by Lacy Yager
He looks so serious, no trace of his usual, jovial demeanor. Is he angry that I haven't invited him to the party? Does he feel my hesitation about where this is going?
The ref waves us into the match, and we circle briefly before he strikes first with a quick jab. I block and take a punch of my own, but he ducks it.
One corner of his mouth is drawn down in a concentrated frown, and I find I miss the good-natured ribbing he would normally be doing in one of our sparring sessions.
I haven't promised him anything, but I never really answered his earlier question, whether he could come to the party if he wins the match.
He's fighting like I agreed, though. Spinning, kicking, ducking to avoid my moves, grunting once when I connect with his lower abs.
It's pretty sexy, especially when I keep glimpsing his sweat-slicked chest beneath his gi.
The ref calls the end of the first round, and we step off the mat.
I glance back to see him toweling off. I take a swig of water from my bottle, and it only reminds me of the other day, when I shared his drink.
After sixty seconds, we settle back into our starting positions. His eyes are intense, no longer avoiding my gaze, but watching me. Asking a question? I can't tell.
He comes after me with a vengeance. His first lunge surprises me and knocks me back, but I turn the fall into a backward roll and come to my feet, only to find him there. I fend off a high kick with an elbow-block and jump over his sweeping reverse kick.
Enough of this defensive crap. I launch into a jump with both feet, aiming for a jaw-shoulder combo-jab, but he's quick and slides to the side, sending me to my hands and knees with a push to my back as my momentum takes me past him.
The ref calls a pause and I stand up. The ref asks me if I'm okay, and I am. Just mad at myself for letting it happen.
Brett's eyes glint. A hint of humor? Is he enjoying himself?
The ref waves us back into the second round, and this time, I take the offensive. I roll and sweep out with a floor-kick.
He hops over it, but I crouch into a second one and send him to his rear on the mats.
He scrambles up with a half-wicked, half-determined smile.
And winks, ever so slightly.
And the realization hits me.
I'm in love with Brett. Unplanned, unexpected, totally shocking.
He settles into a crouch, ready to go, but I'm frozen, standing tall in my corner of the mat.
The referee again asks me if I'm okay, and I shake myself out of my daze.
I have a match to win.
Except... With the realization still tingling through my system, everything is electric around me.
I'm in love with Brett Carson.
And following the realization comes the thought that my dad fought for everything he believed in, until his very last breath.
He never gave up.
And I can't give up on Brett.
The ref waves us into the last round, and Brett comes at me, flying forward in a roundhouse kick.
16 - Emily
I stand with my back to the full-length mirror in my luxurious bathroom, almost too afraid to turn around and see what my mom has done to me.
The magenta dress fits like I remember, snug across my chest and hips and flaring out around my thighs.
It wouldn't be so bad if not for the torturous three-inch heels my mom insisted on. Flats would've been just as good, in my estimation, but nooo...
She sent a make-up and hair artist in to attack me an hour ago, and I've been waxed, clipped, straightened, curled, jabbed. I’m afraid to see what image will stare back at me from that mirror. I’m sure it won’t be mine.
But all I have to do is get through this night, and she'll have to let me Chase. I'm eighteen now.
There's a knock.
"Are you about ready, dear?" My mom's voice is muffled through the door.
It's now or never.
I turn to face the mirror and cringe. Is this how she wants me to be?
My hair is piled on top of my head in an elaborate style, with ringlets cascading down the back and my bangs curled to one side.
The dress fits perfectly, the strapless design showing off my biceps and delts and making me look like I have at least a little cleavage. I half-spin, craning my neck to see my backside, and I have to admit, Brett was right that day at the mall. The heels do show off my legs.
But the face paint makes me look like a clown. Black liner around my eyes, dark shadow, dark blush.
I hate it. Makeup isn't my style, nor are the glittery painted nails.
Is this really how my mom wants me to be? What she wishes her daughter were?
It's painful in its reality.
She knocks again, and I go to the door, determined to confront her and demand she see me for who I am. And this isn't it.
But when I open the door, her mouth drops and her eyes tear up. She takes my hands in hers, looking me over, and the words I want to say stick in my throat.
"You're so beautiful," she whispers. "I wish your papa could see you now."
I don't think he’d like it any more than I do.
"You're all grown up," she says.
And that's the only upside to this. After tonight, I can make my own decisions. But I don’t mention that, and I don’t argue about the dress or the makeup or the stupid heels. There will be plenty of time for confrontations later. And I'm sure there will be some, because she does not want me to Chase.
"Let's get this over with," I mutter, brushing past her.
I really don't want to do this.
I peek over the banister of the u-shaped staircase to see what looks like all thirty-seven of my relatives, mostly male cousins, spilling through the foyer and further into the house.
Mom nudges me, so I start down the stairs. The guests clap and whistle. My face feels like it's on fire. The match earlier was nothing compared to the pain of being the center of attention. Dressed like this.
Almost everyone hugs me. Erick and the few cousins I'm closest to offer fist bumps, instead.
Somehow, I'm pushed and prodded all the way through the house to a huge parquet dance floor in the backyard. Beneath the massive trees that edge our yard—over-strung with white twinkle lights until I'm sure you can see us from space—are several tables topped with every kind of food you can imagine. A massive white cake stands at the far end of the buffet table.
I crane my neck, scanning the dark-haired heads for Erick, but I’ve lost him in the melee. Nerves have me jangling from head to toe. It’s much worse that the nervousness I felt before my matches earlier.
A microphone squeals, and I jump. People nearby laugh.
Several loud thumps mean someone is tapping it.
"Thank you to everyone for coming." My mom's voice comes over a speaker system I hadn’t known we had.
Those near me move back, and I'm suddenly in the middle of the dance floor, alone, feeling conspicuous, like a spotlight is shining right on me.
"I want to wish my little girl—my baby—a happy eighteenth birthday. I love you, sweetie."
My cheeks ache from the fake smile I've got on.
A song starts playing.
"We'll do the traditional dance first," says my mom's slightly-disembodied voice.
My Uncle Felix appears out of the mass of faces lining the edges of the floor. He reaches out for me. Thank goodness my mom insisted on dance lessons.
"Happy birthday, Mahal," he says as he loosely clasps me in the formal hold. The Filipino endearment reminds me of my dad, and the moment I think of him, pain thrums my heart. I miss him so much.
Uncle F sweeps me into a slow waltz, smiling down on me.
The sudden tears clogging my throat surprise me.
I don't know if my dad would've made me go through all this. I do know he would've let me Chase, no matter what.
But it's the comfort of his hug that I miss right now. If he were dancing with me instead of my uncle, this wouldn't be so ter
rible. We'd probably laugh about our two left feet together.
I wobble in the heels as my uncle passes me off to my mom's brother, a skinny man ten years her senior who we typically see once a year at Christmas time.
Everyone is watching, silent.
I miss a step, and my uncle doesn't notice. My misstep jolts me out of his hold, and I've messed up the dance that was so important to my mom.
I can't do this.
He reaches for me, but I back away, holding up a hand in front of me. "I'm sorry."
Before I can make a desperate escape through the crowd, there's a loud crash of tinkling glass.
The music cuts off.
And a female voice screams.
17 - Brett
I ride my motorcycle to Emily's mom's mansion and have to park it close between two high-dollar sedans, because the huge circle drive is packed.
I tug on the uncomfortable black necktie and shrug my shoulders in the suit coat. It's not my usual style, but Emily is worth it. Especially after what she did—what I think she did, anyway—earlier this afternoon.
I hope she's not mad that I'm here.
I pat the square, flat box I've got in the breast pocket of my jacket. Still there. A perfect gift for her.
I hope.
Lastly, I adjust the rose I've tucked in my lapel. If Erick hasn't steered me wrong, I'm going to give it to her on the last leg of the traditional dance and prove that I'm the guy who has her heart.
My stupid stomach flutters like a butterfly, like I’m some kind of chick. Sheesh, get a grip, dude.
No one seems to notice me as I slip inside the front door. Everyone is following the crowd out the back of the house into the yard, and I tag along, rising on my tiptoes to get a glimpse of Emily.
A couple of people give me curious looks, but no one questions me.
When we finally emerge onto a spacious back patio, Emily stands alone in the middle of the dance floor, looking lost.
Why isn't her mom out there with her?
Then the microphone squeals and music starts. A half-muscular, half-portly guy with a dark mustache joins Emily and guides her into a slow waltz. At least I think it's a waltz, but I'm not a dance aficionado, so I don't really know.
Her eyes sparkle as they turn, but I think it’s a trick of the light. She doesn’t look happy. In fact… are those tears? I've never seen Emily cry, not even when her dad died.
I want to rescue her, but I also know how worried she was about getting this thing right for her mom. No matter how much she protests, I know she loves her mom.
So I wait.
When she stumbles out of the dance, I will the old dude with her—another uncle?—to swing her into an exaggerated twirl, like it was planned.
But he doesn't.
And she starts to panic.
And that's when everything goes wrong.
Beside me, something big crashes through one of the picture windows.
In the glow of the twinkle lights, a dude lands in a crouch in the middle of a million shards of glass. I see the glistening fangs and the sharp planes of his face, and my heart starts pumping.
It's a monster, just like the one that attacked Emily in the parking garage.
Another crash, another window broken, another person…monster…coming through it.
Someone screams.
Another monster climbs out of the house. Through the windows, I see more shadows moving inside. More monsters?
And a ton of guests out here. Sitting ducks.
How did they get in? Did they walk in, just like I had?
Several of the men, Emily’s relatives, seem suddenly armed. Knives? Like they expected this? Ignoring their fancy suits, they launch themselves at the monsters.
At least the monsters don't seem particularly interested in the women. There are only a few, Emily's mom included.
I run toward Emily and her mother. "This way," I shout as more monsters pour out of the house into the yard.
I motion Emily's mom and the other ladies around the side of the house, where I know there's a side door. Maybe they can run to the vehicles in front. Anything is better than being back here.
I turn back to the fight. The monsters don't seem to be paying attention to me. One has made its way out on to the parquet floor with Emily, though, and that's a mistake.
No one hurts my girl.
Remembering how powerful the things were in the parking garage, I glance around for anything I can use as a weapon.
There's a buffet table between me and the dance floor. I rush to it and find a large carving knife and a long steel rod like chefs use to sharpen their knives. It's not ideal, but it'll do.
"Emily!" I shout.
She is in the tail end of a spinning kick that sends the guy she's fighting backwards several steps. Her head whips my direction, and I see the momentary surprise on her face before I toss the knife to her.
She catches it out of the air, by the handle, and uses the momentum to drive it into the guy's face. Blood spurts, and he goes down.
I'm rounding the table to join her when someone rushes me from the side. I get a glimpse of razor-sharp fangs, and it's enough for me to duck and throw my shoulder toward the thing. It wasn't expecting it and tumbles over me.
I bring the makeshift steel weapon down and slice it into the guy's gut. A mortal wound.
I stand up, bringing the bloody weapon with me, but the guy roars and rolls over, then pushes to his hands and knees.
What. The. Heck.
"Brett!"
Emily rushes to me, seems to register than I'm motionless with shock, and stabs the guy through the back of his ribcage.
He collapses on his face, and this time, he doesn't get up.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, panting with exertion. She’s lost the high heels, which explains how she was able to do that roundhouse kick.
Two more monsters come at us. I jerk my chin over her shoulder and we rotate to face them, shoulder-to-shoulder.
"Did that thing just get up? A wound like that would've killed a…" I roundhouse the approaching dude, and he goes sideways. "…a human."
"Head or heart," she says, grunting as she punches into the guy's gut. "They heal quickly, sometimes within seconds. You've got to give them a wound they can't heal from."
I kick mine backward, but I know it's coming back. "What are they?"
There's a short hesitation, then, "Vampires.” She sticks her knife right into the guy's face. He goes down.
Seriously?
There's no time for disbelief. Someone shouts from the other side of the yard.
The things are swarming the men. It's not looking good.
"Did you see my mom?" she asks.
"Sent her around the side of the house before it really started. They didn't seem to be interested in her or the other women."
I finally get a clear shot and thrust my makeshift stake into the vampire's chest. He freezes and falls to the ground.
I try to pull Emily back away from the chaotic struggle in front of us. They don't seem to see us here between the food tables and the side of the house.
I really don't want her hurt, and those things are evil.
"Let’s call the cops," I say.
She shakes her head, turns, and bolts toward the house, where the open back door and windows gape, dark and malicious.
18 - Emily
"Emily!"
Brett protests but follows me into the house.
It's weirdly quiet away from the noise of the fight.
Those are my uncles and cousins out there, fighting for their lives. I saw plenty of knives, but I'm guessing most of my family are only lightly armed. They came expecting a party, not a fight.
And if I don't help them, they could lose their lives.
I head straight for my dad's training room, not bothering to flick on any lights. Brett follows.
"Anybody behind us?" I can't hear anything over my pounding heartbeat.
"I do
n't think so."
My bare feet slap against the wood floors in the hallway. I got rid of the shoes first thing, afraid I was going to break an ankle trying to fight in those heels.
We reach the training room, and this time I do flip on a light. I go right for the rack of swords. They'll do the most damage and give my uncles and cousins the longest reach. I know my dad had a whole arsenal of guns, but I don't have time to hunt down the key to the gun safe. I can only hope the vamps aren't armed.
"Nice hairdo," Brett says as he joins me.
Even amidst all the chaos, my face flames. "It's not my usual style," I mutter. Then, as I hold up two deadly blades, I see that he's in a suit. What is he doing here anyway? There isn't time to find out.
"You want to carry or clear the way?" I ask.
"You'd better let me carry," he says with a half sigh. "You'll slice your arms open with that sleeveless dress."
I shove an armful of swords at him, seven or eight in all.
I'm ready to grab one for myself when I think better of it and rush to the nearby rack of long knives. I take two, quickly strapping one to my thigh with a short belt made for just that.
I bring the other to Brett and lift the tail of his jacket.
"Careful," he warns as I slide it into the back of his waistband.
I pat his butt and go back to the swords, taking one for each hand. "Let's do this."
I lead the way back into the hall. The shadowy darkness takes a moment to get used to after the light of the training room. I thought I was being smart leaving the lights off, but I should've thought that it would be hard for us to see once our eyes had been in the light.
I'm out of practice.
"So..." Brett whispers as we walk carefully back down the hall. "Your family fights vampires?"
"Yeah. Has for generations."
He is silent for a second. "Bet your mom loves that."
I hum a half-laugh, getting a little frantic as we pause in the kitchen to get the lay of things.
The vamps have the upper hand, some of my family have fallen, but I can't tell how bad the damage is.
I look over my shoulder and Brett is there, steady and confident. And ready.
With all the swords in his arms, I can’t lean in for a kiss. But I hope he can read my feelings in the intensity of my gaze. "Stay close," I tell him. But what I really mean is, I love you.