Free Full-Blood Half-Breed by Cleve Lamison

teach me?” Paladin’s voice dripped with mockery. He eyed Isooba like a cat about to pounce on a blind mouse. “Are you saying you can best me, Isooba?”
    The room fell silent. Isooba might have been bigger and older, but Paladin could knock him on his culo without breaking a sweat.
    And everyone in the room knew it.
    The blended children of Santuario del Guerrero fought together as a matter of survival. The
pura-sangre
—pureblood—younglings of Oeste Verdadero, the rich section of Westgate, considered it good sport to get drunk and go híbrido-bashing in the less affluent neighborhood, Ciudad Vieja. Paladin had stood against the pura-sangre with every one of the blended younglings at the fiesta. They all held his martial prowess in high esteem. In fact, he had saved Isooba’s culo only a few weeks ago.
    Tau had come running into the smithy crying, desperate and out of breath, begging Paladin to come to Isooba’s rescue. Isooba had been boasting of his martial skills to a gang of drunk pura-sangre thugs, and they had put those boasts to the test, proving Isooba more mouth than might. Isooba might have been killed if Paladin had not grabbed Sunderbones and gone to his defense.
    “Well, Isooba?” Paladin’s sharp, contemptuous tone sliced through the silence in the room. “What lessons do you think you can teach me?”
    Isooba rolled his eyes and huffed, but Paladin recognized the stall for what it was. Isooba sought a response that would be more or less truthful and still protect his pride. “Until you are man enough to face me in the Phoenix-Rising arena, we will never find out, will we, niño?”
    “Then we will find out on the morrow,” Paladin said, standing tall before Isooba and basking in the triumph of the moment. “For I have entered Torneo, all three trials. I very much look forward to your tutelage, Isooba von Joyful.”
    Paladin delighted in the look of defeat and doom on Isooba’s perfectly chiseled face. Isooba’s bronzed complexion curdled to a sickly shade of ashy green. It was glorious vindication.
    It lasted for three seconds.
    “YOU DID WHAT?” Rebelde’s bellowing shook the walls.
    Paladin closed his eyes, grimacing. His temper and big mouth had undone him again, fueled by his stupid jealousy. How many foolish feats could he perform in a single day?
    He turned to Rebelde, thankful his shaky legs did not dump him on the floor. The adults in the room, even Walküre, cleared away from Rebelde as if he were a volcano on the verge of erupting. Paladin’s friends scattered from him, for he was the target of the coming firestorm. Yet Paladin would not show fear, not with his friends—and Isooba—watching.
    “I entered Torneo, Papá.” At least his voice didn’t hitch. Much. “I will compete in the youngling trials.”
    Rebelde’s face twisted with fury. Never had Paladin seen such rage in his father’s eyes, certainly not directed at him. He searched his mind for something he could say to forestall Rebelde’s outburst. For the first time in his life, he feared his papá might strike him. A slap from Rebelde would be painful, but not as painful as the humiliation of having his peers witness it. No words came to him, and Rebelde took a menacing step forward, his hands clenched into fists like giant mace heads.
    Drud’s father stepped in front of Rebelde, blocking his path. Keeping his back to Rebelde, Alwin pretended not to notice the building confrontation. He clapped Paladin on the shoulder and said in a loud affected voice, “Gracias, Paladin. Thank you for a fine fiesta.” Then he took the hand of his wife, Hisa, and turned to the other guests, “It is late. Drud, Hisa, and I must go home now. Would anyone care to walk with us? It is a fine night for walking.”
    Prompted by Alwin’s invitation, the other guests couldn’t leave fast enough. Isooba made sure to point a triumphant smirk at Paladin as he left hand in hand with Esmeralda. The other guests said hasty farewells