Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One)

by Lysa Daley

  Believe me; no one goofs around or talks back in my uncle's class.

  "Practice creates habits,” he continues. “If your practice is sloppy, then sloppy becomes your habit. If you practice with focus, determination, and precision, then that will become your habit."

  They nod, all wide-eyed, soaking up his ancient wisdom. But, frankly, I've heard this speech about habits and focus and determination, at least, a thousand times. It's gotten more than a bit old.

  He continues, "Strong trees grow with adversity."

  Okay, here we go with the whole trees and the storm bit.

  "It is only through weathering the storm and the raging wind that a tree gains strength. If you do not push yourself, if you do not allow yourself to struggle to improve in your practice of karate, then you will not grow strong."

  I tune out the life lesson on how karate makes us all better people and head to the tiny girls' locker room to change into my uniform. He has one female student for every seven males, so we girls pretty much get an oversized broom closet as our changing room.

  As I walk past, my uncle turns his back to his students and gives me a quick wink with just the smallest trace of a smile.

  Generally, there is no smiling in karate.

  Pushing through the locker room, I smile back.

  My starched white karate uniform hangs from the hook in my locker. You don't get to wear the way better, so much cooler black uniform until you're at the master level.

  Okay, so, I'm pretty good at karate. I mean, I should be, right? I've only been doing it since I was 5-years-old. If you attack me in an alley, there is no doubt I’ll go all ninja on you.

  Unfortunately, my weakness is combat with weapons. I'm all thumbs if I have to swing, thrust, parry, or strike with any sort of weapon.

  Also, I hate it.

  I prefer just to fight the old fashion way - with my hands and feet, not to mention the occasional head-butt.

  For any regular student of karate, that would be perfectly acceptable. Unfortunately, for some reason, my uncle refuses to accept this flaw in my character and is determined to fix me. Which is why I have to be here three times a week to work on weapons training.

  Twenty minutes later, I'm standing on the mat with my white helmet tucked under my arm. My arms and shins are padded; I'm wearing clown-like red sparring gloves and foot gear; plus I'm holding my weapon -- a bow staff -- basically just a big stick, sort of like the wooden handle of a broom except it has a slight curve or "bow" to it.

  Oh, if only Chad Olson could see me now, surely he'd be unable to resist my charms. That is if he has a thing for the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

  I look at the 5-foot long piece of wood in my hands and curse my nemesis.

  Although the bō is now used as a weapon, it is believed by some to have evolved from the long tenbin, a smooth stick balanced across your shoulders and used to carry buckets of water. Back in the day, peasants in the Japanese countryside used tenbins for training because they didn't have fancy metal swords.

  To me, it's nothing more than a big ugly stick.

  My class consists of seven teenage boys, all at least twice my size. But I'm not worried. I have more training, technique, and ability than any of them. The only thing they have on me is size and strength. Along with male aggression, determination, and an unwavering desire to please my uncle.

  As class begins, we stand at attention with our hands folded behind our back as my uncle addresses us.

  "Today, we will have a challenge round. Whoever wins will be excused from the three mile run at the end of class," my uncle explains as he walks down our line. "If you win your challenge round, you will remain in the circle to fight again. Whoever is left standing at the end is the winner. Do we understand?"

  "Yes, sir!" the class barks in unison.

  "Astrid, you're first." He points at me.

  Really?

  "Yes, sir!" I bark with military precision, stepping into the center of the sparring circle with my bow staff.

  "Jonas!" he points to the biggest and meanest of my classmates. "You're up."

  "Yes, sir!" Jonas answers with a glint of excitement in his eye.

  He’s a pretty decent guy with the exception of his big ego. He's also the oldest and most senior member of this group at nineteen. Six months ago my uncle hired him to be an assistant teacher with the little kids.

  Anyway, I know what Jonas is thinking. He thinks he's got this one in the bag. Fighting the only girl in the first round will be an easy win.

  Well, we shall see about that Jonas.

  Uncle stands to the side and says, "Bow-kinya." Which means that we hold our bow staffs in our right hands, slide our feet together, and bow to each other with perfectly straight backs, while never, ever taking our eyes off each other.

  You never let your eyes wander away from your opponent, lest your opponent should decide to attack at that instant. That’s Martial Arts 101.

  "Remember, it is harder to control your strikes than it is to hit someone hard," my uncle reminds us. You're expected to show restraint and not clobber your opponent with abandon when you're just practicing.

  We both whip our bow staffs in front of our bodies and hold them in an offensive position while sliding one foot back into a fighting stance. We are preparing to spar.

  "Begin!" my uncle calls out and steps out of the circle.

  Jonas instantly lunges forward, attacking, roughly swinging his staff at my head. Just like I knew he would. These dumb boys are so predictable.

  I take a step to my right and duck, missing the whip circle of his bow. Then I roll forward on my shoulder while swinging my bow, taking him down at the ankles.

  Jonas' feet fly up in the air, and he thumps down hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

  I'm on my feet with the tip of my bow pressed right over his heart.

  I win. Jonas loses.

  "That strike was a little low!" my uncle chides me. "That's nearly cheating, Astrid."

  Except it's not cheating. Because it wasn't technically too low.

  Jonas gasps for air on the mat.

  "Still... this first fight to Astrid!" my uncle says as a humiliated Jonas rolls out of the fighting circle and slowly gets to his feet.

  Even with his headgear on, I can see that Jonas is both pissed and embarrassed as he slinks back to his place in line.

  "Nate," my uncle points to the next biggest student. "You're next."

  Oh, so this is how it's going to be.

  He plans to make me fight each of these boys from biggest to smallest. Fine. Bring it, I say. In the end, it takes me less than fifteen minutes to defeat all seven boys in my class.

  Which means I win; which means I don't have to run three miles; which means I won't be a sweaty mess after class. Yay for me!

  "Does anyone want to spar again?" my uncle asks, hoping one of them will volunteer to fight me again.

  The group remains silent. Wimps.

  Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, ready to step out of the sparring circle, I hear my uncle say, "How about you, Jax? I understand you're quite the trained fighter."

  Jax? Not the loser handyman out painting the building? How desperate are we?

  I turn to see Jax sauntering across the back of the studio carrying a couple of dirty paint brushes.

  "Me? Nah," he replies, uncomfortable with everyone suddenly looking at him. Wearing ratty work clothes covered with paint, he’s completely out of place in a pristine studio filled with students in their crisp white uniforms.

  "I'm told you trained and fought under the great We-Lyyn," my uncle adds, smiling at him with hands on his hips. "That should make you more than prepared to spar with a teenage girl."

  Jax gives my uncle a thin smile and drops his head. He isn't going to rise to this bait. "That was light years ago, sir. I'm afraid you'll find I'm pretty rusty."

  The idea of fighting this guy is almost appealing, but since it looks like I'm off the hook, I'm ready to grab my wat
er bottle.

  "I'll double your rate if you defeat the girl," my uncle calls out, and I shoot him my very best death glare. Why is my uncle doing this to me? He sees my dirty look but returns it with a smile.

  “Double?”

  "She needs the challenge."

  Unfortunately, Jax seems to be considering the offer. Why would my uncle pay him twice as much just to spar with me in class?

  "I suppose I could give it a shot." Jax sets the brushes down on an old newspaper then removes his dirty work boots. He steps onto the mat without bowing first. We always bow in respect before we step on the mat. It's a tradition as old as martial arts.

  My eyes flick over to my uncle, who has noticed the lack of bow but does not say anything. I've never seen him let that go before.

  "I don't have a weapon," Jax shrugs.

  My uncle points to a nearby corner of the studio where a barrel sits filled with extra weapons.

  Jax selects the longest and most difficult staff to use. Rookie mistake. Not a smart choice.

  But then, he examines it briefly and spins it, lightening fast, around his head. He's handling the unfamiliar weapon like an expert. Uh oh. My stomach drops. Perhaps I underestimated this guy.

  "Ready to rock and roll, princess?" he grins.

  "I was born ready," I reply, annoyed. “And don’t call me princess.” Only my uncle can call me that.

  "Fight!" my uncle yells.

  Before I can attack, Jax juts forward in fighting stance with his bow staff aimed at my head. I struggle to thrust my staff up parallel to the ground and block his strike.

  "Excellent block, Astrid," Uncle calls out, circling the perimeter of the sparring ring. "But remember to follow up with an attack. Find that inner calm. Draw on the essence of the inner warrior."

  I swing my left hand down, pulling my bow staff toward Jax's head.

  He wants fierce. I'll give him fierce.

  A strike to the chest or the head counts as a point. Unexpectedly, I connect with his helmet.

  Point!

  However, I hit him possibly a wee bit harder than I meant to. Jax stumbles back, shaking his head.

  "No point! Too hard." I turn to Uncle, who is frowning. "Control, Astrid."

  I swear the man is never happy. There is no denying my uncle is ten times harder on me than the other kids.

  Any other student at this studio would have gotten that point. Any other kid wouldn't have to take karate five days a week. Any other kid would have gotten their weapons black belt years ago. Not me.

  Jax gets back into fighting stance. He looks pissed.

  "Begin!" Uncle starts the round again.

  We circle each other, and I realize I'm taking too many flat-footed steps.

  "Find the grace of the deer." My uncle sees my awkward movement too.

  I slow my footwork down and move on the balls of my feet. We go back and forth. Parry, strike, block.

  Jax is surprisingly fast. He's clearly been trained by someone who knows what they're doing.

  He attacks from the left, forcing me to lean back. He misses and for a split second loses his balance.

  I see my opportunity and advance striking out. This is the kill shot. With this strike, I will have won.

  But somehow I miss.

  He's fast and rolls away avoiding my bow. I whiff, my bow slicing through the air, causing me to stumble forward.

  "Use the agility of the monkey and the balance of the crane to focus your strikes," my uncle calls to me. "Stop being so wild and clunky.”

  I take half a step back, breathing in through my nose to gather myself. He's right. I have to align my energy and control my attack.

  Through his mask, I can see Jax smirking. He thinks this is funny, that I'm not a real challenge.

  Gathering my strength, I lunge forward, my staff striking swift and strong.

  "Good!" my uncle calls out. "Very nice, Astrid."

  I've got Jax on the defensive. I circle my staff low, forcing him to block it. This allows me to kick him firmly in the head.

  He rocks back, and I counter attack with two more strikes - one to the chest and the other to his head.

  I can see the headshot has rocked him; he wobbles unsteadily, and I'm worried I'm about to get another warning about hitting too hard.

  Instead, my uncle claps. "Excellent combination. This is how you should always spar."

  I feel a small surge of pride. I've finally made him proud. I nod, let my eyes flick over to my uncle.

  Wham!

  I'm struck in the head. The wooden stick cracks me on the helmet just above my left ear before I ever see it coming.

  My head rockets to the side and stars float in front of my eyes. Blood pounds in my ears as I fall hard on the mat.

  I was dumb enough to take my eyes off my opponent, and he has taken me down. When I look up, my uncle is moving toward me. "Astrid, are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

  For just an instant, my eyes go fuzzy, and I see a strange bluish halo swirling around behind my uncle, radiating up and outward.

  For a split second, his face is replaced by the sharp-angled face of a scaly monster.

  Then it's back to normal.

  "Don't try to sit up, honey," my uncle says. "Just stay down for a second."

  "Ooookey doke," I mumble as everything goes black.

  Chapter 7

  When I regain consciousness, I'm lying flat on my back on the lumpy couch in my uncle's office. It must be after 7 p.m. because the window is dark.

  Also, I can hear the distant murmur of grown-ups, which probably means the adult class is in full swing out in the studio.

  The sound of my uncle's voice fades in approaching his office. “…But they helped contain this latest threat.”

  A second voice, a voice I don't recognize, replies, "You shouldn't trust them."

  “We neutralized the Grail immediately.” There's a pause, then my uncle says, "They would not have done that if they’d joined forces with the Swarm."

  “Don’t be so sure," the other voice answers. "If they haven't already betrayed you, they will."

  "I can't move the child again without telling her," my uncle replies. "She’s settled and thriving here. But I fear she’s beginning to figure out the truth.

  “You must tell her soon."

  Tell me what? I sit up with the intention of sneaking over to the door so I can hear better, but I get too dizzy, and I’m forced to lie back down.

  My uncle must have heard me because his face appears in the doorway. "Astrid, sweetheart. How do you feel?"

  "My head’s a little fuzzy, but I'm alright." I look over his shoulder, waiting for the owner of the second voice to appear. But no one does.

  "You weren't concentrating," my uncle says, pushing the hair out of my face. "You continue to lack focus. Which is exactly why we have to keep working with weapons. Maybe we should add a few private classes every week."

  "No. I quit," I say firmly.

  “Excuse me?”

  Normally, I would never stand up to my uncle like this. Maybe getting hit in the head shook things up in my brain. "I hate weapons, and I'm not doing it anymore."

  "That's ridiculous. Your weapons training is very important."

  "Why?" I ask pointedly.

  He hesitates. "Because being proficient with weapons is something every well trained martial artist must attain."

  I am so sick of this lecture.

  "Did I not just kick the butt of every boy in the advanced class? All of whom are practically twice my size. How is that not proficient?"

  "That's not the point," my uncle says calmly. "Astrid, you must learn how to block out any distractions. It's important that you can defend yourself. In any situation."

  "Can we go home?" I'm obviously not getting through to him.

  He looks at me for a long moment then sighs. "We can leave as soon as I finish with payroll."

  "Can I, at least, get something to eat?" This is less an actual question
and more a plea for some cash. "I'm starving."

  He walks over to his desk, pulls his money clip out of the top drawer, and hands me a measly five. "Here you go."

  "Plus something to drink."

  He gives me a cool look then hands me a $20 bill. "I want the change back."

  I reach for it, but he pulls the twenty away until I reluctantly hand the original five bucks back. "Thanks," I say without meeting his eyes.

  “Make a healthy choice,” he calls after me.

  I roll my eyes, pull a school sweatshirt on over my karate uniform and stalk out the front entrance heading toward the deli right next door.

  I spot Jax up on scaffolding rolling on a fresh coat of paint. Since I arrived this afternoon, he's covered a patch about 15 feet by 15 feet, which means he's now about 6-7% complete.

  I try super hard to ignore him as I pass, but unfortunately, he spots me. "So I take it you're not going to congratulate me on my big win?"

  "Lucky shot," I reply, not looking at him.

  "Yeah, sorry about that last strike," Jax says apologetically, but the cocky grin plastered across his stupid face indicates that's he's proud of knocking me on my butt.

  "In case you didn't notice, you fouled out, ninja warrior. You blindsided me."

  "No such thing as a foul in a real battle," he says, focusing his brush on the area around the window.

  "Yeah except that was a sparring match in a class." I point out the obvious with an edge in my voice. This guy is so arrogant. "Not some street fight where dirty tricks and low blows are perfectly acceptable."

  He stops painting and turns to face me. "I suggest you learn the art of the dirty trick and the low blow if you're hoping to survive."

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means a girl as pretty as you should probably know how to defend herself.” He winks at me.

  Is this guy actually trying to flirt with me?

  "You need to work on your pick up lines," I say, pushing open the door to the little grocery store and giving him a goodbye flick of the wrist.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Princess,” he smirks, then goes back to painting.

  I hate this guy. I hate karate. I hate the stupid bow staff.

  Right now, I just want a dulce de leche muffin and a vanilla latte. There's a StarCoffee about three blocks away, but would my uncle possibly let me walk that far? Nope. So I am stuck with the coffee and muffins from the Latin deli two doors down from our studio. Not that it’s all that bad.