Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(158)

His expression held, but she saw something flicker in his eyes. A hint of fear, maybe? Yes. The mercenary was afraid of her. Of what she’d become.

“That’s a lie,” he hissed. “You went into Rebound.”

“I have the mark on my temple to prove it.” She dropped her voice to a near whisper, beckoning with a forefinger like an eager lover. “Come closer, I’ll show you.”

He shifted his weight to his left foot, telegraphing his move. His right foot shot out, aiming directly for her chest. She forced her arm down, blocking the leg. Using the momentum, she tried to spin toward her opponent, to strike him in the ribs with the baton. It only brought her closer to the blade, which raked across her left cheek.

They broke apart, eyeing each other.

“The geek freak taught you some moves,” he said, grinning.

“Among other things,” she replied. The air between them began to sparkle and pulsate like a heartbeat. She blinked her eyes, but it didn’t help.



“You give me Defoe and I’ll make it easy for you,” Copeland offered.

“Did you tell Morrisey that?” she asked, wiping the blood off her face.

“Sure did. He didn’t listen.”

Copeland casually shifted the weapon to his right hand. That changed everything. As if sensing her uncertainty, he began to test her defenses. Jab, move, jab and move again. A moment later, he kicked at her, high. She turned at the last presenting less of a target. The foot clipped her arm.

She recovered, but not fast enough. Another kick, square in the shoulder. The blade moved in and scraped down the metal baton, past her hand, slicing downward. For a second she could feel nothing, then a burning slice as he scored deep into her flesh the length of her forearm.

He rammed his shoulder into her, throwing her off balance. The baton slipped from her bloody fingers, tumbling onto the bricks.

Before she could move, Copeland was between her and the weapon.

His cold laughter echoed off the buildings. “That’s better,” he said, taking random swipes at her, like an actor in a play. “Where’s Rover One?”

“Don’t know!” she said, feeling the blood dripping from her fingers and the constant throb of the wound with each heartbeat. “No one does.”

“Wrong answer.”

When he grew near, she kicked out, hard, striking him in the leg. He danced back with a slight limp.

“Good one. You’re making this fun.”

Another swipe, too close this time. She kept trying to maneuver so she could retrieve the baton, but Copeland was always in the way.

“Forget it,” her delusion urged. “Remember what Morrisey taught you.”



At the mention of his name, the ants exploded into life with a throaty yell that nearly deafened her. Cynda moved forward, positioning her hands as she’d been taught. She centered herself, pulling that fury into her soul.

“Too easy,” Copeland said. As he moved forward, seeking to press his advantage, she circled her hands. He watched her warily, trying to judge her next move.

When he lashed at her with the knife, she blocked the thrust with her left arm. Curling her right hand into her chest, she formed a fist, then shifted her weight onto her back foot.

At the last second she relaxed, drawing energy from the ground. Spiraling it into her body as she moved her weight forward, her right fist shot out, the blow smashing into his chest at heart level. Copeland gave a choked gasp and then staggered backwards, stunned, the knife still firmly in his grasp.

“Bitch,” he wheezed. He spat. It was bright blood.

Cynda fell back on instinct. The spin kick seemed to last for a century, a perfect arc of body, mind and ferocious will. Her boot caught him square above the diaphragm. In the stillness she heard an explosive grunt, then the thick snap of ribs. The knife tumbled to the ground with a clatter.

He took one step backward, then two, his face gray. Then he folded.

Cynda kicked the knife aside, retrieved her baton, and then knelt behind him, pulling him onto his back.

Do it! the ants screamed.

Despite the torment in her left arm, she applied the baton across his throat and heaved back with all her weight. Copeland’s eyes bulged, his fingers clawing hopelessly at the metal. Feet hammered against the pavement. Time slowed. His face turned crimson, then blue-purple. There was the sharp tang of urine.

In the midst of it all, the scent of orange spice tea came to her, overpowering everything else in the square. She was in the pagoda, watching the sun rise. Theo’s resonant voice echoed around her.



In the end, only you can decide who you truly are, what you stand for, what you hold most dear. No one else has that power, Jacynda. No one.

“Ah, hell.” Cynda jerked away the baton, her hands shaking so hard it slipped to the ground. Her foe’s chest moved like a broken sail, his breathing patchy. She retrieved the Dinky Doc and checked for damage: it was significant. Crushed ribs, bruised heart. The list went on. She let the device do what it could. Cynda hunted through his pockets for his interface. She didn’t need the time band—he was too incapacitated to put up a fight. When she found the watch, she executed the windings and then secured it to his wrist. Closing his trembling fist around it, she staggered backward, dizzy.

Copeland’s eyes widened in abject terror. He shook his head, trying to mouth words.