Chapter 7 #3
Sean obeyed, facing Anna from a few paces away while Isobel made herself at home in the grass. He stretched out his arms, taking measure of his opponent.
“Begin,” Cathaire said.
Anna made no move. She tilted her head, her gaze dipping down his neck and arms, studying him. “You’re off balance.”
“I’m just standing here.”
In a flash, she darted forward, hands aimed for his shoulders. He threw his arms up, but she used their height difference to bend him forward and ram her knee into his stomach.
He coughed, and with one smooth twist, she kicked his ankle and brought him to the ground.
Sky-blue eyes glinted down at him. “See? Off balance.”
Cathaire ordered them to go again.
Brushing grass from his legs, Sean stood, appraising this fragile-appearing creature more closely. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Pain is power.” She moved again, but he was prepared, raising his arms in defense.
She grabbed his wrist and elbow, swinging herself beneath his arm to imprison it behind his back.
From there, she kicked the back of his leg and followed him to the ground as he collapsed, her bony knee digging hard into his spine.
“You’re going easy, Apprentice,” Cathaire said in their natural tongue. “Stop immobilizing him and hurt him.”
She released Sean and stood. “He’s the heir of Sidera.”
“I don’t care if he’s the bloody Queen of the Seelie Court. Take him down.”
Sean pushed himself from the ground. Behind Isobel, a crowd had gathered to watch.
Great.
Anna faced him again. “You actually want to fight back this time?”
He shrugged, walking a slow circle which she countered. “Feels weird, trying to hurt a woman.”
“Your Viterra is showing,” she said with a smile. “You’ll get used to it.”
He laughed. A real laugh. The first since he’d entered this place. “Alright, then. Let’s do this.”
Her smile was a wicked, bright thing, and she closed the distance between them, aiming a punch to his face which he dodged, but she followed it closely with another that landed on his jaw. Pain reverberated through his entire head.
Damn, the girl could punch.
He aimed a retaliatory blow toward her chin. She caught it before it clipped her.
After that, the scuffle turned into a frenzy of arms and legs, hers clearly more practiced while his were more reactionary, stemming from his instincts and a desire to not look like an idiot in front of all these people.
She landed a few kicks in inconvenient places and bruised his ribs with her tiny fists. By the end, his lip was bleeding and a bruise had bloomed on the crest of her cheek, but she was grinning when she pinned him, her leg wrapped tight around his throat.
Cathaire made some gesture with his hand, and Sean raised a brow.
“Apologies. Pixie Sign,” Cathaire explained. “You’ll learn the language soon enough, Savior. So you’ve got raw talent and strength, but your technique is weak. Who taught you?”
Anna released him to speak. Sean rubbed his throat.
“No one,” he said and thought of his mother, who’d apparently been a pixie and could have trained him from childhood but had chosen not to.
He shoved that maddening thought aside. The next words popped out of his mouth in the new language buried in his head: “I just do what comes natural.”
Cathaire’s eyebrows shot up. “Your instincts are good. Tomorrow we start with the basics.” He lent a hand, and a throbbing ache woke in Sean’s ankle when he stood.
With the crowd’s excited whispers slithering around him, Sean refused to limp, but the ache kicked up a notch when he put weight on it. “Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes, I will devise a training schedule for you and Anna. She’s grown tired of having only me to train her, I’m sure.”
“I branch out when I need to, Blademaster.” Anna aimed a grin at him as she wiped sweat from her brow.
Cathaire laughed. “The two of you will make excellent partners.” He clapped a hand on Sean’s sore shoulder. “Don’t worry, Savior. You’ll be fighting in the rings in no time.”
At that, several of the spectators whooped in delight. “Yeah, you will!” one said, while another laughingly added, “I’ll take him on!”
Sean sought Isobel for reassurance. She stood off to the side, a hollow smile on her face. Her hips swayed as she approached, mesmerizing, and when she drew close enough that he could detect the rose scent she wore, she touched the tip of one finger to the gash on his lip.
That finger drifted to his chin, and she tilted his head down enough that it was hardly a stretch for her to kiss him.
Just like last time, sparks of heat turned to flames in his blood, and her magic weaved throughout, healing each bruise, every cut, making it easier to breathe, to stand, to merely exist.
Outside their sphere, the crowd erupted into catcalls, and he realized this was all a performance. This kiss, this spectacle, was Isobel bending to the expectations of her people.
But what exactly did they expect?
She pulled back just before that healing magic turned to pain and spoke so only he could hear: “Welcome to the show.”