Read Online Unveiled: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Novel (The Dark Skies Trilogy Book One) by Lysa Daley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lysa Daley
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right hands, slide our feet together, and bow to each other with perfectly straight backs, while never, ever taking our eyes off each other.
You never let your eyes wander away from your opponent, lest your opponent should decide to attack at that instant. That’s Martial Arts 101.
"Remember, it is harder to control your strikes than it is to hit someone hard," my uncle reminds us. You're expected to show restraint and not clobber your opponent with abandon when you're just practicing.
We both whip our bow staffs in front of our bodies and hold them in an offensive position while sliding one foot back into a fighting stance. We are preparing to spar.
"Begin!" my uncle calls out and steps out of the circle.
Jonas instantly lunges forward, attacking, roughly swinging his staff at my head. Just like I knew he would. These dumb boys are so predictable.
I take a step to my right and duck, missing the whip circle of his bow. Then I roll forward on my shoulder while swinging my bow, taking him down at the ankles.
Jonas' feet fly up in the air, and he thumps down hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him.
I'm on my feet with the tip of my bow pressed right over his heart.
I win. Jonas loses.
"That strike was a little low!" my uncle chides me. "That's nearly cheating, Astrid."
Except it's not cheating. Because it wasn't technically too low.
Jonas gasps for air on the mat.
"Still... this first fight to Astrid!" my uncle says as a humiliated Jonas rolls out of the fighting circle and slowly gets to his feet.
Even with his headgear on, I can see that Jonas is both pissed and embarrassed as he slinks back to his place in line.
"Nate," my uncle points to the next biggest student. "You're next."
Oh, so this is how it's going to be.
He plans to make me fight each of these boys from biggest to smallest. Fine. Bring it, I say. In the end, it takes me less than fifteen minutes to defeat all seven boys in my class.
Which means I win; which means I don't have to run three miles; which means I won't be a sweaty mess after class. Yay for me!
"Does anyone want to spar again?" my uncle asks, hoping one of them will volunteer to fight me again.
The group remains silent. Wimps.
Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, ready to step out of the sparring circle, I hear my uncle say, "How about you, Jax? I understand you're quite the trained fighter."
Jax? Not the loser handyman out painting the building? How desperate are we?
I turn to see Jax sauntering across the back of the studio carrying a couple of dirty paint brushes.
"Me? Nah," he replies, uncomfortable with everyone suddenly looking at him. Wearing ratty work clothes covered with paint, he’s completely out of place in a pristine studio filled with students in their crisp white uniforms.
"I'm told you trained and fought under the great We-Lyyn," my uncle adds, smiling at him with hands on his hips. "That should make you more than prepared to spar with a teenage girl."
Jax gives my uncle a thin smile and drops his head. He isn't going to rise to this bait. "That was light years ago, sir. I'm afraid you'll find I'm pretty rusty."
The idea of fighting this guy is almost appealing, but since it looks like I'm off the hook, I'm ready to grab my water bottle.
"I'll double your rate if you defeat the girl," my uncle calls out, and I shoot him my very best death glare. Why is my uncle doing this to me? He sees my dirty look but returns it with a smile.
“Double?”
"She needs the challenge."
Unfortunately, Jax seems to be considering the offer. Why would my uncle pay him twice as much just to spar with me in class?
"I suppose I could give it a shot." Jax sets the brushes down on an old newspaper then removes his dirty work boots. He steps onto the mat without bowing first. We always bow in respect before we step on the mat. It's a tradition as old as martial arts.
My eyes flick over to my uncle, who has noticed the lack of bow but does not say anything. I've never seen
You never let your eyes wander away from your opponent, lest your opponent should decide to attack at that instant. That’s Martial Arts 101.
"Remember, it is harder to control your strikes than it is to hit someone hard," my uncle reminds us. You're expected to show restraint and not clobber your opponent with abandon when you're just practicing.
We both whip our bow staffs in front of our bodies and hold them in an offensive position while sliding one foot back into a fighting stance. We are preparing to spar.
"Begin!" my uncle calls out and steps out of the circle.
Jonas instantly lunges forward, attacking, roughly swinging his staff at my head. Just like I knew he would. These dumb boys are so predictable.
I take a step to my right and duck, missing the whip circle of his bow. Then I roll forward on my shoulder while swinging my bow, taking him down at the ankles.
Jonas' feet fly up in the air, and he thumps down hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him.
I'm on my feet with the tip of my bow pressed right over his heart.
I win. Jonas loses.
"That strike was a little low!" my uncle chides me. "That's nearly cheating, Astrid."
Except it's not cheating. Because it wasn't technically too low.
Jonas gasps for air on the mat.
"Still... this first fight to Astrid!" my uncle says as a humiliated Jonas rolls out of the fighting circle and slowly gets to his feet.
Even with his headgear on, I can see that Jonas is both pissed and embarrassed as he slinks back to his place in line.
"Nate," my uncle points to the next biggest student. "You're next."
Oh, so this is how it's going to be.
He plans to make me fight each of these boys from biggest to smallest. Fine. Bring it, I say. In the end, it takes me less than fifteen minutes to defeat all seven boys in my class.
Which means I win; which means I don't have to run three miles; which means I won't be a sweaty mess after class. Yay for me!
"Does anyone want to spar again?" my uncle asks, hoping one of them will volunteer to fight me again.
The group remains silent. Wimps.
Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, ready to step out of the sparring circle, I hear my uncle say, "How about you, Jax? I understand you're quite the trained fighter."
Jax? Not the loser handyman out painting the building? How desperate are we?
I turn to see Jax sauntering across the back of the studio carrying a couple of dirty paint brushes.
"Me? Nah," he replies, uncomfortable with everyone suddenly looking at him. Wearing ratty work clothes covered with paint, he’s completely out of place in a pristine studio filled with students in their crisp white uniforms.
"I'm told you trained and fought under the great We-Lyyn," my uncle adds, smiling at him with hands on his hips. "That should make you more than prepared to spar with a teenage girl."
Jax gives my uncle a thin smile and drops his head. He isn't going to rise to this bait. "That was light years ago, sir. I'm afraid you'll find I'm pretty rusty."
The idea of fighting this guy is almost appealing, but since it looks like I'm off the hook, I'm ready to grab my water bottle.
"I'll double your rate if you defeat the girl," my uncle calls out, and I shoot him my very best death glare. Why is my uncle doing this to me? He sees my dirty look but returns it with a smile.
“Double?”
"She needs the challenge."
Unfortunately, Jax seems to be considering the offer. Why would my uncle pay him twice as much just to spar with me in class?
"I suppose I could give it a shot." Jax sets the brushes down on an old newspaper then removes his dirty work boots. He steps onto the mat without bowing first. We always bow in respect before we step on the mat. It's a tradition as old as martial arts.
My eyes flick over to my uncle, who has noticed the lack of bow but does not say anything. I've never seen
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