Defiance

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Schola wakes up just slightly before dusk when the days get longer. There’s a sort of sound to the place, one you can’t quite hear with your ears. It’s the sound of attention, of awareness—and of possible violence.

I wasn’t concerned about that so much, though. Right now I was glad I’d had the pizza, and I was concerned about staying one step ahead of Christophe. The malaika-shaped stick slid through the air, almost kissing the front of my hoodie, and I leapt back like a cat finding a snake on the road, snapping a kick at his knee. It didn’t connect, but it did force him back a half-step. I flung myself away, falling and rolling, and came up with the stick he’d knocked out of my hands. Whirling, had to get more speed, slashing at empty air because he’d twisted aside. That was okay. I had enough room to breathe now, stepping back cautiously. Every time I shifted weight, it was to sure footing.

Arcus would be proud. Don’t lose your balance, girl! the wulfen teacher would always yell. Before Christophe showed back up, he’d been the one to start teaching me how to use what little I had against a Real World opponent.

I hadn’t seen Arcus in weeks now. Not since Christophe’s Trial. I sometimes wondered what he was doing. Yet another question I didn’t ask.

The gym was empty, collapsible wooden bleachers pushed up against the walls and the entire floor covered with mats. Shafts of dusky light peered down from high windows covered with chicken wire, dust dancing through the golden beams. I was grateful I was wearing jeans, because if I hadn’t I’d’ve lost some skin when I’d done the sliding-on-my-knees trick to get away from him.

He hadn’t mentioned me going out during the day. But he’d run me ragged through the first two malaika forms and now he was kicking my ass all over the gym. I got the idea the three things were related.

Christophe snarled as he dropped into first guard, sticks held firmly but not tightly. His upper lip lifted, and there was a thin trickle of blood from where I’d caught him on the face, threading down from his patrician nose. Lucky shot, maybe, but I was getting luckier all the time. The bruising and swelling might give me a slight edge, if I could just stay ahead of him long enough.

Oh, and kick his ass before he healed up. That too.

I didn’t snarl back, but I did grin, a wide animal baring of teeth that had nothing of amusement to it. My mother’s locket was a warm spot, tucked under my tank top. The bloodhunger teased at that special spot at the back of my throat, but it didn’t reach down and grab control of me. I was too busy. If I moved fast enough, I could hold the rage off. “Hurts, huh?”

“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.

He tasted like freedom.

Christophe stroked my hair, not caring that I was pulling on his. I tried to make my fingers let go, but they wouldn’t. It had to be uncomfortable, but he looked strangely peaceful. His mouth had relaxed, and his eyes were still closed. “It’s all right,” he repeated quietly. “Shhh, skowroneczko moja, moja ksiezniczko, little bird. All’s well. Hush.”

I rushed back into myself fully with a thud, shoving the blood-hunger back in its box. Dusk light was fading in the high windows; I felt it retreating like a huge staticky sound draining out of the sky. My breath came in ragged gasps, and I was sweating. My tank top was all twisted around under my hoodie; I had no idea how that had happened. Plus the chain that held the locket was all twisted up too, digging into my skin.

“Very good.” He sounded pleased. Kept stroking my hair. “Very good. You’ve acquired more control. Now, how do you suppose I defeated you?”

My mouth opened. Nothing but a dry husk of a cough came out. I coughed again, trying to get the taste out of my throat. It didn’t work. Only time and getting calmed down would do it.

He waited while I cleared my throat several times. My fingers relaxed. It was work to make them slip out of his hair, especially when they kept wanting to grab and pull his pulse closer to my fangs.

Running with wulfen was one thing. Getting fangs was another. I struggled with myself. Steady, Dru. Steady.

“I had you,” I finally managed to get out. “Then you cheated.”

I felt like a hoser even saying it. Cheating is the name of the game when it comes to winning fights, right? You don’t fight fair. You fight to win.

It shouldn’t have been possible for him to look more pleased, but he managed it. “Well, I had to. You forced me into it.”

That was high praise, from him. “Great.” I didn’t feel like celebrating. I felt like every bit of me had been pulled apart and put back together wrong. I was exhausted. Jesus, I couldn’t wait to finally bloom if it would stop this sort of thing from happening. My mouth kept merrily going, though, independently of my brain. “Are you going to do that every time the hunger hits?”

Then I could have slapped my own forehead. It sounded like a cheap come-on line.

“Would you like me to?” Another one of those happy smiles, and his eyes snapped open. The blue took me by surprise, as always, and my fingers slid completely free of his hair. We were both probably a mess, but the aspect was already shrinking his bruises and turning off his bleeding. My nose had stopped bleeding, too, thank God. But I’d still need some time in the baths to get rid of the worst of it.

Yep. Couldn’t wait to bloom. “Nah, that’s okay.” I felt like I could move now. Various muscles ached and twinged, and Christophe had to steady me. “Ouch. I need some aspirin.”

He nodded. “And some food, probably. You were in the aspect for a bit, there. It was hard to keep ahead of you. Svetocha are generally very fast.”

I’m fast enough to play rabbit, too. Still, his praise almost made me blush. “How many have you trained?” I tried not to look too interested. Sometimes he wouldn’t talk about his personal past.

He had a funny idea of what “personal past” meant, too. Of course, he was older. Like, way way older.

It was kind of weird. Check that, it was really weird. Sometimes, when I remembered just how old he was, it was downright unsettling. I mean, he’d known my mother. And my hormones were jumping up and down all the time. And he was just so . . . so . . .

I couldn’t come up with a word for what he was.

“Three. Including you, my dear.” He set me on my feet and let go of me. I tried not to feel bereft. At least when he was that close, I felt like nothing nasty could get to me.

Things like that will do something funny to a girl’s head, I guess. “My mother. Me. And . . . Anna?” It wasn’t so much of a shot in the dark. They had to have spent some time together, right?

Them being an item for a while, however long ago.

“Training didn’t interest her much.” He shrugged. Even with dried blood and bruising all over his face, he looked perfectly finished. It was as if the blood was just decorating him. “But I tried as best I could. Nothing else a Kuoroi can do, when faced with a svetocha.”

What’s that supposed to mean? I spotted my sticks, flung halfway across the gym. One of them was a splinter-chewed mess. “Jeez. I’ll need new ones, again. Good thing we weren’t practicing with real malaika.”

“Real malaika are just for forms practice for now. In six months or so, you’ll be ready to spar with them.” He was already striding away in search of his own weapons.

“Six months?” My voice bounced off the bleachers, and the fluorescents hanging overhead flickered unevenly. But it’s been weeks already, and I have to . . . I stopped dead, looking up at the lights, brushing a curl out of my face. Even one of Nathalie’s braids would lose a few strands when faced with a fight with Christophe.

He didn’t even look back. “Until you’re ready? Yes. Perhaps longer.”

“You said I was coming along! You said I was fast! I killed that thing last night—”

“You are fast. But before I trust you in a sparring match with edged weapons, you need to be fast and precise. Not to mention completely in control of where your blades are at all times. One lucky shot against a young nosferat—with malaika your wulfen friend stole, by the way—is not enough to convince me.” He scooped up one stick, half-turned on one booted heel, and set off for the other. “Anna never wanted to walk when she could be carried, your mother wanted to walk when she could fly, and you want to run before you can walk. It is”—another quick movement, and he had the other stick—“maddening, sometimes. First guard, Dru.”

I thought we were done. But I grabbed both sticks and straightened, whirling, just in time to catch his strike.

Dirty fighting, again. He came at me like he wanted to hurt me, and I returned the favor. Maybe he had to make up for kissing me or something.

That was the thing about Christophe. I never knew which side of him I was facing in the practice room.

I managed to keep him off me for a full two minutes before I ended up sprawled on the mats. One of his sticks was right under my chin, touching delicately. If it was a malaika, it would cut.

“Half a year,” Christophe said softly. “At least. More if you insist on playing slip-the-leash during the day; you need your rest if you expect to function well during accelerated training.” His voice rose, but only slightly. “It takes years to learn this thoroughly, Dru, and I will not cut corners with you, even if I allow you a certain limited part in seek-destroy missions to soothe your Lefevre pride. Don’t argue with me. Not about this.”

So he knew. Of course he knew; he’d walked right into the pizza parlor. He just hadn’t caught us outright. Still, with the smell of wulfen—and me—all over the building, he hadn’t had to.

And Lefevre. My mother’s name. As if my father hadn’t existed at all. Of course, he’d just been human, right?

Jesus.

You’re an asshole sometimes, Christophe. I knocked the stick away and bounced up to my feet. It wouldn’t do any good to yell at him; he’d just wipe the floor with me some more. Instead, I stalked for the exit, dropping both of my weapons with hollow sounds.

He said nothing else. He didn’t need to. My teeth tingled, my mouth burned, my eyes were full of tears. None of them escaped, they just made my vision waver.

And I still couldn’t get the taste of him off my lips.