Defiance

“Not enough,” he barked. “More!” He darted forward, with that spooky blurring speed, and the sticks flashed. It sounded like popcorn, but with an extra crackle, wood groaning and popping as it smashed into more wood. Malaika have an edge, but these didn’t. Instead of slashing, this was a battering game— but I would be able to pick up a crowbar or a stick or anything, really, and have a chance of fighting something off. Plus, a lot of the moves were the same, building up muscle and instinct for the malaika.

You have to think in circles, he was always telling me. These circles, like a propeller, are your defense. This circle, with your feet, you move in. That way you’re ready for movement in any direction.

I drove him back across the mats, and for the first time I got the idea he wasn’t holding back and being careful. Warm oil covered my skin, my teeth tingled, and I felt the dainty points of my own fangs touching my lower lip.

Svetocha don’t get big fangs, oh, no. We get cute little ones. They look pretty useless, but they’re damn sharp. You have to get real close to get them in something, though.

Sometimes I wondered about that.

Right now, though, I wasn’t wondering. The world was slowing down, covered in clear plastic goop, and I was flying. It wasn’t like running with wulfen—nothing was like that—but it kept me from thinking.

When I was fighting Christophe, I didn’t have to think. I just had to move and do my best. He knew I was giving everything, and he never accused me of doing any less.

Even if he was expressing his displeasure, so to speak.

CRACK. One of his sticks went flying; he snatched his hand back as if I’d burned him, and I read his intent in the way his weight shifted. Flung myself forward, sticks blurring; he warded me off and had to step in the opposite direction. If I could keep him away from his left-hand stick, I might have even more of a chance.

The snarl turned into a smile. He wiped at the blood with the back of his hand, the sleeve of his black sweater smearing it. I could smell it, copper and cinnamon, taunting that place at the back of my palate where the bloodhunger lived. The hunger stretched inside my bones, glass nails turning as a crackling jolt of pure fury ran through me, and the sticks blurred as I moved much faster than I should have been able to. My footsteps were drumbeats against the mats; Christophe backed up, his eyes turning incandescent and the aspect folding lovingly over him. His fangs were out, his hair slicked down, and his remaining stick blurred through a figure-eight, battering away my attack.

The bleachers were coming up soon, no room for him to retreat unless he did something fancy, and if he did, I was going to have to react within a split second. I pressed him, sticks going like a high techno beat, and the world narrowed to a single point of concentration.

We weren’t just sparring now. No, it had ended up like usual—with me honestly trying to hurt him. The anger was back, boiling through my bloodstream, spurred by the smell of copper.

The bloodhunger reliably pushed me into the aspect. It also frightened me. I could really hurt someone when I did this. I’d almost killed Shanks back at the reform Schola, because I’d totally lost it.

But under the glow of the aspect, Christophe just looked intent and thoughtful.

And pleased.

“Hit me!” he yelled. “Hit me, Dru!”

I damn well did my best. Drove him back almost onto the bleachers; they rattled as he leapt, his back foot kissing the wooden surface and propelling him outward. He flew over me, but I was tracking. I knew where he was going to land; I whirled and lunged. Hit him twice on his way down, his body twisting to try and avoid the blows. Good solid hits, enough to crack a rib.

He landed and spun, foot flicking out. I met it squarely with my left-hand stick, the right curving down to smack him on the thigh. I could’ve gone for the nut shot, but it would have left me no recovery path. I might not have needed it with him curled up on the ground, but that was one of Christophe’s sayings—always leave yourself a recovery.

Dad would have approved. But I was too busy to feel the way my heart wrung itself down at the thought. That was another reason why I didn’t try to get out of sparring with Christophe, even if I was already tired from running over half the city during the afternoon when I should’ve been sleeping.

Because when I got going this fast, and I tried to hurt him, it made me forget—for just a few minutes a night—everything nasty and painful. Everything bad.

The aspect turned to a cloak of warm prickles instead of oil, my teeth aching and sensitive, and he spun in midair. It was one of the things human bodies aren’t supposed to do, but he’s djamphir. Physics and gravity don’t mean the same things to him that they do to—

I didn’t see how he hit me. One second I was kicking his ass while he was in midair, the next dynamite went off inside my head. I came to with my ears ringing and Christophe’s arms around me as he knelt on the mats.

“You’re getting better. No, don’t try to get up.” He pushed a curl out of my face. “Just lie still for a moment.”

I don’t know why he said that; I wasn’t trying to go anywhere. I blinked, and the world rolled back up to speed. I tasted hot copper, and hoped I wasn’t bleeding anywhere.

But wouldn’t you know, I guess it just wasn’t my night. A thin trickle of something warm slid down from my nose. Christophe swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and the aspect slipped through his hair like dark fingers.

I stared at him, my heart beating thinly. Rapid fluttering beats, like a hummingbird’s wings. His fever-hot fingers brushed my upper lip, wiping at the blood.

My blood. Full of happy stuff that drove boy djamphir crazy.

My arms and legs wouldn’t obey me. We were alone in here, and if he went nuts over the happy stuff in my blood there was no way I could—

I shouldn’t have worried.

He lifted his fingers to his mouth. Closed his eyes and licked them clean. I struggled to move, and his other hand—he had one arm underneath me, holding me up—bit down, fingers like slim iron bands.

I should have been terrified. But instead I only felt a sleepy sort of alarm. As if I was in a dream that wasn’t too terribly important.

Christophe leaned down. His eyes were still tightly shut, and his lips met my cheek. They grazed the surface of my skin, lightly, and I felt the sharp points of his fangs, scraping just a little.

Then he kissed me.

Each time our mouths met, it was the same. Lightning crackled through me, and I forgot everything else. The only thing I remembered was him, his arms around me and the taste of him like night in the desert, spice and sand and fading heat. One of his fangs brushed mine and a jolt of pleasure slammed down my throat. The bloodhunger bloomed, and my fingers were in his hair, twisting and tangling. My arms tensed, and for a moment I quivered on the edge of action—wrenching his head back, kissing down the line of his jaw, and burying those dainty little fangs in his throat. My entire body curved, strength welling back up, and I struggled against the part of me that wanted to rip out a chunk of his flesh and drink.

Christophe’s mouth slid free of mine, regretfully. He pulled away, despite my hands trying to keep him. I realized I was making a small sound in the back of my throat, a little mewling. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “Shhh, it’s all right. It’s just the hunger. It’s not you. You have control, kochana.”

It was nice of him to say it. Because really, I didn’t think I did. My lips burned, my teeth tingled, and I shook like I was cold. But at least I didn’t try to jerk forward and bite him.

I wanted to. I was stronger than the urge, though. By only a few millimeters, but it was something.

My fingers cramped. We were both bleeding, and the smell of it stroked that rough spot on my palate, right next to the little place that warned me of danger. I swallowed, but that just made it worse. Spit wasn’t what that place wanted. It wanted what was beating through his veins. It was even worse because I knew how good it tasted.

I knew what it was like to drink his blood, desert spice and wind through car windows, thunderstorm looming and the accelerator pressed to the floor.