by Ryan Schow
“My studies vary,” I say. “Some of my fighting skills, I’ve developed from…alternative methods of combat.”
“And you want to study with me?” he asks.
“Perhaps.” Of course, I do. And maybe this is why I’ve come to San Francisco, not just for Netty, or to take a break from the boys at Astor, but because I need to quell the onslaught of chaos inside me. Put it to rest before it kills me. All this hatred burning holes inside my heart—this absolute recklessness, this greedy thirst for violence—it needs a leash.
It demands it.
Sensei Naygel turns to one of his black belts, a student I knew as Michael when I trained here last, and he gives the boy a nod. He’s in his late twenties, for sure. Though he isn’t terribly handsome, his body is rock solid. The six foot student approaches, bows to Sensei, then turns to me and bows. I bow in return, a gesture of respect on the surface, but something else entirely for a seasoned black belt. Below the surface, the bow is telling. A yellow belt bows differently than a baby black belt, who bows much different than say, a San-dan or a Yon-dan.
“Are you prepared to fight?” Sensei asks me.
I’m dressed in short shorts with frayed hems and a pink tank top with a cute bra. I’m in no position to fight, but whatever.
“Of course I am,” I say, as if the question is silly.
Already my heart is kicking into gear. Using my mind, I stabilize it, draw a deep breath from my lower abdomen, hold, then exhale in a single, measured release.
My hands don’t go up; I don’t even move. Sensei steps back.
Michael raises his hands, approaches.
My body is the stillness within the storm. My eyes don’t blink, my hands, feet, fingers and toes are at the ready. Michael is a third degree black belt, a San-dan, which under Sensei Naygel’s tutelage means he’s not only ready for the long fight, he’s vicious and lethal.
Michael’s technique is crisp, his speed unchallenged, his power bone-crushing. He is Sensei’s number one. Invincible to everyone but Sensei.
I slide into his mind, feel him feeling me out.
He wants my solar plexus. Wants to stop me, but not injure me. He is also extremely attracted to me. Big surprise…not.
Pushing his attraction aside, thinking only of the look on Sensei’s face that said push her but don’t break her, he draws an angle. I lift my hands, boxer style, keeping my elbows wide so he has a clear shot at my solar plexus—the soft spot beneath my sternum.
He takes the bait, moving swiftly, decisively…toward my face. I’m barely able to deflect his first punch as it sticks my cheek. The second shot drives right into my solar plexus, knocking the wind from me. I knew the punch was coming, I prepared for it, but I couldn’t stop it.
Damn.
“Don’t try to breathe,” Sensei said when I would get punched in the solar plexus. He’d say it was just a bundle of nerves that lost their connection to the brain. After usually fifteen to twenty seconds, it was possible to start breathing again.
When I was first hit training as Abby Swann, I managed to stay standing despite the fear. Bent over at the waist, however, I had tried sucking in great heaping breaths of air with terrified eyes. Everything felt shut down for business. With disgust in his voice, Sensei said that even a yellow belt could kill me at that point.
So I don’t breathe. Instead I choke down the pain, banish the concern from my eyes, and give Michael a sweet, sweet smile. Like whatever he has isn’t enough.
He roots in, lifts his hands, deadens his eyes. Sensei’s black belts, they’re robots. Just doing what they do to stop you, to end you if they choose.
I adjust my footing, shift my weight to the balls of my feet, angle my body to his. If he’s surprised—Michael, that is—he doesn’t show it. Widening my psychic plane, consciously ready to tap into my extraordinary senses, I wait to feel that singular moment when his body moves to take over mine. Maybe it was the turn of a foot, the dipping of a shoulder, or the flick of an eye. Either way, his next tell has me moving first, fast and more precise than even he could imagine.
He’s springing forward when I drill him so gosh damn hard in the solar plexus he literally shits himself. An eye for an eye, bitch—that’s what I’m thinking. Sensei doesn’t know it, and Michael doesn’t show it, but I am one hundred percent sure the poo came out, that’s how hard I hit him.
I’m a good fighter, I’m thinking, but this is my DNA, my extra senses. I have the edge no one will ever have, and it feels good. The shot I sunk in on him, it had something righteous and supernatural tacked on to it.
Martial artists would call it chi—the manipulation and fierce transferring of energy—and they would be right. Sort of. Think of a brutal punch, but thrown with the force of energy times three. Being hit that hard from someone like me is like me hitting him harder than Sensei.
The punch…it’s him being beaten with super-chi.
Michael can’t breathe, but you wouldn’t know it. He tries to stand on unsteady legs, but his body folds and he drops to a knee. His face goes so red it’s nearly purple.
I turn to Sensei Naygel and say, “If this were the street, I would drive my right knee into his chest, then his face, and then I’d peel his head back and punch him in the Adam’s apple until it was smashed flat and he gasped his last, dying breath.”
“Have you ever killed someone before?” he asks me, quiet, reverent, as if his best student isn’t useless at our feet. His voice betrays neither anger nor amusement. The look on his face is pure intrigue.
My mind crawls Michael’s. He’s desperate to right his head and body. He’s fighting his pounded torso, even though he’s not injured. But his head…he can’t understand the punch. Or its power.
To Sensei Naygel, I say, “I will answer your questions in private, Master Naygel. Shall I help him up?”
“He will manage fine on his own. Follow me.”
We walk to his office, which is merely a black belt lounge with two couches, a flat panel TV and a desk so old it could be an antique, but it isn’t. I’ve never been in here before. It’s not somewhere I should be, not being a black belt. He sits at the desk, motions for me to take a seat on the couch.
For him, he can spring from his chair faster than I can hop off the overly plush couch. I opt to stand. He nods his head like my choice, whatever it is, holds little concern to him.
“Why did you hit him like that?”
“The three H’s,” I say. Hit fast, hit first, hit hard. At least, that’s what I think the three H’s are. In truth, I just wanted to impress Sensei. And maybe not get hit again.
“Who is your primary teacher?” he asks.
“I’m not like other girls,” I say.
“That part is clear.”
“I have something you don’t have, Master Naygel. An advantage I possess that neither you nor your students will ever have. An advantage I will never reveal. And yes, I have killed people before, but I’m not wanted by the law, nor am I a felon.”
“So you haven’t been caught.”
“No.”
“Was it self-defense?”
“Yes.”
“You move like Abby,” he says.
This stills me.
“You are Abby,” he says, his eyes like iced steel, “are you not?”
My breath refuses to come. How the f*ck does he know this?!?! So many things roar through my mind all at once: my father telling me to keep our identities on the down low, my need for some normalcy in my life, my respect for Sensei, the loss of everyone important in my life, the non-human thing from Dulce who said I would eventually end up dead.
“Yes.”
The truth just came out, almost like it wanted to come out. Like it needed to come out. So…now it’s out there. Damn.
“What are you?” he asks, seemingly unfazed.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “Something different from when you knew me last.”
“You’ve changed your appearance,” he says. “How?
”
“I’ve changed my DNA.”
“That’s not possible,” he replies.
“So you say.”
He shifts in his chair, makes it so he most definitely has the advantage if there is a need for physical speed and strength. “So you’re stronger than most of us? Is that it?”
“You saw it for yourself.”
“What else?” he asks.
“I can reach into your mind and make you stop this line of questioning, not by shutting your mouth for you, but by making you think you want to stop it. I can do this as easily as I can reach inside your chest and squeeze your heart to death.”
“So you can control my mind, and you can kill me.”
I nod. Neither of us blink.
“And you have a strength none of us have.”
“I already told you I did.”
“Show me,” he says.
“No,” I say.
“You’re not Abby,” he replies, blinking. Like he’s disappointed.
“She’s who I was before…this.”
“Which is what, exactly?” he presses. The questions are relentless.
I turn to the metal door to his office, which is open, and with my mind I slam it shut. The entire wall rattles. He startles. I’ve never seen Sensei startle. Then I open it slowly, return it to its original position. Michael appears moments later, as do two other black belts. They look like their teeth are on edge: amped up and anxious to fight.
So am I.
He raises a hand, palm up, stopping them. The energy around them softens. He gives the slightest nod, and they step away from the door, out of sight. The communication between them, with so little to go on in terms of body language, is astounding. I’m envious of their connection. For me, I have no personal connections anymore. Except with Holland. And that’s a connection I can’t stand.
“So you’re a telekinetic.”
“Among other things.”
“How did you come to be this way?” he asks.
“It is a long story I will not tell you. In fact, I want this to be the end of our conversation. I’m not here to be picked at or dissected.”
“Why are you here then?”
“To learn.”
“You defeat my number one in a single punch and then you tell me you want to learn?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you can defeat me in hand to hand combat?”
He is frightening to spar against, but I have the answer. “I know I can.”
“Then you don’t know me.”
“Done my way, I could kill you without laying a hand on you. Done your way, I would be dead inside of four seconds.” The answer seems to satisfy him. “From my other lessons,” I say, recalling the days in Dulce where the fighting was brutal and unfair, “I learned never to play fair. Never to play by anyone’s rules but my own. My rules are better anyway.”
“So you want to further your technique so your unfair advantage is even more unfair?”
“I’m not here to learn to fight,” I say. “I want to tame this restlessness inside me.”
“Ah,” he says, a pleased look on his face. I sense the walls coming down, and his tension evaporating.
“So you will teach me?”
“Yes.”
The breath I’ve been holding lets itself out. My relief is instant and direct. As is all the gratefulness I feel for him allowing me a place in his school. More than anything, I’m thankful to be reestablishing this connection with him, as brief as it was.
After a long second, I say, “How did you know I was Abby?”
“When Michael punched you in the face, your cheek swelled, then went back to normal so fast I almost missed it. You were always an impossible healer.”
“Even more so now.”
“When would you like to begin?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. At eight in the morning, if that’s okay.”
“It is.”
“I’m pleased you’ve taken me back, Sensei Naygel.”
“As am I, Abby.”
“It’s Raven now,” I say.
“Okay, Raven. We start tomorrow.”
The Astor Disaster Begins
1
When Brayden was in Vegas, Titan and Romeo said he’d get so much sex that by the time he returned to school all he’d want to do was study. Much of what they said proved to be true. On this statement, however, they were dead wrong. He’d hated Julie Satan for as long as he could remember, but he wasn’t hating her so much this semester.
Since starting school, Brayden saw Julie Sanderson not as she used to be, and not the way she was now. What he saw was neither a girl nor a person. No. At that moment, he saw Julie as the most difficult challenge he’d faced yet.
In Vegas, getting laid was about the numbers. The faces were plentiful, always changing. Each night you had one outfit, one chance, one night to get it done. After that it was simply rinse and repeat. At Astor Academy, though, you weren’t your openers, your conversation threads, or even your closes. You weren’t your first kiss and you weren’t the measure of your experience with sex or other women. No sir. It was all about your long game. Digging in was everything. And reputation? That was your foundation and his wasn’t exactly stellar. He’d need to build it, cultivate it and protect it if he wanted to run game here, on this crowd.
Especially on Julie.
Being friends with Abby, Cicely, Tempest and Georgia skyrocketed his social proof. It didn’t hurt that he was also friends with Damien and Caden. Who you socialized with, in either the male or female capacity, it defined you. Abby being with Damien, however, sent him on a sideways tangent.
As much as it boiled his testicles to admit this—even if only to himself—he was still in love with her. Abby, however, was dickmatized by Damien. Maybe that was why he found his way to Julie. Abby despised Julie. Down to the core. She hated that bitch like her freaking life depended on it. So could he make Julie his? If only to incite Abby’s jealousies? The more he thought about it, the more he thought the idea had a sort of twisted merit. Julie was a narcissistic twat, to be sure. She was, however, super hot and feisty, and he sort of liked that.
He had the feeling she wasn’t this unbreakable thing.
The more he talked with her, the more he found her to be human. Then he wondered, but can I break her? He wanted to. He wanted her to fall all over him with her undying love, but he also wanted to rub it like smeared shit in Abby’s perfect, traitorous face.
It was a two-part game he was setting up in his mind.
Julie Sanderson wouldn’t be broken. Not her. She asked him to eat with her and then she ditched him. Days passed since they spoke. Days. To him, she became a one-hundred and five pound cold shoulder. Her eyes wouldn’t even see him, that is exactly how much he was not on her radar anymore.
And then it happened. Somewhere between second and third period in the hallway, Julie and her bitter eyes finally stopped refusing him.
“Hey,” she said.
“Sup,” he replied. By that time, his dreams of using her against Abby had withered. He was in an emotional coma. We’re talking black roses on a hot day.
She stopped, so he stopped.
The hoards of students careened around them like water moving around half-submerged rocks. Cameron, who was walking with Julie, saw Julie stopping for him and gave an insidious frown. Unfortunately, she stopped, too.
“I had some upsetting news,” she said. As if that explained anything.
“That was the worst apology ever,” he said, his eyes flicking to Cameron, who was all hate and disgust.
“I wasn’t apologizing,” Julie said.
“Yes you were,” he replied, cool.
“Fine, I guess I sort of was.”
“Let’s go, Julie,” Cameron said, hands on hips.
“You can go ahead,” Julie said, not looking at her. “I’m going to talk to Brayden.” This dismissive gesture felt victorious to Brayden. He could see Cameron processing the slight
and it wasn’t pretty. Satisfying would be a better word.
“Even if associating with a piece of shit like him is going to tarnish your reputation?” she said, looking right at Brayden.
“If she was worried about her reputation,” Brayden said, daggers ripping right out of his eyes and into hers, “she wouldn’t hang around with a social STD like you.”
“Speak for yourself, prick.”
“Knock it off,” Julie snapped. “Both of you.”
“Facebook is calling,” Brayden said, “it wants its two members back.” The reference to the two girls who killed themselves over Cameron’s relentless taunting was not lost on her. In fact, Cameron couldn’t even speak after that she was so mortified.
“That was cruel,” Julie said.
“Tell that to those girls’ parents and brothers and sisters,” Brayden said, not once peeling his eyes off Cameron and her golden head of hair. “Tell that to all their friends.”
Cameron spun around and left Julie to Brayden.
“Inside, she feels bad,” Julie said. The rivers of people were waning as they disappeared one by one into Astor’s classrooms. Any minute and the second bell was going to sound.
“If you try to defend that obstinate bitch to me one more time,” Brayden said, “I swear to Christ, you and I will never be friends.”
She was silent for a long minute. There were now just a few people in the hallway. She started to say something, then the bell rang.
“Is that what you want?” she asked. “To be my friend?”
“No.”
“Then what?” she said. Doors all down the hallway were closing. Classes were starting, which meant it was just the two of them.
“I want to completely undo you.”
“Are you referring to sex?” she said, acting like she was bored by the subject, or put off by his suggestion.
“I had enough sex this summer to last me the winter. So no. That’s not what I’m saying. Besides, now that I’m thinking about it, you’re not really my type.”
“Sweetheart,” she said, stepping forward and putting her hand tenderly to Brayden’s face, “I’m everyone’s type.”
Standing inside her space almost against his will, he took in the delicious details of her. Her face was attractive, barely a pore or freckle in sight, not a single blemish. And she smelled good. Really good. Like deliciously good. He couldn’t put his finger on her perfume, but she smelled like orange flower and fig, and maybe a hint of cedar. It was intoxicating. Like flowers in a rainstorm.
