Chapter Eleven

Not exactly kung-fu fighting.

After my fruitless outing at Zo’s, I happily showered away all the conflicting scents clinging to my skin. The sweet-but-woodsy scent of my authentic vanilla body wash rose around me in soothing puffs of steam. It made me recall I hadn’t showered after my date. Or brushed my teeth. I rectified both of these problems before getting dressed again.

Jesus, I thought to myself, I’ll have to do laundry tomorrow at this rate.

In a white t-shirt and blue jeans, I fished a brush out of my bag and gave my hair a few good swipes. I noticed my hair was almost long enough to touch my shoulders when wet. I’d need to get it trimmed up soon. Tossing the brush back into my stuff, I headed downstairs.

Barefoot, I padded across the hardwood floor of the kitchen and out the backdoor. I’d been lazy about my training while I’d been in town—after all, how much trouble could I really come across on vacay? Zo had made me realize how stupid that was. If I hadn’t meditated earlier I might never have sensed her coming. This, needless to say, was a problem. But I could learn from my mistakes.

The Parkers’ back yard was big enough to host a homemade game of any kind of sport, and surrounded by mile-high privacy fencing. It was more than big enough to go through my paces. It was fairly warm out, but the grass was cool against my feet as I walked to the center of the yard. The world fell away as I concentrated on my breathing.

I was better at this than meditation. For one thing, it was less esoteric and more physical, but for another I had something concrete to focus on. In meditation, breathing in and out is a distraction to be overcome, but in martial arts the rhythm of breathing is important in and of itself.

Once my breaths were coming in perfectly even patterns I began to move. I stepped into position and moved my arms into a common defense pattern. Slowly, I pivoted around on my back foot, my arms flowing almost voluntarily into the backhanded sweep that accompanied that motion. I’d grown up on these maneuvers, they came as easily as breathing. Even before the combat training, or the swordplay, or the mantra, there were the paces. Every hunter could do them in their sleep.

They became more complex as the hunter aged, but each new pattern blended and merged with the previous ones so well it was a wonder we hadn’t instinctually known it from the get-go. Whoever had first developed the system had been a martial arts genius.

Time blurred in the way that it usually did when engaged in an activity you know by heart. Though I could have named every single form in the order I did them, I honestly had no memory of most of it. As I was nearing the end of my routine, I became slightly more self aware. The ending required a little more rational thought.

I dropped into a basic defensive stance, my body firm. The syllable Jing echoed through my mind. My body rushed upward, the left arm leading it out of its half-crouch in a swift uppercut. Chi, my mind supplied. Then my arms pulled in tight across my chest, and I swirled away from previous position, danced down the lawn from an unseen enemy. Shen. As if in anticipation of that enemy approaching, my right arm extended, hand fisted. Fa.

For the last set, my whole body exploded in unison. My legs rooted to the ground, my waist twisted, my ribs expanded with breath, and my arm shot forward with all the energy of my body behind it in a perfect path of just a few inches. Of course, the air didn’t crack and break, as I knew bone and wood did, but I knew that my blow would have landed had it been real. I could feel the successful concussion of it ring through my bones.

“Jin!” I breathed.

The One-Inch Punch. Every training session ended with it.

Returning to myself after practice took much less time than it did when I was meditating. I didn’t know how long the session had taken overall, but my hair was mostly dry. Feeling loose and content, the worries of Zo Williams washed away, I headed back inside to wait for Milly to get home.

“So, you don’t think she actually lives there?” Milly asked.

I gave her a look. “Name one female of that age that only has six outfits in her closet.”

She nodded her head. “Okay, point.”

“There was no food around, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I said. “But most vampires at least like to snack on human food sometimes.”

“Like pie?” she quipped, humor in her dark eyes.

“Yes.” I glared at her. “Like pie.”

“But if she doesn’t actually live there,” Milly said, blithely ignore my death gaze, “why bother with clothes and not food? If she’s trying to keep up appearances, you’d think she would have some food around.”

“You’d think,” I replied, “but there were no plates or silverware, either. Oh, and the bed was made. Since when do college kids make the bed?”

“Yeah, she’s definitely not sleeping there,” Milly drawled. “But if not there…”

“Then where?” I sighed. “I don’t really know any more than when I started.”

“I dunno about that,” she said. “You know where she doesn’t live. It’s a start, if nothing else.”

We lapsed into silence after that, both of our minds chewing on the possible scenarios. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon checking in with various hunters in the area, letting them know I was near-by if they needed me. This was mostly to pass the time, as Espy would alert them if they called for back-up. Then I browsed the online editions of the local papers. I hadn’t spotted anything out of the ordinary, so I was beginning to think my earlier suspicions about my father’s possible ulterior motives was simply paranoia.

Milly had gotten home just a few minutes ago, and we were settled on her bed as I told my story. Her backpack and stuff had been dropped unceremoniously at the foot of the bed. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ruthless ponytail, which I didn’t remember from earlier. Maybe she’d had PE or something.

After a while, Milly sighed. “I guess two heads aren’t better than one.”

I shook my head. “Not at all. Sometimes it’s good to talk to someone outside of it all. It gets a fresh pair of eyes on the situation, which can only be a good thing.”

“My eyes are always at your disposal,” she said brightly

Grinning, I said, “They aren’t half bad. For a civilian.”

“I’m not a really a civilian,” Milly said after a beat. “I’m more like…okay, I’m an army wife.”

“What?” I laughed.

“I’ve never been in the line of fire, but I’ve still felt the heat.” Her eyes went distant with remembered pain.

The only thing I could do for her was look down at my hands and pretend not to notice. It made me feel like an asshole, but it was the way she preferred to handle it. When she got herself together, Milly cleared her throat.

“Anyway,” she said, “the point was I’m always around to bounce ideas off of.”

I smiled. “I know.”