modeled after women of a different era—Dez a refined Scarlett O’Hara, myself a young, bratty Mary Kate Danaher.
Dez really liked her old movies.
I’d always hated dresses, but I’d sat for the portrait at Dez’s request. Its twin hung in the master bedroom, except in that portrait my mother sat in my place, her smile bright and welcoming—only a few years removed from the day she died and the day I was born.
Desdemona, my mother’s best friend, had adopted me shortly thereafter, insisting I call her my aunt to avoid confusion; we looked nothing alike, after all. Still, despite not being blood relatives, somehow, I’d inherited both her accent and her stubbornness.
In fact, she and I had gotten into an argument about that very painting, which I’d planned on taking for myself when I moved out. Dez had refused to part with it. “Your ma was me best friend in all the world,” she’d said. “I want to keep her memory close, Quinn.”
When I’d asked why her relationship with my mother trumped mine, she’d tugged my ear. “Because ye have more of her in ye than ye know, and ye can find it without me help. Besides, I paid for it.”
I smiled at the memory as I left the living room and headed towards the stairs. “Dez, it’s me!” I called.
“Quinn! Come in, I’m in the guest room upstairs.”
I followed the sound of her voice and the telltale pounding of a hammer. The guest room, which had once been my room, had recently been converted to a workshop—except Dez hated that term for some reason and continued to call it a guest room out of pure obstinacy, as if I could still stay the night so long as I didn’t mind sleeping in a room full of kni
ckknacks and sawdust.
I found her bent over the thick worktable, covered in paint of every color, tinkering with her latest project. I couldn’t tell what it was, but she was clearly invested in it, so I did what any good family member would do and pretended to care.
“Very nice,” I said.
“Oh, shut up,” she replied, not bothering to look up. “Ye don’t even know what it is, ye silly t’ing. With all the trouble in Italy…ye know, with the Vatican bombin’ and all that, Patricia thought we should try and sell a few new pieces and send the proceeds as charity.”
Dez, a staunch Catholic and former member of the IRA, had long ago chosen Charity as her preferred virtue—her way of giving back to atone for a past she refused to talk about. Lately, she seemed especially compelled, often working into the wee hours on one project or another. Of course, it didn’t help that Patricia—one of those high-minded, heavy-handed converter types—was Dez’s next door neighbor, and the sort of woman who prided herself on her ability to organize little, artsy ways to give back to the community. But, considering I didn’t exactly spend my evenings in a soup kitchen ladling cream of mushroom into the cups of the unfortunate, I supposed I shouldn’t throw stones.
Maybe just a little shade.
“That’s sweet of ye,” I said.
“Well, it’s sweet of ye to come see me today,” she said. She unhooked the apron she wore over her clothes, removed the mangled shirt she’d tied over her head to cover her hair, and faced me, smiling. “Now, come give your aunt a hug.”
“Is that me shirt?” I asked incredulously, pointing at the stained and shredded piece of fabric in her right hand.
“Why, it may be,” Dez said, turning it about in the light as if she had never before seen it. “Oh, I am so sorry, Quinn. I hadn’t realized…”
“Ye hadn’t realized ye were usin’ me t-shirt as a bonnet? The t-shirt I got from the concert I went to when I was sixteen that ye grounded me for? Well,” I said, folding my arms over my chest, “you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe a word of it.”
Dez glanced up at the ceiling, put on her most innocent face, and proceeded to thoroughly wipe her grimy hands clean with my t-shirt.
“I’ll kill ye,” I growled.
She laughed and tossed the shirt at me as I chased her around the room. She squealed. “Quinn! Be careful, there’s plastic on the floor!”
I caught her by the waist a few seconds later, laughing. “I swear on me power that if I ever catch ye with one of me t-shirts on your head again, I will toss ye out a window, ye miserable old bag.”
Dez swatted at me. “Set me down right now. What’s this ‘on me power’ nonsense, then?”
I lowered her to the ground, chuckling. “I heard it from a wizard.”
“And what was his name?” she asked, clearly upset to learn I’d been consorting with wizards. Dez was aware Freaks existed—both she and my mother had encountered a few back in Ireland years ago—but she knew nothing about what I did for a living, or who I did business with. I knew she wouldn’t approve, of course, but mainly I kept it a secret to avoid her having to worry about me.
Or that’s what I told myself, at least.
“Harry,” I said, after a second’s hesitation. “Of the House Gryffindor, First of His Unfortunate Name, The Boy Who Lived, Seeker of Snitches, and Father of Gingers.”
“Well, ye tell this Harry to leave ye alone and leave his oaths to himself. I won’t have me own niece listenin’ to the likes of him and his dirty no good…” The rest of what she said faded to a dull mutter that was vaguely offensive, but mostly amusing.
You see, there were two things Desdemona disliked more than anything else in the world: magic, and books that weren’t written by John or Luke. Technically, the Harry Potter series fell into both camps, which is why I’d used him as my scapegoat. I couldn’t tell her that several months back I’d had to handle a hostage situation alongside Boston PD and, in the process, had met a spectacularly inept wizard—a wizard who, unfortunately, wouldn’t be around to make oaths ever again.
“D’ye know a man came by the other day, lookin’ for ye,” Dez said, interrupting my thoughts.
“A man?”
“Aye, a man. Although I must say he looked a little off. He walked funny, like somethin’ was wrong with his leg. I offered to help him back to his car, but he put me off. Still, seemed nice enough.”
“I didn’t give anyone this address, Dez. Ye know I wouldn’t. Besides, I haven’t lived here in years.”
Dez shrugged. “Well, anyway, he said ye should keep an eye out for him. Didn’t leave a name, though. Said he’d be in touch.”
“That’s all ye found out? Some answerin’ service ye are.”
“Don’t ye take that tone with me, Quinn MacKenna,” Dez shot back. “Are ye hungry?” she asked, shifting tones seamlessly. “I made stew.”
I felt my stomach recoil at the thought of more food after my fattening Irish breakfast. As much as I liked to joke with Ryan and stuff my face when we got together, I kept a pretty close eye on my diet and hit the gym religiously—it paid to be fit in my line of work. It also paid to be a decent shot, a superb hand-to-hand fighter, familiar with various types of weapons, and able to tie lots of knots. Basically, I’d inadvertently spent my entire adult life preparing to do what I did for a living.
That, and win gold in the Zombie Apocalypse Olympics.
“No,” I said, finally, “I think I’m alright, I can’t stay long.” I could see she was disappointed, so I added, “I honestly didn’t feel well this mornin’. Keepin’ me food down might be a struggle.”
“Because ye were out drinkin’ all night, I’d wager,” Dez said, pointing at me with an accusatory finger.
“Of course not, it’s probably mornin’ sickness,” I joked.
Dez froze. “What?” She reached out and snatched both my arms, her grip painfully tight. “What did ye just say, Quinn?”
I tried to pull back, but Dez wouldn’t budge. “Easy there, Dez. It was just a joke, I swear.”
“Swear it on your power.”
I laughed, thinking she was teasing me for my comment earlier, but she didn’t join in. She simply stood there, staring at me. She looked…sad. No, not sad. Grief-stricken. I relaxed and bent down a bit, so she didn’t have to strain her neck to look up at me. “I swear it on me power, Dez. A joke. Nothin’ more.”
Dez let go of my arms and stumbled into the table. I tried to catch her, but she shooed me away. Once steady, she rose and clasped my arm, much lighter this time. “Ye mustn’t scare me like that, Quinn.”
“Oh?” I asked. “Shame on ye, Desdemona Jones. T’is the twenty-first century, I’ll have ye know. I can go and have meself a baby if I want one.” I refrained from mentioning the fact that the idea of raising a plant, let alone a tiny human, filled me with anxiety.
“I know that, dear…” she replied, drifting off for a moment to collect herself. “It’s just the last person I cared about who got pregnant was your ma, and t’ings didn’t go as planned after that. I’m sorry. I lost me head there for a second.”
It all clicked into place—of course she was concerned. My family had a long history of troubled pregnancies, according to what my mother had told Dez. I’d basically joked about having cancer, as far as my aunt was concerned. “Oh, right,” I said, fighting off the urge to curse, “I should’ve realized—”
“Don’t ye worry, dear,” Dez said, patting my arm.
“So…” I said, glancing over her shoulder at what she’d been working on—an assortment of wood and paint and glass. “How ‘bout ye tell me about this project you’re workin’ on?”
“Don’t ye have to be somewhere?” Dez asked.
“I can spare some time.”
Chapter 12
I ended up making it to the bar only a few minutes late, which, it turned out, was still a few minutes earlier than Ryan had expected me to show. I frowned at him as he finished tidying up, folding plastic
wrap over tubs of fruit and placing them in the knee-high refrigerators that lined the base of the bar.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ryan said, his back turned.
I scowled.
“Don’t look at me like that, either.”
I rolled my eyes. “So, where’s the little guy?”
Ryan grunted. “He’s in the storage warehouse around back. I wouldn’t call him that, though.”
“And why not? Is he big?”
Ryan craned his head toward the ceiling and the glinting tin foil dragon that loomed over us, mulling over my question. “Depends on the lighting,” he replied, finally.
I frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Ryan chuckled. “It’s hard to explain. You know, it’s funny, but I never actually met a spriggan in Fae. My father did, though. Back then he was serving in the palace guard, putting in his hundred years.”
“His what now?”
Ryan picked up a glass to polish as he explained, “It’s basically like compulsory military service; you pull your century working for a royal house and then go on about your business. Some Fae like the benefits and stick around, some don’t.”
I took a seat at the bar. I had a dozen questions, but I didn’t want to interrupt Ryan’s story. He never really talked about his time in Fae, not his family or the truth behind his exile. All I knew was that, about thirty years ago or so, he’d been thrown out of Fae for some slight or other. I’d even heard a rumor or two that he’d killed another Faeling—but when I brought that possibility up, he’d laughed like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. Apparently, homicides were far more common—not to mention socially acceptable—in Fae. According to Ryan, getting kicked out for killing one of your own there would be the equivalent of getting life without parole for shitting on your neighbor’s lawn.
I still had no idea if he’d been pulling my leg or not.
Thinking back on it, I realized I knew very little about Ryan, really; I’d only met him a few years back, after an unfortunate run-in with a troll under Paul’s Bridge whose name, incidentally, had also been Paul.
Whiskey Ginger: Phantom Queen Book 1 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 5
