“Stop.” Mara flicks her chestnut hair out of her tanned face and gold eyes, widening her stance on the mats covering the floor of the pseudo-dojo. She looks calm and ready like a cougar waiting for its prey to step in front of her.
Standing across from her, Justin awkwardly straightens from an improper roundhouse kick. His beefy frame looks odd against Mara’s tall, lean build.
“What did I do wrong?” he drawls in a heavy Southern accent as he rakes his fingers through his mousy brown hair.
“Lift your ankle and straighten your leg more,” Mara advises him, enunciating each word precisely – not condescending or teasing, just factual.
Her high-ranking brown belt shifts over her white Judo uniform as she executes a perfect roundhouse kick as an example, her leg arcing out, up, and around in a graceful, dance-like move. Her foot barely makes a sound as it lands onto the padded floor of the gym-sized room. Her willowy frame straightens, bringing her back to her full height of nearly five and a half feet tall.
The dojo’s instructor, Ronny, claps his weathered hands together as the creases around his eyes wrinkle in amusement. “Excellent, Mara. Class, that will be all for today.”
“Arigatou, sensei,” Mara thanks the instructor in Japanese, pressing her palms together and bowing deeply from the waist.
Mr. Ronny bows back. “You’re most welcome. I look forward to your assistance next time, as well.” He turns to the football player beside her. “Justin, please say hello to your father for me.”
“I will, sir.” Justin bows.
Mara walks to the entrance, stepping off the training mats onto the wooden floor by the shoe racks and cubbies. She methodically slips her feet into her socks and tennis shoes as Justin fumbles with his giant boots.
“Hurry up,” she says, grabbing her plain black bag from a cubby and gliding to the door. She mulls over the ancient Chinese meditation-in-motion martial art and philosophy, t’ai chi ch’uan, and some new patterns she had learned today from her instructor.
Jogging after her, Justin grabs a sports bag with an image of a football and the name “Guntos” on it. They exit the building into a sparsely populated parking lot in front of a little strip mall that is the only place to shop in their small, rural corner of Tennessee. The mid-summer heat beats down on them. “Hey, do you think she noticed?”
She pauses at the passenger door to Justin’s old, hand-painted blue and red Chevrolet truck. “I believe she was training, as well, so she may not have seen you,” she comments as they climb in. “You did pretty good today.”
“You think so?” he asks rhetorically, his cheeks flushing a bright pink.
Mara smirks. His crush is a pretty girl with dark brown hair and a petite build; he had joined the dojo just to get closer to her, but instead, he got closer to the mats. “Your form could use a bit more work, but you’re getting somewhere with it. Where’s your dad today?”
Justin grins. “He didn’t want me tellin’, but he got your mom a gift and took it straight over.”
She fingers her elongated ears, her face twisting in disgust. “Maybe we could hang out at your place instead.”
“What, don’t want to be siblings?” he jokes as the truck tumbles to life. “You can’t avoid it forever, especially now that school is out.”
“It’s not that…” Mara mumbles. Bryce, her mother’s boyfriend and Justin’s father, is a football coach at their school. His wife had died of cancer around the same time Mara and Ezra had moved into the area. Ezra and the coach had met through a support group for widows two years ago and had grown closer over time.
Mara stares at her hands, remembering her father’s large, callused fingers turning the pages of his worn yet detailed sketchbook as he told her and Codi stories about a fantastical engineer designing cities and academies; it is one of her favorite memories of her father and adopted brother. A painful twinge shoots through her heart as she remembers her brother who had vanished five years ago.
Dad’s sketchbook should still be on the bar, Mara thinks, distracting herself by rubbing circles into her bag’s soft strap with her callused thumb. Maybe Justin will play Siege with me.
The truck leaves the small town and bounces down the country roads, the trees zipping by in a green and brown blur. The thirty-minute drive passes by in comfortable silence.
Justin turns onto a gravel road that curves up a small hill and stops next to a quaint house made out of brick and wood. A huge tree in the front yard shadows the SUV and pickup truck parked under it, and a wooded area surrounds the little plot of land. Despite living here for two years, they haven’t made it look very lived-in yet.
Mara lands softly on her feet as Justin thuds to the ground. They walk to the house, Mara’s stride graceful and elegant next to Justin’s blocky, slouched gait.
“Want to play Siege?” Mara asks as they enter the house. They drop their bags by the bar stools next to the bar. She fingers the large sketchbook on the marbled surface, opening it onto the blueprint-design of a labyrinth city. A Ziploc baggy containing the little homemade markers of different abilities rests in the middle of the drawing.
Justin rolls his eyes. “You always wanna play Siege.” His eyes twinkle as an idea comes to his mind. “Maybe we could change the rules – ”
Mara laughs, shoving on his shoulder. He barely budges. “Not a chance. Last time we did, you came up with some crazy rule that the mages couldn’t fire over buildings – which makes no sense as the buildings were built for mages to be able to shoot over them.”
Justin huffs. “Seriously, though. How did you and yer dad come up with something so complicated?”
Mara sometimes wonders the same thing; she had been so young when her father had sketched out the city, traced over immovable areas in pen, and then created the tabs for barriers, illusions, and other defense systems. Shrugging, she admits, “I don’t know.”
Justin snorts. “I bet Settlers of Catan or Risk wouldn’t be on your wish list for your birthday, would it? They ain’t nearly as hard as this.”
Mara raises an eyebrow, smirking at him. “I love all strategy games, even Battleship.”
A challenging grin lights up Justin’s face. “Just you wait, I’ll surprise you with the best gift ever this June!”
Mara props her chin on her hand and strokes a signature in the bottom right corner of a picture that reads, ‘Shokain Danarko.’ Absently, she flips through a few pages with a smile on her face, revealing an intricate drawing of a labyrinth city, a crystalline castle, and a ruined town. Justin looks at the drawings with her.
“Yer dad was really good,” he comments, examining the picture of the ruined town. The picture had been shaded with graphite, although Mara remembers the description: red trees, orange-brown grass, and blue opaque glass-like structures that had been broken over centuries of just lying around.
“Yup.” She flips back to the aerial view of the town. “Wanna play, then?”
“If I win, you gotta start calling me brother,” he bargains, grinning lopsidedly.
“When I win, you should ask Claurice out,” Mara shoots back, and snickers at Justin’s reddening cheeks.
Thump.
Mara and Justin glance deeper into the house. “Mom?” Mara calls out, but there is no response. She glances at Justin before stepping into the kitchen.
He follows her. “Hey, I think we should just leave them alone,” he hints as Mara examines the state of the kitchen. Cooking appliances and dishes litter the island counter, and a thawed lamb leg package floats in a pool of lukewarm water. Ezra must have been preparing dinner.
“Maybe…” Mara murmurs, turning back to the living room. She doesn’t want to think about what her mother and her boyfriend are doing in the back room. “Let’s turn on some – ”
Bang.
The sound of the gunshot ricochets through the house. Mara whirls around, staring down the hallway. Justin shifts closer to Mara, fear and concern warring on his face. She glances at him, and they slowly approach the door at the end of the hallway. She stares at the handle, unable to reach out and grab it.
Within the room, something crashes to the hardwood floor and shatters.
Mara’s hand whips out and turns the knob, swinging the door open. The master bedroom is nearly as big as the living room, hosting a queen-sized canopy bed with a beautiful red and gold comforter. The short dresser, two end tables, and vanity bordering the room are all made out of a dark wood. Two mid-height shelves on the walls support pictures, knick-knacks, and Shokain’s elegant katana.
Bryce clutches Ezra’s honey-blonde hair, shoving her against the wall near the door. She squints her vivid blue eyes at Mara and Justin, urging them to leave with a glance as she fights to breathe.
“Wha’daya think yer doin’ in here?” Bryce slurs, the stench of something sickeningly sweet wafting off of him. He shakes his oily brown hair out of his face. There is no flash of recognition as he glares at Mara and Justin; his brown eyes are dead and unfocused.
Mara stares at the silver pistol in Bryce’s hand. Small, but so deadly. She chokes on air, the sight of the weapon filling her whole vision. Images flash through her mind of her father lying on the ground, bleeding to death.
It will kill me.
“Dad! Let her go!” Justin yells, his voice trembling. Mara snaps out of her phobia-induced daze in time to see Bryce knock the gun’s barrel against Justin’s cheek. The quarterback stumbles and clutches the edge of the dresser next to the door to stabilize himself.
Mara steps forward and performs the same kick she had been praised on just earlier that day. Her foot connects with Bryce’s forearm, knocking the gun to the side. It skitters across the floor and thuds against the dresser.
Justin takes this opportunity and tackles his father, knocking the big man off-balance and twisting his arms behind him. Mara performs several moves against the re-strained man.
Uppercut. Straight punch. Right hook. Sweeping kick.
Bryce slumps to one knee.
Mara jabs her knee into his torso. He rams his head forward and clips Mara’s hip with his skull. She winces, pulling back.
Bryce surges from the floor, his muscles bulging as he pulls free from his son. He swings around and backhands Justin, sending him flying. He crashes into the vanity on the other side of the room, blacking out from the impact.
Mara’s eyes widen. Justin had been boasting just earlier that week about how he can lift the same amount as his father now. However, based off that move, Bryce seems much stronger than his son.
Her left foot a blur, Mara performs a swift roundhouse kick, aiming for Bryce’s neck.
He catches her foot.
Examining the ankle he now tightly holds, he grins dementedly and swings her at the dresser.
“Ah – !” Mara’s shriek is cut off as her back slams against the wall, her breath whooshing out. She slumps onto the dresser, dazed and gasping for air.
Bryce stalks toward her, but a short, sturdy wooden stool splinters over his head. Ezra stumbles, her face pale yet set with determination. “Don’t touch my daughter,” she threatens, her voice as slick and cold as Vaseline on ice.
Bryce, too fast for Mara to comprehend, grips Ezra’s neck and throws her across the room. Her head strikes the wall and she slumps to the floor, knocked out.
Mara leans forward, needing to be on her feet before he comes after her again. This isn’t the Bryce they all know and care for. Bryce owns hunting rifles, not a small pistol. Bryce doesn’t know any self-defense, yet he fights like a professional. Assassin, crosses Mara’s mind, but she shakes it off. Ridiculous.
In a blink of an eye, he stands in front of her. His gun points at her stomach.
Startled, Mara stares into his eyes. His pupils are dilated to the point that the brown iris is barely a thin line bordering the whites of his eyes. “A ik’te Essence fora’ring?” he asks in a strange accent, heavily rolling the consonants while clearly pronouncing the vowels – definitely not a Southern accent.
All she catches is ‘Essence,’ which makes no sense, and ‘for a ring.’ A ring? He’s looking for a ring? “Bryce – ” she starts.
His hand crushes her throat, shoving her back into the wall over the dresser. “A ik’te Essence fora’ring?” he demands, his voice louder. The barrel jams above Mara’s left hip.
She fights to breathe as she tries pushing him away, but he is much stronger than she ever thought possible. Not even the pressure points on his arm work. She fumbles along the dresser, trying to find something, anything, to defend herself with.
Bryce pushes a little harder against her throat, and blackish-red spots cloud her vision. He repeats the same phrase in that flat tone, the point of the gun digging into her stomach.
Her fingers wrap around a cold, rectangular object.
“Screw… you,” she forces out and swings the heavy steel jewelry box against his head.
Bang.
Bryce staggers back. Blood drips down his face from where the box had gouged him.
Mara instinctively wraps her hand over her abdomen. She grits her teeth and looks down at the red flower blooming above her hipbone. She trembles violently as the death of her father flashes through her mind.
Mara sobs. “Mom…” she cries softly, her fist clenching over her wound as she slumps off the dresser, fighting to stay conscious.
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