21: Training

"You were made to rock
so stand up tall
Go rock the world and prove them wrong"
Superchic[k] ~~Rock What You Got

A fist hit my door, and I moaned. "What?"

"Training starts early. Get up." His dangerous voice floated through the doorway.

I cracked an eye open and looked at the bedside clock. It read 5 AM. "You have got to be kidding me," I mumbled. "It's 5 o'clock!" I said, louder.

"I know what time it is, kid. You have ten minutes before I come in and get you. And that's actually kinda generous."

I moaned and threw the covers off me. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, I grabbed my sweatshirt and walked to the restroom, where I used the toilet, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and tried to become cognizant. "I'm up," I said, walking out. "I'm not awake, but I'm up. Can I eat?" I pulled on socks and sneakers as I spoke

"No." He was sipping a large mug of coffee. So that was his secret.

"Why?"

He yawned hugely, showing off gleaming white fangs. "It's bad to train on a full stomach. Gives you cramps."

"I'll heal."

"But it hurts like *#$ til you do." He grabbed his coat and walked out the door. I followed, pulling my sweatshirt over my head. The cold air hit my face like a slap, waking me up fully.

"So what are we doing?"

He didn't answer. I surmised that he wasn't a morning person. We have more parallels than I'd like.

To sum up the first day of my 'training': he worked on my reflexes and senses. I caught baseballs with my eyes closed, dodged sneak attacks, etc. It was rather boring, until I looked away for a minute, and he was just gone. Opening up my ears and eyes as far as they would go, I scanned the area for any sign of him. Nada. Slowly, softly, I backed up until I had an oak to my back. That was the first thing he had told me: when surrounded by enemies, get your back to a wall. That way no one can attack you from behind. They could also box you in and take you down, but he said that I would just have to be smarter than that.

I heard him about two seconds before he hit me. I went headfirst into a snow bank with an open mouth, meaning I got a mouthful of snow. Sputtering, I kicked out and struck him, rolling away as best as I was able in snow. My wings sprouted and they wrapped themselves around me for protection and defense.

"Good job," he said, standing. "You can eat now."

"How did you do that?" I asked, brushing the snow off of me.

"Very few people look up for an enemy. Remember that."

For three more days we did this. If I had been human, I would have been black and blue with bruises everywhere. Maybe even broken bones. He took no mercy on me because I was young, a girl, or his kid. Part of me was angry. The other part respected him for it.

I learned how to fight with hands, legs, and wings. I learned to protect my back even more than usual, so no one could cut my wings if I had them out. I learned how to follow a trail. I learned how to not leave a trail. He gave me a hunting knife and taught me how to use it, because 'you don't have any claws, kid.'

I soon figured out how he consumed so much food. When your body is constantly healing itself, it needs fuel. So he ate A LOT. And so did I. Tons of carbs. Tons of protein. Tons of total junk food. I still marveled that he was so fastidious when he ate, tucking the food away, but not like an animal; like a cleanly, large, hunter-cat that used its claws sometimes to eat. I could see similarities between my parents now; they both had this thing about table manners. He would only play with his food when he hunted it, and Mom would always tell me to not shove such large bites in my mouth.

On the fourth day, he got a phone call. I hadn't even known he had a phone. But I could have filled all the books on his bookshelf with the things I didn't know about him. I wisely retreated to the room that I stayed in, burying my nose in The Princess and Curdie; his eyes had gone dark and his voice was dangerous and low as he spoke into the phone. He stayed on the line probably about ten minutes before snarling and slamming the receiver down with enough force to break it if he had really wanted to.
He banged on my door. "We're leaving tomorrow. Be packed."

I opened the door, sticking my finger in my book to hold the page. "Where are we going?" I asked; trying to avoid the silent why are we going, hoping I wasn't right.

"Stryker has some more missions for me," he replied, growling. So I was right, I thought. "We're going to Ohio."

"Sounds…fun." But I didn't say it like I meant it or anything. I made a mental note to look over his bookcase and grab some books for the car ride.

"Be ready in the morning, kid."

Victor suppressed the urge to throw the phone across the room and mentally berated himself for giving Stryker this number. The old $*&$ just had ta count down the minutes until my week was up, didn't he? Victor growled to himself, pacing back and forth in his large bedroom. He wasn't opposed to the work at all; killing was what he was good at, and he was paid to do it, which was a sizable perk. He just didn't know what he was going to do with the kid! Can't leave her here, he thought to himself, but what am I gonna do once I get there? She doesn't know how to kill. She'd run loco. So I'd have to leave her somewhere over there, too.

He flexed his claws, watching them lengthen and extend. He didn't feel bad about killing. He liked doing it, and besides, Bradley had it coming to him, for walking out on the team like that. They all did –especially Jimmy. Love and hate are the same emotion, just going different directions. And Victor definitely hated Jimmy.