"Let me…"He caught sight of the drapery on the floor. Oh, great, she was naked, too. Fantastic. "Actually, maybe you should clean up."
He looked away and held out the towel. "Take this. Use it."
From the corner of his eye he watched her awkwardly swipe under the covers, and self-loathing swamped him. Jesus Christ … He was a lecher. Overwhelming the poor female.
When she handed the towel back, he said, "You can't stay with me. It's not right. For as long as we're here, you're going to be in the other room."
There was a slight pause. Then she said, "Yes, your grace."
* * *
Chapter Forty-seven
As night fell John was underground in the gym, lined up with the rest of trainees, a dagger in his right hand, his feet planted in the ready position. When Zsadist whistled through his teeth, John and everyone else began to move through the exercise: Swipe the weapon across the chest, slice back at an angle, step forward, and stab up under the rib cage.
"John, stay sharp!"
Shit, he was fucking this whole thing up. Again. Feeling utterly blind and mostly useless, he tried to find the rhythm in the positions, but his balance was in the crapper and his arms and legs just wouldn't behave.
"John—just stop." Zsadist came up behind him and moved his arms around. Again. "Let's do it again. Ladies, back in ready position."
John settled in, waited for the whistle… and screwed it all up. Again.
This time when Zsadist walked over, John couldn't look the Brother in the face.
"Let's try something." Z took the blade and put it in John's left hand.
John shook his head. He was right-dominant.
"Just try it. Ladies? Let's do it."
Another ready position. Another whistle. Another fuckup—
Oh, but this time it wasn't. Miraculously, John's body fell into the series of positions like a perfect piano chord. Everything was in sync, all his arms and legs going where they needed to be, the dagger controlled perfectly in his hand, his muscles coalescing and working together.
When the drill was over, he smiled. Until he met Z's eyes. The Brother was staring at him strangely, but then seemed to catch himself. "Better, John. Much better."
John looked down at the blade in his hand. He had a quick, painful memory of walking Sarelle out to her car a couple of days before she'd been killed. As he'd been by her side, he'd wished he had a dagger, had felt like his palm was too light without one. That had been his right hand then. Why the switch after the transition?#p#分页标题#e#
"Again, ladies!" Z called out.
They did the sequence twenty-three more times. Then worked on another that had them getting down on one knee and lunging upward. Z patrolled the line, fixing positions, barking out demands.
He didn't have to address John once. Everything just came together, the vein tapped, the gold extracted.
When class was over John headed to the lockers, but Z called him back and led him into the equipment room, over to the locked closet where the training daggers were kept.
"From now on you'll use this." Z handed over one with a blue hilt. "Calibrated for the left hand."
John tried it out and felt even stronger. He was about to thank the Brother when he frowned. Z was looking at him with the same strange expression he'd had out in the gym.
John tucked the blade into the belt of his ji and signed, What? Am I not in good position?
Z rubbed a hand over his skull trim. "Ask me how many fighters are left-handed."
John's breath stopped, an odd feeling coming over him. How many?
"Only known one. Ask me who he was."
Who was he?
"Darius. D was left handed."
John stared down at his left hand. His father.
"And you move like him," Z murmured. "It's eerie as fuck, to be honest. It's like I'm looking at him."
Really?
"Yeah, he was smooth. Like you are. Anyway. Whatever." Z clapped him on the shoulder. "Lefty. Go figure."
John watched the Brother leave, then looked at his palm again.
Not for the first time, he wondered what his father had looked like. Sounded like. Acted like. God, what he wouldn't give for some information on the male.
Maybe someday he could ask Zsadist. But he was afraid of getting emotional.
If only there was another way.
Jane backed her car into her garage and cursed at the time as she cut the engine. Eleven thirty-four. She was two and a half hours late to meet V at her place.
It had been a prime case of delayed departure. She'd had her coat on and her bag packed, but on the way to the door all sorts of medical staff had come up to her with question after question. Then one of the patients had taken a turn for the worse in the chute, and she'd had to examine the woman, then talk to the family.