“Are you advising me on the best way to get hit in the face?”
“Yep. I'll also show you how to fall and how to strike, and then we'll touch some ground work. Most fights end up on the ground. Ideally you don't want it to go there, but you should be prepared if it does. Now, make a fist.”
Davey did, leaving his thumb sticking straight out. Clifford took Davey's hand and flicked the thumb.
“That begs a broken appendage. Tuck it into your palm just below your curled fingers. You'll be hitting with these two knuckles primarily, but you want to cock your wrist a bit so you have a straight line from your forearm to the striking point. Some of the strongest strikes come in a straight line. We'll start there and build on that.”
Clifford grabbed Davey's wrist and pulled him off balance. Davey's body tightened, and Clifford said, “Broaden your stance. You want strength and stability. And loosen up.” Clifford shook Davey's arm. “Now, extend your arm with a quick snap, and that's a jab. Breathe while you strike, exhaling with the blows. And relax.”
Davey couldn’t relax.
Clifford pushed Davey's fists up. “Your jab returns here to guard your chin. Your chin should be tucked and protected as much as possible. Tuck it into your shoulder when you take hits—and you will—that way you'll avoid their damage potential and you can keep fighting. When getting knocked out means more than the end of the fight—like maybe the end of your life—you do whatever it takes to stay in it. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, a cross requires you to pivot your hips to feed the motion of your power hand. You want your entire body behind it, not only your upper body strength.” Clifford demonstrated, screwing his hips into it. Davey sort of shook his hips and mock-punched the air. Clifford grabbed Davey's cross and his hip and pulled them forward at the same time. A blush swirled up Davey's neck to his cheeks.
“It's a contact sport, kid,” Clifford said. Acknowledging the blush made Davey blush further. One of the major differences between MMA lessons and karate lessons; even in training, the ground and pound got physical fast while karate was all about form. In training, people touch a lot and hard, but it’s all business.
Clifford stepped back and slipped his left hand into the focus mitt. “Let's try a few hits. Jabs and crosses, low power for now. You want to practice the motion so you get a feel for the technical aspect of it. Here we go.” He held up his target hand. Davey stood there with his fists closer to his navel than his chin.
“Get your hands up,” Clifford said. “Up by your chin.”
Davey did as told, peering awkwardly from behind his fists.
“Jab. Pop the red dot on my mitt.” He whapped the mitts together and the vinyl slap made Davey jump. “Breathe and jab.”
Davey popped out his right fist. I'd seen worse, but he leaned too far.
“Stay centered over your feet, and keep your chin down. Now, try it again,” Clifford said. Davey punched the mitt again, but he brought his arm back toward his gut and left it there. “Keep your guard up. As you extend your punch, keep that chin in your shoulder and your other hand positioned near your chin. Protect yourself.”
Davey nodded.
“Jab, cross, maintain that guard.”
Davey jabbed. By the time his fist tapped the mitt, his other hand floated down and left him open. Clifford swung the padded mitt and bopped Davey on the outstretched chin. It was not a solid hit and it wasn't overly fast, but it startled the shit out of Davey. He stumbled back, misplaced his feet, and swung his arms like windmill eaves. He fell.
Clifford surged forward to help, probably, but even to me it looked like a lunge. Davey flung a total haymaker and popped Clifford on the chin. It surprised everyone, most of all Clifford. When he wiped his mouth, a blood smear streaked his forearm. He snarled. His teeth were red, and my brain screamed, Here we go. I almost pulled the wrong gun, but at the last second I left the Jericho in its holster.
Davey bore his teeth and scooted back across the floor, his face pink and strained. His hands grew hard and enormous underneath the athletic tape. Clifford’s roar quaked through the room. Red saliva strung along his prominent, sharpening teeth. His jaw grew wide to accommodate the enormous canines, and his skin flaked over his forehead and cheekbones. His limbs lengthened and gathered bulk, his rib cage began to look more like a knobby barrel. In the span of three seconds, I had two mutts shedding at once. Clifford stood too close to Davey. I raised the trank gun.
“Clifford, stop or I'll trank you.”
And if the Down-boy didn't work?
Then today would be the day I kill Clifford.
He crouched, facing the wall, cradling his head in ill-proportioned hands. His taut skin gleamed with the sheen of mutt clay. His back throbbed with breaths so rapid it was a wonder his lungs didn't pop. He fought through it, body shaking with muscle spasms. Vigorous sweat wet on his clothing. Turning his back on the person with a gun wasn't a very mutt-like thing to do, which meant Clifford's brain still worked human-style.
Davey gasped on all fours, enlarged hands ripping the athletic tape. His warped jaw receded. The mutt retreated since his enemy no longer snarled above him.
“How's it going, Davey?” I said, as if nothing was amiss. His eyes focused on me as his teeth shrank to a size appropriate for a human mouth. His tongue wet his cracked, dehydrated lips. He examined Clifford, edging toward him.
“Not the best idea,” I said.
Davey approached non-aggressively, nearing Clifford’s tense body. Davey said, “Relax. You'll get over it.” His voice fell octaves below its normal pitch, but his smart ass remark broke the tension. Clifford’s growl turned into a laugh. An embarrassed one. He had lost control. He found it again, but so many things could have gone wrong. Especially since I abandoned the drugs for a loaded .45. Clifford rubbed his head and face with his strong human hands. Flakes of clay crumbled to the mat.
“Hard feelings?” Davey said.
“None,” Clifford said.
“Blood on your mouth.”
“Already healed.”
“Everyone okay?” I said.
They nodded. Clifford glanced at me, saw my sidearm in my hand, and caught my eyes. His gaze was as sober as a nun on her knees.
“Well, boys, I think we’re done for today. Davey, go wait in the truck.”
He glanced at me and didn’t argue.
As soon as he left, I holstered the Jericho, walked over to Clifford, and slapped him across the face. Very fucking hard across the face. Which was entirely stupid because he could have stopped me in a dozen painful ways. My actions were more foolhardy considering he was a mutt, yet he took it and bled. He knew he deserved it.
“How dare you,” I hissed. “You stop taking Xen on the day I bring an unstable mutt over for you to get physical with? Endangering my son? Kee-rist! You said a clean mutt was a dead mutt, so imagine my goddamn surprise. What the hell were you thinking?”
He put his finger in his mouth to feel the tear on his lip. His fingertip emerged red with blood, and I jerked away from the contaminant. He scowled at my subconscious reaction.
“You're upset because this would be hard to explain at the office,” he said.
“No joke. It would have been impossible to explain how my adopted kid and my trainer were both mutts. I have silver in this gun, Clifford. I thought I'd have to kill you, and that would make for a shit day.” I put my hands on my hips. “Why did you stop using Xen? With your temper and surroundings, why risk it?”
“I'm a drug addict, Kaidlyn.” His face puckered in a sneer of disgust. “A goddamn druggie. Me. I spent my entire career promoting clean competition. I've never used steroids or growth hormones and I always looked down on the guys that did. Yet here I am, smoking pot and popping Xen every day, getting high. I'm always high.” He folded his arms. “I reached for a pill a hundred times yesterday, and when I wasn't aching for the Xen, I craved pot. It's despicable, and now that it's gone, I'm wrecked. I won’t l
ive dirty, dependent, and addled.”
“Should have warned me.”
“You already figured it out, you simply didn't think about it.”
“Are you clean for good?”
“I think so.”
I sat on the mat, put my elbows on my knees, and rubbed my temples.
“Everything will be fine.” He touched my hand. His grip was boiling, wet, and sandy. Contagion, mutt clay, and supernatural heat. The size of his hand and the almond color of his skin engulfed my fingers. A blush rose on my cheeks.
“Oh, for heaven's sake. I have to go.”
“Kaid?” Clifford said.
“What?”
“Don’t ever hit me again.”
“Sure.” Next time I’ll shoot you.
Outside, Davey leaned against the truck. “I messed up, didn't I?”
“Nah. Everyone has a first day.”
Chapter 24
Leaving Clifford's dojo with Davey, I wondered how big of a mistake I had made. Hell, add it to the shit-pile of stupidity I'd undoubtedly committed. I was winging it, trying to save someone who needed more help than I could offer. Davey’s fate was sealed. He would die at the hands of an agent with a silver-loaded whatever, or rival wolves might kill him, or vampires. Jeez, he might die of heartache when the war tore him and Peter apart.
What the heck could I do against that?
How would jujitsu help anyone?
Strong-arming Clifford into teaching Davey had been a placebo to make me more comfortable about the crazy world my kid had to live in.
My truck gleamed in evening light, a silver beacon on the horizon of a dingy, dirty parking lot in a low-rent part of town that was falling down and tattooed with awful graffiti. The dojo offered meager light in the ruined plaza.
I heard a shuffle, a fidget of rubber soles on rough asphalt. I pushed Davey against the truck, and he caught the rear panel a moment before he would have fallen on the pavement.
I turned and confronted a stranger.
He stood shorter than me. Skinny. Greasy hair. Stupid gold-ish jewelry. Five steps away and far, far too close. Eyes suggested he wasn’t going to ask for spare change. Hostile face, tightness inside his eyes. Bad energy.
“Back away,” I said. His fists pressed against his thighs.
“Make me,” he growled.
“Oh, really?” My stupid pride eagerly ruffled at his grade-school taunt. I showed him my holstered weapon. His breath accelerated, but he didn’t look surprised, meaning he probably knew who I was. Bad news. Was he Rainer’s? Erik’s? Regardless, the mutt wished me harm. My heart slipped into a premeditated pace. “You’re in my space. Back up before I take it personally.”
“Stay away from Clifford. He doesn't belong to you.”
“He doesn’t belong to anyone.”
“We don't need an ugly slip of gash turning his head.”
“I guess your mama never taught you how to speak to a lady.”
“You’re no lady.”
“Why does everyone say that?”
“Cliff is ours, so run your bitch ass out of here.”
“Make me.” My grin filled with mirth and violence. I knew, before he twitched toward me, that he would push me too far. He would make me draw and shoot, and I kinda looked forward to it.
“Get out of here, bitch. Leave the boy. We'll take him, too. He’ll like us.”
My smile died. I wasn't having fun anymore. I’d die before they took my kid. More importantly, this stranger needed to die.
When worse came to worse—which it was about to—I was cornered. Davey’s riled wolf lingered behind me, pacing near the surface and begging to shed. A strange mutt snarled in my face, and Clifford lurked within shouting distance. If the stranger took my blood, Davey and Clifford might shed and fight for my scraps.
As if sensing my logic, the stranger’s lips pulled back and revealed swollen gums. A monster lurked inside his grin, ready to spring. He stood too damn close. He slouched—slunk—forward a few inches in a split instant. My fist missed his chin and caught his throat. He gagged while his maw split open and showed teeth. Lots and lots of growing, sharpening teeth.
He lunged. My pulse clobbered my heart.
I drew, clearing the holster. The grip felt like a stone, rough, unhewn, sticking to my tense palm. I shot him in the pelvis, dropped his center right out from under him. Stopped him in his tracks.
The pain brought up his wolf but the potency of a single Ag round slowed his change. The beast clamored to the surface like a snake crawling out of the mud. Sludgy. Filthy, an unclean shed. Reeked of hobo body odor. He was sick. Discordant. A bad wolf.
His rickety beast scrambled and heaved, surging up from the pavement. Eyes big like tea cups. I aimed above his snout and squeezed the trigger. The shot took him precisely above the nasal cavity. The brain sat low in mutts, not necessarily between the eyes but definitely deep behind the muzzle. He roared, and blood dripped over the dingy fur on his jaw. His forelegs scratched at the pavement, dragging his body closer even as his eyes swung wild.
The poor thing needed more silver. I exhaled, squeezed, and dropped bullet after bullet into the surging, expanding pulp of a monster with garish teeth.
Davey panted behind me, and I smelled more than heard him puke.
My heart staggered under the speed of my pulse.
The attacker’s tacky gold chains laid in the blood beside my tire.
The weak wolf only ate four more Ag rounds before the silver put him down. Unfortunately, I had used the Jericho, a tagged weapon which logged each discharge in a federal archive of easily retrievable electronic data. Shit. A tactical reload occupied my hands while I checked the lot for more bad guys.
Davey gagged and huffed, a sound both repulsive and revolted. I grabbed his elbow, and my fingers slid on the slick dust coating his skin. I slipped my hand into my pocket and jabbed him with a Down-boy dose, praying the chemical cocktail would do its job.
Davey continued a slow trudge toward the change. Shoulders outgrew his form, skull fattened, and teeth struggled for room inside his mouth. Crap. I didn’t want to see his wolf. I didn’t want to have to kill him. Maybe I could distract him with the dead mutt’s leftovers?
Clifford sprinted from the dojo, drawn by gunfire. He eyed the prone, dead body as it deteriorated from its canine form. “Jesus, woman. You have the worst bad luck, and I think it’s contagious.”
“He came at us.”
“I get that, but do you know who this bastard works for? An even bigger bastard. Now I have a dead punk belonging to a psychopath sprawled in front of my dojo, reeking up the place. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Well, I could have the feds come pick him up,” I snipped.
“God!” He whapped his forehead.
“Davey’s edging right now, Clifford. I can’t guarantee a Down-boy will keep him down, know what I’m saying?”
“Well, he can’t shed here. He’ll ruin my facility.” He pushed his hands through his short hair, then rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Leave the body. Take Davey somewhere safe.”
“What are you going to do with the corpse?”
“Does it matter? Go!”
I turned away from Clifford to deal with Davey.
He stirred as if in a drunken slumber. He shouldn’t have been cognitive given the quality of drug pulsing through his system. He should have been in a coma, completely nauseated and stupefied for hours. It was a bad sign, meant his L-strain was of a more resilient variety. I yanked him up, but his bones were dense with wolf-magic. I could scarcely move him.
I supported Davey's weight with my hip and shoulder, grappling for the keys.
“I'm gonna puke,” he said.
“Please do it before you get in the truck. I mean, I empathize with how you are feeling right now, but please don't puke on my carpet.”
His dopey smile glistened. “You love the truck more than me.”
“Remains to be seen. Get in the truck, Davey.�
��
“Kaid, that's some good shi—” His eyes drooped and his weight dropped.
“I need you to stand up, Davey. You get up this instant, do you understand?” He twitched and heaved but didn’t rise. “Stand up!” I grabbed him and yanked. His skin burned hot, like, white coal hot. Bones thickened in my grip. He felt so heavy, like he was turning into a Buick. I couldn’t hoist him.
Clifford helped, and we manhandled him into the seat. His head fell back, drooling. I got in the truck, flipped on the Kovak light, and tore onto the street.
“Hold on, Davey. Focus on breathing. You can do this. Count slow breaths. Exhale hard. Hang in there. We’ll get you a room, hold on.” I called Rainer on the black phone, said, “I'm on my way,” and didn’t wait for a response.
Our ETA was ten minutes, which could feel like forever for a mutt in limbo. Davey would shed in my truck. I had two silver mags in my Jerichos, and in a few minutes I might be forced to kill him.
Adrenaline shook up and down my frame.
His face, as red as blood, looked like something even a garden gnome would find repulsive. The angles and form were all bad. His brow, cheeks, and snout protruded. His jaw widening at the corners. His pink tongue pressed past his lips. His gums filled with oversized teeth. He hugged his legs. His elbows were swollen and knobby like a camel's joints. His fingernails rose and grew past his fingertips. He loomed dangerously so close to a shed, but I couldn’t let panic show on my face.
“You did good, babe. Real good.” I slid my hand into my pocket and flicked the lid off another Down-boy. “I'm going to take a tranquilizer out of my pocket.”
Before I finished speaking, I jabbed the Down-boy into his thigh. He whimpered, arched, and shoved his face into the seat. His wet skin boiled. His shirt was damp with sweat. His temperature soared another few degrees when the disease in his marrow realized something was wrong, then he started to ease.
For a moment.
Bait and Bleed Page 20