Not too swiftly for Helen. She swung, and Nick swerved. Directly into the path of her second blade, which slid between his ribs.
It was so simple and done with so little fuss that for a moment Mae forgot to feel alarmed. Then she heard the sound Alan made in the back of his throat, scraping and pained, as if he was the one who’d been stabbed. She saw the bloodstain spread slow and red across the white of Nick’s shirt.
Before Helen could draw her sword out, Nick attacked her unprotected side, his sword slicing in. She dived away, her shirt torn and bloody, pulling her sword out of Nick’s chest as she went.
Nick clenched his free hand into a fist and pressed it hard against the bloodstain, then swung in while Helen was still off balance. She fumbled the blade that was still dark and slick with Nick’s blood, and Nick struck her wrist hard with his sword. She gave a hoarse cry and dropped it.
“Now we’re even,” said Nick.
“We’re not even,” Helen said. “I was using magic and my swords before you were ever born.”
“I was killing long before you were born,” Nick told her, suddenly soft, as if struck by a pleasant memory. “I’ll be killing long after you’re dust.”
“You sure about that?” Helen said. “I’m not.”
Their swords met again, once, twice, three times in a ringing flurry of silver and gold, sparks flying into the darkness. Nick pressed in, and even Mae could see that wasn’t good for Helen: With their blades locked, Nick had the advantage of height and weight. He could drive her down.
Mae’s leaping heart went still and cold as a stone in her chest when Helen’s remaining sword flared into sudden vibrant life, humming and glowing with the white intensity of the sun.
Nick’s sword, locked tight with the magician’s, broke in two against it. The blade went clattering to the deck, and Nick was left standing there holding the hilt, a broken shard of steel still attached to it. It looked pathetic, especially next to Helen’s shimmering weapon.
Nick tossed it up into the air, caught it by the shard, and when Helen’s eyes followed the movement for an instant he moved past her guard and hit her hard in the nose with the hilt, then dropped it and punched her in the stomach. When she doubled over, he lunged away from her and across the bridge to seize the other sword, the one she’d dropped.
Helen looked up, blood streaming down her face, as he bore down on her.
She parried Nick’s blow and then struck. The sword Nick held was dimmed, ordinary again, while the one she still held was ferociously bright. It seemed to leap in her hands, and Mae clenched her fists at every blow, the ring of blades meeting turning into a murderous little song. Nick’s and Helen’s feet were moving together, back and forth, like a dance.
Nick was bleeding too much. There was a scarlet trail leading down from the wound his fist was still clenched over, and from the end of his shirt blood was dripping, forming a dark pattern on the bridge.
“I’m sure,” Nick said. Their blades flashed and rang, again and again, faster and faster, until all Mae could make out was a metallic blur and Helen’s white face. “And I’m sure of something else. You should’ve spent your time learning to use these swords, not magic them.”
The humming of Helen’s sword was more like shrieking now, a thin sound with steel and rage behind it. She went in again, wilder and sloppier, going for the kill. That bright sword kept coming within inches of Nick’s heart, his throat, his ribs. She scored another cut on the outside of his thigh.
Nick kept his blows steady and controlled, making every one count. Helen feinted to his wounded side, and he faltered. She dived in to exploit the moment of weakness, close to his body, and Nick struck her a blow that forced her arm up.
Her sword went flying into the air, sketching a golden arc against the night sky. Then it fell, all brightness lost, and was swallowed by the dark waters of the Thames.
Nick kicked Helen’s kneecaps, sending her legs out from under her. She tumbled down to her knees before him on the bridge, and he rested his sword lightly against her neck.
“Finish it,” Helen ground out, without lifting her bowed blond head.
All Mae could see was his back, his black head bent to survey his kill. He looked huge and menacing suddenly, now that the woman was on her knees. Now that she was helpless.
“No,” Nick said at last.
Helen did look up then. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to,” he said calmly. “I want you to go home, magician, and practice the sword without using magic. I want you to get really good. And
His voice changed a little on that last line, dark and anticipatory. Helen smiled.
“You’ve got yourself a date, demon.”
Nick strode forward to where the Aventurine Circle stood, transfixed and appalled.
Celeste Drake looked as if she might be considering taking some action as a demon advanced on her with a blade in hand.
“He won his prize,” Helen called back sharply over her shoulder.
Nick kept walking, swinging his sword in what seemed to be an idle manner. Celeste’s eyes followed it. Her free hand glowed a little, magic building hot in the center of her palm, and her other hand tightened on Jamie’s silver chain. Jamie wasn’t fighting anymore, but he was standing as far away from her as he could, the line of magic held taut between them.
“My prize,” Nick repeated. “You don’t have any slightly more impressive prizes on offer? Yeah, I thought not.”
Jamie looked indignant.
