Free Dead of Eve by Pam Godwin Page A

popped as I stood and limped to the door.
    Still laughing, he said, “Evie, come on. Use your aphid speed.”
    “Apparently it just works on aphids. Not assholes.” Damn, I was a poor loser. But still.
    “There’s that temper, which reminds me”—I continued toward the exit to escape the impending lecture—“forget everything I’ve ever said about your anger.”
    I stopped before the stairs, but didn’t turn around.
    “Go ahead,” he said. “Explode. But when you do, pay close attention to it.”
    I blew out a breath and faced him.
    “Figure out what it was that pissed you off. Was it anxiety, impatience,”—he cleared his throat—“humility? Take notes.”
    I crossed my arms. “Why?”
    He dropped his leg. “Because if you understand the foundation of your anger, you might be able to promote it in others.” A pause. “Think about it. On one side you’ve got an ill-tempered fighter blinded by her rage. On the other, an alert opponent in control of his own disposition. Who’s going to win?”
    I shrugged and plastered on my best I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass expression.
    “Just more tools for your toolbox.”
    Anger made a pretty sharp tool, but…“Okay, asshat.”
    We spent the next couple hours walking through Chi Sao rolling hand forms. His relentless barking gave me plenty of opportunities to note the signals of my anger. Control your speed. Sloppy. Watch your timing. Focus. Hit me. Fook sau. Again.
    Then he mounted a plank of wood marked with targets on the wall. I spun my first blade from twenty feet away. It nailed the edge of the inner ring with a thunk.
    He tapped my foot with his to adjust my stance. “Good. Now alternate between no spin, half spin and multi spin. And vary your distances.”
    I nodded and wiped my forehead on my arm.
    “Remember. This is like all your other training. When you apply it, it’s got to come natural. And you’ll only get there through repetition.” He grinned. “Hate me yet?”
    I smirked and flung another blade. The silent whirl, as it flipped end-over-end toward the eye of the target, lifted my chin. Several bulls-eyes later, I said, “Really, I’ve got this.”
    He unbolted the basement door and lifted his carbine. “Let’s find out.”
    Under the weight of my knives and the thick midnight sky, I followed him outside. Our boots scraped over the gravel trail to the lake. A fog shrouded the surrounding grove. The ground cover stirred within.
    The last time I fought aphids was on the very trail we walked. I remembered their claws on me. And the blood, dark and oleaginous, leaking from their wounds. A twinge festered in the pit of my stomach. A birdcall floated through the walnut boughs. The shadows below grew louder. So did my heartbeat.
    “The plan?” I whispered as we crossed the dock.
    “When they hit the ramp, aim between the eyes. Since you can see them better than I can, I’ll be relying on your eyes until they’re close enough.”
    We stopped with our backs at the edge. I wore four knives. He handed me six more from the pouch on his hip.
    “And when we’re out of knives and ammo?”
    He thrust his chin to the cove behind us. “We swim.”
    The ashen moon’s double lay motionless on the black water. The humidity clung in beads on my upper lip. Beside me, his carbine trained on the ramp. Then the grove lit up with a glow only I could see.
    “Show time,” I whispered into the dark.
    The aphids emerged. Numbers in the twenties, they boarded the ramp. I snapped down my arm and released the knife at shoulder height. It traveled through the air in a vertical spin and plunked as it broke the water’s surface.
    Dammit to hell. “Can you see them yet?”
    “No.”
    I waited until the first one skittered past the final boat slip. Flicked the knife. The aphid dropped, as did the next. My remaining knives found their targets. Aphids toppled upon each other. Some rolled from the ramp and bubbled in the lake. Others slipped by, climbing over the