“No, I want you to learn what you can do to banish him or any demons who might take an interest in you!”
“And why would they do that?” I asked, suddenly wondering if freaking out didn’t make sense after all.
“Why does anyone? You attract trouble like a magnet.?
?
I scowled. “Don’t even try it. This wasn’t my normal bad luck calling and you know it. That demon was your father and you didn’t even warn me about him!”
“I’m warning you now. A decapitation won’t kill him, but it will force him back into the demon realm for a short time, perhaps a few days. Anything that causes catastrophic failure of the body he has assumed will do as much, but his shields can stop most attacks, including gunshots. And unlike most demons, he is not affected by direct sunlight. He has to drop his protection to feed, however, which gives you a moment of—”
I kicked my sword against the wall. “Pritkin!”
“You need to pay attention to this! I can’t be everywhere, and even when I am”—he took a breath, as if the admission pained him—“there are some things from which I may not be able to protect you.”
“I don’t expect you to. But I do expect to be told the truth.”
“We didn’t come here to talk.” He picked up my sword and shoved it back in my hands.
Maybe he hadn’t, but it had definitely been on my agenda. I couldn’t force the truth out of him, though. And in his case, I didn’t think reminding him of my office was going to do much good. I raised the sword, getting two hands on the pommel and wishing for something less likely to result in back strain. It was about the only body part that didn’t already ache.
“You want to fight, fine,” I told him. “But if I prove I’m halfway competent at this, you have to answer my questions for a change.”
Pritkin didn’t even bother to respond, except by attacking. I twisted out of the way before the blow could land, a crotchety voice echoing in my ear, its scathing comments familiar, almost soothing: You don’t have strength, girl, and you never will. Don’t depend on it! If you don’t need to block, don’t. Your opponent may be stronger than you, but he can’t hurt you if you’re not there. A second later, my sword was aimed at Pritkin’s jugular, putting him back on point.
I found myself staring at cool green eyes that were suddenly assessing. The tension seemed to crank up a notch without him moving a muscle. I kept a proper distance back, which, since our swords were the same length, was close enough to be able to strike but far enough away to need only one large step forward to attack. He slowly circled me, footwork perfect, never crossing his feet or giving me any chance to unbalance him. I hadn’t seen him fight with a sword before, but it looked like he’d also had a few lessons.
I mimicked his movements, my governess Eugenie’s mantra in my ears: speed, timing, balance. Slide your feet across the ground, don’t jump about like a frightened rabbit! I was a lousy shot and was beginning to doubt that I was ever going to get much better. But I did know the basics about swords. Eugenie and Rafe had sparred with me often enough growing up to ensure that. Eugenie had defended the lessons to Tony by claiming that they were more exercise than combat training.
She’d lied.
Watch for the shift in weight, the drop of a shoulder, the slight tensing of muscles that precipitates an attack. And above all, don’t think! Don’t think about your opponent, who he is or how well he fights or what you believe is going to happen. You don’t know. Be confident but not overconfident. Stay open, flexible and ready to act or react.
Pritkin’s blade swept down, then suddenly reversed its stroke as he stepped into a perfectly balanced thrust. On every wall, his mirrored self lunged with him—at empty air, because that feint was one of Rafe’s favorite moves and I hadn’t fallen for it. He recovered almost immediately, pivoting out of one pattern into another, far too fast for me to get behind him.
Hit the person, not the sword! It isn’t the sword that’s trying to kill you. And remember, taller opponents have a longer reach, but they often leave their legs exposed. It isn’t only torsos and heads that are targets, girl! I made a slashing move on a downward arc, and got a glancing hit on Pritkin’s left calf as he danced out of reach. I doubted it would even bruise, but with a real sword, it might have drawn blood.
Eugenie could have taken his leg off with it, but I didn’t have her skill. Despite her best efforts, I never would. But unlike Rafe, she had never pulled her punches. We’d fought with wooden swords, too, which was how I knew they hurt like hell when they hit. And she’d had no compunction about spanking me across the shins or backside with the flat of her blade if I was giving less than my best. Over the years, along with a lot of bruises, I’d accumulated rudimentary skill that, it seemed, hadn’t completely deserted me.
Remember to breathe. We may not have to, but you do, so use it. Strike on the exhale, it gives you more power. Great advice, but the trick was managing to land a blow at all, which was suddenly a lot harder. Parry, retreat, strike, lunge—I was moving on autopilot as Pritkin kicked it into high gear. I guess he’d decided playtime was over. And I hadn’t even realized that was what we’d been doing.
Within a minute, the burn of tired muscles was working its way through my arms and shoulders, down to my spine. Sweat was dripping in my eyes, turning my vision hot and grainy, and an exhausted headache was building inside my skull. But Pritkin’s sneaker-clad feet made hardly any sound against the polished wood floor, and he’d stopped telegraphing his movements. While the mirrors threw back images of him as an almost living extension of his weapon, his word flowing seamlessly into muscle and sweat and bone, I had to concentrate just to stay in the fight and not trip over my own feet.
There’s no such thing as a fair fight! Use what you have, all you have: throw sand in their eyes, kick dirt, hit below the belt. Remember, your goal is survival, not a prize for chivalry. That last was one lesson, at least, that I’d never had to be told twice. I ignored the blade coming at me, concentrated on the space behind Pritkin, and shifted. A second later, I had the point of my sword in the small of his back.
I hesitated, foolishly assuming that would end it, but Pritkin apparently had other ideas. He whirled, his weapon catching mine and spinning it out of my hand, his sword point under my chin, all practically before I could blink. “I wondered how long it would take before you remembered you can do that.”
I shifted before the look of amused superiority on his face had completely coalesced, and grabbed my sword from where it had skidded to a stop under the windows. I turned to find him almost on top of me, having crossed the room at a run, and I shifted again just before he got a hand on me. I tried something a little fancy, hoping to save the few seconds it would take me to turn around, and ended up facing him.
Unfortunately, my inner ears didn’t appreciate the sudden change in direction and a wave of dizziness cost me more time than a spin would have. It also made me stumble into him as he started to turn and we tripped and went down to the floor together, trying to move our swords out of the way before we fell on them. I tried to pin him, but he rolled us over and grinned down at me, eyes bright, face flushed.
“That’s thrice now, practically back to back. What’s your limit again? Four?”
I shifted out from under him and heard him fall to the floor with a thump as I grabbed my sword back. Or maybe it was his; my hair was in my eyes, along with a lot of sweat, and I wasn’t seeing too clearly. “It varies,” I panted, denting the sweatshirt over his heart with the point. “On the motivation.”
Pritkin’s leg caught me behind the knee, and I stumbled, barely managing to move the sword before I impaled him with it. A hard body slammed me the rest of the way to the floor before I could recover, and warm breath was in my ear. “You’re not sure?”
“Haven’t had reason…to find out yet,” I said savagely, trying to buck him off. Of course, it didn’t work.