Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One) (7 page)

"Begin!" Uncle starts the round again.

We circle each other, and I realize I'm taking too many flat-footed steps.

"Find the grace of the deer." My uncle sees my awkward movement too.

I slow my footwork down and move on the balls of my feet. We go back and forth. Parry, strike, block.

Jax is surprisingly fast. He's clearly been trained by someone who knows what they're doing.

He attacks from the left, forcing me to lean back. He misses and for a split second loses his balance.

I see my opportunity and advance striking out. This is the kill shot. With this strike, I will have won.

But somehow I miss.

He's fast and rolls away avoiding my bow. I whiff, my bow slicing through the air, causing me to stumble forward.

"Use the agility of the monkey and the balance of the crane to focus your strikes," my uncle calls to me. "Stop being so wild and clunky.”

I take half a step back, breathing in through my nose to gather myself. He's right. I have to align my energy and control my attack.

Through his mask, I can see Jax smirking. He thinks this is funny, that I'm not a real challenge.

Gathering my strength, I lunge forward, my staff striking swift and strong.

"Good!" my uncle calls out. "Very nice, Astrid."

I've got Jax on the defensive. I circle my staff low, forcing him to block it. This allows me to kick him firmly in the head.

He rocks back, and I counter attack with two more strikes - one to the chest and the other to his head.

I can see the headshot has rocked him; he wobbles unsteadily, and I'm worried I'm about to get another warning about hitting too hard.

Instead, my uncle claps. "Excellent combination. This is how you should always spar."

I feel a small surge of pride. I've finally made him proud. I nod, let my eyes flick over to my uncle.

Wham!

I'm struck in the head. The wooden stick cracks me on the helmet just above my left ear before I ever see it coming.

My head rockets to the side and stars float in front of my eyes. Blood pounds in my ears as I fall hard on the mat.

I was dumb enough to take my eyes off my opponent, and he has taken me down. When I look up, my uncle is moving toward me. "Astrid, are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"

For just an instant, my eyes go fuzzy, and I see a strange bluish halo swirling around behind my uncle, radiating up and outward.

For a split second, his face is replaced by the sharp-angled face of a scaly monster.

Then it's back to normal.

"Don't try to sit up, honey," my uncle says. "Just stay down for a second."

"Ooookey doke," I mumble as everything goes black.

W
hen I regain consciousness
, I'm lying flat on my back on the lumpy couch in my uncle's office. It must be after 7 p.m. because the window is dark.

Also, I can hear the distant murmur of grown-ups, which probably means the adult class is in full swing out in the studio.

The sound of my uncle's voice fades in approaching his office. “…But they helped contain this latest threat.”

A second voice, a voice I don't recognize, replies, "You shouldn't trust them."

“We neutralized the Grail immediately.” There's a pause, then my uncle says, "They would not have done that if they’d joined forces with the Swarm."

“Don’t be so sure," the other voice answers. "If they haven't already betrayed you, they will."

"I can't move the child again without telling her," my uncle replies. "She’s settled and thriving here. But I fear she’s beginning to figure out the truth.

“You must tell her soon."

Tell me what? I sit up with the intention of sneaking over to the door so I can hear better, but I get too dizzy, and I’m forced to lie back down.

My uncle must have heard me because his face appears in the doorway. "Astrid, sweetheart. How do you feel?"

"My head’s a little fuzzy, but I'm alright." I look over his shoulder, waiting for the owner of the second voice to appear. But no one does.

"You weren't concentrating," my uncle says, pushing the hair out of my face. "You continue to lack focus. Which is exactly why we have to keep working with weapons. Maybe we should add a few private classes every week."

"No. I quit," I say firmly.

“Excuse me?”

Normally, I would never stand up to my uncle like this. Maybe getting hit in the head shook things up in my brain. "I hate weapons, and I'm not doing it anymore."

"That's ridiculous. Your weapons training is very important."

"Why?" I ask pointedly.

He hesitates. "Because being proficient with weapons is something every well trained martial artist must attain."

I am so sick of this lecture.

"Did I not just kick the butt of every boy in the advanced class? All of whom are practically twice my size. How is that not proficient?"

"That's not the point," my uncle says calmly. "Astrid, you must learn how to block out any distractions. It's important that you can defend yourself. In any situation."

"Can we go home?" I'm obviously not getting through to him.

He looks at me for a long moment then sighs. "We can leave as soon as I finish with payroll."

"Can I, at least, get something to eat?" This is less an actual question and more a plea for some cash. "I'm starving."

He walks over to his desk, pulls his money clip out of the top drawer, and hands me a measly five. "Here you go."

"Plus something to drink."

He gives me a cool look then hands me a $20 bill. "I want the change back."

I reach for it, but he pulls the twenty away until I reluctantly hand the original five bucks back. "Thanks," I say without meeting his eyes.

“Make a healthy choice,” he calls after me.

I roll my eyes, pull a school sweatshirt on over my karate uniform and stalk out the front entrance heading toward the deli right next door.

I spot Jax up on scaffolding rolling on a fresh coat of paint. Since I arrived this afternoon, he's covered a patch about 15 feet by 15 feet, which means he's now about 6-7% complete.

I try super hard to ignore him as I pass, but unfortunately, he spots me. "So I take it you're not going to congratulate me on my big win?"

"Lucky shot," I reply, not looking at him.

"Yeah, sorry about that last strike," Jax says apologetically, but the cocky grin plastered across his stupid face indicates that's he's proud of knocking me on my butt.

"In case you didn't notice, you fouled out, ninja warrior. You blindsided me."

"No such thing as a foul in a real battle," he says, focusing his brush on the area around the window.

"Yeah except that was a sparring match in a class." I point out the obvious with an edge in my voice. This guy is so arrogant. "Not some street fight where dirty tricks and low blows are perfectly acceptable."

He stops painting and turns to face me. "I suggest you learn the art of the dirty trick and the low blow if you're hoping to survive."

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means a girl as pretty as you should probably know how to defend herself.” He winks at me.

Is this guy actually trying to flirt with me?

"You need to work on your pick up lines," I say, pushing open the door to the little grocery store and giving him a goodbye flick of the wrist.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Princess,” he smirks, then goes back to painting.

I hate this guy. I hate karate. I hate the stupid bow staff.

Right now, I just want a dulce de leche muffin and a vanilla latte. There's a StarCoffee about three blocks away, but would my uncle possibly let me walk that far? Nope. So I am stuck with the coffee and muffins from the Latin deli two doors down from our studio. Not that it’s all that bad.

The Mariposas, a fifty-something married couple from someplace in Central America, are the owners, not just of this little place, but of the whole complex; including the karate studio, their deli, a dry cleaner, a nail salon, and a tax guy.

My uncle helps them maintain the whole complex, which is why he hired Jax to paint.

The little bell above the door tinkles as I enter. The store is part deli and part grocery store filled with all sorts of Latin delicacies like carnitas, arroz con pollo, and pastries.

Señor Mariposa stands behind the counter. His silver hair slicked neatly back, and he's wearing his signature starched white guayaberas; a short-sleeved, lightweight, open-necked button up shirt that old Latin guys wear.

"As-treed," Señor M smiles. My name sounds kind of dorky the way he says it, which is weird because his accent makes every other word in the English language flow languidly off his tongue like music.

He's sliding a tray of fresh Mexican tamales in the case. They sell both Mexican and Salvadoran tamales. Apparently, they're totally different and to call them similar would be fighting words to half the Yucatan peninsula. (Personally, I like the Mexican ones better, but I think Señor M is Salvadoran, so he's always trying to foist the other ones on me.)

"Hi, Señor M," I smile. "Quiet tonight."

"So busy! Before 3:00." He makes a face, scrunching up his nose. "Nice and calm now. Just the way I like it." He winks at me. "What can I get you?"

"Just a double skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot," I say, scanning the baked goods in the deli case. There's nothing good left. No dulce de leche muffins. Just weird glazed danishes with some unidentifiable fruity jam in the center.

Yuck.

Instead, I push a bag of itty-bitty chocolate chip cookies across the counter.

He frowns. "Too much caffeine is not good for a growing girl. I will make you a fruit smoothie. Lots of protein and fiber." He bobs his head like this is the best idea he's had all day. "How 'bout that? Pineapple, coconut, lots of berries for your berry big brain." He laughs at his joke.

I force a smile, but a protein/fiber smoothie sounds even less appealing than the weird jammy pastries. I’m wondering if my uncle got to him. "Um. Yeah. Thanks, Señor M., but I'm sort of dying for a latte." I reply in that polite way adults love. "I have tons of homework to keep me up tonight."

"Gotcha." He nods, clearly disappointed, but goes to work on my coffee anyway.

While I wait, I decide to take a little stroll around the store. The shelves are lined with familiar brands, but it's strange to see a Spanish version of Cornflakes.

At the end of the aisle, a bare lightbulb, dangling from a cord in front of the freezer case, blinks off and on, off and on. When the bulb pops, complete with a shower of sparks, I nearly jump out of my skin. The back of the store now glows with only the sickly greenish light coming from the refrigerator section.

Rounding the corner near the storeroom, I come face to face with Señora Mariposa. Startled, I let out a little squeal, "Whoa! Sorry Señora."

She smiles and tips her head up from behind the card table where she sits in her wheelchair. "Not expecting me, Princessa?"

She always calls me that, partly because my uncle sometimes calls me Princess, plus I think she can't remember my name. Somehow it doesn’t bother me when she uses his nickname.

"No ma'am." A hand on my heart, I catch my breath. "Didn't know you were back here."

Mariposa is pretty much the resident queen-of-the-hill around here. Confined to a wheelchair, she must weigh 600 pounds. She wears these cotton dresses that could easily be converted into bright floral tents, and I've never seen her in the same dress twice. A mass of grayish black hair sits up on her head, and there's always a smile on her coral lip-sticked mouth.

"I just got back from working at the community center," she says, holding up her tarot cards. "So many people want me to look into their future."

Mariposa's an old fashion fortuneteller.

Except the cards that lay before her don't exactly resemble any tarot cards I've ever seen. Not that I'm an expert on the subject, but the images on the cards are dark and a little bit spooky. Shapes and symbols, figures and creatures.

They must be made of some type of pastel chalk because in the dim light it almost appears as if the images on the cards are moving ever so slowly.

Mariposa sees me staring at them. "Would you like me to read your cards?"

"Oh, um..." I've heard she's very expensive.

"On the house," she smiles. "Of course."

Despite the uneasy feeling that's washing over me, I hear myself say, "Okay."

"Have a seat," she gestures to a yellow plastic chair jammed in a nearby corner. I drag it over and sit. She shuffles the cards at the speed of light then plops the neatly stacked deck on the table in front of me. "Cut them. Three times. With your left hand."

Kind of specific. But, okay, I do as I'm told. One, two, three.

"The cards have great power, Princessa. They see things we do not yet know." Fwap, fwap, fwap go the cards as she arranges them in a pattern that kind of seems random but probably isn't. "Especially for you."

"For me?"

"For us all." Her eyes flick up from the cards and meet mine. She smiles. Again with the smile. "For the young. For those who have so much in front of them. So many important things to do."

Her eyes go back to the cards, then her stubby index finger, that looks like a bratwurst with orange nail polish, points at the first card. It looks like an abstract version of a wilting flower. "This first card signifies your past. It shows stagnation. You have been restrained. Hidden away."

Well, that's true.

She points to the next card that looks like bugs exploding on a windshield. "This is... how do you say..?," she mutters to herself in Spanish. "...It is environment. Chaos. Upheaval."

Now it's my turn to smile. "Um, well, how do you mean? I'm just asking because I'm wondering if chaos in my environment means that I have a messy room. Because you don't exactly have to be psychic to know that."

"Child, you must be prepared. The lamb will become the lion. The protected will soon become the protector. Safety will come from unexpected places."

I nod. "Okay."

Wow. What a load of bull.

It's pretty ironic that she can utter such nonsense, and people flock in here to see her. There's always a different bored middle-aged housewife determined to find out if her husband is stepping out with his secretary, or a waiflike twenty-something clutching a kleenex hanging on every word about her love life. Here they sit, at this card table, paying good money to listen to this perfectly nice lady make crap up.

Her eyes linger on me long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. This time, she doesn't smile. She points to the last card. There's a golden image that looks like a horn. "Judgment. A reckoning will be forced upon you. The ways of the old will clash with the new. Many have already fallen. You may stand. You may fall."

"Astrid!" I hear Uncle's familiar voice behind me. "Let's go, kiddo."

This conversation has gotten so awkward that I'm amazingly thrilled to hear my uncle's voice. I smile politely and stand. "Thank you, Ms. Mariposa. That was super interesting."

"Take this. A good luck charm." As I turn to go, she grabs my wrist and slips something smooth and round into my hand. "And remember, the light will be your first warning."

I see the hulking shadow of my Uncle coming around the aisle just as the fluorescent light bulb pops back on washing away the sickly green aura. He likes Mariposa but doesn't believe in all this fortune telling mumbo jumbo.

As I stand, Mariposa whispers, "Don’t forget. Beware of the light."

My uncle nods to Señora Mariposa suspiciously. "Hello."

"Good evening, Sensei," Señora Mariposa replies.

"You're not reading her cards?" he asks.

She laughs. "Of course not."

"Okay. Let's hit the road, Princess," he says to me. "I have a pan of enchiladas in the fridge at home."

"Bye ma’am. Nice to see you," I say, moving up the aisle to the front of the store. Without my uncle seeing, I carefully open my fist so I can see the magical trinket, the little, charmed object, Señora Mariposa has bestowed upon me.

It's a penny.

A common 1981 dirty old penny. This is a good luck charm? Wow, that was possibly the strangest conversation I have ever had.

"As-treed, your drink is ready," Señor M calls from behind the counter as I stuff the stupid penny back in my pocket.

I stride up to find a white paper coffee cup with a lid waiting for me. Finally, my latte. Now maybe I'll be able to stay awake long enough to finish my boring lit paper. I take a sip, expecting the steamed milky coffee to warm me up, but instead, I practically spit out sweet icy cold liquid.

"Señor M, this is the worst latte I have ever had," I say, even though I know it's rude.

"Astrid!" my uncle reacts.

"Maybe because it's a fruit smoothie." Señor M winks at me as he leans against the counter sipping what, presumably, must be my latte from an over-sized mug. "On the house, Miss As-treed."