The Fighter (Book 1)

Chapter 7

“Dammit, Treble, use your other hand!” Zack huffed, pulling the sword out of my hand and shoving it into the other. “This is why you needed a head-start.”

“What the hell is a head-start going to do for me, anyway? All you’re doing is yelling at me. Can’t I just wait and have someone I don’t know yell at me?” I tightened my grip on the sword, although I thought my wrist would break if I held on any longer.

“Give,” he held out his hand, and I handed him the sword. “Head-starts,” he twirled the thing between his fingers, “mean the difference,” he stopped, tightening his grip on the handle, “between life,” he launched it across the floor and into the training dummy that was at least fifty feet away, “and death,” he turned to me. The blade was implanted in the center of the face. “Take a break.”

“No, if this is so Goddamn important, I’m not stopping until I get it right,” I huffed, starting across the floor to retrieve my sword.

“Treble,” Zack sighed, grabbing my arm when he caught up to me. He tugged me to a stop, and I cursed the advantage of strength he had. “Have you ever tried to teach someone how to do something you’ve been doing for as long as you can remember?”

“No.”

“It’s not easy. Bear with me, okay? I don’t remember what it was like to learn this stuff; I just know it. It’s second-nature, sweetheart, and I’m hoping it will be that way with you before the war is actually here,” he pulled his arms around my shoulders.

I hugged him tightly, burying my face in his neck, “You’re mean.”

“I know, baby,” he kissed my forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “I’m just worried, and this should already be easy for you since you’re the Savior. And I don’t know why it’s not. And it’s frustrating.”

“Don’t have such high expectations for a girl that’s never done this before,” I muttered. “I’m going to get this right.”

“Take a break.”

“No,” I shook my head. “I don’t need a break, just don’t follow me so closely. Let me get the gist of it first, then I’ll get the knit-picky details.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he let go of me, and I grabbed my sword. I’d much rather be looking at the ruins of Pompeii right now. Or sleeping.

“What do you do when you’re jet-lagged?” I asked, loosening my wrist. “You don’t sleep, so how does that work? Also, what do you do at night when you’re supposed to be sleeping?”

“I don’t get jet-lagged,” he crossed his arms over his chest, biting his lip as he watched me. “And I usually read. Never too many books to read. Never enough to learn.”

I frowned, “Not what I expected.”

“What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know, but not that,” I shrugged my shoulders. When my wrist didn’t feel like it would fall off, I took a deep breath. “Why am I so far out? You know I have no arm strength, right?”

“Scoot up, then,” Zack stayed put as I moved up. “What do you dream about?”

I was about to throw, but stopped, turning to look back at Zack.

“Cut me some slack. I don’t know what it’s like to actually dream,” he rolled his eyes at me. “Do you have control over it?”

“Some people do. It’s called lucid dreaming. Pretty badass,” I smiled, turning back toward the training dummy. I shut my eyes, launching the sword forward. I didn’t hear it hit, but I also didn’t hear it hit the floor.