Loose Changeling: A Changeling Wars Novel (22 page)

He clasped his hands behind his back, his mouth pressing into a line as he regarded me. “I do,” he said.

“I want to learn how to fence,” I said. “Fewer parts that can spontaneously fail. But I've got to put him off balance."

"Understood." He reached out and lifted the gun from its place on the wall. "But you can't learn here. There's a shooting range I used to go to. Come on."

We let Lainey and Owen know where we were headed. Mark handed me the gun before we got into his car. "It's empty," he said. "I want you to get used to the feel of it and to practice holding it. It'll be heavier when it's loaded."

The gun was cool in my hand, the crosshatched metal rubbing against my palm. I'd never held a pistol before. Even without the ammunition, it felt heavy to me. A sword was one thing. This was more dangerous, more unpredictable. I could end a life with the simple press of a trigger.

As Mark drove to the shooting range, he gave me verbal instructions. "You're a beginner, so you should hold it with both hands. Keep your finger out of the trigger area until you're ready to shoot."

The longer I held it, the more comfortable it felt, but I wasn't entirely sure how comfortable I wanted to get with a gun. I wasn't a killer. Or at least, I didn't think I was. If I didn't readjust my view of myself, I would be in for some trouble once I reached the Arena.

The shooting range was mostly empty this time of morning. Mark picked a lane and we got to work.

I quickly discovered I was a terrible shot. My aim has never been good—the incident with the pillows and Owen's upraised arms was the only claim I could make to hitting an intended target. Despite Mark's attempts to school me, my shots all went wide.

"Steady your hands," he yelled.

I could barely hear him with the muffs on my ears. "They
are
steady."

"Aim before pressing the trigger."

"I
am
."

I gauged the level of his frustration by how much his beard moved. The more it moved, the more he was grinding his teeth, or grimacing, or pursing his lips. By the time it was dancing around like a hairy version of Shakira, I knew it was time to call it quits.

"Let's go back, eat some lunch," I said as I unloaded the gun. "This isn't exactly productive. It'll have to be something I use if I get desperate."

By the time we got back, Owen had already cooked lunch and, amazingly, had cleaned up after himself. When we finished eating, Mark and I went into the backyard. He brought his fencing gear and strapped it on, piece-by-piece. “You’re long and lean, like Lainey is,” Mark said. “Your biggest strengths are going to be your speed and reach. Keep your sword light, long, and thin—but sharp. We’ll practice with dull blades.”

I pulled out the stick and the coaster. “So a shield?”

“It may help in the beginning.”

“The Guardian I’m going up against has some elemental magic. He may throw ice or fire at me.”

“Keep the shield until you tire. Then ditch it.”

I closed my eyes to concentrate. I changed both shirt and pants to match Mark’s fencing equipment. “There,” I said. “How’s that?”

Mark had dropped his sword. "Despite what Lainey said, guess I didn’t quite expect it to be real. Not all the way, at least.” He picked it up.

“It’s real.” I turned the stick into a sword next, like the one Mark held, with a blunted edge and tip. “Now show me.”

We went through various attacks and ripostes. “You won’t fight in a line, like we do in fencing,” Mark said, “so we won’t practice in one either.” He pulled away from me and lifted his sword. “I’ll correct you as we go. Attack me.”

“Now?”

“Absolutely.”

I rushed at him and ended up on the ground, Mark’s sword poking at my back.

“Come on,” Mark said. “Where’s that Fae blood you were talking about? Is this one of your Talents? Show me.”

My face heated. I’d gone into this overconfident, sure my Talent would take over, show me the way. Apparently this wasn’t the way it worked.

I tried again, my sword connecting with Mark’s twice before his point ended over my heart. “Are you even trying?” For someone who was endlessly sweet with his wife and kids, he was one hell of a coach. “I could knock you over with a feather, the way you’re attacking me now. You want to go into the Fae world and get my son back? Show me I shouldn’t be the one doing it myself.”

I gritted my teeth.
For Tristan
. This next time I kept my breathing steady, my thoughts on my nephew. I could feel the difference. My arms and legs moved more quickly, my strokes landed where I’d intended.

“That’s more like it,” Mark said.

We took a break around two. Though I came close to winning twice, I didn’t yet have the skill. “I need to practice transformation,” I announced to everyone as we sat in the living room, each of us spent. “I want to get faster at it, and I want to be able to transform moving objects.”

We headed into the backyard, Lainey with Justine in her arms. I started picking up Tristan’s toys, scattered in the grass. “May I?”

Lainey nodded, the hint of tears in her in eyes. Justine made a grab for her hair. “Just change them back when you’re done.”

“I will.”

I concentrated on transforming the toys into other objects—things that might be useful in a battle. I turned the toy truck into a rock, to trip up my opponent, the blocks into caltrops, the plastic puzzle into a rug that spat fire. I was particularly proud of the last.

After that, I had Owen and Mark toss the toys into the air, striving to transform them before they could hit the ground. I managed the first one around four in the afternoon.

I’d used my powers for the sword fighting earlier and now for the transformation. By the time I managed to transform the first toy mid-air, I could barely move. I hauled myself to my feet. “I need to…I need to take a nap.”

Owen caught me before I fell. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” he said as he carried me to Tristan’s room.

“If I don’t, I’m dead, and my nephew is trapped in the Fae world. I have to.”

His face was lined with worry as he looked down on me. “I still care about you, you know.”

It made my heart hurt. I lifted a hand. “Don’t. Not now.”

I slept until dinnertime and awoke ravenous. Owen had pulled out all the stops and baked a lasagna. I ate three pieces plus some garlic bread before I felt satiated.

After dinner, Lainey turned the backyard lights on, and Mark and I practiced more. I found my rhythm more quickly this time, my feet and hands more sure of their places. This time, when I backed Mark toward the garden beds, he was unable to slip away. I used my magic to speed my steps. He tried, at the last minute, to duck beneath my sword, but I chopped at his back. When he turned again to face me, I had my blade at his neck.

He lifted his arms. “Much better. But I’ll bet you have to be able to beat more than a mediocre human fencing opponent in order to beat one of these Guardians.”

“They carry their swords with them at all times,” I said. My heart quailed as I thought on other things I knew of the Fae. “They live for hundreds of years. Maybe even thousands. I never asked.”

“Then you’ll have to be perfect,” Mark said, his face grim.

I lifted my sword. “Again.”

We practiced well into the night, long after Lainey had put Justine to bed, and Owen had fallen asleep on the stoop, his elbow on his knee, his head cradled in his hand. Mark beat me one more time before I overtook him. And yet I still wasn’t sure if it was enough.

When both of us collapsed to our knees during a bout, I realized I'd pushed the limits of endurance. “Enough,” I gasped out.

“Agreed,” Mark said. He tore off his mask, his breathing ragged.

It took a while before we could get to our feet and head inside. I splashed a bit of water on my face before dropping into bed and a deep sleep. I awoke past ten, the smell of fried eggs thick in the air. When I walked into the kitchen, everyone was already eating. Lainey looked up. “I was getting worried. You slept through Owen banging around in the kitchen and even Justine's screaming fit this morning.”

I rubbed my sore shoulders. “The magic takes more out of me than I expected.” In truth, I'd never felt more tired in my entire life.

After breakfast and a shower, I headed into the backyard with Mark. We were halfway through our fifth bout when my sword shattered. Bits of wood scattered over the grass as I blinked and tried to make sense of it. I opened my hand and found nothing inside of it.

I'd been practicing this morning with the shield as well. It still remained intact, strapped to my other arm.

“Well,” Mark said. “Looks like magic has its limitations.”

I examined the bits on the ground. Lainey and Owen sat on the patio, Justine giggling in Owen's arms. “You made it out of a stick,” Lainey called out. “It could be that.”

The coaster had been metal, as was the shield. Kailen had been the one who'd prompted me to make the coaster into a shield. I'd only improvised with the stick. “Right,” I said. “Can you get me a butter knife?”

Lainey brought one out from the kitchen.

As soon as I transformed it, I could feel the difference. It wasn't any heavier, but it felt less brittle. I hefted it in my hand. “I think you're on to something, Lainey.”

We took a break for lunch. I tested Lainey's theory. Turning a stick into a wooden sword left it also feeling solid. Turning a butter knife into a wooden sword also left it feeling fragile. It seemed the closer to the original properties I kept the materials, the more solid the transformation would be, the more lasting.

I practiced transforming items in mid-air in the afternoon, and through this, learned more. If I transformed one of Tristan's toys into the same item more than once, it became easier and faster the more times I did it. I resolved to pick a few things that I thought I'd need in the Arena, and transform them several times before taking them with me.

With the knowledge and discovery came confidence. I had the advantage of being a Changeling. If I transformed an item, my opponent would not be able to undo the transformation. He would not be able to interfere with my sword fighting Talent, either. It gave me some comfort. If I didn't go into the Arena with hundreds of years of knowledge and practice, at least I could go in with some other advantage.

Though my muscles and bones protested, I fought against Mark again before dinner. “Pretend I'm him,” Mark said. “The Guardian.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I would do this for Tristan. My nephew. When I opened my eyes, everything seemed brighter, clearer. I fought like a whirlwind. Mark could barely raise his sword against me before I'd blocked it, couldn't step without me following half a second later.

I began to step before he stepped, raising my sword before he even struck. Our bout ended a moment later, with my sword to his neck.

“That was amazing!” Owen said from the patio. He rose to his feet, his eyes wide. “It was like you knew what he was going to do before he did it.”

I transformed the sword back into the butter knife. “I don't know the Guardian's other Talents. He may have something that could neutralize what I'm able to do with a sword.”

Owen came near and put a hand on my shoulder. “I think you have a chance.”

I didn't acknowledge him. I hoped he was right.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“...and on to our next item. Is your milk souring before its expiration date? Our news correspondent, Amy Whithouse, is here to tell you that you may not be the only one. Amy?”

The television flickered as the picture changed to a view of the news correspondent. I sat on the couch, my hand barely holding my head up, my thigh muscles screaming as I tried to stretch my legs. Owen was in the kitchen, cooking up who knew what for dinner, the scrape of spatula against the pan mingling with Justine's babbling.

One more day. One more day before I went to the Arena. I could sense the anxiety in Mark and Lainey. Though they sat with me on the couches, neither of them sank into the cushions; both leaned forward, their postures stiff, tense. Though it was my nephew I went to retrieve, he was their
son
.

“Hi, John,” said the young and plucky Amy, “it seems that all over town, citizens are complaining about their milk going sour long before the expiration date. Milk distributors have disavowed any knowledge of this strange phenomenon, but consumer rights groups think this may have something to do with dishonest labeling.”

She turned to a disgruntled-looking older gentleman, his hands stuffed firmly into the pockets of his coat. “I'm here with Jason Nebbit, a representative from Consumer Rights Group.” She extended the microphone in his direction.

I sighed, Jason's angry voice buzzing in my ears, nonsensical as the buzz of a bee. I wondered if anyone in the mortal world suspected what was actually happening—that doorways to the Fae realms had begun to reopen. Just as that thought crossed my mind, the face of another man popped up on the screen, voice thick with an Irish accent.

“It's fairies,” he said. “I've been producing milk in this region for ten years, never seen anything like it. But as soon as I started putting an offering out in the mornings for the Fae, my milk stopped spoiling.”

They cut back to John in the studio, who laughed at this pronouncement. In a mocking tone, he advised citizens to watch out for fairies. His co-host tried to riff off of his joke.

“Next thing you know, they'll be stealing babies.” She laughed.

“I'm turning this damn thing off,” Lainey said, her voice trembling. She lifted the remote.

“Meanwhile, police are still searching for anyone connected to the murders of three Portland citizens.”

The television clicked off.

I almost fell asleep eating dinner—a surprisingly delicious Asian-inspired concoction of peanut sauce, pasta, and snow peas. Owen frowned as my fork slipped from my grasp. “I'm sorry,” I said, leaning into my hand again. “I'm just tired.”

“Too tired,” Owen said. He rose to his feet and went to my side. “I'm helping you to bed, and you're going to rest for most of tomorrow.”