"Again! Block, punch, kick. Block, punch, kick. Keep up your form. Use force, even with your block. A powerful block can be as offensive as it is defensive if done correctly."
I walked through the lines and corrected their stances, tested their blocks, and encouraged them to be stronger, fiercer, more focused.
Only one student needed no correction. Ever since Curtis's death, Paul, who was actually also a helper at the school, had thrown himself into the martial arts class, practicing day and night. I understood. It was his way to grieve the loss of his fiancé. His way of finding something to blame. Something to fight. If I were a different kind of person, I would have encouraged him to process his grief a different way, but since this is how I handled shit, too, I encouraged it. Father Patrick could handle the touchy-feely stuff. I would make Paul into a deadly weapon.
"Paul, you're with me."
He fell out of line and joined me at the front as I explained to the class what we were going to do. "All the katas, everything you're learning has practical application. Your first kata?" I went through the combination of punches, kicks and blocks to remind them. "This is a fight. An elegant fight, like a dance."
Paul nodded, knowing what I wanted of him, and began to attack or defend as I went through the kata, demonstrating the movements as a real fight. The students stood transfixed.
"And now, let's see what Paul's got when it's unscripted!"
A few chuckles as Paul and I took our fighting stance and began.
As we sparred, I studied Paul's body, his movements, his tells, and I had to admit to being impressed. In a moment of distraction, he even managed to land a punch on me, and it had bite to it.
My distraction came in the form of Bishop Alaric, who had toned down his Vatican finery and, though still much fancier than Father Patrick ever would be, now looked a little more comfortable. He stood off the side, watching us spar.
"Paul, you got this. Take over class while I handle something."
Paul bowed, a show of respect all the students had adopted, and I jogged off to find out why the Bishop was taking an interest in my class.
"How are they doing?" Alaric asked.
"They're scared. They don't know what this thing is or what it wants. None of us know the limits of its powers. All they know is that no one can beat it." I hated admitting that. Hated knowing that even with all of our resources, powers and allies, we still couldn't stop this thing.
"I should have been there, at the party. I could have fought. Could have helped."
"You had your objections, and it turned out you were right." Another thing I hated admitting, but I'd been working on my 'damn male pride' as Rose called it. "Besides, you needed to protect the children and Father Patrick."
Alaric gestured to the class. "Need another instructor? You could take on more students at a time with some extra help."
I knew he could fight in werewolf form, but I didn't realize he knew martial arts. "Do you know what you're doing?"
He chuckled. "I've lived a long time. I've studied many things over the years. You might be surprised. I just want to be of some use."
For a moment, I remembered Ryder bleeding in the snow, and my gut tightened. Then I brushed off the memory and fell into fighting stance. "Show me what you got."
TWELVE
This Sorrow's Heavenly
DRAKE
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are cruel tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.
— William Shakespeare, Othello
BELETH SHOVED ME against the side of the cliff, his body a dark blur as he picked me up and threw me.
Onto my face.
"I thought we weren't fighting," I said, wiping a trickle of blood from my nose.
He came at me again, grabbing me by the shoulders.
"Wait! Wait!"
Ignoring me, the part angel (and, I'm convinced, part devil) picked me up like I weighed nothing and tossed me into the air. High into the air. Three or four stories high, if we’d had any buildings to compare this to.
Wind whipped through me as the weight of my body propelled me toward the ground again with a thump so hard the cliff shook. It was only a testament to my healing and new Nephilim body that I didn't die.
"You fly or you fall," he said, grabbing me again.
"How? You're not teaching me, you're torturing me. I don't have wings. I can't fly." Believe me, I'd tried.
He threw me up again, to the same results. By this point I could detect a Drake-shaped outline in the rocks below as I fell once again.
"Your wings are a part of you. I cannot tell you how to move them, just as I cannot tell you how to move your hand."
I checked my back again, just to make sure the pain hadn't dulled my senses to the sprouting of never-before-had wings. But nope, still nothing.
"They are hidden," Beleth said, as if everyone knew this. "But they are there." He grabbed my shoulders. "Again."
I groaned. Tried to land on my feet this time. Failed. Fell on my face. Groaned again.
If I'd known this would be my training, all day long, I would have stayed with Sam and Ana.