Page 91 of Close Quarter
"You are." Amusement touched Silas's voice.
"Your grip's wrong. Here." He grasped Rhys's arm and shifted the position of his hand and fingers on the hilt. "Better."
And it was. Rhys took an experimental swing.
Silas clicked his tongue. "Use your hips, not your arms."
That made no sense. "How the hell do you use your hips to swing a sword?"
"Have you ever played baseball?"
"Of course I have. I--" Hips. Swinging a bat.
"Oh."
"Exactly."
"But that's with two hands."
"Same idea and a similar form. But in a pinch, swing with two hands. Just aim for the soulless's neck, if it comes to that again."
Vampires.Though the sword didn't weigh any more, it suddenly seemed more substantial in Rhys's hand.
"Or stab, as you did last night. But pull back or let go."
The sharp memory of the flesh curling as it burned caused him to ball his free hand into a fist.
"Do they usually go up that fast?"
"Sometimes. It depends on the age and the wound." Silas stepped back and seemed to study him. "I want you to try something."
"I don't think I can learn sword fighting in a day."
"You can't." Silas rubbed his chin. "But if you're willing, it wouldn't be a bad skill for you to learn." Rhys opened his mouth, but his reply was forestalled by Silas raising his hand. "It's not something you need consider now."
Rhys nodded. If--when they reached New York, the possibilities were endless. "What do you want me to do?"
"Feel the sword in your hand, the weight, how the grip feels against your skin. The texture of the hilt when you shift your fingers. Imprint that into your mind. Remember it as if your existence depended on recalling this moment."
Closing his eyes, Rhys focused on his hands.
He'd done this type of thing before, memorizing the shape and texture of items. It helped when sculpting. He flexed his fingers, felt the slide of the leather wrap against his palm, the cool kiss of the guard along his forefinger and thumb. "Okay."
"Keep your eyes closed." Footsteps on carpeting, then the gentle heat of Silas standing behind him. Almonds and pine. "And focus. On the hilt, please."
Warmth suffused Rhys's face. "I am focusing." He turned his attention back to the sword.
"Now imagine that the air to your right is solid, that you can pierce it with the tip of the sword. See the blade slip through this space, as if reality were a sheath."
Silas had done that, pushed the sword into somewhere else. His heart fluttered. What happened if he got this wrong? "All right."
"Now sheathe the sword."
Rhys kept his eyes closed, painting a picture of his movements. As he cut into the air, a pressure that he hadn't felt when swinging the blade ran down the length of his arm. He pushed against that, shoving the sword deeper into the slit he'd painted in reality.
Ice bit into his hands, and cold tendrils wrapped his wrist.
"Let go, Rhys."
