I slide the throttle in, and away we go, speeding down the asphalt to take flight. The wheels eventually lift and we’re off, angling upward above the approaching tree line.
“Woohoo!” Pat yells from the co-pilot seat. “That shit never gets old.”
He joined the Air Force when I joined the Army years ago, but he wasn’t a pilot. And if you’re not a pilot in the Air Force, you’re pretty much a grunt—or at least that’s how they make you feel.
I look over at my best friend. “Did you ever want to be a pilot, Pat?”
“Not back when I first joined. And then after I was in a while and got to know some of the cocky sonsabitches who were pilots—the answer was still nope. I had no desire to learn. Goddamn, they were some arrogant fuckers. Like the sun rose and set from their ass.”
Drew laughs from the backseat. “You must not feel that way now. Look at you. You almost have as many hours as Eric—and you’re well on your way to having your license.”
“Thanks in large part to you,” Pat motions with his head toward Drew, “and that freaky-ass wetsuit that makes you look like you’re a lost undersea explorer.”
“Would you rather have waited until the darkness to learn?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” He kicks back and lazily looks out the window. “If the view wasn’t so gorgeous up here this would totally suck.”
We continue on an uneventful flight for the twenty minutes, until a red light appears on the dash.
“Uh-oh,” Pat says. “What did you do, dude? I don’t know what that light means.”
Before I can read the tiny print under the gauge, Drew answers from the back. “It’s the fuel gauge. I’ll ignore your comment that you didn’t know what it was, you slacker.”
“That can’t be right,” I reply. “I filled it when we landed.”
“Yeah, I heard you do it.” The vamp shrugs. “Could be a malfunction with the gauge. We can check it when we land.”
Ten minutes later another light goes on. This time it’s for the engine. “Uh, Drew. Should we be worried?”
Drew leans forward, examining the lights on the control board. “Huh. That is odd.” He reaches an arm between the seats and thumps his fist above the dials. “Not sure what’s going on.”
“And banging on the control panel is a good idea?” Pat asks, a slight tremor of fear in his voice. “I’m not liking this, guys…”
While Drew and I waste precious seconds looking for a possible cause, the engine seizes and the propeller stops moving.
“Oh shit!” Pat screams. “Turn it back on, dude.” He motions toward the wheel. “Fucking do something!”
I fumble for the ignition, hoping it’s just stalled, like a car. I turn the key back to the start position and frantically grind it forward, hoping that will help.
“Grab the wheel, Eric,” Drew commands. “Hold the plane steady. Stay calm. We’re not going to drop out of the sky. Move, man,” he says to Pat, tugging on his shoulder. “Let me up here.”
His calm, assured voice reduces the racing of my heart. I’m trying my best not to freak out and piss myself, but my mind draws an utter blank on what to do next. All I can think of is to try and recall the stuff we covered about emergency landings. And absolutely nothing comes to mind. It’s like my brain blanked on everything I learned.
Pat scrambles to the back, and the tightness is my chest eases when Drew takes his seat. He buckles in and flips a few switches. Nothing happens. He grabs the wheel and the breath I was holding eases out.
“Brace yourselves, boys.”
“What?” Pat asks, terror tinging his words.
“Nothing is working. The whole panel is dead. We’ve got no way to fix it mid-air. We’re going to have to land.”
The deep blanket of trees spreads out below us, offering no place to safely do as he’s suggested. “Holy shit,” I say, the enormity of our situation hitting me between the eyes like a thrown brick. “This can’t be good.”
“Not to worry,” Drew assures us in an even voice. “We’re all very hard to kill. We’ll make it. It’s the plane I’m worried about.”
“Broken bones still hurt,” Pat quips, unperturbed by Drew’s calm acceptance. “And we can all die, and very quickly I might add, if this thing explodes in flames.”
Drew maneuvers us as the plane slowly loses altitude. “Can one of you check the map and see if there’s a clearing or a river bed coming up? Something better than a forest of trees would be nice.”
I grab the map and unfold it, ignoring the shaking in my hands.
“Come on, man,” Drew says through gritted teeth. “We’re losing altitude quicker now. Must have a tail wind driving us down.”
I scan the dials in front of me, and then return my focus to the map, trying to determine where we are and what’s nearby. “Uh…up ahead, to the right, over that ridge, there should be a stream.”
“Thank-fucking-God we haven’t had any rain recently,” Pat mumbles while clasping his seatbelt in a death grip.
Drew angles the plane to the right, and as we pass a low hill the dry creek bed comes into view. “Crap, that’s gonna be a tight squeeze.”
The small plane dips down, gliding slowly closer to the fast-approaching ground, its wings held steady by Drew’s strength and sheer determination.
“We’re going to die!” Pat screams, his voice pitching higher with anxiety and distress, as he covers his eyes to avoid seeing what’s ahead.
“Not…if…I…can…” Drew grits his teeth while forcing the answer out slowly, “help it!”
The oncoming scenery appears crystal clear, as if my werewolf eyesight doesn’t want me to miss one small detail of our swiftly-arriving landing.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, keenly aware I’m sitting here next to Drew doing nothing.
“Grab your wheel, too. The more hands the better at this point. We’re going to angle toward that dry bed down there. Do you see it?”
I look beyond the windshield once again, searching the trees for where he means. Up ahead the greenery parts, revealing gentle sloping sides down to a narrow stream bed. It looks way too small to land there. “Uh… yeah. I see it. I don’t think the plane will fit.”
“Won’t fit?!?” Pat squeaks, prying his hands away from his eyes to peer forward and look for himself. “We’re gonna die!”
“Jesus, Pat! Shut up!” I yell back. “How is that helpful?”
“Helpful? How the fuck do you think I can help? It’s not like I have a fucking engine in my back pocket for crying out loud.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Drew says, his concentration focused ahead, on the slim area where the trees aren’t growing.
He takes one hand away from the wheel and flips a couple of switches again, for what reason, I don’t know. The plane is eerily quiet as we glide closer to the quickly-approaching ground. People survive plane landings like this all the time in Alaska. I’m sure we’ll be fine.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that over and over it will come true.
The whir of the landing gear descending sounds underneath the plane. “Prepare yourselves,” he says. “As in, hold on! We’re going to touch down in a few seconds.”
I grip the wheel hard, my arms locked at my sides. A slight brush of pressure below our feet indicates the tires have touched ground. Before I can release a sigh of happiness, the entire plane shifts, the view beyond the windshield becomes ground, and then sky again as the plane rolls forward and crashes, a wing ripping off, and the sound of screaming metal fills the air around us.
The seat belts hold us strapped to the seats as the windshield breaks and a whoosh of air comes in, followed by debris slamming around the cabin. I hear a scream of pain and then all goes black.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VIV
Dressed in body-hugging running pants and a trim tee shirt, I finish my stretching well before Rafe is scheduled to arrive for our sparring session. Expelling the amped up tension we’ve been dealing with is cr
ucial to remaining focused on our goals—or so my loving husband insists.
I find my best tension-relievers usually involve him and I being naked, but that certainly won’t happen when we’ve got an audience in the dojo. In times of conflict like this, when I worry I can’t protect my loved ones, the darkness inside threatens to spill up and out, tempting me with the easy path of killing, instead of solving, my problems. Hence, why Rafe suggested we spar.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
One moment at a time. That’s what life is. A series of connected moments. Moments we can allow to overtake us, or moments we prepare for, accept, and withstand.
Air whooshes in and out of my lungs in a steady stream. Gradually, the worst of the anxiety fades and I’m left feeling only moderately stressed and ready to maim.
I can do this. I can master the worries and doubts plaguing me about this upcoming threat. I must stop Rolando and Persephone in order to keep my people safe. There is no other choice. I can no longer sit in my secluded fortress, content to watch the world from a safe distance.
Whether I like it or not, I must prepare to go forth and meet the threats awaiting us. Not allow those threats to come to our home.
I’m more than just a weapon. I am a vehicle for change.
Rafe better not try anything cute with me today, like his usual sexual teasing as distraction. He’s done it in the past, to our mutual satisfaction, but I arrived early today for our session on purpose—with the intention to observe Asa and Paul, who are scheduled to be here the same time as us.
With that goal in mind, I move to a corner and stand still. Breathing shallowly, I meditate while Asa enters the training room and warms up. Standing in the shadows and being quiet can be advantageous. Especially if you want to track the training of your seethe without them getting nervous you’re watching. I weave a simple illusion around myself, ensuring the casual observer would miss me at first glance. Outright invisibility isn’t my objective, remaining unnoticed is.
Steps sound in the distant hallway, prompting Asa to check the wall clock while moving to the doorway. “Paul!” Asa calls. “You’re right on time. Let’s get started.”
Paul follows him into the dojo, crossing the threshold and toeing off his shoes. “What are we working on today?” he asks, not sounding nearly as enthusiastic about his training as I’d hoped. Although, considering he’s working with a highly-trained soldier, his reluctance could stem from fear. The other man is not only bigger and stronger, he also knows a lot more about fighting, which has been known to draw out Paul’s insecurities in the past.
“Weapons or hands?” Asa asks, in an uncharacteristic show of understanding the chef’s hesitancy.
Paul opts for hand to hand. They move into the center of the training mats to face off.
“Let’s work on some defensive throws.” Asa steps closer and puts his hands on Paul’s arms. “Watch where I place my hands and feel how I grasp. You’ll repeat the grip next.”
He executes a series of moves designed to incapacitate his opponent and keep him on the floor. Then he has Paul run through the same actions again and again, while allowing himself to be used as the practice dummy.
“Muscle memory is key in a fight,” Asa instructs, while subtly altering Paul’s grip for better leverage. “You do a defensive move enough times and eventually you don’t have to think about it, your body just moves.”
Without trying, I’m able to read the self-doubting thoughts projecting loud and clear from Paul.
He’s been saying the same type of positive bullshit with me for weeks now, but honestly, it feels like I’ll never be as good as them.
I debate on responding, deciding to go with my gut. If you think that, I whisper softly into his mind, then it’s already true.
Paul whips toward me, accurately pinpointing my location due to our mental connection. No longer needing the illusion, I drop it completely.
Asa sees his pupil’s attention drift and turns toward me, too. “Care to join us?” he says with a smile. “There’s plenty of room in here.”
“That’s why I came. Rafe wants to practice Krav Magra with me.”
“Like in the Liam Nelson movies?” Paul asks. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You’ll see, Paul. When you live a long time and travel as much as I have, you’ll get a chance to learn a lot of things you never dreamed existed. Fighting styles being one of them. Every country has a deadly style and skills you can add to your repertoire, all you have to do is immerse yourself in the culture to discover it.”
He returns his attention to Asa, but his mind still projects. She makes it sound so freakin’ easy, like you’re traveling and sampling new foods, discovering recipes and combinations you’ve never thought of before. But maybe that’s my cook’s mind finding a correlation. If you were always training to survive and live another day, then perhaps noticing and assimilating the local fighting techniques would be the equivalent. I’m not sure.
I decide not to let him know I’ve overheard him, and make a mental note to help him train his telepathic walls to be stronger.
Facing off the larger man, Paul raises his fists and widens his stance, a smirk on his face. “Dammit, Jim. I’m a cook, not a fighter.”
I smile at his Star Trek reference, while Asa looks at him like he might have been hit too hard or something. Paul shrugs his shoulders and motions to the mat. “Are we done yet?”
Asa makes a show of glancing significantly at the clock. “Uh, noooo… We’ve been here fewer than twenty minutes.”
“That’s it?” Paul responds with a smile. “It seems so much longer.”
Rafe saunters in, wearing clothes similar to mine. Tight and slick, leaving nothing to the imagination regarding the range and breath of his musculature. He weighs close to two hundred and thirty pounds. And at six foot two or so, that’s pretty darn solid.
“Interesting outfit, Rafe,” Asa says, eyebrows creeping up his head in surprise.
Rafe snorts and shakes his head. “Make fun, I don’t care. I’d wear anything that gave me a slight advantage. Trust me, you don’t want to give her anything to grab onto, or use against you. She’s ruthless and highly skilled.” He moves toward me, still speaking to the men. “Last week, my loose tee shirt was whipped over my head—she literally tied me up in it—and smacked my ass. It was humbling, to say the least.” He nods toward me, noting my clothing in a head-to-toe appraisal. “So I took a line from her game book and went tight. This snug fabric makes it very hard for her to grasp and grapple. Gives me a better chance of not losing in under five minutes.”
We move to the other side of the room, but really there’s no lack of space. The inner portion of the dojo could fit three or four sparring pairs, easily. Rafe jumps up and down a few times, stretches his head side to side, and pointedly looks anywhere but at me, while I stare at him intently. My focus never wavers, following his every move while standing perfectly still, my body angled to the side, providing a smaller target.
Without warning, Rafe launches his attack. I side-step, and execute an arm grab and twist that looks like it’s going to break his elbow. Rafe rolls with the arm lock and dives forward, out of my hold. While on the ground, he shifts to deliver a leg sweep, hoping to catch me off guard.
No luck, as I prepared for the move and jump high, pulling my fist back for a blow. As I descend from the jump, my arm ratchets forward, nailing my loving husband in the back of the head.
The blow knocks him flat, a dazed expression on his face. I pause, holding still while watching my opponent for any sign of movement. In a few seconds, Rafe rolls over and gets to his feet, apparently undeterred and looking for more.
“Ready?” I ask.
Rafe nods once, focused on my every move, or lack thereof, a determined look on his face.
“Paul, let’s get back to work,” Asa says, calling their attention away from us.
The chef’s thoughts project across the space, filling my head. What
I’d really like to do is get him to focus on something as intently as she is, then maybe I’d have a chance of catching him off-guard and landing a blow.
Without dwelling on his words for too long, I get back to the fight with Rafe. If I falter in my concentration to worry about the two of them, my opponent will notice and press his advantage. Sure enough, his fist flies toward me and I barely avoid the blow.
Wow, he’s getting faster. Must be the blood.
What color are Paul’s shoes? I hear in my head. What kind of shoes are they?
A grunt of pain and a solid thump pulls both Rafe and I around. Elation swells in my mind at the small victory, flooding my body with happiness at the achievement.
“Blue!” Asa yells, falling to one knee. He stands quickly, the surprise etched on his face over Paul landing a solid hit is almost as great as the chef’s.
Crap. That’s not my elation. It’s Paul’s.
The fledgling is unknowingly projecting more than just his thoughts—he’s nudging Asa’s mind with a pointed distraction and broadcasting his emotions, too.
Without communicating an end to our round, we’ve stopped sparring while my stare fixes on Paul. This is going to require me to do something. Dammit. I really wanted to spar, too. I glance at Rafe, who nods in understanding.
“Paul, my dear, let’s have a chat in the hallway.”
Oh shit. What did I do?
I resist answering him telepathically, and he follows me out, stopping outside the door to lean against a wall in the hallway. “Is something wrong, Vivian? I thought I was doing pretty good in there. Holding my own for once.”
“Hmm… is that what you really think, Paul? Did you use your fighting skills in there, or perhaps something else gave you an advantage?”
“I… uh…” He looks down and jerks when he notices his blue sneakers. I can feel the fear clutching his heart as he realizes what he did. “I didn’t mean to!”
I reach a hand to his forearm, my face softening in compassion. “It’s okay, Paul. You didn’t hurt anyone permanently. But you have to promise me something.”
Sharpen the Blade (The V V Inn Book 6) Page 10