The End of the World As I Know It (The Ghosts & Demons Series Book 2) (3 page)

The demons taught me to be cruel.

No. That’s not right.

We all have cruelty in us. I can’t blame the demons for that. They just brought it out in me when they attacked us and killed my brothers and sisters of the Choir. They killed my friends and I missed them.

Lesson 98: When Evil takes away everything you prize and love and want, you can do anything. You’re most dangerous when there’s nothing left to lose. If that makes you Evil, too, so what? You don’t care anymore. Remember this one. It’s important later, too.

I walked away from the Well of Sorrows. I had thought I would spend hours down there, sitting by the Well and quizzing it about which girls in high school didn’t really like me and who did what to whom. Instead, I had to get out of there. When I understood the horrors the Well of Sorrows could reveal, I never wanted to come back.

Chumele, the Preceptor, had said, “The answer will be dredged up. It always is.” I should have known I should stay away. What else gets ‘dredged up’ besides ugly, bottom feeding fish, dirt and lost, bloated bodies?

Tears cold on my cheeks, I thought of Brad’s sweet marriage proposal all the way back to sunlight. I wondered if I’d ever be allowed to forget the look in his eyes when I said yes.
 

Lesson 99: Don’t be in a rush to peak too early. When you know you’ve had the best life can offer, it’s all a long, bad road to a dead end after that.

I needed to forget my dead boyfriend. Okay, that wasn’t going to happen. At least I could try to ease him to the side of my memory enough that every inkling of Brad Evers didn’t feel like a dagger through the heart.

I knew I should let that scar heal instead of picking at it. As Mama says, “Life is for the living.”

Manhattan told me there was an easy solution to my grief. “It’s called the next boyfriend.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to fall in love again. Last time I fell, it ended in a crash.”

“Oh, Iowa. You’re adorable. You don’t have to
love
the next boy. When I went through my experimental phase with boys, I barely liked half of them.”

“Which half of the boys
did
you like, upper or lower?”

Manny cackled. “The top half never shut up and the bottom half is just ridiculous. I don’t get the attraction at all.”

“I’m good with it.”

Manhattan lowered her glasses to the end of her nose and gave me a wink and a leer. “Sadly,” she said.

Chapter 4

I pulled on my armor and made my way to the central courtyard to blow off some steam. After seeing the Well of Sorrows, I was a well of sorrow and needed some of my favorite exercise. It’s called swordplay because it’s play (right up until the moment it’s not and the blood starts flying.)

I took the long way around the Keep so I could get to the central courtyard without going by the archers in training. Kevin Chang, my instructor in the art of war, did not approve of my many hours at sword practice. “You focus on your strengths too much, Iowa,” he said. “There is more to fighting than throws and chokes and swords. You’re fine with pistols and rifles and crossbows and pikes, but your accuracy with spears and the bow makes me sad. Spend more time there.”

I didn’t think Mr. Chang was wrong, but I’m a duelist and a first person shooter kind of girl. Bows aren’t easy-as-a-camera, point-and-shoot. I prefer swinging a blade or aiming down a scope or a barrel. I’m comfortable with a katana in my hand and our umbrella swords are a solid second best.

Okay, confession time: give me a sword and I know what I’m doing. I hate to appear stupid. Hand me a bow and I can look plenty stupid.

Lesson 100: People who are afraid to look like beginners, stay beginners.

Further complicating my feelings about archery, the lessons had recently gotten more demanding. Since the demon attack on the Keep that killed so many singers, Victor brought in Devin Anguloora, a new bow instructor from Samoa. Victor decided we needed to change our tactics so a new bow conductor was needed.

Demons are merely annoyed with bullets unless each round is thrice blessed by celibate priests, priestesses and monks. Bigger chunks of metal and stone in the form of blades and arrowheads work better against them.

The Choir’s archers had been used to standing still, firing slowly at far targets that also stood still. We lost too many archers in the attack because they fought the same way they trained.

The Keep’s three courtyards were for archery, swords and sparring, and what Chumele called, “The Rituals and Rites.” The far courtyard mostly stood empty except for the ruins of the old church, the C&C below that and, of course, the graves of the Choir (including the one that was supposed to hold my father’s body.)

The central courtyard is something of an obstacle course, filled with concentric circles of stone, concrete and dirt pads. Many of the surfaces are uneven and add a degree of difficulty to any sparring match or duel.

The night Mr. Anguloora arrived, the archery courtyard was nothing more than a range with big targets lined up at the far end. Anguloora awoke every section of the Choir at three in the morning. Even Manny and I were called in from our apartment on Church Avenue.

The big Samoan barked orders at us until he was hoarse and worked us all without a break. All practices were cancelled so every Choir section except the Magicals could contribute to the construction.

After a week, we’d transformed the archery range into another obstacle course. Brass and oaken shields rose from the ground at random intervals. There were still targets, but none were larger than a demon’s head. Ditches had been dug. Dirt from the ditches was used for making hills. We took pillars from the church ruins to obscure some targets to cut our margin of error to the width of three arrowheads. We built fences to jump over and walls of wire to race under. We hung netting to climb over and through.

 
During my initiation, Wilmington was one of my duels. Her sweet disposition belied her skills as a first rate sword singer.

Tired and sweaty with smudges of dirt across her freckled face, Wil asked Anguloora the question that was on all our minds. “So…like, what’s your deal, man?”

The big Samoan glowered at her. Beneath the sleeves of tattoos, his forearm muscles bulged. He stalked over to a rack of compound bows that had been set to the side. The weapons were the latest tech: carbon fiber, scopes and steel rods to balance each bow. He kicked over the rack, scattering the bows to the ground. Then he spit on them.

He swaggered back to our ranks and took his own bow from its place on his back. It was a simple wooden bow, thick and varnished to a sheen. Never breaking his gaze from Wil, Anguloora reached down and pulled four arrows from the dirt. He held them in his right hand.

“Archers in battle do not all stand far back like snipers, taking their time. Demons run. They don’t give you time to knock your string slow.” Anguloora loaded an arrow and immediately fired it into the farthest oaken shield. In a motion so smooth and quick it was hard to follow, he fired two more arrows into the centers of the next two wooden shields.

“When demons attacked the Keep, they flew and fell on your archers because your archers stood still.”

Manhattan’s perfect lips twisted into an angry sneer. “They stood their ground —”

“And died for it,” Anguloora said. “Sacrifice is overrated. Martyrdom is foolish if it’s unnecessary.”

“They saved many of us that day,” I said.

“Too many of them died in your stead,” the Samoan said. “You’ve been trained to stand and fire from a distance. That’s only one way to use the bow. Until now, all you’ve been doing is bowling. Archery is not bowling. Bowling is not life and death. Unlike bowling pins, demons move and attack and, when they break through again, they’re coming to kill you. When the demons come, you need to attack, to rush them, to retreat, to move. Warriors are dynamic, not static. Carry and load your arrows with the same hand with which you fire, as the Samurai did.”

We stood there, shifting our feet and mumbling to each other, hot with exhaustion and resentment.

Anguloora grinned. “But words are for smart people. Watch carefully and I’ll demonstrate so even the dimmest of you will understand. With four arrows, I will hit eight targets in a few seconds.”

Despite my anger, I had to smile a little when Wilmington covered her mouth to cough and added, “Bullshit.”

Anguloora turned and ran, faster than I expected for such a large man. He carried no quiver. Instead, the four arrows stayed in his right hand. He fired the first arrow on the run. He must have aimed, but his shot was so fast, it appeared he did not. Still, the first arrow buried itself in a small target stuck on a post halfway down the courtyard.

As soon as the Samoan crested the first dirt mound, he fired another shot and immediately shot another mid-leap. Those arrows found their marks on narrow stakes driven into the ground, one high and one low. He fired another arrow as he wove through a course of wire, deft and sure.

Out of arrows now, he reached the first arrow he’d shot, and yanked it from its place. Anguloora pirouetted in the air and fired down the field, splitting a watermelon on a post. He repeated the feat, pulling the arrows he’d already shot and firing again. When he was done, two limes had been shot from the top of two posts and he’d even buried an arrow in one of the obscured targets at a full run.

We all stared at him as he ran back, arrows in hand. Our jaws were slack with amazement. Even Wil let out a low whistle and clapped. The applause spread.

It was Anguloora’s smug grin as he swaggered back to us that made me wish the demons had taken him instead of my friends. That smug grin kept me away from archery practice, too.

Lesson 101: There’s a time for playing hooky. If you miss out on training that could save lives, it is never time to play hooky.

Chapter 5

Lesson 102: We must find our future. Get yours before Fate finds you.

The noob’s cheekbones and strong jaw made his face lean, angular and interesting. His eyes were so blue I suspected vanity contacts. It was his long blonde hair that set him apart from the pack of new recruits. His looks made me look and linger — me and every other woman and a couple of the guys in the sword singers’ courtyard. The fact that he was utterly clueless with a sword in his hand made me feel sorry for him. For someone so tragically clumsy to pull the attention of a crowd must have been incredibly embarrassing.

When at last it was time for me to train him, I disarmed him every time he raised his sword. The noob didn’t go pink with humiliation like I would have done. He didn’t get frustrated and angry like some of the younger, more competitive guys did. Instead, every time I knocked the
shinai
from his grip, he laughed at himself as he hustled to pick up the bamboo practice sword. In other words, he was almost perfect.

Remember Lesson 100? People who are afraid to look like beginners, stay beginners. The blonde guy may have been a spaz, but he obviously understood Lesson 100. He moved like a spider puppet with loose strings, but his attitude about his ineptitude was charming. The way some guys move, you can tell they’re dangerous and able, but those same guys who seem to have it all together are often too cocky and walk around with their chests puffed out.

When I couldn’t stand disarming the spaz anymore, I motioned for him to go to the back of the line to watch the other duels in progress. I hoped he’d start to get the gist of sword combat via osmosis. That’s when he transformed himself into the perfect man. He bowed to me. His voice was deep as a well. In a lovely Irish accent, he said, “Thank you for the lesson in humility, Iowa, Castrator of Demons.” He beamed a crooked, aw-shucks smile at me. “I’ll try to do better. I’m feelin’ a bit castrated m’self.”

“Ooh,” I blurted, “
that
won’t do.”

The gaggle of noobs standing at the edge of the practice pad chuckled and my cheeks ran hot. It was my turn to be embarrassed.

Later, when we took a break, Manhattan handed me her water bottle.

“How’s it going with your group, Manny?”

“I’ve been working with four soccer moms. They’re actually pretty cool and I think one of them is in love with me already.”

I rolled my eyes. “We’re all in love with you.”

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

“The training. How’s that going?”

She laughed. “I showed them how to choke each other unconscious. One freaked out about it.”

“And the other three?”

“That’s all they want to do now. I had to pass them on to Chang to work on conditioning so they wouldn’t be so feisty. They’re a bunch of forty-year-olds with teenagers at home but they’re all up and at ’em to defend against D-Day.”

I glanced at the sun high overhead. “About noon. Pretty hot for Chang’s brand of calisthenics.”

“Calisthenics, plyometrics, shuttle runs. He started them out with Ashtanga since they showed up in yoga pants. By the time they hit the kettle bells and deadlifts, they’ll be ready to hit the showers and go to bed at about…five o’clock. Gotta love ’em.”

“Any idea what they’re specialty will be yet?”

“The one who blew a gasket about going unconscious is a control freak. I think we can find a place for her among the Silent Singers.”

The Silent Singer section of the Choir were the stewards of the Keep. They had various duties, from procurement of supplies to maintenance and keeping our mission a secret to the Normies. Not everyone is meant for combat, but everyone can contribute.

We turned to watch the new recruits work out. After a moment, Manhattan said, “So? Are you going to tell me about the blonde guy?”

I didn’t even glance sideways. I knew Manny would be aiming a leer my way.

“What blonde guy?”

“Oh,
please
, Iowa. You can do better than that. I saw you working with him.”

“I work with all the students in my group.”

“You worked with him longest.”

“He needed it.”

Manny sighed. “Fine, tell me now or tell me later.”

“Fine. He’s cute and he’s got an Irish accent. I don’t even know his name.”