3. Nitro, DemonX Pack
NITRO, DEMONX PACK
{Five months ago}
Sharp blades sing as they sink into my target.
They make music only I can hear.
But not tonight.
I stared at the scattered blades littering the ground. Each one winked up at me, reminding me of my continuous failure. The handles and blades of my knives pointed in every direction, no rhyme or reason, none thrown in the same way.
Five yards away, the target stood mockingly pristine. Not a single damn scratch despite my hour of throwing. My jaw ached from clenching, muscles in my forearm twitching with tension. I never missed. Never. Until tonight, when I couldn't seem to hit a damn thing.
“Get it the fuck together,” I growled. “You perform like this for the Cirque du Sang higher ups, and they’ll tear the proposed contract up faster than you can fucking spit.”
Apparently, a few head honchos with the Cirque weren’t sure about bringing us onto the domestic tour.
If we didn’t get signed on for that one, then we sure as fuck wouldn’t be signed on for the international one.
So, we had to go perform like some goddamn show ponies next month, letting those assholes decide if we were good enough.
DemonX was good enough. Anytime. Anywhere. Didn’t matter. We were the motherfucking best.
At least.
We used to be.
Once upon a fucking time.
Not even that long ago.
The floodlights in the compound's back training area cast harsh shadows across the scene, illuminating my inadequacy as if I wasn’t fully aware of it already.
Sweat trickled down my spine despite the cool evening air, my body running hot with frustration and exertion.
I'd stripped down to a tank top after the first twenty minutes, but even that clung to me now, damp with evidence of my futile efforts.
I bent to retrieve another knife from the holster strapped to my left thigh; the right holster was already empty.
The thin cord wrapped around the slender hilt was familiar against my palm.
I adjusted my hold, pushing my index finger through the ring like end and spinning the knife quickly as I lifted my hand.
It spun in satisfying circles, metal catching light.
Its weight was an extension of me—had been since I was fourteen and discovered the precision and control that came with mastering the blade.
I’d started out with bullshit, chipped kitchen knives.
Then a halfway decent set Xander somehow sourced for me despite being broke as a joke.
Now, I worked with custom blades. Obsidian, from tip to heel. The balance was perfect. The dagger edges lovingly sharpened. The problem wasn't the knife.
The problem was me.
"Focus, goddammit," I growled, positioning myself again in front of the target.
I squared my shoulders, aligned my stance, and found my center of gravity—all the mechanical motions I'd performed thousands of times before.
My breathing slowed deliberately, three counts in, three counts out.
The target seemed to waver in my vision, as though it were underwater.
I blinked several times, clearing the blur.
I spun the knife a few more times, then transferred the blade to my other hand, feeling the textured hilt press into the calluses on my palm.
I flipped it in the air, caught it by the tip, and lined up.
When I released, the knife spun perfectly through the air—and hit the target sideways, bouncing off to join its brothers in the dirt.
"Fuck!" The word tore from my throat, primal and raw.
I kicked at the ground, sending dust and pebbles flying.
My control was slipping, that white-hot feeling I usually kept banked now blazing freely.
I paced a tight circle, fingers raking through my auburn hair, pulling until my scalp stung with pain.
This wasn't like me.
I was dynamite.
Explosive.
Never slowed down.
I was Nitro, and I always hit my mark.
I didn’t miss. I didn’t fail… especially not at this. Not at the one thing I’d spent years perfecting.
Lifting my right leg, I yanked a knife from my boot holster, this one heavier than the others.
A hunting blade rather than a throwing one.
The weight and shape weren’t made for this, but I was miles past giving a shit about proper equipment.
Standing before the target again, I closed my eyes.
The darkness behind my lids swirled with red-tinged frustration.
One.
I inhaled deeply, trying to find that steady point inside me where distractions fell away.
Two.
My fingers adjusted on the handle, muscle memory seeking the perfect grip.
Three.
The noise of the world faded, leaving only my heartbeat.
Four.
I visualized the target, its concentric circles, the bullseye at its center.
Five.
My arm tensed, ready to release.
Six.
I imagined the knife's trajectory, its perfect arc through space.
Seven.
My breathing synchronized with my heartbeat.
Eight.
The blade became part of me, an extension of my will.
Nine.
I felt calm. Centered. Ready.
Ten.
My eyes snapped open. I threw the knife with a practiced flick of my wrist; the motion so ingrained it was like breathing. Time seemed to slow as the blade tumbled through the air, spinning end over end. Despite the weight of the hilt and the curve of the blade, it seemed to be flying true.
It hit the target with a dull thud, handle first, and clattered to the ground. Useless. Impotent. Just like me.
My badly frayed control finally snapped.
"Cock sucking son of a bitch!” My voice echoed across the compound's grounds. I didn't care who heard. Let them come. Let them see the sad sack I’d become. Couldn’t even throw a mother fucking blade correctly anymore.
None of my pack brothers came running. Somewhere in the near distance, a stray dog barked in surprise.
It seemed to be the only creature in the world who witnessed my distress.
I stalked toward the target. My vision narrowed, tunneling until all I could see was the target’s untouched vinyl surface, the perfect concentric lines of red and white, that should have been dotted with my blades but was instead pristine.
Five steps away. Four. Three. Two.
When I reached it, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed one of the knives from the ground—bending over and standing up so fast that my head swam—and I plunged it directly into the target.
Right at the center. Down to the base of the blade.
And then I sliced. The resistance of the material was satisfying against my rage.
I dragged downward, putting my weight behind the movement, feeling the vinyl split beneath the steel edge. The sound was visceral.
A ripping tear that shot through the air and mirrored the feeling in my chest.
High-density foam spilled out like pale innards, the target's face now sporting a gaping wound from middle to bottom. I yanked the knife free and stabbed again, and again, tearing at the ruined surface until my arm burned with exertion.
Finally, breathing hard, I stepped back to survey the destruction. The target hung in tatters, unrecognizable, destroyed by my hand if not by my throws. Foam particles drifted in the air around me, settling on my sweat-slick skin like artificial snow.
The knife dropped from my limp hand, the rage draining from me as suddenly as it had erupted, leaving hollowness in its wake.
"Well, that was productive," I muttered to the empty yard, the sarcasm falling flat even to my own ears.
I knelt and began gathering the scattered blades. Tonight, they felt like strangers instead of friends. I'd need to clean them all, check for damage, resharpen those that had struck gravel instead of dirt.
Standing with a heavy sigh, I turned around to face another thing in my life that didn’t feel right anymore.
The home I shared with my pack. The home we’d shared for years.
We’d always been angry with the world. We’d always raged against the machine.
But together. Not separate. And not often at one another.
Sure, we’d beaten one another to a pulp now and again, especially when drunk off our asses, but nothing… nothing like this.
The building stood dark and quiet, save for one light pushing through a sliver of space between heavy curtains.
I knew I wasn't the only one awake. Fallon had roared out on his bike hours ago, his face set in that distant expression that meant he was seeking oblivion somewhere in the city lights.
Asher hadn't returned from whatever destructive diversion he'd found tonight. Kane was buried in his workshop, the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal as much a part of the evening’s music as the dog barking or the cars driving by or the church bells five blocks over that rang every hour on the hour.
And Xander—Xander was probably several drinks deep standing sentinel in the house somewhere, maybe from that window bleeding light. He watched us all fall apart, keeping his distance. Not because he wanted to stay away. He was losing control too, bit by bit.
We were coming undone. All of us. The evidence was scattered around me in bent blades and destroyed equipment. It was only a matter of time before a show turned disastrous, a stunt deadly, due to our lack of focus.
I looked up at the star-scattered sky. The vastness of it usually put things in perspective, made my problems seem smaller. Tonight, it only emphasized how adrift I felt, unanchored and spinning out of control.
Something had to give. Soon. Before one of us did something we couldn't come back from. We’d waited long enough for that fucking Institute to find us an Omega.
Not that I thought bringing another person into our pack could really cure our ailments.
There had to be something else. A different answer.
Forcing my body into action, I moved toward the house with my collection of knives clutched against my chest like a goddamn security blanket. A strip of cloth, worn and tattered, that I no longer recognized as my own.
Tomorrow, I'd set up a new target. Tomorrow, I'd try again. I’d honed my skill over more than a decade.
This was just a temporary fuck-up.
I was just temporarily broken.
This faltering, failing, fucking mess I’d become wouldn’t last.
I’d do better.
But tonight, the truth that I was no longer Nitro clung to me. It traced over my skin uncomfortably like lotion that refused to absorb.