Chapter 19
More than anything I want to stay locked up in Anthony's room and cry, but I know I can't do that, and force myself to go to school. I arrive late, during the third period. It's challenging to keep up appearances and pretend as if everything is normal—especially to Ashley. Fortunately I don't have any classes with her today, or she would have noticed my melancholic mood, and at lunch she flirts with another senior and doesn't seem to pick up on my nervousness, which I am thankful for.
Waiting for Maureen's call is like waiting for a blind snail to make its way around the world—twice. I carry my phone close at all times, checking it obsessively in class and between classes, just in case Anthony calls, which of course, he never does. I am relieved to find that Savannah seems to have vanished and I no longer need to check my seat for tacks or be afraid I might run into her in the hallway. I do, however, see Tyson a couple of times in passing, but luckily, he doesn't see me.
After school, I head straight back to Anthony's house again. Right as I pull in to the driveway, I see him working on a few guns in the garage. I step out of my car and approach him with caution.
"I'm going to train you how to use a pistol this afternoon, and a rifle and a couple of other things tomorrow," he says and then throws a small silver suitcase into the trunk of his car.
I feel nervous immediately. A gun? I can't imagine aiming a weapon at anyone, not even to save my own life. Thinking about it, I wonder if I would be able to shoot someone if it meant saving my mom's life. Hopefully it will not come to that.
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it, I promise," Anthony says.
I almost blurt out 'I doubt it,' but bite my tongue, knowing that the comment won't be helpful to him or me. He gets in the car and I follow his lead. We drive out of his subdivision and head east, toward the country. I think of the next few days ahead with dread. I was so excited to graduate and to go to the prom and was eagerly anticipating attending our after graduation party, but what I looked forward to just a few days ago is now just another distraction, another burden.
"We don't have to go to the prom to keep up appearances, do we?"
"Did you want to go?" Anthony asks, his hands clutching the steering wheel. He's driving way too fast.
"No, but you said you had a date, and I thought you were going."
"I'm not going," Anthony says.
I don't dig into his reasoning any further. He probably never had a date; it is more likely that it had been part of his earlier lies.
"I'll be teaching you how to use a weapon instead, will that suit you?" he asks.
"Sure," I say. Me holding a gun—it sounds like the most unlikely thing in the world.
When we arrive at the outdoor twelve-lane shooting range, Anthony tells me to wait in the car while he goes inside the one-story annex and pays the fees. When he comes out again, he drives us over to the wood stalls at the end of the dirt road and fetches the silver suitcase he stashed in his trunk earlier. Stepping into a wooden stall, he places the suitcase on the rectangular wooden table and sits down on the bench. A few other people are practicing their shots, but from what I can see, most of them missing horribly. This is going to be interesting.
Red, green, and white circular targets wait in the distance, and I estimate that they stand around one hundred yards away. Shots go off at random. The day is warm, but not hot, and the sky has patches of white clouds.
"Here." Anthony hands me a pair of orange and black ear guards and clear protective glasses. "Put the ear guards on your head, but leave one ear uncovered so I can instruct you."
I follow his directions.
Opening the silver suitcase and pulling out a pistol, he says, "This is a Beretta 93R. It's a selective-fire machine pistol, meaning you can select whether you want to fire either a three round burst, or a single fire." He hands it to me with the barrel pointing down. "With your fingers on one side of the grip, keep your middle, ring and pinky finger curled around the trigger guard like this." He shows me. "Your grip around the pistol needs to be really tight. This gun is not an easy one to aim, but Huldras are known for perfect aim."
"Really?" He can't mean me, I'm sure—I'm just a beginner.
"Yes, didn't your mother tell you anything about the Huldra's ability to never miss a shot?" Anthony asks, checking my grip on the pistol.
"No."
"You read up on Huldras, didn't you? There are quite a few stories on the internet about Huldras blowing on a man's weapon, and that weapon never missing a target again."
"I didn't get much of a chance to read the stories." Mom was always encouraging me to read the other Norse myths and I think she was trying to protect me, but sometimes protecting someone too much can make them weak.
"Now," he says, stationing himself behind me, "wrap your other hand around the pistol and align both thumbs to point downrange."
"Okay." I try not to think about the fact that I am wrapped in Anthony's arms. I don't want to think about him right now in that way when I am here to learn these skills so I can save my mom.
He wraps his hands around mine and lifts the pistol up. "Now, hold the gun very firmly, and identify your target. Feet shoulder width apart, dominant foot forward."
I take my stance. "Like this?" I feel strong.
"Perfect," Anthony says.
"Now, focus your eyes on the center of the target." His cheek brushes against mine ever so gently. He shaved. No scruff. I curse under my breath at how easily distracted I am.
"Aha," I say.
"See the red dot?" Anthony says.
He smells so good. What is wrong with me? I scold myself for letting Anthony have this effect on me and remind myself that he might still be my enemy. With sheer willpower, I concentrate until all I can see is the red dot in the center of the board. "Yes, perfectly. Red dot in focus."
"Now, place your finger on the trigger, but don't pull it yet," Anthony says, loosening his grip around my hands, but still holding his hands there.
His chest is pressed against my back, and I remember what he looked like when I saw him shirtless on the beach. Focus, Sonia! Breathing steadily, I move my index finger from the outside of the trigger guard to the inside. For one who never thought she would hold a gun in her hands, it comes surprisingly natural, and it actually feels like I have always known how to use it.
"Slowly squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it. Jerking the trigger will throw off your aim," Anthony whispers in my ear, but I am too focused now to let that sidetrack me. He adjusts the protective guard over my ear and takes a step back.
I squeeze the trigger. Bam! The buzz of the explosion sends blood whirling through my body and I can't help but smile, the kind where my cheeks cramp up. "I did it." Carefully, I hand Anthony the pistol, fling my glasses and ear guards into the dirt, and sprint up to the target.
"Sonia!" I hear Anthony yell after me, but I don't stop. "Sonia, you can't just run into the range! You could get shot!"
At the target, I see that the bullet has entered and exited through the red dot, and not just anywhere on the red dot, but perfectly in the center. I touch it, feeling the torn edges of where my bullet passed through.
I see Anthony running toward me, all the way, waving his hands frantically, yelling at the other shooters to stop shooting. "You can't just run into the range like that. You could get killed!" he yells at me. He stops and looks at the target. "See, told you. Let's have you try the semi-automatic setting."
"Great," I say, excited to advance to the next level already. "So...all Huldras have perfect aim?" I suppose it makes sense since I have never missed a goal in any sport.
"Yes, it's in our blood." We run back to our stall.
"If we all have perfect aim, aren't we just going to kill each other if we start fighting?" I ask.
"Possibly, but have you heard of a Darkálfar?" He picks up the pistol and adjusts the setting to semi-automatic.
"Yes...? Maybe. More like a Darkelves, though," I say, remembering a vague mention of Darkelves from the mythology section in my history class. I sit down on the bench.
"Maureen works mostly with Darkálfars, the...evil elves." Anthony lifts the pistol up and shoots a three-round burst with one hand, all hitting the center of the red dot in the distance.
"Are they all evil?" I ask. "They can't all be evil...?" I get the feeling that he is bitter.
"Yes, every one. It's in their nature." He lowers the weapon. "They come from the dark realm of Svartalvheim, meaning 'black elf home.'"
"Another realm?"
"Yes, have you heard of the nine realms in Norse mythology?"
"Yes, one of them is Valhalla, correct?" I say.
"Exactly."
I want to ask whether or not those realms really exist, but if the Darkálfars exist, it's self-evident.
"How many Darkálfars are there?" I ask.
"I'm not sure," Anthony says. "Could be dozens, hundreds or even thousands. Maureen has kept a lot of information from me. Your mom's not the only one to keep secrets."
"Are all the Darkálfars on Maureen's side?"
"Not that I know of, but she could quite possibly have recruited them all to fight for her in this battle."
"Do you mean a literal battle?" I say.
He hesitates.
"Just tell me—please."
"Let me explain something first. Maureen has told me hundreds of times that her father beat her as a child. He was also abusive in many other ways."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I say, not really feeling sorry.
"Since then, she has sworn never to let anyone have power or control over her again and in trying to accomplish this, she has decided she needs to have the ultimate power."
"Then she must be more powerful than everyone," I say.
Anthony nods. "Something like that. Now how she will manage to do that, I don't have the faintest clue. But if she can control enough people with her and Olaf's flairs, and her army of Darkálfars, it might not be such a far-fetched goal." He sits down next to me, his thigh resting against mine.
I try not to notice. "So we're two, and they are...an indefinite number?" I turn to face him. With an indefinite number of possible Darkálfars on Maureen's side, I can't imagine ever winning the battle against her and Olaf.
"Yes." He doesn't look at me, but the muscles in his face tense.
All hope vanishes from my core. "Don't you think we've already lost?"
"I'm not willing to give up on your mom's life just yet, are you?" Anthony says, his eyes passionate, and now looking straight at me.
Point taken.
"I have heard rumors that there are Lightálfars, too," he says.
"Are the Lightálfars the good guys?" I ask.
"I think so, especially since Maureen doesn't associate with them."
I feel a small flicker of hope emerge in the hopelessness that had previously paralyzed me. We need to find them. Surely, if there are Darkálfars in our world, then there must be Lightálfars as well.
"Now, let's focus on your lesson, shall we? We can talk about this later." Anthony places his hands on the tabletop and rises to his feet.
I stand up, pick up the Beretta, raise my right hand while aiming at the target, and pull the trigger. Bam! Bam! Bam! All bullets through the same hole in the center. Perfect! Maybe being a Huldra has its benefits after all.