33 #2
No, the queen wouldn’t. I’m starting to think we are just a game to her—entertainment as she waits for one of us to murder the other.
Although, if Evelyn kills me now, perhaps the queen would manipulate the event to count as treason.
It could make their bargain null and void, and she could take Evelyn’s life as payment.
“Come on, Hart. Let’s go.” Evelyn aims her sword at my chest. “Timer started thirty seconds ago.”
Quickly, I examine the surrounding racks as she circles me.
Instructor Shepherd always tells us to utilize our strengths, but maces and flails are too heavy; I’d either flatten her or myself.
Sword against sword is fine, but the portico is small, and I am not adept at swordplay.
I spy a narrow table of daggers. It could be deemed rather stupid to use a dagger against a sword, but if I can evade the sword and get close to her, I have the best chance of cutting off that ribbon.
I’ll have to be quick. Nimble. I’ll have to remember what it was like on that volleyball court.
My gut—my bones—tell me to go for the dagger, so I do.
Evie scoffs. “Humans have the smallest brains.”
“I’m not a human anymore.” To prove it, I dart out first—as if I’m hurtling toward a ball instead of a werewolf—and the movement catches her off guard.
I manage to scratch her left arm, drawing blood before the cut heals neatly.
A cruel delight burns between my ribs. Rage.
I am finally using my rage. I smile, my gaze flicking to hers.
“I’m a werewolf.” Her eyes blaze in response, and she twirls the sword in her hand.
We’re done talking, it seems. She lunges, her sword flying near my face, but it rebounds off a post and then a table of chains. The portico is too small for swords.
Good.
Evelyn might be faster, smarter, and stronger than me, but I want this more.
I need this more. And I am angry about so much.
I wave my dagger at her, inviting her to try again.
She swings hard, but I duck, and the silver of her sword meets the wood of a rack.
Splinters explode around the blade. She screams, trying desperately to rip out her sword.
With her back to me, and the sword effectively stuck, I channel over two months of bullying and torment and kick her. Right in the spine.
She soars into that same rack of longbows and arrows, and groans as bows crash to the floor. Arrows fall at our feet and scatter.
“Bitch,” she hisses, tossing her hair behind her and wiping sweat from her forehead. “I am so sick of you.”
“Ditto.”
She growls and throws aside her sword, scooping up two silver daggers. Just like the one she stabbed me with weeks ago. Her goal is always to maim.
Mine is to win.
She flies at me, faster than lightning, and manages two slices on my hip. Blood wells, then trickles down my shorts. I glare at her, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel pain right now, only rage.
“Very good, Miss Lee,” Instructor Shepherd says, standing beneath the weathered arch of the portico. “You cut her any deeper, and she won’t be able to fight back.”
“She’s hardly fighting back as is.” Evie spits at me, and a glob of hot saliva lands on my chest.
My vision bleeds red with anger, but I breathe. Keep breathing. I will not allow her to win.
“Defense won’t be enough for victory,” Instructor Shepherd says.
He’s right. I can avoid her attacks all I want, but if I can’t land any of my own, I’ll never rip the ribbon from her clothes.
Unless… That’s it . I brace myself, suddenly ready.
The strategy returns to me from before, when I wore jeans to school and sat at plastic tables during lunch and smacked a leather ball around for fun. Evie wants to maim .
She lunges once more, hands flying, daggers like claws in her fists, but I dodge them with ease and dart around her.
I switch our places. Again. Again. She blinks rapidly, her head swimming from the speed at which she twirls to keep up with me.
I am not playing her game any longer; I am playing the one Instructor Shepherd set up for us.
We did not need weapons for a capture the flag challenge.
That’s why no one else is surrounded by racks and swords.
I crouch near the ground and sweep my leg near her bad ankle—that’s what Antionette said; her left ankle is weak—and sure enough, it gives out.
Just like that. Simple plays are always better than complex strategy , our volleyball coach used to say.
And she was right. Evie crumples to the ground with a scream and grabs for her ankle as I rip the emerald ribbon from her shirt.
Her nostrils flare. She glares at me. Claws grow from her hands, fangs from her mouth.
I hold the ribbon victoriously between us. Raising a brow, letting myself feel her defeat—feel a modicum of joy for the first time in months—I say, “I win.”
Instructor Shepherd claps me on the back. “Not bad, Bitten one. Not bad at all.”
And I move on to the next match.