Free Defiance by Lili St. Crow Page A

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