“Carrick didn’t tell you?”
Titus shakes his head and walks my way, coming to stand with his arms crossed over his beefy chest and concern on his face. “I was in Detroit battling a nest of dark daemons that were on a murderous rampage.”
“Oh, well… a lot has happened. Want me to fill you in now or after training?”
“Now,” he demands.
And so I do the rundown, starting from the moment we stepped into Faere to my meeting with Arwen and all I learned—including Carrick is a demi-god, but excluding the sacrifice part as I didn’t want to overly worry him—and finishing off with this morning’s escapade of Fallon trying to kill me and burning One Bean to the ground, which would cause worry enough.
Titus whistles low. “Damn, girl… you’ve had quite the adventure.”
Not sure I would call it that, but I do have a curiosity. “Why didn’t you tell me that Carrick is a demi-god?”
He shrugs. “You never asked.”
“Yes,” I retort, screwing up my face in irritation. “I did ask. I asked when we were on top of the building that night sharpening my distance skills.”
“You asked if he was a fae,” Titus replies as he moves over toward the training cabinet. “I told you he wasn’t. You then asked if he was a daemon, and I told you he wasn’t, to which you asked how old I am, changing the subject, and you never asked me again.”
My eyebrows draw inward in consternation as I think back to that conversation, and I think he’s right. I huff with exasperation as I join him at the cabinet. “You could have just said what he is. You know that’s what I was aiming for.”
“It’s a moot point now, isn’t it?” The nonchalance in his tone is infuriating because Titus is who I’m closest to. Except, well, maybe I’m closer to Carrick now because he kissed me.
I shake my head. No, that’s not right. He kissed me, but Titus has seen me vulnerable and an emotional crying mess, and I didn’t feel awkward at all while breaking down in front of him.
I think it would disappoint Carrick if I showed that weakness.
“Look,” Titus says, opening the cabinet and pulling out some throwing knives made of iron. “I’m sorry about One Bean. You kind of glossed over that, but I know it has to hurt losing that place. It was your passion.”
Damn his sweet, kind ways and the tickle in the back of my throat that threatens to become a little sob.
I hide it by holding out my hand, and he places the weapons on my palm—four in all. They’re small but heavy, wrapped in leather around the handle, and designed for fast throws at close distances. We’ve only worked with them once before, and I wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t completely accurate either.
“These are a good secondary weapon to carry since they’re small and easy to conceal, so I want to focus on them a bit more,” Titus explains.
“What else are we doing besides knives tonight?” I ask, taking one in my right hand and flipping it in the air a few times.
“Whatever else you think that you can use some extra help on,” Titus replies, shutting the cabinet. His gaze meets mine, his expression on the regretful side. “Because tonight is our last training session together.”
“What?” I practically scream, bobbling the knife so it clatters to the floor. “You can’t stop training me. Did you not hear that Dark Fae bitch almost killed me, and I am nowhere near ready to—”
“You are ready,” he cuts in, the deep rumble in his chest filled with confidence. “All you and I are doing at this point is practicing. I’ve taught you all I can, and I’ve got a job I need to get back to.”
“But… but… how will I stay sharp on things without daily training?” I feel adrift without an anchor.
“Carrick can spar and train with you,” Titus replies easily, then gives me a sly grin. “But he’s faster and trickier than I am, so I’m giving you fair warning. Also, he likes to make you think he’s sweeping low but will always go high with a back fist. Don’t fall for it.”
“Titus,” I beg, waving off his efforts to tease me into complacency. “I can’t do this without you.”
“You can and you will,” he replies somberly. “You have no choice, for I am not coming back to train with you. It’s time for you to fly on your own.”
“You’re abandoning me,” I accuse petulantly.
He levels me with a disappointed look. “I most certainly am not. I am merely done with all I can show you. But I will be back to help you or Carrick whenever you need me. When the time comes, there may be a battle. I’ll always be at your side when you need me for that. But as for training, there’s nothing left I can give you.”
I know I should take that as the highest form of compliment. To know that in just a few short months, Titus has taken what were pretty damn good mixed martial arts skills and turned me into a fierce fighting machine. I’m well versed with the whip, still have my nunchucks at the ready, and I’m not going to suck with a short sword. Any one of those other weapons in the cabinet I can use, and I can continue to practice with Carrick.
Of course, the thought of doing hand-to-hand, which leads to some grappling and wrestling on the floor, doesn’t seem like such a bad thing to me.
I actually snort thinking about that, and Titus tips his head in question.
I shake mine, not willing to share that thought, and instead smile. “I get it. Thank you for all you’ve taught me since, because of you, I’ll at least have a fighting chance out there.”
“More than a fighting chance, Finley Porter,” Titus says, pulling me into a one-armed hug that could easily snap my neck if he so chose to do. “My money is on you to save the world. Now let me get the target set up for the knives.”
Titus moves to the far end of the gym, where a lone wooden cabinet hangs on the wall. It’s shallow and has two doors, which he pulls wide open to reveal a round bullseye target about two feet in diameter and made of wood. Titus mounted it higher than my frame to more closely resemble the height of enemies I might be facing. Apparently, most Dark Fae and daemons are big.
Because the circles painted on the target weren’t overly helpful, Titus had used a Sharpie marker to draw two eyes near the center of the top ring and a red “X” about four inches down.
As a reminder, he taps the eyes first. “Strike right between the eyes.” Then he taps the red “X”. “Or land that knife here… in the throat.”
I bend over, pick up the knife I dropped, and move over to a spot on the wooden floor marked with some blue painter’s tape. Transferring three of the knives to my left hand, I take the fourth and hold the blade with the handle pointed toward the target.
Titus, in a show of confidence that I won’t hit him, doesn’t move away.
I take a deep breath, adjust my stance, and cock my arm. Letting my lungs release, I use my wrist to snap the knife away and watch it flip end over end until it sticks in the target.
Right at the middle of the bullseye, which would be about chest level.
“That would be the equivalent of a flea bite to a fae,” Titus remarks dryly. “You can’t pierce breastbone with those knives.”