“No, he’s staying here to hold down the fort.” I glanced back at the sleeping lump in the bed, trying to decide if he was really asleep, or just faking. I finally settled on faking. No one really snored that evenly. “Listen, if he tries to log in a contract while I’m gone, send someone to find me, okay? He’s not ready yet.” Yeah, kid, hear that? I’m always watching you. I felt rather pleased with myself at being two steps ahead of the kid.
“I do not know who I would send, but I will do something.” Windows on my computer screen started shutting down on their own. Viljo was obviously done with our conversation.
A thought occurred to me, belatedly. “Hey, Vil?” He looked up. “Have the Knights Stuck-up-idus had any contracts?”
The geek pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have not talked to Father Gregory in some months. I do not know. I will try to find out if you think it is important?”
“Yeah. Just… call it morbid curiosity.” The Order of St. Silvius-holy knights operating in the name of a Catholic saint who did not exist-wasn’t what you’d call friendly with us, the more secular champions. Still, if prodded, they’d usually share information. I wondered if they were having the same dry spell as the rest of us.
“Have a good trip, Jesse.”
“Thanks.” The Grapevine window shut down, redirecting me to some site with nauseatingly cute kittens and poorly spelled captions. I sat in the semidarkness for a few more moments, scratching at the beard stubble on my chin.
Esteban’s sheets rustled as he rolled over to look in my direction. “What does it mean, that no one has been asked for a contract?”
I shrugged my shoulders at the little faker. “Dunno. Maybe nothing. Maybe we scared them all off.” Fat chance.
Esteban knew that as well as I did. The kid’s family had been fighting demons for more generations than I could even imagine. Between his mom and Ivan, we had at our fingertips an amazing catalogue of demon knowledge, and at no point in history had they all just… vanished. I’d asked.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go. Maybe you should stay here.”
“Why, you scared?” I had to grin at the instant frown I got from him. He was so easy to mess with.
“Someone should be here to take care of Miss Mira, and Annabelle.”
“That’s what you’re for, isn’t it?” I stood up, crossing the few steps to roughly mess up his hair. “You take care of them for me, Esteban. Like the big bad champion I know you’re gonna be someday.” Someday would be never, if I got my way, but the grave duty seemed to appease him. “And since you’re awake, roll out. We’re gonna go do forms.”
He grumbled and retreated under his pillow again, but while I gathered up the weapons, he clambered out of bed and met me out in the front yard. Something else we’d worked on over the summer, the idea that he could expect lessons at any time of the day or night, rain or shine, sleepy or not.
Sometimes, I wondered what my neighbors must think of us. There we were at oh-dark-thirty, out in the front yard waving blades around like a couple of lunatics, the kid in just his pajama pants and bare feet despite the early-morning chill.
Esteban’s weapon of choice was a machete, passed down through his family for… Well, I had no idea how long. Suffice to say that he had at least two brothers and a father who had used it before him. He had two younger brothers waiting to take it up when the inevitable happened.
The metal of his blade was dark with age and use, only the edge gleaming brightly where he kept it honed to a razor-sharp finish. The grip had been wrapped in leather so long that the original layers had rotted away and just been covered over with more, sweat and grime melting it into a hard finish. It was a blade with personality, with life in it. Not unlike mine in its own way.
She wasn’t anything spectacular. She’d been one of Marty’s earlier works, when he first started his whole weapon-crafting experiment. Just a plain blade of polished steel, with blemishes where we’d had to grind out hard-won nicks. The guard was an octagon of solid brass. The pommel was brass too, and heavy enough to crack a skull if need be. The hilt was wrapped in cord of my favorite blue. This sword and I, we’d been through a lot, and I trusted her with my life.
Together, Esteban and I moved through various katas, both of us slender to the point of scrawny, but him a taller, darker shadow to myself. The kid had picked up the forms easily, I’ll give him that. His technique wasn’t quite as polished as mine, but I’d been doing it for years compared to his six months. I’d give him a couple more before I started hounding him about it.
We’d had to adapt a few things for his shorter blade, but if his arms kept growing the way they were, he’d make up for the difference in reach in no time. I watched him from the corner of my eye as we blocked, parried, struck, all in slow motion. His dark brows were drawn in concentration, eyes fixed on his feet. Without breaking stride, I spun and swatted him across the ass with the flat of my sword. “Eyes up! Unless you’re fighting some foot fungus demon I don’t know about.”
He growled, jerking his head up, but corrected his posture instantly.
I slid back into the proper place in the kata without really thinking about it. “Tell me the way of the warrior.” This too was part of the kid’s education. If he was going to learn to fight, he’d learn to fight my way. He’d follow the bushido. And this was how I’d been trained back in the day, working my mind and my body at the same time. I often quizzed him while we sparred or ran katas.
“The way of the warrior is the brave acceptance of death.” His movements faltered for just a moment as he wracked his brain for the correct information. “That’s in The Book of Five Rings, by Miyamoto Musashi.”
“Right. It’s also found in the Hagakure.” The next move put his back to me, and I eyed his stance critically. Not too bad. So far. “How many times should you be ro?nin, according to the Hagakure?”
“Seven.” That answer came immediately. “Fall seven times, get up eight.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means… it means if you don’t learn to deal with the bad times, you won’t learn how to get back up from them. If you fall, you always get back up.”
Very good. His brain was working pretty good, considering that I’d rousted him out of bed. Now, how were his reflexes? With a small grin, I slipped up behind him and thrust my scabbard between his feet.
Instead of tripping, he picked up his right foot and spun on his left, landing in a crouch with his machete pinning the scabbard to the damp grass. He smirked at me. “Gotcha.”
I smiled, nodding my approval. “This time.” We both stood, bowing from the waist to each other. “Go get a little more sleep-you’ve got school in a couple hours.”
Esteban hesitated a moment, but finally nodded. “Have a good trip.”
“Thanks.” He disappeared back inside, leaving me alone on the lawn. With nothing else to do but wait, I went through a few more katas on my own. It felt good, the balanced weight in my hands, the smooth glide across the grass. It centered me. I needed centering.
Marty was supposed to pick me up around four thirty, but it was nearly five when the ancient Suburban pulled into my driveway. I gave my buddy a questioning look as I went to toss my gear in the back.
“Two friggin’ tires were flat this morning, man.”
“You drive through a construction zone or something?”
“Nah, there was nothing in them. More like someone let the air out. I had to air them back up.” He half hung out the window to talk to me as I walked past. “Then dumbass over here, his alarm didn’t go off.” Will, sitting in the front passenger seat, winced as Marty punched him in the shoulder (I’m guessing not for the first time).
“Well, maybe we’re getting all the bad luck out of the way at the beginning, hmm?” I swung the back doors open wide and was greeted by a giant muzzle full of slobbering wet tongue. “Gah!”