Dead of Eve (9 page)

He flashed me one of his glad-you-approve grins. “We’ll start with a refresher on knife throwing since you seem so intent on cleaving bugs. Then we’ll brush up on your hand-to-hand techniques. And once I’m satisfied”—his grin widened—“I’ll drill you on swat scenarios until you hate me.”

I looped my arms around his neck. “Oh, Mr. Delina, I could never hate you.” I brushed my lips along his whiskered cheek. “But why the renewed interest? If you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of already kicking ass.”

His hands circled my waist, letting the life vest float out from under him. “Yeah, and good thing it’s not getting to your head.” He palmed my backside, dipping into the cleavage. “But practice will make you better. And after watching you dance with those bugs, it’s like you…”

I held him with tapered eyes and he said in his Mr. Miyagi voice, “Lesson not just karate. Lesson for whole life.”

Good God, he was backpedaling behind a 1980’s movie impression.

He bit his lip, but a smile broke through anyway.

I returned the smile. I didn’t want to hear about my alleged super-human speed or some sermon about everything having purpose. “Fine. But I’m not waxing—”

Strong lips claimed mine. His fingers stretched under my rear and spread between my thighs while his other hand paddled. I clung to his chest and ground my pelvis against his. A groan erupted from his throat.

The water behind us sloshed as Eugene and Steve treaded, watching.

His lips moved over mine. “Can you fellows give us some privacy?”

When splashing sounded their exit, I relaxed my shoulders and kissed him back. I let my enthusiasm about the training build in that kiss, drowning him in licks and nibbles while he kicked his legs to keep us afloat.

Over the weeks that followed, our aphid infestation grew. We blew through at least one magazine a day to keep them at bay. With our ammunition dwindling, Eugene and Steve volunteered to gather more.

When they left, I knew they’d be gone awhile, traveling far to make the venture profitable. I also knew they might not return. I couldn’t think about the latter. Instead, I imagined the myriad of ways Joel and I could enjoy that time alone.

But he kept us on a regimen. Knife throwing for two hours. Jujitsu or Muay Thai until lunch. Kung Fu or Eskrima between lunch and dinner. My joints creaked, my muscles hurt to touch and Joel was inexorable.

Two weeks later—Eugene and Steve still gone—I lay on my back on the basement floor, massaging a sore calf. Joel stood over me, laughing and beating me with Aristotle. “We cannot learn without pain.”

He raised an ankle to his muscled ass, stretching his quadriceps. A taunting reminder of the kick I just absorbed. My knee popped as I stood and limped to the door.

Still laughing, he said, “Evie, come on. Use your aphid speed.”

“Apparently it just works on aphids. Not assholes.” Damn, I was a poor loser. But still.

“There’s that temper, which reminds me”—I continued toward the exit to escape the impending lecture—“forget everything I’ve ever said about your anger.”

I stopped before the stairs, but didn’t turn around.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Explode. But when you do, pay close attention to it.”

I blew out a breath and faced him.

“Figure out what it was that pissed you off. Was it anxiety, impatience,”—he cleared his throat—“humility? Take notes.”

I crossed my arms. “Why?”

He dropped his leg. “Because if you understand the foundation of your anger, you might be able to promote it in others.” A pause. “Think about it. On one side you’ve got an ill-tempered fighter blinded by her rage. On the other, an alert opponent in control of his own disposition. Who’s going to win?”

I shrugged and plastered on my best I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass expression.

“Just more tools for your toolbox.”

Anger made a pretty sharp tool, but…“Okay, asshat.”

We spent the next couple hours walking through Chi Sao rolling hand forms. His relentless barking gave me plenty of opportunities to note the signals of my anger.
Control your speed. Sloppy. Watch your timing. Focus. Hit me. Fook sau. Again.

Then he mounted a plank of wood marked with targets on the wall. I spun my first blade from twenty feet away. It nailed the edge of the inner ring with a thunk.

He tapped my foot with his to adjust my stance. “Good. Now alternate between no spin, half spin and multi spin. And vary your distances.”

I nodded and wiped my forehead on my arm.

“Remember. This is like all your other training. When you apply it, it’s got to come natural. And you’ll only get there through repetition.” He grinned. “Hate me yet?”

I smirked and flung another blade. The silent whirl, as it flipped end-over-end toward the eye of the target, lifted my chin. Several bulls-eyes later, I said, “Really, I’ve got this.”

He unbolted the basement door and lifted his carbine. “Let’s find out.”

Under the weight of my knives and the thick midnight sky, I followed him outside. Our boots scraped over the gravel trail to the lake. A fog shrouded the surrounding grove. The ground cover stirred within.

The last time I fought aphids was on the very trail we walked. I remembered their claws on me. And the blood, dark and oleaginous, leaking from their wounds. A twinge festered in the pit of my stomach. A birdcall floated through the walnut boughs. The shadows below grew louder. So did my heartbeat.

“The plan?” I whispered as we crossed the dock.

“When they hit the ramp, aim between the eyes. Since you can see them better than I can, I’ll be relying on your eyes until they’re close enough.”

We stopped with our backs at the edge. I wore four knives. He handed me six more from the pouch on his hip.

“And when we’re out of knives and ammo?”

He thrust his chin to the cove behind us. “We swim.”

The ashen moon’s double lay motionless on the black water. The humidity clung in beads on my upper lip. Beside me, his carbine trained on the ramp. Then the grove lit up with a glow only I could see.

“Show time,” I whispered into the dark.

The aphids emerged. Numbers in the twenties, they boarded the ramp. I snapped down my arm and released the knife at shoulder height. It traveled through the air in a vertical spin and plunked as it broke the water’s surface.

Dammit to hell. “Can you see them yet?”

“No.”

I waited until the first one skittered past the final boat slip. Flicked the knife. The aphid dropped, as did the next. My remaining knives found their targets. Aphids toppled upon each other. Some rolled from the ramp and bubbled in the lake. Others slipped by, climbing over the fallen and thrashing under Joel’s volley.

The last three survivors inched within a few yards, oblivious to the lead peppering their glowing frames. Faces shredded from grazed bullets, limbs missing, heads hanging by sinews, they moved ever closer. Joel’s night vision was worse than I thought.

He met my eyes. We stepped back and dropped off the dock. The water washed over my head, drowning me with dread. I propelled to the surface and wished I’d retained a blade.

The
pop, pop, pop
of his carbine echoed across the cove. The remaining aphids tumbled into the water.

“Fuck.” I kicked away from the dock. The drum of my heart pounded in my ears. “Now they’re fucking in here.” My voice hitched. “With us.”

My arms beat the water. He glided up to me, holding the carbine above his head. “Calm down, Evie.”

Something brushed my foot. I clamped my jaw. Bagged a scream. “Why the fuck did you shoot them? You knew they’d fall in.” Did something else just bump my leg? “Goddammit. They don’t die right away.”

“Evie, stop. After your fight in our pool, I had to push you past this fear.”

I arced my legs out. Searched the depths. “You don’t need to push. I’m not a fucking daffodil. I just—”

Tiny bubbles fizzed on the water’s surface before me. I jerked backwards and swam with determined strokes, shouting, “Next time you decide I need a lesson, discuss it with me first.”

I reached the opposite end of the dock, plucked my knives from mangled heads, and returned to the house.

Three days later, Eugene and Steve arrived in two trucks filled with generators, water barrels, batteries, ammo and enough non-perishable food to last a year. Joel stood guard while we moved everything to the basement.

“Went to Arkansas, Alabama, Oklahoma and Texas,” Steve said as I rummaged in the truck. “Ain’t no other women.”

I pulled out a bad-ass looking shotgun from the cab. “Shit. Is this what I think it is?”

“AA-12? Damn straight.”

I crept toward the tree line, scanning through the scope. The Auto Assault-12—fully automatic, gas operated, twelve gauge—was by and far the deadliest shotgun on the planet. I watched a video about it once. Scared the piss out of me. I was thankful at the time that it was only in the hands of the military. Because of its low recoil, its unmistakable twenty shell drum could shred a body from two hundred yards.

Steve tugged it from my grasp and winked. “I might let you play with it later.”

Something about that wink seemed…off. Then I realized his hand was on his groin and I turned away. I could feel the probe of his gaze, knew his eyes had dropped to my ass. What the fuck? I returned to the truck with a wooden walk. By the time I reached it, Steve was gone. Heat flushed my face. Damn overactive imagination.

A box sat in the front seat filled with various pulleys and nylon rope. Eugene poked his head in the other side.

“Hey Eugene, what’s all this—”

“Ah just some extras we might need. Can you help me with this barrel over here, Evie girl?”

I gave the box one last glance and followed him to the other truck.

That night, I slumped into bed, too fatigued to remove more than my shorts. “You pommeled me with swat scenarios for a week. I officially hate you.”

My yawn turned into a full body stretch. Joel’s hand froze on his boot laces, his eyes traveling up my bare legs, pausing on the small swath of silk blocking his view.

I stretched my arms over my head, letting my knees fall out to the mattress. The hem of my tee climbed up my ribs, slow and subtle. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Target shooting.” His eyes remained fixed on my panties, but his hands sped up, tearing at the laces, tugging off the boots. His pants dropped. Boxers followed. When he reached behind his head to yank off the shirt, his biceps flexed in the muted light. “Your precision with the pistol is…”

“Unequivocal?”

His laugh consumed his beautiful face. “The only thing unequivocal is the barrage of .40 caliber holes in our jeep.”

“Fine. Send me the bill. I like the carbine.” I also liked the view, muscle after perfectly designed muscle. If there were a God, He knew how to architect a body.

He slid under the covers and wrapped all that muscle around me. “Still mad at me for shooting the bugs into the water with us?”

“Definitely.”

“Good.” Lids lifting, his gaze heated. “You’re fucking sexy when you’re mad. And you have ten seconds to get out of those clothes.”

My breath caught. He was domineering and handsome and oh, how that made me want him. “I should make you beg.” I shed my clothes in five.