Summers Pryce: Chapter 8

Self-defense is Nature's eldest law.

Jazz and Polly watched Dawn's lessons with Sensei Stanton (with his tolerant permission), and both loved the things they saw Dawn doing, didn't seem afraid of the discipline required. Wesley watched them watching, saw their very real interest and their excitement, and reached his decision.

Once Sensei Stanton had gone and Dawn had showered, Wes sat down with all three girls and, with Locke listening, said, "Polly, Jazz . . . what do you think?"

"I think that looks like it's a blast, and like it's good for you," Jazz said. "Can you really teach that sort of thing?"

"My style is a bit more free-form, and draws on many other styles," Wesley said. "Also, you will not have the satisfaction of belt progression — Watcher's Council martial arts doesn't measure progress that way. It will also be . . . less flashy. There are things I can teach Dawn that I cannot teach you, simply because you lack the Slayer power, the enhanced agility and strength that are the legacy of the Slayer.

"Yet if you want, I will teach you — if your parents agree. The timing would require that you sometimes go home after dark, this winter, but I will gladly drive you both."

"I want in," Jazz said. "Mom will probably like the idea, she's asked me about learning martial arts before. And Dad will go along, he's easy to get along with."

"My parents will love the idea of me doing something physical," Polly said. "I'm sure they'll agree, especially if Jazz's folks do."

That evening, after dinner, Dawn and Wes went to the Redmans' and Wes explained that, after the disaster at the school, Jazz had expressed an interest in joining Dawn in the martial arts lessons that Dawn had already started.

"Dawn will be taking two sorts of lessons, as she is getting lessons in kenpo karate already," Wesley said. "What I will be teaching her — and Jazz, with your permission — is less formal, a composite art that emphasizes doing whatever works over predetermined sets of strikes, as many martial arts do."

"Could Jazz join the kenpo as well, do you think?" Crystal Redman asked, looking interested.

"I don't really know," Wesley admitted. "I'm paying for private lessons for Dawn, and . . . well, it's a bit pricey. I didn't know about committing you to something like that, or, frankly, if Sensei Stanton would allow it. He auditioned Dawn before he'd agree to private lessons for her, decided that she had the natural athleticism he wanted."

"Well, I will certainly agree to your teaching her," Crystal said. "And perhaps tomorrow she and I could see Sensei Stanton, and see what he thinks about adding her to Dawn's lessons — if you don't mind, Wesley."

"I don't mind at all," Wesley said. "If he agrees, she's quite welcome."

Immediately after, they went to Polly's house, met her parents (her older brother was away at college in Normal, Illinois), and spoke to them about the possibility of her taking martial arts lessons. They agreed as quickly and readily as had the Redmans, both seeming thrilled that Polly had taken an interest in something physical. They, too, decided to speak to Sensei Stanton, and Wes suggested that they coordinate with the Redmans, and all go together.

Saturday afternoon, both families stopped by and asked Wes to call Sensei Stanton to confirm that he had no problems with the other girls joining Dawn. He called, assured Daniel Stanton that he liked the idea, and both girls were accepted.

"He said I'm really fast," Jazz said, grinning proudly. "And he told Polly that she bends in places and ways that most people just can't."

"It's the yoga," Polly said, grinning. "I'm flexible."

The two families stayed for a while, met Locke, being told that he was Wesley's nephew (a story they'd agreed on earlier, before he even met Bobbi the housekeeper) and seemed to approve of him. Locke's manners, his gently self-effacing attitude, and his neat, well dressed and clean shaven appearance seemed to go over well with both sets of parents.

Just before they left, the Redmans asked if they could move Jazz's sleepover to the weekend following.

"I'm sorry," Crystal said. "It's just that after the thing at the school, my nerves are singing, and I know I'd be unable to sleep with Jazz out of the house. Silly, I know, but I can't help it."

"No, it's understandable," Wesley assured her. "And next weekend will be fine, as well — I keep the weekends open, as Dawn works very hard during the week."

After the guests went home, Wesley and Locke got together at the computer and ordered everything he'd need (or even might need) to work effectively as a blacksmith, and Wesley checked out several contractors, made a list to call the next day about setting up a shed on the roof for Locke to use as his shop.

That evening, Locke sparred first Wesley and then Dawn. He beat Wesley easily, and Dawn with a bit more work. His fighting style seemed broad-based, containing punches, kicks, throws, locks, holds, hard and soft blocks and avoidance.

"I don't know," he replied when Wesley tried to sneak-attack question him on what the style was, and again when Wes sprung a question about where he'd learned it on him.

"Ah, well," Wesley said. "Someday, we'll figure it all out."

Later in the evening, Locke asked about getting some ID, and Wes agreed to do so the next day, then asked if there was anything particular that Locke wanted it for.

"I want a part-time job," Locke said. "Something to keep me busy in the day, while Dawn is gone and you attend to your business. And I'd like to earn a little money for . . . some things I won't let you give me money for."

"All right," Wesley said. "May I ask what things?"

"I, uh, seem to have a single bad habit," Locke admitted. "When Mr. Weaver went outside for a cigarette, and I went to keep him company, I . . . found myself craving one. He gave me one and it . . . yes. I smoke, I guess."

"Well, given how you heal, I suppose it's not that bad for you," Wesley admitted. "Though I will ask that you restrict it to outside. Perhaps in the blacksmith shop, in foul weather."

"Not a problem," Locke said. "Thank you."

Sunday, Wesley got Locke his ID in the name Locke Alexander Martin, Martin being Wesley's mother's maiden name. Monday morning, Locke came down to breakfast neatly dressed, and looking sharp.

"You look good," Dawn said. "All dressed up and clean-shaven — looking for a job today?"

"Indeed," Locke said. "I thought dressing well could only help."

"You know, I've been meaning to ask," Wesley said, "and Dawn's comment about your clean-shaven look reminded me . . . don't you grow facial hair? You never developed so much as a five o'clock shadow while you were unconscious."

"I don't," Locke said flatly. "I asked not to."

"You asked . . . I'm sorry?" Wesley said, looking confused.

Locke matched Wesley's confused look, and said, "I . . . don't know where that came from. But . . . I think I asked the Light to do that for me — to make it so I didn't grow a beard."

"Wow, you really must have hated shaving," Dawn said.

"No, I hate wearing a beard," Locke said, sounding a little odd and looking puzzled. "A subtle difference, but measurable.

"I . . . Wesley, your beard doesn't bother me, but the idea of growing one myself . . . it makes me angry. What the devil is that about?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Wesley said, frowning. "That's . . . odd."

"Oh, well," Locke said. "Someday, I'll remember, I suppose. I hope."

He and Dawn left at the same time and went in opposite directions. When she returned from school with Jazz and Polly in tow, they found Locke sitting on the front stoop smoking a cigarette.

"What, you found a job that pays cash under the table?" Dawn asked.

"No, Dawn," Locke said, smiling and moving out of their way (and downwind, for which all felt grateful). "I got a job as an intra-city messenger, and the company even provides bicycles. They have a hard time keeping people in the winter, I guess, but I don't mind the cold. Some people tip messengers, it seems, so I have some cash immediately. And the schedule is easy — nine to one, Monday through Friday. I like it."

"Cool, then," Dawn said. "Come on, girls, let's get changed."

They had a good time in Sensei Stanton's class, and he seemed happy with all of them. Any fears that Dawn would lose focus with friends present or that Jazz and Polly might not be so focused got quelled quickly, and he praised them all at the end of class.

Wesley's class felt a bit different from Sensei Stanton's. He did work them on techniques, but only for the first half an hour. After that, he switched to tactics, to the ways to use the techniques, not the techniques themselves.

"Dawn, the night we ran into each other in Los Angeles, you were fighting two vampires and doing well," Wesley said. "However, when a third joined the fight, you missed a bet."

"And I got lucky that you were there," Dawn said. "Otherwise, I might have been the shortest active-time Slayer ever."

"Also a point," Wesley said. "Let's try recreating the situation — not combatively, just the layout, at least at first. Polly, get in front of Dawn, about two steps back from her and on her left. Good, thank you. Jazz, one step forward of Polly and on Dawn's right, please. Yes, right there.

"All right, Locke — take a spot directly behind Dawn and two large steps back, please. Good.

"All right, Dawn, you immediately staked the vampire in Jazz's position. Do you know why that was a mistake?"

"I left my back open," Dawn said. "I didn't see an alternative — I was trying to give myself an opening to go forward, away from the one behind me — where Locke is. Didn't work, but . . . I'm not sure what I should have done."

"All right, let's see if any of you others see it," Wes said. "Polly?"

"Um, no," Polly admitted. "No, wait — she should have gone after the one where I'm standing, so she could put the one where Jazz is between her and the one where Locke is?"

"That would have been better, Polly, yes," Wesley said. "And well done. But it is not optimal. Jazz?"

"She's strong," Jazz said. "Bowl us girl vamps over, go past us to slow down Locke?"

"Risky," Wesley said. "Remember, Jazz, vampires are much stronger than humans, though not as strong as the Slayer."

"Then I'm tapped," Jazz admitted.

"Locke?"

"I think in terms of pure power," Locke said. "I'd have kicked both of the two in front down, then worried about the one back here."

"For you, a viable solution," Wesley agreed. "However, no. All right, Dawn, trade places with me and watch."

Dawn did as Wesley asked, and he said, "All right — all of you close, slowly. Girls, you simply want to hit me, Locke, you want to grab me for a biting."

They all moved in, going in slow motion, and Wes simply took a long step backwards on a diagonal, putting him a little closer too Locke, but not dangerously so — and leaving the three "vampires" to run into each other.

"I'll be dipped in dog dung," Locke said. "That's just . . . elegant."

"And it'd leave us doing the vampire version of the Three Stooges," Jazz said. "Scary, Poe and Squirrelly, anyone?"

"The three who?" Locke said, looking confused.

"Oh, you lucky man, to have been spared that particular stupidity," Wesley said.

"Hey!" Jazz protested. "I like the Stooges!"

"And you seem so bright, otherwise," Wesley mused. "Well — Dawn, it isn't all about power. And that's a lesson you girls should take to heart, as well, as you lack the power that Dawn has, and Locke may have.

"So . . . we will have you three ladies work on being attacked by groups for a while, and see how well you learn to make the best decision."

Wesley ended up being quite pleased with their learning curve.

The week went fast, with all the girls throwing themselves into fighting lessons both from Sensei Stanton and Wesley, and both men finding themselves enjoying the teaching a great deal.

Tuesday afternoon, contractors started work on a sturdy, well-anchored shed on the roof for the planned blacksmith shop, and they finished before Dawn and the girls arrived from school on Thursday. Wesley and Locke set up the smithy they'd planned Friday when Locke got home from work, the equipment they'd ordered having been delivered already over the week.

Friday night, Locke started work on his own sword. Dawn watched a little, fascinated by the process (and secretly liking the view of Locke working shirtless in the heat of the forge, sweat pouring freely from him, making him look extremely sexy). She understood very little of what he did, but watched anyway, fascinated by the peculiar mixture of the brute force of raw heat and muscle, and the gentle, subtle touches that went into making a perfect sword — or at least, perfect for Locke.

He didn't finish, of course, not in a single evening, especially since he was careful to stop work about nine, so as not to keep anyone awake. He spent the rest of the evening working on a scabbard for the sword while sitting in the living room. Dawn sat and read, and Wesley worked alternately with several books and the computer.

"Blast," Wes said, sighing with irritation as he piled his books together to take upstairs with him at bedtime. "I've exhausted every resource at my disposal, and I've found nothing on the vampire who called himself Drake. In addition, the house where the Thoknara demon and the humans with him met their 'boss' turns out to belong to an older couple who were out of town for that week, attending a business conference in New York city that the husband needed to go to. They arrived home and reported a break in, though nothing was taken — they perpetrators only helped themselves to food and drink and left a mess, it seems."

"Which leaves us at a dead end," Dawn said with a sigh. "Crap."

"I can't disagree," Wesley said. "Well, I'm going to bed. Good night, all."

The next morning, Locke again started working on his sword, and Dawn again watched for a little while. She went inside while he was still folding and beating the various alloys of the blade. Jazz would be coming over after lunch, and Dawn wanted to straighten up her room a bit.

Jazz came over with an overnight bag and a stack of scary movies, saying, "I figure we can watch these and you can critique them for realism for me — you know, when we aren't shrieking and clinging to each other like we're Iris's age."

They put Jazz's things in Dawn's room and went up and watched Locke work for a while. He had reached the point where no one could doubt but that he was making a sword, a long and slender blade, double-edged, elegant and beautiful. He set the blade aside while they watched, started working on the cross guard and pommel, as well as the metal for the grip.

"I don't know what's nicer," Jazz said very softly to Dawn. "Seeing him make such cool things out of metal, or seeing him."

"Right there with you," Dawn said softly. "God, he's gorgeous."

"You made a pass?" Jazz asked as they went downstairs to get out of the wind.

"No, I . . . not real good at being forward, me." Dawn sighed. "Pretty much one kiss in my whole life, and that . . . disaster. He turned out to be a vampire."

"Ouch," Jazz said, wincing. "Well, on the plus side, you know Locke's no vampire."

"Yeah, but on the minus side . . . we've both got issues, right now," Dawn said. "Me with . . . still adjusting to a lot of things, still . . . it still hurts. And he's got that whole 'who am I' thing . . . I don't know. Doesn't feel right, not yet."

"Point," Jazz said, taking Dawn's hand as they sat on the couch in the living room area of her floor. "But . . . it won't hurt forever, Dawn. You're getting better. And the way he heals . . . well, he's bound to get over the amnesia sooner or later." She shook her head in amazement. "That was so weird, Thursday!"

Dawn winced and nodded. Thursday afternoon, while Wes had been teaching them to fight, they'd sparred. While Dawn and Locke had been sparring, he'd walked a punch if hers and his nose had broken, sprayed blood, and he'd fallen to the ground.

He'd simply said a mild, "Ouch. Not your fault, Dawn, I walked into it."

Wesley had appeared at Locke's said, looked at his nose and said, "Oh, dear, it's broken, I'm afraid."

"That's nothing new," Locke said. "Half a second, here."

He'd reached up and gripped his own nose — and shoved the bones back into place, muttering only "Black damnation," as he did so.

Thirty seconds later, the bones had healed, and the blood that had streamed from his nose had mostly reversed itself, even running backwards out of the t-shirt he wore, leaving only a faint pink stain on the white cotton.

"Okay, where were we?" he'd asked then, getting to his feet.

And he'd attacked Dawn so fiercely that she'd fought back, which she hadn't wanted to do, at first. But once she had, she got right back into the rhythm of things.

"So . . . once you stop hurting so much, I think you should make a little pass, see if he wants to wait for his memory to come back, you know?" Jazz said. "Carpe diem, and all that stuff."

"Maybe," Dawn said. "No rush."

"No rush," Jazz agreed. "Hey, have you ever read any Robert Heinlein?"

And they were back to normal, just that quick.

They had fun with the movies, alternately laughing and screaming, then lay in Dawn's bed talking until far too late before going to sleep to the sound of howling wind.

Jazz stayed until just before supper on Sunday, so she got to see Locke's finished sword in the afternoon.

"Wow . . . that's gorgeous!" Dawn said, looking at the slender, elegant saber. The steel looked as though it had depth, and it fooled the eye into thinking that you could see deeper into the blade than it was thick.

"Thank you," Locke said, looking proud. "I'm very happy with it."

"You've every right to be," Wesley said. "I like the heavier cross guards, and the way you've angled the ends up — not only is it more efficient for catching an opponent's blade, it makes the thing look . . . well, rather deadlier than usual."

"Okay, when I learn to use a sword, will you make me one?" Jazz asked.

"Of course," Locke said. "It will be a pleasure."

Crystal Chapman came to pick Jazz up at a quarter to six. Before they left, she said, "Dawn, do you think you might like to spend the night with Jazz next Saturday? And go with us up to Lansing on Saturday afternoon and evening? There's a science fiction and fantasy convention up there, I'm taking Jazz, Polly and Iris for the day, and John's going to see some friends while we geek-girls go to the con and geek out."

"Oh, that sounds cool," Dawn said. "Wes, may I?"

"You may," Wesley said. "Thank you, Crystal."

"No problem at all," Crystal said. "Think of it as repayment for teaching Jazz more about fighting. And I'm glad that she's found a friend."

Jazz hugged Dawn, thanked all three for having her over, and she and her mom left, Jazz promising to send Dawn info on the convention they were going to after she'd finished supper.

Dawn liked the guest list — Neil Gaiman would be there, as well as Jim Butcher, who wrote the Dresden Files books, and Joss Whedon, a TV and movie guy whose show Firefly she loved.

The week passed quietly, though Wesley admitted that he thought Dawn might be ready to patrol soon, making her feel good.

The convention on Saturday turned out to be a blast. Dawn got autographs, and listened to seminars, and even got to have a long and engrossing conversation with Jim Butcher, since no one was behind her in line to get his autograph, and he decided to stick at the table where he'd been autographing things for a while longer than scheduled.

When they left the convention, it had started to snow pretty hard, and Dawn simply stood with her face up for a long moment, loving the icy touch of snowflakes on her face, the look of them falling gently through the sky.

"And thus we witness the end of an era," Polly intoned, watching the delight with which Dawn simply absorbed the experience of snow. "Witness thou the death of the California Girl!"

Dawn laughed with the others, and let herself be dragged to the Redmans' waiting SUV.

On the way home, things went wrong.