Page 10

CHAPTER TEN

“ Y ou know you don't have to do this, right?” I say for at least the tenth time since arriving at the Fletcher Hunting office this morning. If my words happen to sound whiny and out of breath, it’s hardly my fault. He has to be pushing me too hard or something. Otherwise, surely my body wouldn’t hurt this much already?

I’m not that unfit…am I?

“For the last time, I offered to help,” Daion replies, glancing over with an expression conveying a perfect balance of exasperation with my complaints and stubborn resolve to see this through.

Initially, I don’t think he truly realised I was complaining, and it wasn’t simply my way of trying to reassure him he didn’t need to take on the burden. Somewhere around the third or fourth time, polite reassurance had melted into confusion, and then by the fifth time, he’d started giving me the looks. The looks that said he’d clocked exactly what I was doing, and I wouldn’t be getting out of this. So, despite how much I may want to back out on his offer, it seems as if by initially accepting, I’ve doomed myself and now must pay the price.

“Are you sure all this exercise is safe in my condition?” I question pleadingly, giving one final attempt to escape the torture of Daion teaching me how to not get my shit immediately wrecked by a demon. The Goddess has clearly forsaken me. How else could fighting demons translate into running laps around the large training room hidden under their office building?

“I had help deciding exactly what to teach you from a woman who fought demons while pregnant. Not with a demon’s child in her case, but still, I think he was trouble enough on his own.”

I don’t know whether to be touched or concerned he specifically tailored this for a pregnant woman. It’s kind of him to take the time to help me protect myself, but how is this supposed to be an easier routine? If this is the pregnant beginner version of their training, I think I’d opt for a forever-nap in the dirt rather than try out the real thing.

Apparently, ever since hearing about our run-in with the demon at the antique store the other day, Daion’s been secretly working on this. Not only to teach me how to keep myself safe from random demons who may discover my condition, but also from Ash himself if it becomes necessary. Not that I think he’ll be a problem. Though, when I expressed as much, the hunter was all too quick to remind me how little I know about the incubus who knocked me up. It had been so embarrassing. It’s not great being reminded of how stupid I was that night, sleeping with some total stranger, without even asking what species they were. Especially when cross-species cultural exchanges of the horizontal variety can lead to consequences like the ones I’m dealing with now.

“Why is so much of this physical and not magical?” I complain with a huff, stretching out my cramping legs some more before he tries to show me some other ridiculous technique for dealing with the various types of demons. Once we’d passed the initial hell known as running, he’d forced me through more stretches than I’d done the one time Suvi and I tried out a yoga class. It was puppy yoga, though. So we spent the majority of our time cuddling adorable balls of fur and giggling at their cute antics rather than exercising.

Maybe we really should have tried baby goat yoga instead like she’d initially suggested. They couldn’t possibly be as cute and distracting as puppies, right?

“With your current vitav levels, it’s better you use as little magic as possible,” Daion answers, lips curling from amusement when he adds, “Plus, demons never seem to expect a witch to come at them with their fists, or with any otherworld-weapon that’s not a flashy sword.”

He had been quick to go into the different weaknesses demons possess and how to exploit them while we stretched. Who knew iracaedi have a weak point at the base of their necks? And that by stabbing it, even without a demon-killing weapon, you can temporarily block the flow of their power? Not that I know how he expects me to be able to get close enough in order to stab one of them there.

“Could that possibly be because they’re so much stronger, faster, and more agile than the average witch?” I ask dryly, trying to imagine how poorly it would go if I tried to fistfight a demon. I pull a face at the comical mental image of myself it conjures. It’s one where I’m far more pregnant than I am now, and I’m waddling towards a demon with a loud battle cry and flailing fists. Even in my imagination, I end up flat on my back in precisely two seconds.

I spare a slither of my magical energy to try and project the image at Daion, showing him how terribly I think it would go. A moment later, he bursts out laughing while pulling the black coverings, somewhat comparable to knuckleduster gloves, off from his hands. I guess he’s done demonstrating their use on the demon-shaped punching dummy. The insanely destructive- looking spikes had definitely given quite a show of what they can do, only the spells cast on the dummy had spared it from utter destruction. Crafted by fae using an insanely strong yet light metal from the demon realm and an armoured fabric of their own, they’re definitely a little deadlier than your typical knuckledusters. And that’s before taking into account their magical element, one he’d explained doesn’t require any of the wearer's own energy to use. Handy equipment for a witch with a tiny energy-sucker inside of her.

“They may have raw power on their side, both physically and magically, but by being sufficiently prepared any witch can learn to survive,” Daion says seriously while offering them over, once he’s done laughing at my mental projection, anyway.

I think I might be a tiny bit offended by how funny he found it. However, my offence is vastly overshadowed by how pleased I am that he picked up on the projected thought so easily. Considering we’re not used to each other’s energy signatures or mental presences, the fact he got it with so little pushing or prodding for attention on my end is …oddly gratifying. It being so effortless speaks to a certain level of natural consonance in our magical frequencies.

“Not win?” I ask, taking the not-quite-dusters and feeling for myself how light they are. The fabric part, covering from the bottom finger joint to halfway down the palm of the hand, feels silky soft on the inside and rough as hell on the outside. The spikes appear smaller now they’re not on his hands, less deadly. I pull one of them onto my hand, eyes widening at how the spikes instantly grow in size. I hadn’t noticed they could do that before, not having watched him when he’d pulled them on.

“You don’t have the time to learn how to win. Prioritise learning how to stay alive, call for help, and run. ”

“Sounds about right.” I’m not surprised at being told I don’t have the time to learn, considering it takes literal years for demon specialists to train. The running, however, I’m still not thrilled about. Though, I guess his reasoning does explain all of the laps he made me do, even if they’d felt like a punishment for my showing up late at the time.

“You ready to test those out?” he asks, bringing us both back to the task at hand.

“I’m still not sure how these work,” I admit, looking over them for runes or any other types of spell markings and seeing none. “How the hell do they imbue them with power without markings?”

“Fae craftsmen,” Daion answers with a shrug. “The only downside to pre-juiced weapons like these, is it’s hard to tell exactly when the magic imbued into them will run out. I was assured these would last me six years of regular use, though.”

“When did you get them?”

“Three years ago. You should have nothing to worry about if you borrow them.”

“I can’t even use them!” I protest. He cannot be serious about me carrying these things around. I’d probably injure myself with them before landing a hit on anyone else.

“Everyone can throw a punch.”

I give him an unimpressed stare in response.

After watching how he hit the demon dummy, I have more than a little doubt about my ability to replicate it. The way he moves is both fast and vicious, showing even more physical strength than I’d initially given him credit for, and it’s not like I didn’t already think he was strong. Not with those shoulders and arms.

“I’ll teach you,” he concedes after a moment with a sigh, rolling his eyes like he can’t possibly believe my lack of fighting skills. “Put on the other one, too. You never know when your dominant hand might be incapacitated.”

“Not everyone gets into fights with demons all the time, you know,” I inform him while doing as instructed. I flex both hands once it’s on, and watch how the spikes grow and retract with the movement of my fingers. It’s both very creepy and totally badass.

Maybe these things aren’t so bad…

“You could have punched someone who isn’t a demon,” Daion points out. His voice sounds oddly amused, so I glance over at him, realising he’s been watching me stare down at the spikes.

“Are you implying I should solve my problems with physical violence?” I ask, putting on a show of mock horror as I place a hand to the top of my chest. Almost immediately, I’m pulling it away again because of how scratchy the outer material feels against my skin. Ugh. Cool or not, I definitely won't be wearing these unless absolutely necessary. At least they’re small enough to carry around without drawing attention.

“Are you really saying you’ve never punched anyone, ever?”

“Sure I have, when I was twelve , then I discovered how to use my words to solve my problems like a big girl—without the need for such barbarism,” I answer him sweetly. The unnatural honey to my tone must have alerted him towards my actual meaning as he gives me a doubtful look.

“And by using your words you mean?—”

“Cursing those who piss me off into losing their eyebrows? Yes, exactly,” I finish for him with an angelic smile. Okay, so maybe it’s more of a demented grin judging by his reaction to it. “I got really good at that as a teenager, and also pretty great at speed-growing my own to avoid the potential shame from retaliation.”

“Please don’t curse off Rio’s brows,” Daion says quickly, as if he’s afraid the reminder of my teenage methods will instantly make me want to use them on the asshole. “We’ll never hear the end of his whining. After they’ve grown back, he’ll probably still complain they’ve regrown wrong.”

“Are you saying yours and Torrin’s brows are free game, then?” I tease, totally not imagining the sheer joy Rio’s reaction would give me. It’s not as if I would be the one forced to listen to his complaints…

“Only if you think you can handle the retaliation, and we won’t opt for hair removal in our revenge,” he teases with a grin.

“Is that a threat? And against a pregnant woman, no less. For shame! You demon hunters are absolute scoundrels.”

Daion chuckles as he places his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me over towards the punching dummy. “If you consider the idea of us eating without sharing a threat, then yes, consider yourself thoroughly terrorised.”

Wait. Withholding food? Now that’s absolute evil right there. Surely not even a demon would starve me, not while I’m pregnant with a demon spawn anyway…

“You really think Torrin would use pie against me?”

“Depends how prettily you bat those lashes when you say sorry,” he huffs amusedly in my ear as we come to a halt in front of the dummy. “Now, throw some punches at this thing and show me what we’re working with here. We’ll worry about activating the magic part once we’ve got your basic technique down.”

I clench my hand into a fist, not tucking my thumb in despite the physical urge to do so. I hardly want to break my thumb like a moron on my first try. After spreading my feet a little further to balance my weight, I lift my arm and start to pull it back.

“Straighten up your wrist.”

I pause at the instruction, then slowly turn my head to look at him so he can see me when I roll my eyes. “I thought I was supposed to be demonstrating my current level of ability?”

“Ability is too strong a word for that stance,” he mutters, but still gestures for me to continue.

I poke my tongue out at him, then throw a punch at the centre of the dummy’s chest. The face is too high for me to get a good hit on even if it does theoretically make a better target to aim for. Not that I would describe the hit I land on its chest as good. The help of the fae-crafted spikes isn’t enough to disguise how poorly I do either, as the spelled dummy doesn’t even flinch.

Before I can say anything to my defence, like a reminder of how this isn’t the way I usually spend my free time, Daion’s in my space. He nudges my feet into a different stance with his own before stepping up closer as he methodically repositions the rest of my body with his hands. I feel my face flame despite the almost clinical professionalism in his touch.

“Getting a little handsy for someone whose last name I don’t even know,” I say, unable to resist teasing, mostly so I can distract myself from the way being the focus of his attention feels.

“It’s Fletcher,” Daion informs me. His answer takes me by surprise for more than one reason.

“The same as Torrin?” I ask, shifting so I can look over my shoulder at his face again.

“Yes.”

Well, that explains why Fletcher is in their company’s name, I guess. I had thought it was pretty weird considering Daion seems more like their natural leader than Torrin does. However, this new information only inspires more questions. If they’re both Fletchers, and they definitely don’t look related, with the obvious racial difference between them and all. Honestly, they don’t even share a similarity that would lead someone to question if they could possibly be half-siblings.

“So…were you adopted? Or are you two married or something? Because I haven’t picked up on the slightest hint of a vibe, but?—”

“We’re not married,” Daion practically chokes out, his hold on me releasing as he takes a step back while looking at me like I’m crazy.

“It wouldn’t be a problem if you were,” I point out, eyes narrowing a little at his reaction.

“I didn’t…that isn’t why I—” he cuts himself off with a pinched sigh, taking a second before starting again. “You got it right the first time. We’re brothers in all the ways that count. Torrin’s parents took me in when I was orphaned, then they adopted Rio later on for similar reasons, though he didn’t take their name.”

“Why not?”

“Why didn’t he use the Fletcher name?” he clarifies, and I nod both in answer and for him to continue. “Rio cares a lot for them and I know he sees us all as family, but he was adopted older than I was so it’s a little different. He’s never really explained the choice to keep it, but I think it’s that he’s proud to carry their name on. It’s also nice to feel connected to where you came from.”

“I agree,” I reply quietly, feeling somewhat guilty for how little I do to stay connected with my own family.

I’ll call them—no. I’ll visit them once I’ve figured more of this demon pregnancy stuff out. I need more time to come to terms with it all and to find Ash. They’ll understand why I didn’t rush to give them the baby news, given my unique situation and the threats that go with it, at least, I hope they will.

“How old were you when you were adopted, anyway?” I ask, hoping to distract my mind from the anxiety-inducing horror of not only informing my parents that I’m unexpectedly pregnant, but that the baby is also half-demon.

“Almost five. Torrin was barely a year old at the time, and despite how… unhappy… I was in general then, I was mostly pleased to get a little brother. Don’t tell him I told you this, but he was actually a cute baby, not annoying like I thought he might be. He always looked either really curious or really angry about something, though. I’ve never seen a toddler look more indignant than he would at being told no.”

“Do you—actually, no, don’t worry.” I bite my lip, debating for a moment before adding, “I shouldn’t be prying into your life like this. I’m sorry, I don’t know what possessed me to ask all of that.”

“It’s okay, you can ask whatever you want. Considering we know all of your personal business, it only seems fair. I retain the right to refuse to answer anything I don’t want to, though.”

“Are you sure? If you don’t want to answer something, I’m not going to make you.”

“Fire away,” he orders lazily with a shrug, moving to lean against the wall while we’ve paused to talk, apparently giving up on teaching me to throw a punch for the time being.

Several different questions swirl around my thoughts. I’m not certain where I should begin when suddenly I find myself blurting out, “Do you miss your birth parents?”

Well, my subconscious sure as hell knows what it’s most curious to learn…

“Going straight for the hard questions,” Daion teases, but his tone falls a little flat. I instantly feel bad for asking, despite his offer. If only I had a filter between my mouth and brain. “Yes and no,” he answers a moment later, staring at his hands. “I don’t have a lot of memories. The only family I really had was my mother, but I loved her, and I know she loved me. She did all she could. I’m grateful for that, even if…well, it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is, I miss her, but I also feel like I don’t really know who it is I’m missing at times.”

“What happened to her?” I ask gently, not missing how he didn’t mention anything about his father. He’d hardly be the first child in existence not to have one worth mentioning, though.

He looks up, his dark eyes meeting mine as he gives me a sad smile. “She was killed by a demon. That’s how Torrin’s parents found me, actually. Fletcher Hunting used to belong to James and Ava before they retired. They’re one of the best demon hunting duos I’ve ever met. They had other specialists working with them on and off over the years as well, though they’ve all either passed on or retired by now too. Demon hunting isn’t exactly a career someone takes into old age.”

“Was it because of them you went into this line of work?”

“My mother, or the Fletchers?”

“Either. Both.” I shrug slightly.

“Honestly, it probably is a little of both. Without my loss, I wouldn’t have had the motivation, and without them, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity and knowledge.” He looks away again, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly, and I realise we’ve hit the point where we need to switch topics. The emotional conversation is getting too much, even if he doesn’t want to verbalise it. As much as I’m curious about his past, I’m not going to push when it’s not welcome.

“Well, whatever your reasons were, I’m glad you went into this business. I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” I tell him sincerely before quickly side-stepping away from the tense topic. “Speaking of, you better get back to teaching me how to punch demons, I obviously need all the help I can get.”

“You’re not wrong,” he taunts me with a grin as he straightens up and steps away from the wall to come and stand beside me again. Though, instead of going right back into demon-fighting lessons, he takes me by surprise by asking, “What about your family? Any brothers or sisters whose eyebrows you cursed away while growing up?”

“I do have a brother,” I answer, wondering what Forrest would think about all of this. “He’s like thirteen years older than me, so we didn’t really do much growing up together. He’d moved out by the time I was seven.”

“You’re not close, then?”

“Well, he did come over a lot to see our parents, and they all got along really well. They all just got each other, if you know what I mean? Bunch of peas in a pod. I was always the odd one out thanks to having no real interest in growing plants.”

“And an interest in plants was a necessary requirement?”

“My parents, grandparents, aunt, and brother all grow herbs and flowers for potions and spell work. Well, my aunt also does some actual farming too, using her magic to speed the growth of crops, but her wife has a huge farm so that was bound to happen,” I answer.

“So, you’re the black sheep of the family because you have a black thumb?”

“Hardly. It’s not my best skill, but I still grow a few things for myself, mostly the stuff that’s best to use freshly picked. I just never had the weird family obsession for it. Honestly, I hated growing in the middle of nowhere, with only trees, flowers, and grass to look at as far as you can see. There’s nothing fun to do in the countryside as a teenager.”

Other than getting into trouble with other bored teens, that is.

“I don’t know. Sounds kind of nice to me,” he says quietly. There’s a sombre look about him for a moment before he shakes the weird expression off and grabs my shoulder. “Okay, let’s correct this awful stance of yours before you hurt yourself. Also, has no one ever told you to punch through something, not at it?”

I groan. Back to training it is, then. Sadly, I’m forced to accept my doomed fate with as much grace as I can muster, which is absolutely none.