Free Landing by J Bennett Page A

cacophony of energy in
this room, is washing out all the other noise. It is the song. Only the song.
    It quickly becomes obvious that
Tarren is offering no offense. Gabe goes at him again and again, but Tarren
blocks, dodges, breaks holds, and pushes away limbs. Red coals briefly flare up
in his aura when he absorbs Gabe’s blows into his forearms and shins.
    “Fight!” Gabe commands, though the
word is muffled behind his mouth guard. A little spark, like a hidden smile,
responds in Tarren’s aura. The fighting goes on and on, all over the mat.
Tarren keeps ducking, keeps blocking.
    The teenage class breaks up, and
the kids scurry off the mat out of the way and then watch with awe. The female
instructor stands in front of me, arms folded across her chest, and observes
the fight. Her energy is a smooth blue that hums swiftly. I wonder how she can
fight with such long, wicked-looking nails.
    On the mat, the battle continues.
Tarren lets down his guard, and Gabe’s kick connects to his abdomen. Tarren
goes down, rolling backward with the momentum. Gabe presses his advantage, only
it isn’t Gabe’s advantage at all. I see the beauty of it all patterned in
Tarren’s aura, the luring, the trapping. As Tarren hauls himself to his knees,
Gabe kicks. Tarren catches the foot, swipes Gabe’s other leg out from under him
and uses Gabe’s momentum to slam him hard into the mat. I hear Gabe’s breath
whoosh out of his lungs and watch his energy pulse with wild reds.
    Tarren snakes his legs around
Gabe’s stomach, pins him to the floor, and plants an elbow across his neck. The
teens break out into cheers. Tarren unwinds his legs and rolls off his brother.
Gabe sits up, ducks his head between his knees, and pulls in slow, shaky
breaths.
    Tarren takes out his mouth guard.
“You let your emotions get in the way.”
    “Shut up,” Gabe whispers hoarsely.
“For once in your life, just lay off.”
    Tarren is quiet for a moment. “Are
you hurt?” he finally asks.
    Gabe lifts his head, and his cheeks
are red. “I’m going home.”
    Tarren offers his hand, but Gabe
ignores it. He hauls himself up and steps off the mat. I stand up quickly and
fall in line behind him.
    “Leave me alone,” he growls at me.
    Growls.
    Gabe.
    At me.
    I don’t actually stagger back
dramatically or clutch at my heart, but it’s a strong impulse. Gabe grabs his
duffle bag, pushes the front door open too hard, and leaves. I turn to Tarren,
who has stepped off the mat next to me.
    We don’t say anything to each
other.
    Tarren works with the female
instructor. Her long limbs give her movements grace, and her hair is plaited in
many small braids that dance around her head as she moves. They drill each
other and then spar, but Tarren is holding back, just like he holds back with
me, slowing down his moves, blocking more than attacking. Now that I know what
he is truly capable of, I wonder if I can ever match him.
    After a short while, a class of
adults filters in with a new instructor. My hour is up, and my muscles are sore
from clenching. For no discernible reason—there are a few empty folding chairs
in the spectator area—a woman sidles up next to me. I don’t know the color of
her hair, what clothes she’s wearing, how old she is. All I see is her energy.
A brazen cornflower blue with teasing threads of green.
    “Gary just started. My husband,” the
woman beckons to someone in the new class.
    I nod noncommittally and stare
straight ahead.
    “But he’s no fun to watch. They’re
amazing,” she exclaims, meaning Tarren and the instructor who spar in front of
us.
    “I’ve seen him and the other boy
practicing with the instructors,” the woman continues without an apparent need
for any acknowledgement on my part. “They’re both so good, but that one,” she
nods toward Tarren, “he should teach. Bet he’d bring more girls into the gym.”
The woman giggles like a hyena.
    I clench my hands hard, feel the
press of my nails through my thick