Friday September 19th 2014

Sitting on the mat, Cesare looked up at Tamlin. “Can we talk?” The man measured him for a long minute before answering with a sharp nod. “I'm getting killed out there. I need to know … That it’s going to get better.”

He was used to taking a beating. Gangs, pimps, the needy and the mean, they’d all found him in the darkness. But this was different. Now he was hunting it, seeking out the people that turned his face into hamburger. Split lips, lumpy flesh, blood tainted food and waking up to a blood-streaked pillow was grinding his soul down.

“We’ve only been at this a few weeks, you can’t expect miracles.” Cesare slumped with a sigh, despair scouring his soul. “What styles are we working on?”

“Brazilian Jiu-Jutsu, Judo, Jeet Kune Do and Muay Thai,” Cesare said.

“Each style is a weapon. All of them have specialties, domains where they rule. A Master can make their style’s work even when it doesn’t fit the fight. But the best fighters are the ones that can switch between styles. They've internalized the styles and in branding them to flesh have seen them for what they are. Tools. And to get a job done right, you need the right tool.” The wolf raised its head, golden eyes resting on the two men. “I’m only showing you the best parts of each style. But you have to take these parts and make it one style … your style.” Tamlin added.

“I don't understand. If we go to the ground, I use Brazilian Jiu-Jutsu …”

Tamlin interrupted. “And that's the problem. Stop putting them in boxes. They’re one style. One strike is like every strike. One stance it every stance. One way. Your way. Nothing else.”

Instead of using it as a whole, he’d moved from style to style, taking the weakness of that style with him. While he’d thought he was learning many styles, he was only learning one style made up of pieces stitched together by need.

“Stand up,” Tamlin commanded. Realizations were useless unless they translated to his fists.

Cesare left Tamlin’s room with his hair slicked back with sweat, shirt painting the hard angles of his starved body. Heavy with water wrung from his worthless body, his sweatpants clung to his flesh. He knew how he looked, could smell himself in the air, but it was worth it. He could hurt now or bleed later. The disgust in the students' eyes as he passed only drove the point home. No one would save him, if it was going to happen, he'd have to do it.

Cesare hesitated on seeing the crowd at the end of the hall. Crowds were never a good thing in his world. People were dangerous enough alone. Being young and motivated, he could outrun a single hunter, but a pack was a losing game for a rabbit. They could cut you off and corner you … hold you down until they'd sated their hunger in your flesh.

Even with those thoughts, Cesare couldn’t resist walking toward it. “… she’s going to freak.” The two First Years went silent on seeing him, shrinking back from the walking disease.

Someone had stretched a banner across the entryway, at over ten feet it arched above the massive front doors. A raven-haired man was bent over on his hands and knees, pale white ass up and spread. Cheeks hollowed out, fangs dripping with spit, he sucked rapturously on a cross made from cocks. Behind him, another man had his brown robe pulled up to his waist, hands stroking a baby dick hard with need. It looked like Jesus was ready to mount his vampire bitch.

The kids parted in a wide swath as Alexandra stalked down the center of the hall. Silence tightened, stillness taking hold with skeletal fingers. Eyes locked on the banner, her face twisted with hatred. “Who dares?” she hissed.

Stepping forward, students broke from the crowd in two’s and three’s. The men’s heads were shaven military short while the women wore their hair just brushing ears but no longer. With their white socks, polished shoes, and starched collars, their clothes were variations on a theme. Despite it being the same clothes as every student, it held a weight beyond the casual. They spread out, taking control of the inner circle with tactical precision.

“That’s rich, coming from a traitor.” Big at over six feet and raw boned, his hard eyes glared out at the world from a face scarred from jagged glass. His uniform stretched tight around the shoulders, belted twice over to fit his thin waist and narrow hips. More sack than suit, he wore it as best he could, but he couldn’t hide the extra folds of cloth. People like Blaez had the money to get suits tailored to their killing forged bodies, but this guy wasn’t flush with that kind of bread.

“Your brother only lasted a year. How long do you think you'll last, bitch?” he demanded.

“Three years. How long do you think you’ll last when I pull your guts out your nose?” Alexandra’s eyes narrowed, feet sliding against the stone floor as she grounded herself in readiness.

“You’re not one of us. You betrayed us to cows, selling us out to suck their cocks.” The gang pushed the other students back, creating a circle with only the vampire and the boy in its center.

“We chose Christ, not the humans.” In drips and drabs, the friends she’d brought into the circle faded into the crowd behind her.

The boy shrugged. “Same thing. You joined Lucifer and killed our people … drenched your blades in the blood of the Umbrae Lunae. Betrayed our secrets and children to the shining bastard and his altars of sacrifice. You chose them over your kin. And Cerberus remembers.”

The last of her friends disappeared into the crowd behind the incensed vampire. She didn’t know she faced Cerberus alone. “And who are you to judge me and mine?” Alexandra demanded.

“Sampson, leader of Cerberus. The dog of the Umbrae Lunae. You may have the others fooled, but we know your kind. We know your treachery. You’re here to scout the school for the shining cocks. You should've learned your lesson when we chased your brother off. But filth like you never learn.”

“Maybe she likes it up the butt too.” The words ghosted out from the gang.

“You know what they say about Catholic girls.” The group laughed as Cerberus sealed off the circle behind Alexandra.

Sampson smirked. “The last day, they caught Radu in the bathroom. They thought it would be a lesson, but by the end, he was begging for it. Maybe you’ll be the same.”

Flesh fled from Alexandra's face, sharp cheek bones pressing into paper thin skin, chin freakishly pointed, nose narrowed into a spike of cartilage. Stripped of softness, she was an avatar of greedy starvation. Lips peeled back in a hissing snarl, her needle sharp fangs shone. She rolled her shoulders back, fists opening and closing in anticipation.

There was no way they could win this. Not even if they all went in on it. She’d tear through them, painting the walls with their blood and viscera. They had to know that.

Even as it coalesced into Cesare’s mind, he was moving. He pushed through the thick crowd, everyone locked on the drama unfolding. Making it to the outside ring of the group, a quick dash took him to the support rope for the banner. He couldn’t take the whole thing down, but he could make a statement. Taking the rope in hand, he leaned back and pulled hard, ripping the banner down the middle. Cerberus turned as one to glare at him, students recoiling from the sudden explosion of murderous anger.

“What the fuck you doing?” Sampson screamed. Rage wore thin the mask of humanity, worms of corruption squirming under his skin.

Cesare put his back against the wall. “Ass fucking your plan.”

Turning his back on the vampire, the boy stalked down the avenue the crowd had opened between them. Each step he took was solid and braced. This was a boy used to taking a punch. No fancy footwork to get out of the way, just raw power and brutal strength. With each step, his pack fell into ranks behind him.

“You’re a fucking problem. But don’t worry, soldier. We'll show you how to fly straight.” A sharp gesture sent people to either side of Cesare, cutting off escape. Cesare’s knife settled into his hand while his gun slipped into the other, both out of sight.

Cesare cocked his head to the side with a smirk playing across his lips. “Really? You sure you want to do that? Ain't this too public for ass lickers like you.”

The crowd had been part of their plan. Get the vampire to lose it in front of the school. Break a few bones, shed some blood, and there’d be no way they'd allow her to stay. But the trap had turned, and Sampson was hooked by his own line. If he went for Cesare, he'd be the sweet meat.

“Clever fox. You know what happens when the dogs catch the fox?” Sampson said as he walked away with his army falling into rigid ranks around him.

“Thanks.” Alexandra was back to looking like a cross fit model lost in the land of mortals. Pulled back into a severe braid, her long golden hair shone in the sunlight. Powerful legs swished in the required skirt of dark blue. Her every move was a challenge, naked aggression given a panther's grace, a silent demand that the world submit or be gleefully gutted.

He shrugged and picked up his bag, using the distraction to slip his weapons away. “I don’t like to see a person ganged up on.”

“It was a trap,” Alexandra stated with just a trace of question.

“Yeah. Push you hard enough to lose it, then poof, no more vampires at Primrose. Smart as long as you’re willing to bleed to get what you want,” Cesare said, already walking toward the doors.

Her hand came down on his shoulder, stopping Cesare cold. A clamp of velvet sheathed steel. She’d torn the orcs limb from limb, ripping bone from tendon and muscle easier than a chef jointed a chicken. That kind of power wasn’t anything he could match, not today, not ever. Within her reach, she was a goddess.

“I would have fallen for it if you hadn’t been here.” She removed her hand now that she knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “Why?”

“Because I could stop it. Because no one deserves to have to fight alone.” He turned his back on her, this time she didn’t stop him.

Jogging the trail, he knew he’d be late for his meeting with Anastasia. There was no way he could make up the time he’d lost playing with Cerberus. Rounding the corner, his eyes fell on Anastasia and the pretty boys waiting outside the corridor of thorns.

They’d taken the time to change into designer sweats that hugged thin waists and trim builds. By now, they were used to seeing him in sweaty clothes, smelling of body odor, work, and blood. That didn’t stop them from wrinkling noses in disgust or the sidelong looks they traded.

Anastasia stayed close behind him as he led them inside. Having her behind him wasn't a worry, she wasn’t the type to knife a guy in the back. He couldn't say the same thing about her plastic boys.

He faced the harem from the middle of the sparing circle they’d been using. With hissing whispers, the harem argued over who’d be first. It was even odds if he could take all four, but one on one was doable. They hadn’t been able to put him down, but they’d left him bloody and swaying by the time he put the last one down.

Having decided, the others moved away, leaving only one little duckling. Grinning, Cesare glided forward on light feet. Nervously, the boy threw a quick punch uselessly out of range. Cesare bent to the side, knees shifting, swaying his body to the side. The upper cut sank into the boy’s stomach with an explosive burst of air. Falling onto his knees, the boy gasped, sense strangled by the need to breath. Cesare’s elbow smashed into his head, slicing across the boy’s face, hammering him unconscious.

The next one was shorter, but still taller than Cesare. This one liked to get close, a good choice for small guys who had no reach. He'd angle in and go for the takedown. The problem was that he knew how to take a person down, but not what to do with them once there.

They edged toward each other. The boy braced his back foot, readying himself for a rush. With a burst of speed, he charged forward, arms spread wide. Cesare snatched shorty’s right hand. Using his own momentum against him, Cesare twirled with the boy, keeping him off balance and out of position. Planting shorties face down on the ground was painfully easy with all that momentum behind him. Locking shorty’s arm with ruthless force, Cesare took away any chance the boy had at regaining control, overextending the shoulder joint, he rode the razor’s edge of breaking bone.

“Yield! Mercy!” Hooks of pain tore the scream from shorty’s throat. A tight, vicious smile crossed Cesare’s face.

Letting go, Cesare moved back on whisper quiet feet. No one liked losing and things could get ... chancy ... right after. Massaging his shoulder, shorty glared balefully at Cesare from his knees. Behind the anger, Cesare saw the snakes of fear twisting through the boy’s heart.

It was the first time anyone had looked at him like that. Well, at least when he didn't have a knife to their throat. The first time anyone was scared of him and not his weapon. It felt good, primal. He could break the boy, bleed him out and shatter his body, there was nothing shorty could do to stop him. The feeling whispered of days when the strongest ruled and the weak screamed under their appetites. An almost sexual high ran through him, heady and hot, it tasted of midnight and moonlight.

Forcefully, he was reminded of the harem standing over him, grinning at his pain. Is this how they felt, this sense of power? “Next time you charge, don't put your hands out. Keep them close and go for my legs. Having your hands out is begging me to use them as leverage.”

Cesare wouldn’t be the evil that birthed people like him. The bullies who’d broke him for fun … they’d felt that same rush of power. By itself it wasn’t an evil, but what it drove people to do was. He’d fed their pleasure in blood and broken dreams. It was because of them that he felt naked without a weapon. It was because of the beatings that he could only take his shirt off when he was alone. Monster, bastard, and evil motherfucker he might be, but he wouldn’t be them.

Looking around nervously, lucky number three seemed to hope for someone to step in and save him. With a sigh, he entered the sparring zone. This battle was won before they’d even made contact.

With a rush, Cesare was on the boy. Fending off clumsy hands, Cesare ducked under his arm. He took the boy’s back with a scramble that ended with Cesare cinching the boy in a choke hold, legs locked around his diaphragm.

Cesare wrenched the boy off his feet, absorbing the impact with muscles tensed into lumps of hardened meat. The boy dug his fingers into Cesare’s arms, tearing furrows of flesh along Cesare’s arms. The boy’s face went purple, eyes bulging, lips swelling with blood, before his body went slack.

Cesare pushed the boy off him, getting to his feet without a look at the discarded child lying limp on the ground. The boy convulsed, air trickling into a body dying without it. The harem helped the pretty toy out of the sparring circle. Cesare’s words hit their backs. “When a man has your back, you’re done.”

Stomping forward, the fourth came at Cesare. The harem were friends but, more than that, they were a cult with Anastasia as their goddess. This one wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him hurt for what he’d done to his friends. It was something Cesare respected. Wanting to protect those you love was right in a way few things could claim, but hell would freeze before Cesare took a beating to make someone feel good.

All fighters were kings, masters of a realm that stretched only a few feet … exactly the range of their fists. Within that kingdom they were lords and an inch outside it, nothing but beggars. That's what you are when you can’t back your demands with force, just a beggar.

Stepping forward angrily, the boy unknowingly entered Cesare’s kingdom. One shift and Cesare changed stances, almost on his toes, squaring his hips, his hands level with his face. Suddenly his body uncoiled, potential force turning into bone breaking power. He turned his hip into a snapping kick that cracked into the boy’s thigh.

Grunting, his face tight with pain, the boy stumbled back and lashed out with a pathetic mockery of a kick. Taking the opening, Cesare moved into the kick and dispersed what little force was there. A good kick had to reach the cracking point to rupture flesh. The sudden move put the kid off balance. Cesare went over the boy’s guard … right, left, right … each punch shocked the boy, sending him stumbling back, knees rubbery and uncertain. The boy raised wobbly hands, tucking his head and turtling up.

The raised arms protected his face but blinded him at the same time. Grabbing the boy's head, Cesare pulled it downward as his knee rocketed up, soft flesh ruptured under the hammers. Grunts of pain punctuated each knee, agonized whimpers bridging the gap between the tenderizing. Breaking the clinch with a brutal knee, the cracking of bone was music to Cesare’s ears. Quick stepping back, he let the boy collapse to the ground, bleeding and broken.

“Well princess, you want a go?” Anastasia had watched the fights with dancing eyes. She liked a good fight no matter who won, but anger tightened her mouth into a grim line at his words. What she didn’t like were uppity homeless boys.

Hugging wide hips, the skirt swished across beautifully athletic legs. Caught in the wind, the black Thagirionjacket was tight around her breasts, playing peek-a-boo with creamy cleavage. But it was her face that bewitched him. Flaming hair drifted on eldritch winds, framing dark eyes shining with anger.

Cesare held his ground, a slight bounce to his stance, knees high, shoulders rounded, fists ready to let loose. Anastasia was a little shorter than him, but not enough to give him an advantage on reach. Closing in, she hadn’t taken a stance. Shifting his weight, his foot snapped out in a forward kick to test the waters. Anastasia moved to the side with a laugh.

“Come on. You can do better,” she said with a smirk.

She shifted slightly, if he hadn’t been watching for it, he wouldn’t have seen it. Snapping forward, her low kick was a blur. Cesare dodged back and then surged forward, crowding her space, a right jab darting for her face. Anastasia fell back, hands coming up, slapping his punch aside. Anastasia’s body unfolded with a side kick. Snapping his hands down over her leg, he trapped it against his body with a grunt. Cesare’s stance flowed from light and quick to solid as stone. Anastasia’s eyes widened in shock as her leg was locked in place.

He pivoted with his hip, ripping her balance away, Anastasia sprawled face first on the ground. Twisting and spitting, she tried to get her leg free. A striker, once caught, was cheetah with a broken leg. Nothing more than fancy food. While she struggled, Cesare locked her leg a hair’s breadth away from shattering her knee cap.

“I yield!” Anastasia screamed. Cesare let her go, taking careful steps back, eyes sharp on the akatharton. She wasn't a happy-go-lucky loser.

Anger etched her face with spite as she stood. “You never would've won if you hadn't gone for the takedown.”

“But I did.” Anastasia’s glare took on a hard edge. He’d pushed her, and now he’d get to see what she could really do. This time, she was ready for him.

Anastasia tossed jabs at him, testing the range, keeping him half blinded with her fists. Stepping in, Cesare slapped a jab away and threw a straight kick at her, hitting only air as she turned aside with practiced grace. The straight kick transformed into an axe kick, with Anastasia floating back out of range.

They both closed at the same time. Her jabs hammered his guard with bruising force as his hook ghosted over her guard, slamming her head back. Anastasia smiled through the punch without even a redness marking her face. A hasty knee to his crotch was blocked by a turned thigh. The distraction worked, his guard lowered just enough to let in a sneaking left jab. Cesare’s world went sideways for a second, enough time for Anastasia to land a right hook on the other side.

Cesare back-pedaled, head ringing, sight going black around the edges. Anastasia followed him with purposeful strides. He had to close the distance. This medium range shit was killing him. Strikers thrive in the space between long and close. Give them an inch to work with and they’ll take you apart piece by piece. Hands up, he walked into her kingdom with grim determination.

Jabs rained down on his guard as she pranced backward, punishing him for every step he took. Bobbing right, he sunk below her guard, laying into her ribs with a brutal uppercut. Iron bars had more give than her bones. Anastasia’s knee flashed up, sending Cesare twirling to the side. He retreated under a hail of jabs and a flashing sidekick.

“Come on, I do more damage filing my nails,” Anastasia taunted, full lips stretched in a captivating smirk as she moved in confidently.

Amusement swirled in her eyes, a dangerous maelstrom promising pain. He couldn’t hurt her, and she knew it. She waded in, knowing his best wasn’t good enough.

Now it was him moving back as she threw punches. A low kick smashed into his thigh, muscle seizing in pain. Cesare darted in, weaving between her punches. His jab collapsed into an elbow strike that slammed into the side of her face. It dazed her for only a second, a second he needed. Knees bending, thighs bunching, power flowed. Gathering speed in a rush of explosive force, the vertical elbow hit her chin, throwing her head back. This was the only chance Cesare would get.

He kicked forward, sinking his foot into her middle, the teep kick collapsing her around his foot with an explosion of air. A slashing elbow rocketed her head to the side, sending her down to one knee.

Cesare had only a moment of success. Anastasia turned her head up with a grin, body blurring as she buried her fist in his stomach. He folded over the punch with only Anastasia’s monstrous strength holding him up. Rolling off her fist, Cesare hit the ground hard, desperately gasping for air.

Anastasia smiled down at him. “Better. But not good enough.”

The duffel bag yielded a water bottle and a towel. The problem was that he couldn’t hurt her, no matter how he tried. Anastasia had taken blows that should have bruised flesh, broken bone, at least left a red mark. Instead, she smiled with model perfect skin as fresh as when they’d started. Somehow, some way, she could shrug off his best. The only thing that worked was grappling.

“Who are you training with?” The casualness of the question twisted around her calculating eyes.

“Does it matter?” Cesare asked.

“It could. It’s against the rules to teach fighting outside the Ludus Noctis,” Anastasia said.

“Does that include your training?” He liked Anastasia, but he didn't trust her. Tamlin's training was the difference between life and death. He couldn’t let a rich bitch with a bruised ego tear that down for funs.

She gave him a small nod, acknowledging a point scored. “Okay, we do it your way. Looks like you got a decent teacher. Been awhile since someone’s pushed me around like that. Muay Thai?”

Cesare smiled as he stood up. “The only style I know is what works. A strike is a strike, a loss is a loss.” A towel against his lip staunched the blood. This was getting to be his regular look, black and blue with a side of lumpy.

He led Anastasia over to the targets, his words clumsy from swollen lips. “We're going to work on speed. In a fight, the one that gets off the first shot wins … as long as they make that shot count. We won't get fancy and change targets or have you close your eyes. All I want is for you to concentrate on raw speed.” Cesare took out his watch and notes.

“Timing? Again?” Anastasia whined.

“What gets measured gets managed. We need numbers to measure progress. Once we have those, we can see if the exercises help. That’s the goal of all this.” Cesare gestured across the field. “Lethality is made of power, stamina, speed, range and murderous precision. We need to know where you are to make a path to where you want to be.”

After half a hour, Anastasia was sweating, an hour after that and it was dripping down her face. “That's good.” Cesare tossed her the second towel. “I want you to meditate for an hour. Go through the motions in your mind, from the moment you think of the flame to when the fire hits the target. Every sensation. Every move. Don’t think it, feel it.”

“Why?” Anastasia's eyes drifted to the exit. If all they were going to do was meditate, she’d rather do it in her room.

“What the mind see’s the body creates. Your power is more about will than body. If you can't imagine it, then you can't create it.” The library had an entire section devoted to Lady Kali. Seeing what her mother could let him see what could be done. If even half that shit was true, Anastasia could nuke cities when she came into her power.

Anastasia shuffled under his eyes before mastering herself. “I have a … commitment. I didn't think we’d be this long,” she said, handing over the towel.

Taking the towel, Cesare turned and walked back to his duffel. The harem waited by the corridor of thorns with small smiles. “It's up to you. Which is more important, your date or your life?” He put the towel away with his back to her.

“I made a commitment.” She didn't debate the date part. “Can we meet up on the weekend?”

A tight smile creased his face, the bastard brother of humor. “Sorry, I have plans.”

“Miss Raven,” Anastasia said.

“Yep.” He wouldn't put Anastasia ahead of Elizabeth. Maybe Elizabeth wasn't perfect, but she wasn’t ditching him either.

“You keep barking up that tree hoping for a nut, don't you?” The pity in her voice ripped away the last of his good humor. He knew he was pathetic, but he wouldn't let her twist the knife in his guts.

He turned away, his words a dismissal. “You’re keeping your date waiting.”

The dummy was perfect for practice. Tamlin had a Mu Ren Zhuang and liked to leave Cesare with it to practice against. It had three wooden arms along with a steel leg. The only way to get tougher was to hurt. Nerves would deaden, skin would callous, bones would fracture … healing stronger. It was a process done over weeks, months and years, the slow birthing of a weapon from weak meat.

Muay Thai was called the Art of the Eight. Transforming your body into an arsenal. Hands became swords and daggers, cutting and slicing challengers with greedy edges. Shins and forearms became armor, defending against kicks and punches. Weapons of mass destruction, elbows were hammers that maimed and killed.

The philosophy called to him. The world had used his body against him. They'd degraded him because of it, stripped him of dignity, violated him in a thousand ways, all because he was weakness given ugly flesh. His body had betrayed him with its worthlessness.

Punches cracked into the bamboo, shaking the dummy, smearing it with blood. His knuckles cracked and bled, skin ruptured, blood trickling down his hands. He’d never thought she liked him. It was obvious she was after Blaez. Popular and handsome, he could offer her everything Cesare couldn't. Blaez wasn't called names. Blaez wasn't weak. Only the strong get to live their dreams, the weak take what’s given.