I didn't want to say anything about my dream to mom and dad until later the next night, for a simple reason: the next night was Saturday night, which meant that I would be getting my butt kicked by both Santos and my mom (and maybe my dad this time, too).
And, I mean, literally getting my butt kicked; Santos was not only our 'off-site' bodyguard, he was also our krav maga trainer.
The reason for this self-defense training was straightforward: were either of my parents to end up going into 'full-monster'-mode, I was at least capable of defending myself to the extent that a person could defend themselves against an indescribable, multi-tentacled thing (I mean, some self-defense capability was better than no self-defense capability, right?)
What's interesting is that mom and dad were also being trained. The rationale was that if only one of them 'turned' (i.e., mom in the first instance), the other could help manage (i.e., dad, most of the time – except for the garage incident). It made sense. And it sure made for fun Saturday nights. Kind of gave new meaning to the term 'family time'.
I didn't take too long dressing for the occasion. Loose-fitting trackpants over Lycra shorts, then tennis shoes, and finally a tough polyester singlet over my sports bra. The singlet that was stretchy enough to be held onto, but not so stretchy that it would tear in the tussle. And there was going to be some tussling tonight.
Then I went downstairs to find Riley in the kitchen by the concealed floor-slider's controls. He was fiddling with the panel.
"Hey Riles," I said, "what's up?"
He pressed one more button, and the servos controlling the slider whirred into life. He turned to me: "Ah, good evening, Ms. Warrick. It's 7:08 already. They'll be up and feeding."
"Cool."
"Did you want anything to eat prior to getting beaten into the floor?"
I laughed. "Nah. I had a protein shake at half-four. It'll do until you guys scrape what's left of me off the mat."
He smiled, handed me my neck brace. Then waved me towards the now-exposed basement stairs. "Après vous, madame." ('After you.')
A little more than half an hour later and we were all in the gym. Mom was standing in front of me, her thick, black hair tied back in a bun. She was wearing her full Tae Kwon Do kit (she had had some training back in the 'Hamster') while I retained my tracksuit.
Santos stood to one side. "Okay, señoras. We start with light hand grapples." He cut one hand down in a karate chop through the air. "Amihan, you will defend against your daughter, but you will do this one move at a time, comprendes?"
Mom nodded. Then she smiled at me. Put her hands up. "Sipain ang aking asno, babae," she said. It was a phrase she used every time we sparred. The first part meant 'kick my ass.' I shouldn't need to tell you what 'babae' translates to.
I returned the smile. "Susubukan ko, mama." ('I'll try, mom').
And try I did.
I moved up to her, fists raised, elbows tucked in as I was trained. Mom shuffled back.
"One move at a time, señoras. Ami, stay where you are."
Mom paused. I moved in close. She put her own hands up, palms open, ready to slap my grapple attempts away.
"One try at a time, Santos?" I asked.
"Si."
I went for mom's lapels. She grabbed my wrists and pulled me forward. I stepped, dropped my body weight down, and shunted one leg behind hers. She was off-balance, and she knew it; her eyes were sparkling mischievously.
"¡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.