The Hunt for Tyrell Banks

Chapter 15 - Training surprise

"¡Parar!" Santos called out.

We both paused, midway to either mom pulling me over, or me throwing my mom over my outstretched leg.

Santos came over. "Did you grab her shirt well?" he asked me.

I only had one hand on her right lapel, and my grip was tenuous at best. "Maybe?" I replied.

Santos shook his head. "You have to make sure your grip is like this – " he said, moving my hand closer to where mom's neck met with her hemline. " – then grab like so." He made a fist, but tucked one thumb under. "See the thumb, Hanna? You have to keep it out of any folds. Otherwise you may kiss it goodbye, no?"

I nodded vigorously. He was right; I could see how my thumb would get wrecked if it got caught in a loose fold in a real fight.

"¡Otra vez!"

Mom and I sparred this way for some time. She took turns trying to grapple me, sometimes low – at one point, she almost pulled my trackpants right off (hence the shorts underneath). In another tussle she had my singlet caught in both hands, but I had managed to wrap an arm around one of her legs – usually a bad idea, but in this case, she was hopelessly off-balance. We both collapsed in a heap, laughing our heads off.

Santos wasn't impressed. "You won't be laughing in a real fight, señoras. Not if you end up against people that know what you are, Amihan. Comprendes?"

Mom sobered at this a little. She didn't like to be reminded that she was, in fact, a monster. She didn't just regard it some kind of a curse that threatened her family and her life; she saw it as a disability, a hindrance – especially for a woman that enjoyed gardening like she did (hence the roses out the back). Still, if there was someone in this world that could tell her to get real about what she was, it was our friend, mentor, and defense instructor Santos.

We moved to free sparring after the grappling session. Full-body contact – we were to make no underestimation about how and why we fought. In some ways, mom had an excellent advantage: her sleep was thoroughly rejuvenating, so any bruises, marks, cuts, whatever, would all fade by the next night.

Me, on the other hand? Yeah, I'd be bloodied-slash-bruised for a little while after. But that was fine.

Dad and Riley stood to one side. "Hanna! Ne te retiens pas!" dad called out. ('Don't hold back!')

I didn't.

Mom feinted as I swung a right hook at her shoulder (we weren't going for faces; Social Services would have a whole bunch of questions if mom clobbered me in the cheeks. It had happened before). My swing missed, but I brought my left leg up, and she checked me with one shin. The sound was like two pieces of wood being slapped together, and I grunted in pain.

But I kept charging at her. She brought an elbow into my midriff, and I woofed, clenching my abs at the same time. Then she locked her forearm under my left shoulder, twisted – and I was airborne. I grabbed her collar – thumb tucked like Santos had said – and pulled her along for the ride. We once more collapsed in a heap.

"¡Parar!"

Mom and I halted, panting and sweating like fiends. "Darling, are you okay?!" she asked, genuine concern in her eyes. She might've fought like a devil, but once the match was over, she went into full-'mom' mode. "How are your ribs? Did I get you too hard there? Oh sweetie, how do you feel?"

I rolled over onto my back. "Mom, I'm fine," I said. "You only got my stomach. My ribs are still intact."

She sat up, and I sat up with her. Dad and Riley had come over onto the mat to stand next to Santos, and the three of them were eyeing me carefully.

I raised one eyebrow. "What's... up?" I asked.

"Hanna," dad said. "We have something serious to ask you."

"Oooh... kay?"

Mom wrapped one arm around me. "Sweetheart," she said, looking me right in the eye, "you're turning sixteen in a week."

"I know," I replied, "and it's no big deal, mom. I'm happy to just, like, have dinner with you guys and Polly and stuff."

"We want you to have a party," dad said, throwing me completely off-guard. "Invite your new friends, your teammates. Bring them over."

My jaw dropped about three inches. "Dad, are you serious?" I asked, incredulous. I eyeballed mom. "Mom? You can't be serious! Neither of you – wait, Santos, Riles! You guys in on this? None of you can be serious!"

"And why ever not, darling?"

In my head, I rapidly ticked off all the reasons.

One, my parents were monsters.

Two, my new friends and teammates would flip if they found out how I was living, and I would never see the end of it.

Three, I was really enjoying the discretion and the semi-normal life of a semi-normal tenth grader.

Four, did I mention that my parents were monsters?

"'Cause!" is what I said eventually.

Riley smiled. "I think it would be delightful if ma'am had a party. Santos could be the bouncer, and I'll check for illicit alcohol and drugs and whatnot."

"You guys," I said slowly, "and I mean you and dad, mom – what happens if you guys suddenly get hungry? I mean, there's gonna be all this young, er, blood hanging around and – "

Dad waved one hand in the air. "You don't need to worry about us. We'll be fine. Riley is right about keeping an eye out for trouble, though. If word about this party gets out, there could be a lot of... people here. I may need to double the security."

I put my hands up to my face, and pulled me cheeks down in despair. This was sounding more and more like my worst nightmare (well... apart from my actual nightmares; see the previous chapter).

But my ever-present goodwill bone piped in. They're doing this for you, Hanna. You're their daughter. They love you. They love you very much.

They did.

I dropped my hands from my face. "Okay," I said, and took a deep breath. Then repeated: "Okay. Okay, mom. Okay, dad, Riles, maestro. Let's do this." I smiled, but boy was it hard, hard work. "Let's have a sweet-sixteen party! For me!"

Mom kissed me on the cheek. "It'll be fun, darling! And we get to meet all your friends, and everything will be like normal!"

"I – I know, mom," is how I replied.

But, when you think about it, there really is no such thing as normal. Not high school parties, that's for sure. And definitely not parties being held in something akin to a lavish maximum-security fortress – for nightmarish monsters, no less.

And, most especially, not when an uninvited guest turns up. A guest who wears a fedora cocked at a crazy angle on his head, and who makes my heart beat just that much faster when I even so much as get a glance of him.

You can guess how this was all gonna turn out.