Inside the dining area, the available tables and chairs have been moved to the side and those in attendance have arranged themselves in a circle. Several people are here, including the young children. Rheema, Blare, Jori and Spencer are also present. Blare’s dark gaze cuts across the circle directly to mine. She still looks like she has a bone to pick. Really? What’s it going to take?
We join the circle. A boy of about nine stands in the middle with Margo. She’s dressed in gray and black camo pants tucked into her boots and a white tank top, the spitting image of G.I. Jane, expect a lot prettier and less mean-looking. In spite of her closely cropped, black hair, she exudes femininity. There is something elegant and graceful about her, something that could make an inattentive person think that she is delicate—though they would be mistaken, because there is steel in her gaze. My first impression from last night is validated. I like her.
“So let’s do it again,” Margo tells the boy, wrapping her right hand around his left wrist. “Now what?”
“Lock hands,” the boy says just as he interlaces the fingers of his right hand with his left. “Step back.” He kicks his right foot back. “Pull to hip.” With a grunt, he jerks his interlaced hand toward his right hip, effectively breaking free of Margo’s clutches.
“And then?” She gives the boy a raised eyebrow.
“I run and hide.”
“Great job!” She pats him on the back and gives him one of her glowing smiles.
I remember going through drills like this with Sensei ‘Moto when I first started doing karate. I didn’t realize then how disturbing it is to teach such things to a child, knowing that there are those who would take pleasure in injuring them. At the time, it all seemed like a game and, from the boy’s eager look, I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.
“All right, I need a few adults to help them practice.” Margo lines up the kids on one side and adults on the other. They go through this and other self-defense moves, until the children appear comfortable with them.
After a quick lesson with the young ones, Margo dismisses them, instructing the adults to stay behind for further instruction. The kids leave, dragging their feet and protesting all the way to the door. They’re too cute and make me, once more, take to heart how imperative our success is.
“Hopefully,” Margo says once they’ve left, “they’ll remember everything. Mainly to get away and hide, so we can fight without worrying about them.”
“Hopefully, we won’t have to,” one of the remaining adults, a middle-aged man in a dirty button-up shirt, says.
“Chances are we won’t, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
Aydan leans forward and whispers in my ear. “Last night, I heard Rheema say that James is having the families moved to their permanent location. One of the groups that moved a few weeks back was attacked. It was …” He shakes his head, going paler than normal.
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Why can’t we stay here?” the same man demands. “Why do we have to risk our lives, the kids’ lives, by leaving?”
A few in the circle nod to the question.
“James has explained already,” Margo says calmly. “This is more of a holding facility. It’s close enough to the city to allow us to bring those we rescue. It’s not meant to be permanent. The numbers here are getting high as it is. It’s not the safest place by any means.” She smiles and gives the man an open invitation to contest, but he just frowns at the floor, looking unhappy.
“All right, why don’t we practice some of the drills we learned yesterday? Form in pairs. I’ll walk around and help those who have questions. For those who will carry a gun, we’ll go over reloading, shooting and general safety instructions once more.”
I look over at Aydan, wondering what we’re supposed to do next. I don’t know the drills, so I can’t be much help on that front. I’m about to ask when I notice Blare strolling across the circle, headed straight toward me.
“Not again,” I say under my breath.
When Aydan notices her, he squares his shoulders in her direction. Like me, he seems to suspect this spells trouble.
“You and I, Marci,” Blare says, confirming our suspicion.
“C’mon, Blare,” Aydan says. “Give it up.”
“Stay out of this, geeky boy.”
Aydan sighs.
Rheema joins us. “What’s the matter?”
Blare rolls her shoulders like she’s some sort of boxer. “I’m offering this one,” she flicks a hand in my direction, “a fair fight. One where she doesn’t act like the victim.”
“You realize she knows karate, right?” Aydan asks with ill-concealed amusement.
“Talk is cheap,” Blare says.
She has never seen me fight, so she has no idea if she’s biting more than she can chew. For my part, I don’t ever underestimate an opponent. It’s a mistake that can get you killed. Slowly, I take off my jacket and let it fall to the floor, assessing her with narrowed eyes. I don’t know her fighting skills either, so I don’t take this lightly. I crack my neck and loosen my arms. Maybe this is what it’ll take to finally get Blare off my back. I jump lightly on the tips of my toes, making blood rush to every corner of my body. It feels damn good. Maybe I’ve been missing a good sparring challenge.
Aydan and Rheema take a few steps back.
“Cat fight.” Rheema laughs, attracting everyone’s attention with her comment.
I take a defensive stance, one leg forward, both hands up, my weight balanced on the balls of my feet. I wait. She’s the challenger, let her make the first move.
Blare doesn’t waste time. She puts her fists up and immediately jumps forward and throws a quick jab. I deviate it with an outside block, then shuffle to the side. She follows up with a front kick which I stop with a low block. My forearm smarts as it connects with her heavy steel-toe boot. It’ll bruise, but it’s nothing I’m not used to.
Spencer and Jori jeer at her inefficient attempts. Apparently, Blare makes non-fans everywhere she goes. She’s too heavy, true, but if there’s something I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s not to judge. No one knows what she’s been through, what she’s lost, she may have a perfectly good reason for her bitterness.
She attacks once more, combining kicks and punches. She’s faster this time, but I’m able to either block or avoid everything she throws my way. She’s not a bad fighter, just not a trained one, like me.
As she ineffectively tries to hit me, her movements get sloppy with anger, and I start noticing gaps in her defense. In one of her lapses, I sneak a hook punch to her ribs and quickly back away. She grunts, her body bending to one side in pain. Her mouth twists and, as soon as she recovers, she tackles me and drives me against the wall, growling all the way there. The crash sends the air out of my lungs with a whoosh.
Blare moves lightning fast and lands a couple of punches on my stomach. I lower my head and press my fists to my forehead, protecting my torso with my forearms and elbows. She continues to throw punches like some sort of blind locomotive. She’s beside herself with rage—something else you don’t do, if you want to win a fight.
I rotate to one side and quickly pull away from the wall. Determined to show her I’m not playing the victim or playing with her, I release a roundhouse kick to her side, followed by two jabs, the first to the stomach and the other to the side of her face. They hit the mark and leave her holding herself and blinking. She tries to hit me again and again, but fails and, instead, receives one hit after another.
After a wicked punch to the mouth, she whips her head back around to reveal a bloody lower lip. At the sight of blood, I decide it’s time to end this and go for a punch that’ll knock her silly. I make my move, but I’m taken aback when she suddenly twirls, pulls out a hidden knife from her waistband and, in a flash, presses its sharp tip to my neck. Several spectators cry out in warning. I step back to get away, but Blare trips me and jumps on top of me as soon as I hit the floor. The length of her blade presses against my jugular. I swallow and feel the knife bob up and down.
“Poor sportsmanship, Blare,” I say in a strangled whisper.
“You think I care about that, you little shit.”
“Guess not.”
“Blare, let her go!” Aydan calls from the side. His fingers twitch. Static electricity crackles in the air. I give him a warning look. He needs to stay out of this one. This is my fight. Besides, some of the people here don’t know about Symbiots and their powers.
In my peripheral vision, I see other people coming closer, but I don’t take my eyes off Blare again. I’m afraid if I do, she’ll slit my throat. Her gaze is certainly telling me she wants to. I just need to give her a reason to do it. Or, even better, a reason not to.
“What did I ever do to you?” I ask.
“You fuckin’ Symbiots think yourselves so special,” she growls between clenched teeth, low enough that only I can hear her.
What?! She has something against Symbiots? Since when?
“So special,” she continues, “that you can kill one of us and go on with impunity.”
Oh, so she doesn’t have something against all Symbiots. Just me: the weak Symbiot who lost the battle against her agent and killed Oso, the gentlest bear of a man I have ever met. He was IgNiTe’s driver, cook, unconditional ally.
The knife’s pressure increases. A stinging sensation lets me know the blade has cut skin.
“Marci,” Aydan says my name as a protest. I lift a hand to warn him back once more.
My eyes haven’t left Blare’s, not for a second. “It … it wasn’t me, Blare. I would’ve never hurt Oso.”
“You killed him.” The way she says “killed” sends a shiver down my spine. It feels too much like a verb she’s really considering putting into practice.
“Blare, it’s not Marci you’re mad at,” Aydan says from the side. “Let her go.”
Blare’s eyes tighten. Her sneer redoubles. She didn’t like that comment at all. So this is about someone else? My mind reels.
Is it about Kristen? Jealousy?
“Stay out of this, Ayd—”
Blare’s sentence gets cut short as someone tackles her from the side, knocking her off me. I instinctively jerk to my feet, ready for anything. Adrenaline courses uselessly through my body because Blare is already subdued. I take in the scene, blinking, willing my heart to slow down and my brain to stop seeing knives where there are none. Rheema is on top of Blare, her mouth on my attacker’s neck, as if she were a hungry vampire.
The whites of Blare’s eyes flash for a moment, then her head falls limply to the side. Rheema pulls away, mouth half open, fangs extended and dripping with a clear liquid. She licks her lips, runs the back of her hands across her mouth and stands. Blare stays immobile on the floor.
“She’ll be out for a few hours,” Rheema says, her expression oddly hungry. She walks away from Blare and comes to my side. “Are you okay?” She bends her neck to one side to better look at my neck. “A little blood.” She waves a finger at her own throat.
“What the hell?” The middle-aged man says, his eyes bouncing from Blare to Rheema and back again.
“Nothing to see here.” Margo starts ushering everyone out of the room.
“But what did she just—”
“She knocked her out. That’s all. C’mon, everyone out. Out!” People file out, shuffling their feet and throwing suspicious glances over their shoulders.
Jori and Spencer walk closer, their faces concerned even though they don’t really know me.
“Are you okay?” Margo asks, walking back from the door.
“Yeah,” I say in a hoarse voice. I straighten from my crouched, defensive position and gingerly touch my neck. My fingers come away bloody. I swallow. “Thank you, Rheema.”
“Don’t mention it. We need you.” She winks at me, then gestures at Blare’s prone shape. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
I put my hands up in question. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Nothing,” she leans closer and whispers, “but it’s not like she can beat up the boss’s girl, the only hope we have for survival.” She throws her head back and laughs.
“Lucky me. Maybe after this, she’ll turn her sights on you. I mean, you just vamped her.”
Just then, James walks in the room, his gray eyes taking in the scene. “What happened here?”
I rub my forehead, suddenly feeling very tired of this. “Just had my second welcome from Blare. Don’t mind me if I just …” Hooking a finger toward the door, I head back into the main warehouse, aiming for that pile of clothes I slept on and wishing I would have stayed there today.