The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(35)

Baruch lifted the punching bag off the hook with one hand. “Do you say everything you think?”

“Nope. Amazingly I share merely a fraction of the brilliance in my head.” I followed him over to the wall.

He touched a light on a small display panel and part of the wall slid away to reveal another good-sized room, filled top to bottom with weapons and training equipment.

“Cool,” I breathed, peering in. “Did you design all these?”

“Some.” He pushed me back a few steps. “You haven’t unlocked entrance privileges yet,” he said, heading inside.

“Nerd,” I teased.

He gave me a sheepish grin as he stashed the bag up on a hook.

I eyed the weapons: knives of all shapes and sizes, throwing stars, staffs, iron-based things that I couldn’t discern the purpose of but given their scary shape was certain I was better off without the visual, boxing gloves, pads, and whatever was stored in the cabinets running the length of one wall. No guns though.

The Brotherhood required a massive bottom line to run.

“Who funds the Brotherhood? Can we change the name now that I’m here?”

“It funds itself and no. Hundreds of years in investments plus, these days, the income DSI brings in.” He smiled. “We don’t come cheap. The Brotherhood takes care of us. If we die, our funeral expenses are handled.”

My gut twisted at that last sentiment. “You’re awfully matter-of-fact about death.”

He spread his hands wide. “We do what we do. We try not to die but it happens. Which is why I will train you to have the best shot at walking away.”

See, this was a guy who genuinely had my back. “Teach me fight moves.” Defense wasn’t going to be enough when I came up against Asmodeus.

He assessed me for a long moment. “Most demons will be larger than you. Stronger.”

“That’s a yes, then?”

“But that also means their balance and speed is compromised as a result.”

I eyed him up and down. “Speaking from experience are we, Tree Trunk?”

“You’re very annoying,” he said.

“It’s my birth power,” I replied.

“Oh? That’s not being delusional?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, Baruch Ya’ari,” I said. “He’s here all week. Try the shrimp.”

He peered at me. “Is English your first language?”

“Vaudeville? The old schtick? Nothing?” I shook my head in dismay before dancing around him, throwing air punches.

He swatted me away. “Build up your side to side movement. Get inside the tip of their punches and kicks. Build an infighting and clinch game. Get comfortable striking and fighting from your back in case you’re thrown down.”

Baruch showed me some basic moves–a couple of punches and a few kicks–running me through them over and over again, making minute adjustments. Talking me through both my mistakes and what I was doing right.

I stripped down to my sports bra and booty shorts which was great on the heat front but left more exposed skin, and psychologically, made me feel more vulnerable. My muscles quivered as every attack became more of a grinding exertion.

The flooring pads became sticky with sweat, each footstep a pronounced slapping sound, the room turning steamy and dank. Finally, Baruch called a much-desired halt to the training but only to bring Kane down to ensure I didn’t get complacent fighting just him.

Kane raised an eyebrow as he handed me a glass of Ms. Clara’s electrolyte-filled iced tea. “Well?” he asked Baruch.

I’d gulped back the cold liquid by the time his question was asked.

“Help me attack her on two fronts,” Baruch said.

I left the empty glass in a corner, my arms wobbly. “Awesome.”

Seeing me swipe at the sweat on my neck, Kane boosted the air conditioning to blessed arctic levels and then the two of them leapt into battle against me. All right, they engaged me in slow motion combat while Baruch barked grips, counter-grips, and attack strategy, showing me how to use my weight against them.

The cool part was making connections on my own about how and where certain moves would come in handy. When my suggestions were wrong, the guys showed me why, then explained the better way of proceeding.

“For someone who hasn’t spent years training, you pick things up fast,” Kane said, after I’d executed a pretty sweet roundhouse kick.

“Your power isn’t there yet and your technique is rough, but balance, even speed?” Baruch’s approving eye blink was the sweetest compliment ever.

“I’m not a trained fighter, but I am a trained dancer. I was always good at picking up moves quickly, getting new routines faster than other people. Tap taught me balance, weight placement, being aware of my body. Those skills are transferable,” I informed them.

“Those skills are a foundation,” Baruch said. “Do the kick again. Don’t throw your left hip out so much this time.”

Neither of them held back or went easy on me because I was female. I appreciated that up until the point that I collapsed on burning legs with a plea of “Have mercy!” Not even my most rigorous dance session had drained me this much.

Kane prodded my belly with a toe. My tummy jiggled. His bare-chested, rock hard body didn’t. “We better feed her. And hose her off.”