Free Hell Is Coming (The Watcher's Series Book 1) by N.P. Martin

hadn’t even thrown a punch yet.
    “I don’t think so.” I folded my arms tighter around myself. “Seriously, I’m barely awake.”
    He nodded and took a couple of steps towards me. I was slightly intimidated by the fact that he was topless. I tried not to look at the scars on his naked torso as he spoke. “You came to me for help, right?”
    I nodded.
    “Well, this is me helping you. You haven’t a chance in hell of getting your brother back without knowing how to protect yourself. The world you just stepped into, it’s about as heavy as it gets. If you can’t protect yourself, you’ll get killed. It’s that simple.” He took a few steps back again. “Now hit the bag.”
    I kind of felt like he had just thrown a bucket of cold water over me. I couldn’t argue with his logic. If I wanted to survive a world where demons and monsters roamed free to kill when they felt like it—to break the necks of innocent foster parents who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—I would have to toughen up. Josh would be much amused by the irony. If he were here.
    Alright, here we go .
    I stepped towards the bag, assumed a loose fighting stance the way Josh had tried to teach me in the past—one leg slightly forward, hands up in loose fists. I felt stiff and awkward under Frank’s gaze, but I threw a jab anyway, my fist stinging as it impacted with the surprisingly hard leather of the punching bag, which barely moved. I felt stupid and embarrassed by my woeful lack of skill.
    “Hit off the back hand,” Frank said, Bane by his side now, watching on in amusement. Now I had a full audience. “Try to get your bodyweight behind the punch.”
    I resisted sighing and faced the bag again, preparing for failure once more. I hit the bag with a right cross and again it barely moved.
    Where was the super-strength that allowed me to kick a door in yesterday?
    I blamed it on not being a morning person and hoped demons didn’t like to fight before ten a.m. If they did I was screwed.
    “Use your hips to put your bodyweight into the strike. Hit it again and focus this time.”
    Suddenly Frank is Mr.Miyagi now?
    I hit the bag again, mild anger fuelling my actions this time. The punch felt more solid so I hit the bag again, throwing my hips forward and allowing my upper body to lean into the strike, slamming my fist into the hard leather. The bag jolted away from me. Without thinking I stepped aside as it came swinging back and I laid a left hook into it, hitting it hard enough to send it swinging in a different direction. I stepped back, shocked by my sudden competence, but also strangely pleased.
    Something clicked then, like I suddenly got why Josh loved to train and hit things so much. It was a kind of release I had never experienced before, not through drugs or sex or even art. I suddenly felt more alive than I had ever been, like part of me had been asleep and was now awake. Who knew throwing a few punches could be such a revelation?
    “Nice,” Frank said, mildly impressed. “Everything you need is already inside you. You’re Nephilim. The skill is hardcoded in your DNA—you just need to coax it out.”
    My hand throbbed from hitting the hard leather. “I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, I need a coffee, if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure, come on.” We walked towards the cabin and he stopped by Josh’s car. “1969 Mustang. I used to have one of these. Great car until a Wendigo tore it apart on me.”
    A Wendigo?
    “My brother likes his classic cars.” I pointed to Frank’s car. “’67 Chevy, right?”
    Frank nodded approvingly. “You know your cars.”
    “Not really. My brother does though. I guess it runs in the family.”
    He gave a slight smile. “I guess so.”
    Back in the cabin, Frank put on a shirt and made coffee. We sat in the kitchen at a tiny breakfast bar. “I made some calls last night,” he said. “Digging into your brother’s abduction.”
    I perked up.