Mania Read Online Free Page B

friend’s kid, others that he was training me; whatever lie he felt worked best for the situation.
    But I was never allowed to call him “Dad” even in private. He was afraid I might then slip up in public and somehow reveal our secret. Parker was the only thing he felt vulnerable about; he was terrified people could use Parker to hurt him. His son, his weak spot.
    He could never let his enemies find out he had more than one of us.
    In the back of my mind, I remembered the only time I’d called him Dad. I was eight, and it just took two seconds for him to lift me up and pin my back against the wall.
    â€œ Danny —not Dad,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder even though we were completely alone. “ Never Dad … do you understand?”
    My lungs burned with the need for air, but I was proud I kept my emotions in check as I nodded. He released me and I slid down the wall.
    He might have been rough, but his tactics worked. I’d never made that mistake again.
    I surveyed the land, trying to remember everything as it was the last time I’d been here, five years ago. Ten feet in front of me stood the remains of the makeshift fire pit where we’d cooked our meals many nights. Ten feet to my right was the spot Dad had set up a target and taught me to use first a slingshot, then a BB gun, and eventually throwing knives. About a mile over the rise to the left, he’d set up a shooting range and taught me to fire a rifle and then a handgun. We’d been here longer than anywhere, but almost every sign of it was gone now. How fast Mother Nature could wipe away every footstep we’d left behind.
    My feet took me further into the lot without a thought to guide them. There was a clear spot here where nothing grew. No weeds, no wildflowers—no beauty of the land broke through this soil. A vivid memory came floating back; Dad had poured so much rock salt in this spot I wasn’t sure if anything would ever grow here again. I smiled tightly and my chest twisted with bittersweet pain. Even nature couldn’t erase Dad completely.
    Dust swirled around my feet as a breeze kicked up. I could still see Dad standing across the empty lot from me, waiting for me to attack—teaching me to fight—teaching me to kill.
    â€œCome at me high.” He bent his knees and waited. His eyes, always rimmed with shadows and exhaustion, somehow still looked alert and ready for whatever attack I had planned.
    I’d circled him, hands up, blocking as I searched his stance, his body, and his eyes for weakness. Find the weakness and you’ve won . He’d taught me that lesson time and again. There was always a weakness.
    Then I saw it—the slight dragging of his right foot, the smallest hint there was something wrong. He’d been cornered by some Takers the day before. I knew there’d been a fight, but he’d said everything was fine when he came home. Standing up straight, I dropped my hands and stepped forward.
    â€œYou got hurt?”
    He pounced before I could take a breath. I got one arm up in time to absorb the blow from his fist, but he swung his right foot out—the one he’d been dragging only an instant before—and I was on my back, his forearm cutting off my oxygen before I could blink.
    I struggled against him. Pushing and shoving with all my strength, fighting for the air I knew I needed. But I was only eleven, and he had me out-muscled and out-maneuvered on every side. As always, Dad kept me trapped until my vision started to darken and my body shook with the desperate ache for air before releasing me.
    Coughing, I rolled onto my side to face him as rich, sweet oxygen flowed into my lungs and through my veins. He paced in front of me with no sign of injury, the slight limp from before completely gone. My head pounded as I climbed to my feet.
    â€œYou—you’re not hurt?” Still dizzy, I rested my hands on my knees to regain my