by J. J. Bonds
The boy is good with the animal. I watch for several minutes admiring their unspoken communication. He moves swiftly, guiding it with gestures that I’ve no doubt the creature understands. After a few simple tricks and a trot around the ring, he mounts the horse and leads it through a series of marches finishing up with an impressive leap over the back wall of the corral, leaving myself and the other spectator in the dust.
“He’s showing off now,” the girl laughs, descending lightly from her perch to my right. She’s positively tiny, and I feel like a giant towering over her. She might be 5’1 on a good day. Scratch that. She might be 5’1 on a really good day— with heels. Her gray eyes are warm and friendly, and when she grins it lights up her whole face. She’s got one of those radiant smiles that shows all of her teeth and not a trace of self-doubt. Although her clothes are oddly out of date, her short black hair is cut at a stylish angle so that the front brushes her shoulders. “Keegan is a very gifted trainer, but sometimes he gets a little full of himself. I’m Shaye by the way.”
“Katia.”
“Welcome to Crossroads. How do you like our illustrious school so far?” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans one shoulder casually into the fence post as she waits for my take on the school.
“It’s… different,” I reply carefully. That’s true at least. Probably best to avoid lying since I’ve been striking out with my attempts at deception this week.
“A little different than what you’re used to?” she returns softly. She’s got a gentle way about her; she’s probably always been shy.
“You could say that.” Her assessment couldn’t be closer to the truth. How could she possibly know? Duh. She’s probably commenting on the rumors that have been circulating all day, trailing me through the halls and apparently out to the stables.
“It gets better. Just give it time. And don’t let the politics get you down. This place is overrun with gossip. In fact, I’d say our cup runneth over with bullshit,” she finishes emphatically with a mischievous grin. I notice that her smile extends all the way to her eyes, crinkling the corners even as she begins to laugh at her own joke. There’s nothing fake or pretentious hiding behind her laughter.
Shaye’s directness makes me laugh out loud, and I decide instantly that I like this girl. Finally someone who says what they really mean and who doesn’t seem to care about pedigree. Too bad I don’t really have time for friends. Shaye might actually be one of the good ones. “I need to get back and clean up before dinner,” I tell her by means of escape. “Nice meeting you.”
“See you around.”
Chapter Four
I’m energized when I enter the training center for the first time. The combined scents of bleach, musk, and spilled blood greet me warmly like an old friend as I step under the bright lights of the gym. I’m dressed in a fitted red tracksuit that I chose carefully in the event we are working hand-to-hand today. My hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and I’m wearing a pair of light and comfortable running shoes. I feel great and am anxious to get started.
My classmates and I line up at the edge of the blue sparring mat and await the arrival of our instructor. I notice it’s a relatively even mix of girls and guys and that we range greatly in size. Not that it matters. Experience has shown me that size can easily be overcome by skill and strength. I know that even the smallest opponent can pose a deadly threat, as each and every being here has the purest of blood pulsing through their veins.
The training center door opens and our instructor comes sailing in with Nikolai close on his heels. I do a double take to make sure it’s not my imagination and scold myself for being so obvious. What the hell is he doing here anyway?
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Andres Garcia, and I will be your instructor this semester. You may call me Garcia. This fine young man at my side is Nikolai Petrov. Nikolai is one of my most advanced students, and he will be assisting us this semester.” Nikolai gives the class a less than modest nod of acknowledgement and I feel an overwhelming urge to kick him in the shin. “Nikolai will participate in both the instruction and the administration of the skills tests. A directive from Nikolai is no different than one you receive directly from me. You’ll do well to remember that. Now, to the mat.”
We rush forward as instructed and spread out on the mat as Garcia continues. Nikolai remains fixed in place watching from the foreground. I pretend not to notice him although I feel the heat of his gaze settle on me.
“Each of you has been placed in this class because you have some level of experience with martial arts or weapons training. In order to better assess your skills, we’ll be testing you today. I need to see how good you really are.” Garcia eyes the class skeptically. I steal a quick glance at him as he passes me by.
Garcia looks every bit the picture of a trained killer. His steely black eyes are attentive and wary. His long black hair is bound tightly at the nape of his neck, and his hairstyle is as functional as his attire: cargo pants, military boots, and a utility belt that contains at least one knife that I can see.
“This will be a no holds barred test. One-on-one,” he continues. “We’ll start with two volunteers. The victor remains in the circle to face the next challenger. By the time we leave today, I will know who is the most skilled fighter among you.”
As the others jostle to be first, eager to demonstrate their abilities, I hang back choosing instead to watch. I prefer to study their techniques and look for weakness.
Garcia chooses two students, both males, to start the competition. Physically, they’re total opposites: one tall and wiry, with skin the color of night, the other bulky and muscular with sandy blonde hair. The boys circle one another, both assuming a fighting stance. I’m curious to see what they can do.
The blonde boy is anxious and charges immediately. His counterpart is more patient and easily dodges the rush, landing a glancing blow on his attackers’ neck. Although he’s got his back to me, I’m certain the blow has surprised the larger boy. His guttural growl confirms that he didn’t see it coming. He whirls on his opponent and bares his teeth, his fangs extending to full length. Anger flashes in his eyes.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he challenges, spittle flying from his mouth. The dark skinned boy does not respond and maintains his defensive position. He’s studying his opponent and does not waste time or energy on psychological taunts.
The blonde boy charges again and this time his speed and force are used against him. The dark boy rolls as his attacker makes contact. He throws the blonde boy from the mat and sends him sailing into the crowd, as though he was no more consequential than a paper doll. He lands on the cement with a dull thud. I recognize the move immediately. It’s the same one I would have used.
Without delay, a new contender steps forward. This time it’s a girl. Taller than me, she’s more evenly matched to the victor in terms of weight and height. Not that it helps her much. He disposes of her just as easily as he did the first challenger.
I watch intently as a steady stream of my classmates step forward to be beaten. I know my turn is coming and realize that I will be the last. I’m certain this is an advantage as I’ve gotten a feel for his moves and speed.
He’s fast, but I’m faster. The key will be to draw him into the attack.
I step forward confidently, as Garcia nods in my direction. I need to impress him and this is my best opportunity. I’m prepared for anything and know I have the upper hand having seen him fight.
Locking eyes with my sparring partner I too lower myself into a defensive position. We circle for what seems an eternity, and I can see the pressure starting to build on his face. He’s contemplating an attack. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I use this flicker of indecision to launch myself into his space. After placing a solid blow to his right knee I withdraw before he can react.
I am certain he will retaliate when I see the pained look on his face. I prepare myself for the counterattack and feel my training sta
rt to take over. He feints right and comes at me from the left, leading with his fist. The force of the blow is excruciating. I spin right and drop to the ground, my left leg sweeping his feet out from beneath him. I’m on him in a second looking for a pin, but he’s ready. We struggle briefly, and I’m flipped over his head and onto my back. I’m momentarily stunned, giving him the advantage. He jumps to his feet before I can react.
Standing over me, he grabs my right wrist while simultaneously placing a foot on my chest. He jerks the arm mercilessly, wrenching it from the socket. I gasp in pain, as a pathetic cry escapes my lips. Fire shoots up my arm, and there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s dislocated. The searing pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, but I refuse to be beaten so easily. One look at the boy standing over me and I’m able to channel the pain.
He smiles victoriously, celebrating a bit too soon for my taste. Protecting my injured arm, I roll to my side and land a well placed kick to his right knee cap, bending the leg backward at an impossible angle.
No sooner does he hit the ground than my teeth are on his neck, a low growl erupting from my lips. I could rip out his throat in a heartbeat and he knows it. My fangs are sharp, ready, and thirsty for blood. I imagine sinking my teeth into his flesh, releasing a wave of sticky, sweet blood. My fangs ache with the desire to taste him. His blood calls to me with every beat of his heart. The scent of his fear hangs in the air, beckoning me.
“Enough!” barks Garcia. I shake off the momentary bloodlust but hold my position until my opponent concedes, acknowledging his own defeat.
I climb to my feet and extend my good arm to the boy lying on the mat. I am a little miffed about the dislocated shoulder but want him to know there are no hard feelings. After all, I won. “You’re good.”
“But today you were better,” he returns, accepting my hand and pulling himself up from the ground. He favors his left leg. I can’t help but feel a little pleased.
“Well done. Both of you,” states Garcia, clapping us each on the back. “What’re your names?”
“Marcus.”
“Katia.”
“Let’s hear it for Marcus and Katia,” he instructs the class.
After a brief round of obligatory applause from our peers, Garcia continues. “Now that I’ve had an opportunity to assess each of you, Nikolai and I will be better able to tailor our lessons to your individual needs. While many of you are taking this class because it’s required, others of you may have a natural affinity for the subject matter. Regardless of your future career choices, the day will come where you need to defend yourself. It’s my job to make sure that you are prepared and leave this school equipped to do so. We’ll break early today. Use the remainder of your class time as you wish, but come prepared to train next week.”
The class begins to fan out, and I contemplate my next move. I think my arm will heal itself properly. It feels better already, but what do I know? I’m trying to decide between the obstacle course and target practice when Nikolai approaches.
“Let me see your arm,” he says by way of greeting. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten he was even there. Almost.
“I’m good,” I state flatly, turning to leave.
“It wasn’t a request.” He grabs my good arm and holds it firmly, the pressure of his fingertips drawing a raised eyebrow from me.
Although disgruntled, I’m reminded of his position as Garcia’s assistant and realize I have no choice but to comply with his command.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but a dislocated joint will heal itself faster if you put it back in the socket where it belongs.”
“No, I hadn’t heard,” I say, placing my good hand on my hip in a show of annoyance. “I’ve been living the abysmal existence of a fugly mountain troll, so how could I possibly know such things?”
“So, you heard all that, huh?” He runs his hands over my afflicted arm and shoulder. “They’ll come around,” he finishes, apparently having decided on a course of action. “They’re just intimidated by you.”
“Like I care.” I roll my eyes for good measure, although the gesture is completely lost on him. He’s focused intently on my shoulder. Unbelievable! I don’t know if it’s worse that he’s making excuses for his intolerable friends or that he expects me to understand their obnoxious behavior.
He nods approvingly, placing one of his hands flat on my shoulder and grasping my arm with the other.
“This is going to hurt,” he warns. His eyes meet mine for the first time. He holds my gaze just a little too long, but I refuse to let him make me uncomfortable.
“Just get it over with,” I retort.
“Stubborn as hell, aren’t you?” he asks cheerfully. “I like that.”
I promise myself I will not scream again. Especially in front of him. My body shakes, as he forces the joint back into the socket, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out in pain.
“Good as new,” Nikolai assures me, rubbing the sore shoulder gently. “You were very good in the ring. Marcus underestimated you. I would never make that mistake,” he finishes lowering his voice intimately.
“You already have,” I snarl, turning on my heel and storming off toward the door.
**********
“Good evening, Katia. Please come in and make yourself comfortable,” Anya calls out.
I’m still in the hall beyond her line of sight, the partially cracked office door providing cover. She must’ve heard me approach. There’s not much activity in this part of the school at this time of night. I venture into the office and close the door behind me. Might as well get this over with.
Anya is sitting at her desk, a large wooden behemoth which only further serves to reinforce her diminutive size. The room is dark, and she works by the light of a small lamp on her desk. It casts deep shadows across the room but doesn’t keep me from seeing that the walls are lined with cherry bookcases, which flank a large fireplace. Where there are no bookshelves, the walls are plastered with diplomas and certificates, emphasizing the fact that she is an overachiever. What a surprise, I think sarcastically.
The office is comfortable and has enough of Anya’s personal touch to keep it from feeling cold and academic. She’s placed two brown leather chairs in front of the desk for visitors. I take the one on the left and flop into it unceremoniously.
“So, how’re things going?” she asks, switching off the PC monitor so that I can’t see what she’s been working on.
“Okay.”
“Just okay? These sessions are going to be less than productive if you’re going to make me do all the work,” she points out. “Let’s start simple. Are you enjoying your classes?”
“Yes.”
“Making friends?”
“Not really.”
“Why do you think that is?” she prods, full well knowing the answer.
“Probably it has something to do with my lack of interest,” I respond frankly, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Katia,” she chides. “It’s going to be a long year if you decide to go it alone. Aldo did not send you here as means of punishment. You are here because you have incredible potential. Reaching out to your peers and becoming involved at Crossroads is the only way you are going to flourish.”
I remain silent. I’ve heard all this before.
“I heard you were top of the class in MMA.”
“You heard right then,” I reply nonchalantly. The pained look that flashes across her face causes me to reconsider my approach. I know I’m making this more difficult than it has to be. She’s just trying to do her job and fulfill a commitment she made to Aldo. It can’t hurt to give her a little something, even if it’s just fluff.
“I had a good teacher in Romania.” I shrug and lean back in the chair. The soft leather molds to my body like a lovers embrace and I feel myself relaxing against my better judgment. “Aldo arranged for a member of the Linkuri to train me in hand-to-hand combat. Viktor and I spent many hours working on my Jujutsu technique. I sus
pect Aldo chose Jujutsu because it’s more of a defensive martial art. Less attack, more defend.”
“Jujutsu uses the enemy’s own power and momentum against him, correct?” she asks, seemingly interested.
“Yeah. It’s a very effective means of neutralizing an opponent. Viktor and I also spent some time on small arms and weaponry. Not as much as I might have liked, but Crossroads will fill in the gaps. I like being able to handle myself in any situation.”
“What is it you want to do when you leave Crossroads, Katia?” she asks changing the subject abruptly.
“I don’t know. Return to Romania. Maybe join the Linkuri,” I respond noncommittally. I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about my future lately. Maybe because I’ve got an eternity to figure it out.
“You want to be a punisher? One of the hunters?” she questions, her surprise evident.
“Why not? I haven’t got much family to speak of, and we both know that I can’t exactly follow in Aldo’s footsteps.”
“I don’t know any such thing,” she returns, meeting my eyes. “Crossroads will prepare you for whatever future you choose. You’ve got plenty of time left to figure it out anyway. Lots of students change their minds over the years. Actually it’s rare for a student not to change his or her mind.”
Joining the Linkuri is dangerous work. I’m sure this is why Anya’s put off by my answer. The Linkuri are a brotherhood of assassins employed by the Elder’s Council. If you cross the Council, it’s the Linkuri who will come find you. From what I’ve heard, death would be a blessing compared to the wrath of the Linkuri. They instill fear in even the strongest vampires.
Honestly, I have no idea what I want to do. Maybe I’d enjoy the Linkuri. I think I’d be good at it. But who knows? It seems as good a way as any to repay my debt to Aldo, and I’m not afraid of the danger. I have nothing to lose and therefore nothing to fear.
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door, and we’re interrupted. Anya checks her watch and jumps up from the desk. I don’t imagine she’s expecting anyone else for our session, and I’m curious to see who has come knocking so late.
