“I know you can handle yourself!” he says, wheeling on me. “But we’re supposed to be doing thistogether. And what can I evendo?You’ve got your protagonist safety net and your six years of self-defense practice—”
“Seven!”
Not a strictly necessary interjection, but I can’t resist the urge to correcthimfor once.
“Whatever!” he yells. “The fact remains—you’ve got training and experience. But me? I have an MFA in creative writing. Whatam I supposed to do, critique the character development of the villain as he’s hacking me to death?”
It’s only then that I realize he’s not yelling at me, specifically. The thread of terror in his voice betrays it as more of a desperate, panicked shout into the void.
“No, Grant,” I say, keeping my tone as measured as I can. “You’re supposed to look at the big picture and try to figure out what might happen. Maybe give us a heads upbeforewe get hacked to death.”
“Oh my God,” he groans. “You are operating from such a grotesque misunderstanding of how story structure works.”
“All I’m saying is we each have our strengths. We just have to do our best.”
I know this isn’t exactly comforting. Grant’s right. Even if my self-defense background falls short, Iamthe protagonist of this story. Plot twists notwithstanding, I doubt Anna will kill me off partway through. Grant, however, is on his own. And he can’t always count on having heavy-duty cookware close at hand.
“We know where Anna will be in a week,” I say. “Until then, there’s a lot of danger in the forecast. So I’m going to propose a plan.”
Grant’s brow wrinkles. “To find her sooner?” There’s a cautious tone to his voice, something verydon’t get my hopes upabout it. Which is good, because I’m not about to.
I shake my head. “To help you be able to fight back. Tomorrow, we start training. Welcome to Self-Defense 101.”
He startles when I give him a good-natured thump on the shoulder, which doesn’t bode particularly well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Okay, the best way to approach self-defense is to lean into your existing strengths,” I say, stretching one logo-emblazoned arm across my chest. I’m wearing a very expensive activewear set that makes me look like a Fendi-sponsored Hunger Games tribute, as one does when one shops at Harrods. Grant’s wearing track pants and a hoodie, as one does when one is Grant.
We’re kicking off this morning’s training in Lesley’s back garden, which is the closest thing he has to a home gym—despite having two home theaters, a walk-in closet just for blazers, and a room full of famous musicians’ instruments that he can’t play but won at auctions to spite other people. According to him, the concept of working out is a scam invented by Big Treadmill. He explained this last night, right before Lissa brought him his blood pressure medication and he devolved into grumbling.
“So,” I say to Grant. “What are your existing strengths?”
He swats at a gnat. “I wield a mean Oxford comma.”
“Hilarious. Do tell how this will help you in a life-and-death situation.”
“In that I will be getting stabbed, bleeding out, and dying in a clear and concise manner.”
“Grant.”
He lets out an exasperated breath. “I’ve done a couple of 10Ks. Is that what you’re looking for? How will that help me, except for running away?”
“Well, it’s notnothing,” I say, though I’m struggling to decide how to apply this. He’s got some power in his limbs—I saw that when he was chasing the Pulverizer yesterday. And from the glimpse I got of his arms when he was trying on overpriced T-shirts at Harrods, I would venture to guess he’s picked up more than a few heavy books in his life. But I’m hoping for something with more whole-body coordination. “What about as a kid?” I offer up. “Any sports or extracurriculars? Helpful hobbies?”
He hesitates for a moment. Blinks. “Nope.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He meets my gaze evenly,tooevenly, until finally I crack a smile. “You have a super-embarrassing hobby, don’t you?”
He forces out apfsshhsound and an overly defensive “No.” It’s all but a confirmation.
“What, Grant? What could be so bad? Is it ballet? Because ballet is really good for your coordination, you know. Lots of NFL players do it.”
“It isn’t ballet. Can we move on?”
“So it issomething.” I eye him with amused suspicion, then gasp. “Oh my God, are you a furry?”
“A what?”
