Scattered Ashes

by Annie Anderson

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? I have a fucking flashback and because you have me roomed with Rhys - and don’t think we’re not going to have a lengthy, in-depth discussion about that shit - he freaks out watching me recover and starts asking questions. Of course, I ripped his head off. Of course, I’m fucking contrary and mean. If you had to relive your worst day when you’re stressed out you would be too. And what was with you appearing with the full-fledged phase? And the dudes just watching me go full monkey shit? I need some freaking privacy. I don’t need to be looked at like I’m a fucking freak when I have a breakdown. I need to hit something that’s not going to hurt me when I hit it. I need to get the fuck out of here,” my voice getting louder and louder as I yell at my best friend.

  I feel awful about it too, but this is too much for me. I live alone for a fucking reason.

  “I had to room you with him, it’s Dad’s rule,” she says remorsefully, but I’m not buying it.

  “Oh, whatever. You’re only using that as an excuse to fuck West under your Dad’s roof. Don’t lie to me,” I argue.

  “Yes, that’s a perk, but seriously it’s Dad’s rule. A Guardian can’t protect someone he’s not with.”

  “And when the King speaks…” I sigh.

  “You do what he says. Yes. I’m sorry this is so hard on you, but you have to cut Rhys some slack. There are things you don’t know. Things I can’t tell you…things that could change how you see him.”

  “Cryptic much?” I grunt out with a half-muffled laugh.

  “Hey, I tell you what I can, and hold your fucking hand and show you the rest. Just ask him to explain.” Evan shoots back, at her finest.

  “But…”

  “But nothing. Ask him without the attitude and maybe he’ll tell you.” She is trying to lead me somewhere I do not want to go.

  “That might take a while, and I need a nice workout where I get to hit someone.” My mind starts to reel just thinking about having a serious conversation with Rhys.

  “You really frighten me sometimes.” Evan is smiling now, so score one for me.

  “I know. You scare the shit out of me, too. It’s why we’re besties.”

  “Touché,” she nods as she loops her arm through mine and drags me to the lowest level of the house. Or what I think is the lowest level. Evan gets to the back wall of the game room where we were before and leads me behind the bar. She fiddles with an expensive bottle of top-shelf Scotch and presses a hidden button in the mirror behind an empty decanter. Like an old film noir flick, a secret door opens to reveal a dark staircase.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “You said you wanted to hit something. There is a whole training center in the basement full of hot, sweaty men just waiting to get a crack at the girl who kicked their King’s ass.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  7

  Ass in a Bear Trap

  AURELIA

  We make our way silently down three cold, steel flights of stairs leading to an open room lit by several industrial fluorescent pendant lights. The room appears to be used as a sparring and lifting gym and looks to be twice the width and height of the house above it and maybe three times the length. They must have dug deep into the foothill to make such a large room, and I don’t even want to guess the cost involved.

  In the far left corner is a boxing ring with a blue canvas floor with four red posts at the corners. Five red ropes surround the elevated ring and Rhys and West are circling each other on the canvas like rabid dogs, trading violent jabs, and vicious crosses. West is shirtless, soaked in sweat, his hair up in a man bun with stray hairs falling into his eyes. His loose, black Gi pants hang off his hips in such a way that one wrong move could turn this sparring session into a full show. His nose is bloody, and his left eye looks a little swollen, but otherwise he doesn’t look too bad for how hard Rhys is hitting him. I cock my head to the side to get a better look at his ass.

  “You know, he’s not bad looking with the tattoos and gauges and shirtless and sweaty and those pants…” I turn to Evan in admiration, “You did good, kid.”

  “I know. He’s yummy, isn’t he? I guess I’ll keep him. Rhys isn’t bad looking either. You could…”

  “Already angry. Let’s not push me over the edge just yet. Let me hit something first.” I suddenly taste the tang of blood and feel my nose start to drip. I wipe my nose, and my fingers come away red. West must have gotten in a hit hard enough to make him bleed. Rude.

  But my eyes stray back to the ring. Rhys is covered neck to wrists in a blue compression workout shirt paired with loose black workout shorts, his hands covered in lightly padded, fingered sparring gloves. His nose is bloody as well, and his lip is stained red on the right side. West must be a southpaw.

  His moves are economical and calculated; for every step West takes, he has a counter. For every strike with a leg, there is a back fist or an elbow. They aren’t playing by any rulebook that I know of, that is for certain. Their style is more like anything goes, dirty street fighting. Neither of the boys seems to want to grapple, and even when one of them is open for a takedown, the other appears unwilling to take the bait, making the sparring session go on and on.

  To the right of the ring is a red swinging heavy bag hanging from a hook mounted in an inverted ‘L’ bracket drilled into the concrete wall. Javier, his hands in black wraps, is hitting the bag hard enough to make it swing almost off the hook. His hair and skin are damp with sweat, and every once in a while he picks up the t-shirt draped over a nearby metal folding chair to wipe the salt off his face.

  Carver is right next to him on the speed bag, hands in white wraps, hitting the bag faster than my eyes can track. His lean build is cut with diamond-hard muscle, covered in a sleeveless workout shirt.

  Behind Carver, along the right wall, are three sections of lifting platforms. The first platform looks to be used for dumbbells and kettle bells while the second and third belong to the two side-by-side squat racks laden down with enough weights to sink a ship. At the last rack, Kyle is setting up for a lift that would crush a rhinoceros. His longish-on-top hair is damp and straight and falling into his eyes.

  On the near right wall is a sea of pegboards and the adjacent surface is covered in the handholds of a climbing wall. Why an indoor climbing wall is necessary with a whole fucking mountain outside, I’m not sure. Aidan is fifty feet above us at the top of the pegboard with a peg in each hand. As he goes to wipe his brow on the sleeve of his compression shirt, his hand slips from its hold on the dowel, and like a fucking moron, he’s not tied into the safety ropes hanging intermittently from the ceiling rafters. He begins to fall, but swiftly smokes out from his rapid descent and is back at the top in his original position no worse for wear. Maybe he’s not a moron.

  Ian is appropriately tied into a climbing harness hooked up to a self-belay system in the rafters. It just now occurred to me the reason he’s tied in and Aidan is not is because Ian cannot transport himself like the others can. How odd. Maybe he’s young or does not possess that particular ability. I completely understand. While I might have wings, they are utterly useless. Not only did I not learn how to fly – thanks, Mom – Iva permanently clipped my wings when she tortured me.

  I swear if I ever meet that woman again, I’m going to cut her fucking head off.

  In the largest area at the middle of the room is an immense sparring mat. The thick, blue canvas spans approximately fifty feet wide and one hundred feet long, offset by the substantial collection of weapons affixed to the adjacent left wall. The wall ‘o weapons includes every weapon I can think of and some I haven’t seen in nearly a century.

  There is an Ottoman horn-hilted, curved, watered-steel, long sword with a beautiful dotted floral design along the forte. It looks barbaric and awesome, and if it weren’t bigger than I was, I’d play with it. Next to it is a Celtiberian bronze sword with a lapis encrusted, silver grip. Slightly
to the left is an ivory-hilted, Nepalese Kukri, with its inward curved blade. I find Kukris small and more useful as a tool. But, hey.

  Above the long swords are several daggers. Some are ancient with fraying rope hilts; some are covered in hammered Celtic knots; some have primeval wooden grips with trees of life carved into them. Four pairs of Kamas adorn each corner of the wall, and along the edges are several thin-handled throwing knives interspersed with iron throwing darts.

  Two pairs of bokkens bookend a trio of Japanese blades reverently placed at the center of the wall, a tantō at the top, wakizashi in the middle and a katana at the bottom. Their intricately designed scabbards gleam against the florescent lights. Firearms take up the entire left half of the wall; revolvers above semi-automatics all over sniper rifles with enough attachments to give a hunter a hard-on.

  “So heavy bag, weights, climbing wall, or the mat?” Evan asks me.

  “Mat,” I say, but I notice West has stopped messing around with Rhys and is leaning on the ropes. His body is coiled in such a way, I know if I suggest sparring with my best friend he will launch himself over those ropes before I can blink. I meet his eyes, shaking my head at him, letting him know I’m not going to spar with his little bird, no matter how much she could kick my ass. It makes me wonder if he doesn’t know we spar. Evan’s keeping more secrets than I can count. I hope she knows what she’s doing.

  “I’m going to do a few training exercises by myself; katas can be done alone you know. Go cheer your man on. Tell him to show no mercy.”

  “He’s giving you the evil-eye stare down isn’t he?”

  “Absolutely. I’m pretty sure if I touch a hair on your beautiful blonde head, he’ll try to kill me in a way I won’t heal from. I really don’t want a showdown with your boyfriend, Evan. I think I need a new sparring partner.”

  She turns to look at West and sticks her tongue out at him.

  “Fun killer!” she yells at him across the gym. His stoic mask slips for a second and a wide grin flashing his white teeth stretches across his face before quickly disappearing.

  “Go watch the boys beat the shit out of each other. I’m fine by myself.”

  “Have fun,” she says as she skips like a child towards the ring.

  Even across the room, I can tell West’s face softens a fraction before returning to Rhys with renewed fervor brought on by the presence of his girl. Maybe he’ll break Rhys’ neck, and I’ll get a nice dreamless nap. I pull out my phone – my seventh this year because electricity spurts and delicate phones don’t mix – and choose the perfect song from the ‘Pissed Off’ playlist, “Room To Breathe” by You Me At Six. I pick a short red oak bokken, or training katana, from the wall, bow to the mat and start.

  I never do a traditional kata. Karate is not my favorite of all the disciplines, and while it has its benefits, I hate prescribing to just one. I love Krav Maga, Tae Kwon Do, Hapkido, Jujitsu, Judo, Muay Thai, straight up dirty fighting…doesn’t matter to me. I love mixing up all the maneuvers I can put my body through and amalgamating them into my own personal version of kicking ass.

  I think I love all of them because I was never allowed to learn how to defend myself while I was growing up in the Legion. I was as harmless as a baby bunny. As soon as I was born with these stupid eyes, I was separated, alienated, and put on a pedestal I was never going to live up to. I never learned how to fly because Oracles are eventually blinded so they don’t need to learn to fly. I never learned how to fight because an Oracle has a Soldier to fight for her. And I never learned how much my family didn’t love me until I decided being an Oracle was a fate I would never ever prescribe to.

  By the time I’m done with my fifth song – “Joker and the Thief” by Wolfmother starts - and I finally look up. I’m sweaty and a little tired, but I notice I’ve drawn a crowd…and not a nice crowd either. A trill of unease races up my spine. I’m still going through the movements, but I am aware of my surroundings now. I feel like my ass is in a bear trap, teeth on all sides.

  West, Carver, and Javier are at the edge of the mat closest to me, still respectfully off the mat, their feet bare like mine. Aidan, Ian, and Kyle are in shoes, on the mat and walking closer. With all of these weapons, you’d think everyone would have the respect required for the mat, but I guess not. I pause slightly, flicking my earbuds from my ears. I pull my phone from my pocket and toss it gently to the hard rubber floor, waiting for the catch in a breath that will telegraph impending movement.

  It comes from Kyle. The big man moves faster than expected especially with the bulk he has, but he’s not fast enough. I’m three feet away from my original position, and Kyle’s big fingers only clutch air. Aidan strikes next, smoking out and popping up six inches away from where I used to be, but now he has a stinging ass cheek where my bokken struck him like a naughty child. Ian stands there with his hands in his pockets, a sign of peace more than anything else; turns, and walks off the mat smiling and shaking his head. I still don’t trust him, but he’s less of a threat right now. I turn back to my intruders.

  Kyle and Aidan must have some wordless communication down because they move as one; Kyle running and Aidan popping out. Aidan reaches me first but gets the nasty surprise of my bokken upside his fool skull instead. He stumbles, landing on his hands and knees shaking off the hit to his temple. Kyle doesn’t fare much better, and I sweep his legs out from under him with my practice sword before he can get within touching distance.

  I hear movement at my back and start to get really pissed.

  “You have less than a second to stop and get your dirty, disrespectful shoes off this fucking mat. If I have to tell you twice, you’ll regret it.”

  “Aww. But it was just starting to get fun,” Ian chuckles as he moves toward Aidan to pick his friend up off the mat. Aidan looks a little green as he passes, his arm thrown over Ian’s shoulder. Maybe I hit him harder than I thought. Oops. Maybe next time he won’t use his abilities in a sparring session.

  Kyle looks fine, but he’s still on his back, looking dazed.

  “You alright?” I ask looking over at the felled giant.

  “Yeah. How’d you do that?”

  “What? Kick your ass?” I laugh.

  “Yeah. That,” he breathlessly chuckles.

  “Three ways. One, I’m really good at reading people, and you telegraph your movements about half a second before you strike. You may wanna work on that.”

  “So noted. And the second?”

  “I train every single day.”

  That raises his eyebrows, and he incredulously asks, “Why?”

  “Because a long time ago I didn’t have the luxury, and it cost me,” I say as I level my eyes with his, sobering him instantly.

  “And the third?”

  “I’m a fucking psychic, you dumbass,” I say as I throw up a hand.

  “Huh. I didn’t know you were an Oracle. How come you still have your eyes?”

  “I’m not an Oracle, just a lowly little Seer on the run from her Legion. I like my eyes where they are, even if they are ugly as sin.”

  “Valid. Wanna help me up?”

  “You still planning on pulling me down? ‘Cause ground tactics aren’t going to work so well for you when I fry your ass from the inside out.”

  He purses his lips and says, “I think I’ll get myself up.”

  “Good plan,” I mutter as Kyle slowly pulls himself to standing, hobbling off the mat.

  West and Javier bow to the mat, then to each other and start sparring on the far end. They are doing a light touch technique that focuses more on control of movements rather than strikes.

  Carver starts slowly clapping, and I use the bokken like a cane and perform a little bow before stowing the sword on its pegs on the wall and moving out of the way.

  “Enjoy the show?”

  “Immensely. You know they were just playing, right? They wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Because I’m a girl?” I ask incredulously.

  “Because their
King has given you his protection. They only wanted to see what you were made of.”

  “And here I went easy. If I had known it was a dog and pony show, I would have shown some of my best tricks.”

  “Don’t be a snot, it’s unbecoming.”

  “Don’t be condescending. It’s rude.”

  “Touché. So what happened this morning? I thought we were getting ready for a fight, and it turns out you blew up your room. People were phased, shit was on fire. What the fuck, girlie?”

  I shrug, trying to think of a way to explain the drama without sounding like a complete fucking nutter. Might as well go with the truth.

  “Well. I have dreams. Sometimes they’re visions and sometimes they’re flashbacks. Either way, they make me completely batshit crazy, and occasionally I wake up screaming my head off and setting shit on fire by accident. Rhys is not familiar with my episodes, so there was a misunderstanding this morning.”

  “So you’re telling me he was yelling the house down because he was worried about you?”

  “Essentially.”

  “And this is a problem because…?”

  “We have a history and it’s not pleasant.”

  “Don’t we all? Maybe, since he gives a shit and all, you should cut him some slack? Friends are hard to come by.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  “So if enough people tell it to you, you’ll actually believe it? Because I’ve been watching you two and whatever you’re carrying? It’s hurting you both.”

  8

  Becoming an Alcoholic

  RHYS - 1855

  I stood watching my brother arm himself. When he first told me his mission three days ago, I stood there in shock. His face so animated and joyful, calmly discussing the planned assassination of a woman who had done nothing wrong.