in it. Not unlike mine in its own way.
She wasn’t anything spectacular. She’d been one of Marty’s earlier works, when he first started his whole weapon-crafting experiment. Just a plain blade of polished steel, with blemishes where we’d had to grind out hard-won nicks. The guard was an octagon of solid brass. The pommel was brass too, and heavy enough to crack a skull if need be. The hilt was wrapped in cord of my favorite blue. This sword and I, we’d been through a lot, and I trusted her with my life.
Together, Esteban and I moved through various katas, both of us slender to the point of scrawny, but him a taller, darker shadow to myself. The kid had picked up the forms easily, I’ll give him that. His technique wasn’t quite as polished as mine, but I’d been doing it for years compared to his six months. I’d give him a couple more before I started hounding him about it.
We’d had to adapt a few things for his shorter blade, but if his arms kept growing the way they were, he’d make up for the difference in reach in no time. I watched him from the corner of my eye as we blocked, parried, struck, all in slow motion. His dark brows were drawn in concentration, eyes fixed on his feet. Without breaking stride, I spun and swatted him across the ass with the flat of my sword. “Eyes up! Unless you’re fighting some foot fungus demon I don’t know about.”
He growled, jerking his head up, but corrected his posture instantly.
I slid back into the proper place in the kata without really thinking about it. “Tell me the way of the warrior.” This too was part of the kid’s education. If he was going to learn to fight, he’d learn to fight my way. He’d follow the bushido. And this was how I’d been trained back in the day, working my mind and my body at the same time. I often quizzed him while we sparred or ran katas.
“The way of the warrior is the brave acceptance of death.” His movements faltered for just a moment as he wracked his brain for the correct information. “That’s in The Book of Five Rings, by Miyamoto Musashi.”
“Right. It’s also found in the Hagakure.” The next move put his back to me, and I eyed his stance critically. Not too bad. So far. “How many times should you be ro?nin, according to the Hagakure?”
“Seven.” That answer came immediately. “Fall seven times, get up eight.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means… it means if you don’t learn to deal with the bad times, you won’t learn how to get back up from them. If you fall, you always get back up.”
Very good. His brain was working pretty good, considering that I’d rousted him out of bed. Now, how were his reflexes? With a small grin, I slipped up behind him and thrust my scabbard between his feet.
Instead of tripping, he picked up his right foot and spun on his left, landing in a crouch with his machete pinning the scabbard to the damp grass. He smirked at me. “Gotcha.”
I smiled, nodding my approval. “This time.” We both stood, bowing from the waist to each other. “Go get a little more sleep-you’ve got school in a couple hours.”
Esteban hesitated a moment, but finally nodded. “Have a good trip.”
“Thanks.” He disappeared back inside, leaving me alone on the lawn. With nothing else to do but wait, I went through a few more katas on my own. It felt good, the balanced weight in my hands, the smooth glide across the grass. It centered me. I needed centering.
Marty was supposed to pick me up around four thirty, but it was nearly five when the ancient Suburban pulled into my driveway. I gave my buddy a questioning look as I went to toss my gear in the back.
“Two friggin’ tires were flat this morning, man.”
“You drive through a construction zone or something?”
“Nah, there was nothing in them. More like someone let the air out. I had to air them back up.” He half hung out the window to talk to me as I walked past. “Then dumbass over here, his alarm didn’t go off.” Will, sitting in the front passenger seat, winced as Marty punched him in the shoulder (I’m guessing not for the first time).
“Well, maybe we’re getting all the bad luck out of the way at the beginning, hmm?” I swung the back doors open wide and was greeted by a giant muzzle full of slobbering wet tongue. “Gah!”
Duke, Marty’s behemoth of an English mastiff, slurped up my cheek and wiggled in happiness so hard that the entire truck shook. “Marty! What’s the monster doing here?” It was almost impossible to defend myself with my hands full, so I got drenched again as I was tossing my backpack in with the rest of the gear. “Ugh, off! Sit, Duke!”
Obediently, the brindle mastiff sat, and the springs on the truck jounced a little.
Marty turned around to holler over the seats. “Mel was trying to walk him last night, and he accidentally knocked her down. I didn’t think it was safe to leave her alone with him, in her condition.”
Now, that may sound like Duke is some slavering machine of destruction, but in reality he was the biggest teddy bear I’d ever seen. He let Annabelle ride him, for Pete’s sake. But I could totally see how the big lummox could barrel over someone in his affectionate enthusiasm. He’d be totally devastated if he realized he’d hurt someone. He was just that kinda dog.
“Why’d he knock her down?” It took some doing, but I got a very enthusiastic Duke shoehorned back inside and managed to shut the doors.
Marty fired up the old diesel engine and backed out of my drive. “She said he was after a squirrel.”
Duke’s breath was hot on the back of my neck as I tried to get settled in the middle seat. “Your dog’s afraid of squirrels, man.” And birds, and mice, and thunder, and his own shadow…
“Maybe he’s growing up on me.”
“Dude, if he gets any bigger, I’m planting a flag on him and claiming him in the name of Spain.”
We managed to pick up Cole without incident, and he brought with him a thermos of police-station sludge, otherwise known as his self-brewed coffee. We all politely declined and tried to ignore the distinctive aroma of scorched coffee beans that filled the truck. (I swear, I caught Duke pawing at his nose and whining.)
Last on the list to fetch was Cam-short-for-Cameron, and while the guys decided to rearrange the packs in the back to make room for one more, I was elected to go up and fetch the ex-priest. Ex-almost-priest? Whatever.
The apartment building was one of a dozen similar buildings within view, one of those identical little enclaves where I was certain people walked into the wrong apartment all the time by mistake. It was a place for college students, recent newlyweds (I should know, I’d been one once), and itinerate drug dealers. Cheap, easy to get in, easy to abandon.
Of course, Cameron’s apartment was on the fourth floor, and there was no elevator. I hiked up the four flights of stairs, grumbling under my breath and watching the chipped concrete under my boots warily. If one of those steps gave way, the rusted-out railing wasn’t going to save me. When was the last time this place had even seen a maintenance man?
There was no door marked 4D, but I took a chance and knocked on the blank door across from 4C. I was ready for anything when the door opened, but thankfully, it was just Cameron.
His smile looked almost relieved. “I was starting to worry about you guys.”
“Yeah, Marty had some car trouble.” Cam stepped back and I took that as an invitation to come on inside.
I crossed the threshold and almost tripped over my own two feet in surprise. Tiny prickles rose up on my skin as I passed through the doorway, the hairs on my arms standing at attention. I waved my hand back and forth through the open space once or twice, feeling a distinct barrier glide up and down my arm. I recognized that sensation; I felt it every day when I went in and out of my own house. It was the feeling of magical wards, a protective spell set up to keep the bad things out and the good things safe.
Trying to be casual, I bent down to tie my boot and rubbed a finger across the floor. It felt faintly gritty. Salt, maybe? Mira used salt sometimes. Or it could have been just plain old street dirt. Only one way to be sure, and in this neighborhood, there was no way I was gonna taste it. It could just as easily be meth or rat poison, too.
If Cameron noticed my sudden distraction, he didn’t say, only gathering up his stuff with quiet efficiency. “How long a drive is it going to be?”
“Um… normally, about ten hours. But Marty had to bring his dog, so I imagine we’ll be stopping more often.”
There was no way to tell who set those wards. They could have been left by the previous owner, for all I knew. Once you knew what to look for, it’s actually amazing how many people manifest some basic magical ability without truly realizing it. And Mira had said that thresholds were the easiest things in the world to ward. Granted,
