Magic Rises (29 page)

“It’s none of your business.” This was it. This was his angle. Separate me from Curran and present himself as a better alternative. Hugh was playing me. I was walking along the edge of a cliff and needed to be sharp or I’d plunge down, but the red mist in my head was making it hard to concentrate.

“There are dozens of girls like Lorelei. They think they are special because they were born shapeshifters and they are cute and spoiled. They expect the world to bend for them.” Hugh pointed toward the hall. “I can go in there right now, ask for one, and by morning I’ll have ten just like her. You are special, Kate. You were born special, and then you passed through Voron’s crucible, and you’ve excelled. Curran can’t see it. There is an old word for it: unworthy.”

“Will you be quiet?” I ground out.

He kept talking, never raising his voice, his tone reasonable but insistent. “I work with shapeshifters. I know them. I have them in my order. They don’t think like us. They like to pretend they do, but their physiology is simply too different. They don’t experience complex emotions, they experience urges. It’s a cold, hard fact. Shapeshifters are ruled by instincts and needs: the urge to survive, to eat, and to produce offspring. Everything they do is dictated by animalistic thinking: they feel fear and it drives them into forming packs; they’re driven to procreate and so they become aggressive toward their competition in an effort to pass on their genes; they make children—”

Maddie’s mother flashed before me. “They love their children! They defend them to the end.”

“So do cheetahs and wolf spiders. But expecting compassion or complex emotions from them would be foolish. It’s a survival instinct, Kate. When a human mother loses a child, it’s a life-breaking tragedy. When a shapeshifter child turns loup, they grieve and weep for a month or so, and then they get to work on a replacement.”

Hugh raised his hands in front of him about a foot apart, palms facing each other. “They have tunnel vision and they live in the moment. Right now Curran’s instincts are telling him you are a problem. Being with you is too complicated. You don’t fit neatly into the structure of his world, and others are questioning his choice. You are a source of friction and now he’s found a more suitable alternative.”

I didn’t want to hear any more. I pushed from the wall, but he blocked my way.

“Move.”

“Ask yourself if you will be content living your life in his shadow. You know you were meant for greater things. Deep down he knows this, too. He knows he can’t hold you or he would’ve begged you to marry him. When a man wants to share his life with a woman, he offers her everything.”

“Move.” If he didn’t, I would move him.

“You need to blow off some steam. I have an exercise yard full of swords. Spar with me.”

“No.”

“If you’re too scared to try, just say you’re scared, and we’ll come back to it when you grow a backbone.”

Voron.
That was what Voron used to say to me. He would critique my fights, he would batter me in practice, and when I came up short, he’d reprimand me. “Do better” was bad. “Sloppy” was worse. But nothing compared to “Say you’re scared.” There was no worse sin than to not try because you couldn’t scrape together enough courage.

The anger that had simmered boiled over. The ice cage cracked. I was so done. He wanted a fight, I would give him a fucking fight. “Fine. Lead the way.”

CHAPTER 15

I followed Hugh down the stairs. We emerged into the hallway and I nearly walked into George. She saw Hugh. Her smart eyes narrowed. “Hey, Kate.”

“Hey.”

“Where you going?”

“Out for a little exercise.”

George turned. “I’ll come with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

We walked through the hallways to a door. Hugh pushed it open and we emerged into the inner yard. Six large racks of weapons greeted me, spaced in a crescent along the nearest wall. Swords, axes, spears. He must’ve taken time to prepare. It wouldn’t help him.

I strolled along the racks. I recognized a few Japanese blades, but most were European, bastard swords, rapiers, sabers. An ancient falcata waited by the Greek kopis, a Roman gladius rested next to a hand-and-a-half, and a German messer next to its descendant, the saber. Falchions, claymores, tactical blades, every single one of them not only functional but beautiful, a kind of weapon that was a tool of war and a piece of art. Voron would’ve loved this. It had to be Hugh’s personal collection. It was beautiful, as long as one ignored the man in the cage slowly dying of thirst in the corner.

I glanced up. Christopher was watching us through the bars with haunted eyes. I had meant to bring him water this morning.

Hugh stalked on the other side, watching me.

“Kate,” George said. “What are you planning to do?”

“We’re planning to spar,” Hugh told her. “Just a friendly competition.”

“This is a really bad idea,” George said.

“What do I get if I win?” I asked.

Hugh nodded at his priceless swords. “You can have anything here.”

I surveyed the blades. I would be insane to turn one down. “Anything?”

“Anything in this courtyard. But if I win—”

“You won’t.”

“If I win,” Hugh said, “you’ll tell me how you killed Erra. What magic you did, what moves you used. You will re-create that fight for me, down to the last little detail.”

George shook her head. “Kate . . .”

“Deal.”

George sighed.

I shrugged off my sheath and set Slayer down by the closest rack. I needed a similar blade, something with the same reach, weight, and balance.

Hugh stalked along the racks, thinking.

Falchion . . . No. A saber would give me an advantage, but this had to be an even contest. He was stronger; I had no doubt of that. He was six inches taller, muscled like a gladiator, and outweighed me by sixty-five pounds at the very least. His shirt molded to him, and the muscle on his torso looked hard like body armor. But all that muscle mass came with a price. It would cost him in endurance and speed, and I had endurance coming out of my ears.

We stopped at the same rack. Two nearly identical swords waited before us, each thirty-two inches long. A deep bevel ran down the length of the double-edged blades. People called it the blood groove, because they imagined blood dramatically running down the bevel. In reality the groove wasn’t made to channel blood, but to lighten the weight of the sword without compromising its resilience. Despite its size, one of these twin swords would likely weigh only about two and a half pounds. Let’s see, a classic type six cross-guard, with widened flattened ends bent slightly toward the blade. A four-inch grip, wrapped with a leather cord. A plain round pommel. Not a work of art, but a brutally efficient tool, designed to take lives.

“Fate,” Hugh said.

I took one sword; he took the other. I swung my blade. Hmm. Lighter than two and a half pounds. More like two pounds, six ounces. No, five. Point of balance about five inches. Good sword. Fast, strong, lively.

We walked away from the racks, giving ourselves some space to dance.

“Why don’t you use your own sword?” George asked.

“He might break it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Hugh put his hand on his heart.

“He would,” I told George. “He’s a sonovabitch.”

Hugh laughed. “We just met and she knows me so well.”

I shrugged my shoulders, moving them forward, stretching my back. “Rules?”

“Full contact,” Hugh said. “Yield.”

I had expected first blood. “Full contact, yield” meant neither of us would hold back and we wouldn’t stop until one of us was backed into a corner or in real danger of losing a limb or our life. One of us had to say uncle for the fight to end.

“You sure about that?” I had a lot of aggression to work out.

“Are you afraid?” Hugh asked.

“Nope. Your funeral. Ready?”

Hugh spread his arms. “Introduce me to the afterlife.”

I thought you’d never ask.

I walked toward him. He would expect a European opening with a European sword. He wouldn’t get one.

If I killed him now, he would never tell Roland about me. It could be just a sparring accident.
My sword slipped and cut through his aorta. Oopsies. Dreadfully sorry.

I was closing the distance. Hugh still had his hands out. He had no idea how pissed off I was.

I could make it look like an accident. I could make him pay for everything that hurt inside me.

I picked up speed, spun, and let myself off the chain, flying into movement like a pebble shot from a slingshot. The world slowed; each second stretched as if underwater.

I slashed diagonally, right to left over his chest. He stepped back to dodge.

I sliced right to left. Another step, hands up.

A low lunge, cutting left to right across his lower stomach. Hugh still dodged, but now with a purpose. He’d identified the cuts—I was hitting along eskrima’s cardinal angles. About time. I reversed the slice, cutting in the opposite direction across the stomach. Hugh moved to parry, point of his blade down, body turning, planning to catch me with his left elbow.

Our swords touched.

I hammered my left fist into his jaw. The jawbone crunched and popped out of its socket. Hugh’s mouth hung open, his lower jaw out of place. I’ve had my jaw dislocated before. Right now the pain was exploding in his skull and it had to be excruciating.

Hugh stumbled back. I drove him across the yard, striking as fast as I could. Hit. Hit. Hit. He staggered. My blade caught his biceps. Blood swelled, bright and red. The magic vibrated in it like a live electric current. First blood to me.

Hugh punched himself. The jaw slid into place. He reversed the grip and brought the sword down, cutting at me with powerful strikes. Dodge, dodge, parry. Ow. I batted his blade aside with the flat of mine, but if it had landed, the sheer power of it would have taken my arm off. Good that I wasn’t planning on standing still.

“Temper, temper.”

He opened his mouth and growled.
Ha-ha, hurts to talk, doesn’t it?

“You look in pain. Do you want a time-out to pull yourself together?”

He parried. His sword came over his head, slicing forward. I dodged and too late realized he had expected me to, because as I moved, he continued the swing, drawing his blade back. For a moment he looked almost like a batter, his body angled, his hips turned, as he put all of his momentum into the underhand swing. I barely had time to thrust my blade before his.

The blow knocked me back. I staggered. He kept coming, pounding on me with methodical heavy strikes. The precision of a scalpel, the power of a sledgehammer. I shied left, right, turning, trying to keep movement to a minimum to keep from getting tired out.

He thrust.

I blocked, half an instant too slow. The sword grazed my right shoulder. Pain lashed my muscle. Argh.

“Dance faster, Kate!”

His jaw started working again. That was some regeneration. I ducked out of the way. Hugh rammed me with his shoulder. I flew and crashed into the wall. My back crunched from the impact.
You sonovabitch.
He sliced at me. I ducked under the cut and twisted away. His blade struck stone. It cost him a third of a second and I landed a mule kick to the back of his knee. The knee bent, Hugh pitched forward, and I smashed the heel of my left hand into the back of his head.
Face, meet rock.

Hugh grunted, a savage sound, one part pain, three parts pure fury.

I could cut through him. I could bury my sword in his back right now. But it wouldn’t look like an accident.

I launched a kick.

Hugh dropped down and swept my leg from under me. I dropped. I was still in the air when Hugh’s enormous fist flashed, coming toward me. I hit the ground, flexing my stomach, as I fell.

Hugh hammered a punch into my solar plexus.

Aaahhh. Aaahh, that hurt. Pain drowned me, hot, intense, and blinding. My stomach melted into agony, the air turned to fire in my lungs, and every nerve in my body screamed.

Hugh rolled to his feet fast like a dervish and flung blood from his face.

I squeezed the sword grip in my hand, fighting through the pain. I had to get up. He could’ve killed me. He hadn’t, but I could not let him win. No. Not happening.

He would expect me to roll to my feet and catch me on the way up.

I could swear I heard people screaming somewhere far away. “Get up, Kate.”

Hugh’s right foot swung back, aiming for my side. “No time to rest.”

I rolled into the kick, my knees bent. His foot connected with my shins. I grabbed his boot and kicked straight out at his other leg.

Hugh crashed down. I rolled backward and to my feet, sword up.

Hugh flexed and hopped off the ground. He bared his teeth at me, his eyes alight with madness. He looked insane.

You know what, fuck it.
Accident or not, I no longer cared. I would end him here.

I grinned back, my own deranged psychotic smile.

Hugh bellowed like an animal. It was a happy roar.

I charged. His defense was too good for the inside strike, so I went for the arms. Big body, big heart. Let’s see how much blood you’ve got in you, Preceptor.

We clashed and danced across the clearing. I sank into the flurry of strikes, melting into the rhythm, fluid, quick, the sword so natural in my hand that wielding it was like breathing. He was fast, but I was faster.

“You want to know how I killed Erra? Like this.” I sliced his left bicep. “And like this.” Another cut, across the chest. “Hang around. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

He scored a cut across my side. I opened two gashes across his arms. Two to one. I liked those odds.

Hugh shook his head, trying to fling blood out of his eyes. I kept coming. He took a step back. Another.

Twenty-six years. Twenty-six years of looking over my shoulder, of living in constant paranoia. Twenty-six years of worrying about being found, of pretending to be weaker, of denying myself basic human contact. I let them fuel me. My sword became a whip, lashing, cutting, slicing, turning, drawing hot red blood again and again. He tried to match it, but I was too fast. I thrust and laughed when the sword found resistance.

Pain hummed inside me, but it had receded into a far place. He cut me, but I didn’t care. The real world faded. Only anger remained. I was so tired of losing everyone I loved. He was everything that caused me pain and I had to destroy it.

He fought like Voron: skilled, smart, and deadly. Fighting him was magic. It was like sparring with my father. But I had beaten Voron when I was fourteen. I would beat Hugh as well. I was too angry to stop.

I walked him backward across the courtyard. It was him and me and two swords. I could go on forever. I would go on forever. He would slow down first.

Die, Hugh. Die for me.

Die.

“Kate!”

Curran.

I pulled back, just enough to glance in the direction of his voice. He was in the window on the right. Lorelei stood next to him, her face slack with shock. Bloody hell.

Every window had someone in it. People had piled out onto the balconies. Above us on the parapet, Hibla’s djigits leveled crossbows at me. At the far tower, two more of Hibla’s werejackals primed the scorpio.

Reality crashed into me like a runaway train. If I killed Hugh, they would fill the courtyard with arrows. I would die.

I didn’t care. It would be worth it.

I turned and glimpsed George as she moved away from us.

George would die with me. They’d hit her with enough arrows that even her shapeshifter regeneration wouldn’t be able to cope, and even if she survived, the Pack would retaliate. There would be a bloodbath.

I had to disengage. I wanted to keep fighting so bad, it hurt.

I thrust to Hugh’s chest, dropping the angle sharply. He parried, but we both knew it was a quarter of an inch too low. My blade slid along his and I felt it sink into his right oblique muscle. Anger faded from his features. The wall was right behind him. Hugh took a slow, deliberate step back. I followed, my sword an inch into his upper stomach. If I pressed, he’d suffer a lacerated liver.

He leaned against the wall. A slow smile stretched his bloodstained lips.

“I’d like to hear it.”

Hugh leaned forward, forcing the sword to bite deeper into his muscle. A strange expression claimed his face, a kind of focused but slightly amused look, possessive, no,
inviting
 . . .

Hugh opened his mouth. “Uncle.”

It wasn’t a surrender. It was a dare. A year ago I might’ve mistaken it for something else or convinced myself I was reading too much into it, but a year of being in love and being wanted gave me enough of a basis to identify that look. Hugh was turned on.