3MA

3MA | Chapter 29

29
THREADS

Amaris plants her foot on one of the cracked brick walls of the courtyard, rockets off and sinks her other foot into my already bruised chest. After only an hour of watching her warm up out here, it occurs to me that I've never really taken full advantage of all the courtyard had to offer. Dad had always fought the same way: with shoulders square, eyes trained forward in a pin-straight line, and always, always facing the bag.

Like everything else about her, Amaris has a super annoying way of making me rethink even the most mundane things, and see them in ways I never expected.

"You're not concentrating, which is why you're bleeding so much," she says, her body dangling upside-down with her legs wrapped around a taunt laundry line.

"I think it also has something to do with your knuckles," I say, sucking on my split lower lip. "I can't stop thinking about the sword. You realize we're toast without it?"

Amaris flips down and faces me. "I know this sounds like mumbo-jumbo, but I believe in fate. If we're meant to find it, we will."

"I don't think the world functions that way, Amaris."

"We flew through a wormhole yesterday, Marlon. We don't know a damn thing about how this world works."

"Touché," I say, as Amaris gets behind the heavy bag and holds it steady.

"Now stop focussing on things we can't do anything about," she says, "and start pounding the crap out of this bag."

Not tactful, this one. But she gets her point across.

The hours slip by in a fast-forward blur of kicks and punches and commands and counter-commands. The temperature plummets as the courtyard turns into a chamber of twisted shadow, stained crimson from the day's bloody exertions and the quickly plummeting sun.

"You haven't said a peep about your man-date with LeMorte," Amaris says, wiping the sweat off her brow.

I shrug. "I already know what to expect. He'll tell me not to fight Black Heart. I'll tell him he looks like a gameshow host. We'll have dessert and I'll leave."

A deep worry line creases Amaris's forehead. It's an expression that seems to belong on someone's else's face. Someone less Amaris. "Just be careful tonight. I get a bad feeling from that man."

"Everyone does. It's a politician thing."

Amaris nods, but with a noticeable uncertainty. "What are you wearing?"

I point to my blood and spit and dirt splattered t-shirt and matching jeans.

"You're the Heir to the most powerful sorcerer of all time," Myrna says across the courtyard, a black plastic garment bag folded over her magically-unwrinkled left arm. "And I'll be damned if you're not dressed in a manner befitting that title."

"Pointy purple hat?" I ask.

Myrna smirks. "I was thinking more like impeccably tailored black designer suit."

Amaris and I follow Myrna up into the apartment where she pulls the suit, a slim fitting white button-down shirt, skinny black tie with a silver tie clip, and polished leather shoes from the bag and lays them out on the back of an inflatable raft.

"This looks...

"Exquisite?" Myrna beams.

"Close. I was going to say expensive."

"Well. We'd both be right." Myrna waves an unconcerned hand at me. "I used some of your Bloodbath winnings. Don't worry. You deserve something nice for yourself."

After an ice-cold shower, I towel off and Amaris and Myrna go about the Herculean task of dressing me from head to toe. The suit clings to my body in all the right places, and the airy material feels lighter than any fabric I've ever felt. I trace a finger over the gold belt buckle, a slim crescent moon, with cuff-links to match. I adjust the knot in my silk tie and take note of the subtle black star pattern woven into the even blacker fabric. I look at my reflection in the cobweb coated full length mirror.

Damn. That works.

"Who's the hunk?" Inka asks, sliding through the kitchen window with a thoroughly paint-splattered Mag at her heels.

"I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything without sweat stains," Mag says, walking in slow disbelieving circles around me. His shoes and fingernails and hair are all dusted with various psychedelic colors of the rainbow.

I put a hand on his shoulders. "You guys better not be tagging out there. LeMorte and his cronies have their eyes on us. Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late," Mag says with a mischievous grin.

"Meaning?"

Before I can grill Mag any further, Myrna steps in front of me, pats out a crease in my suit lapel, and slaps me on both shoulders. "You look ready. Shall I magic you there?"

"No," I say heading to the fire escape window. "I feel like walking tonight." I smile at the crew and give a grateful nod to Myrna and Amaris for un-Neaderthaling me.

"Chew with your mouth closed and keep your napkin on your lap," Myrna says. "The rest isn't worth knowing." I nod and duck under the sill. About halfway down the fire escape, Amaris pokes her head out the window. "Be careful," she calls out.

"Right. I'll be sure to watch out for flying salad forks," I call over my shoulder before slipping into the alleyway and beginning my long trek to the burning spire on the horizon.