Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(103)

“Where is it?” I’ve already gone too far. If I stand down now, I won’t get the weapon, this curse that brought me back to this place, that lured Dez to his death. I have to best him because the other option is to turn Margo into a Hollow, and if I don’t win this fight, there is no doubt I will be sent to the executioner’s block. Would Castian behead me himself the way he did to Dez? Would they let me rot in a cell like Lozar? A terrible thought comes to mind—is his corpse still down there?

Castian recovers from my blow, putting distance between us. He unbuttons his beaded and embroidered jacket, his tunic open to the curve between his chest muscles. He tosses the jacket to the side, where it lands on the molded couch.

I undo the clasp that ties my cape around my neck, and it falls to the ground. Pull the corset strings so I can breathe. I try to remember if I saw any weapons, but the room was full of books and old toys. If I could get my hands free from these gloves, I could rip the answers out of him.

Instead, I size him up the way Margo showed me. Think of what I know of him. He’s quick on his feet, and he carries his power in his broad arms. When he steps to the right, I step to the left, and just like that, we are dancing again. I channel all the rage I’ve had to push back as I was paraded before the king and his court and thrust it into my fists.

Castian blocks my jab to the left of his chest. I don’t want him to know I’m going to go for his weak spot yet. Bright lights dance in front of my eyes as the tonic that dulled my pain begins to wear off. He grabs hold of my wrists and pulls me to his chest. I kick my legs, knees raising so high that he’s forced to use his hands to block, freeing my hands in the process.

I land a punch on his nose, but though he’s bleeding, he shakes it off and grabs hold of my shoulders. He shoves me against the tapestry wall. The air rushes out of my chest as he slams me a second time. His belt presses into my stomach, his breath is sweet with wine and warm in my face.

He wants to best me. I can see it in his eyes as he holds my left arm against the wall and digs a thumb into the wound on my right. Slick, hot blood trickles where my stitches rip beneath the glove.

My vision is white with pain, but I grind my teeth and grunt through it. I breathe fast and hard, preparing myself first, then I bash my head into his and take his moment of disorientation to dig my fingers into his chest wound. I can play his game, too.

Castian cries out and drops down to his hands. I grab a fistful of his hair and slam his face against my knee. I yank his head back so he can look at me. You won’t look at me, he said.

Well, here I am, looking at you now.

“Surrender.”

He spits a wad of saliva and blood to the side but doesn’t admit defeat.

“The Whispers taught you to fight well,” he says, with a chuckle. “Did they ruin your life first? Make you think you were going insane?”

“The Whispers saved me from your father.” I yank on his hair, but all he does is grunt. I can’t listen to him. He’s all lies and false smiles. “Where is the weapon?”

And just like that his fist slams into my gut. I let go of him and cradle my stomach. Fall to my knees. Breathe. I can’t breathe.

“If you’d just listen to me, Nati—” he says, blood spilling into his mouth from his nose.

“What did you call me?” I shout.

My body locks. My throat closes. The memory of my father calling me that name renders me useless. I slam my hands against the stone floor, snapping myself into the here and now. How did he know? How could he possibly know?

I suck in tiny bits of air until I can take a single long gulp. When I press my hands to push myself up I fumble into the gas lamp. I stomp out the flame before it can catch on to anything, then close my fingers around a pointed piece of glass. There’s the faintest light coming from the open library. My eyes adjust to the low flame. I breathe through the ache in my body, the dizziness that comes with the rush of adrenaline. I watch the outline of his muscles, the way he staggers for breath.

Castian gives me a wide berth, keeping his back against the wall. His hand rests over his shoulder, where blood seeps through the bandage and shirt.

“We never agreed on weapons,” he says. There’s still that humor in his voice that lights me up with rage. He pulls out a small dagger concealed in his boot and throws it on the floor.

Since he’s discarded his, I should give up mine. That would be the honorable thing to do. If that was in his reach this whole time, why didn’t he use it when he had me pressed against the wall? Why didn’t he end it?

“Fine,” I growl.

I toss the bit of glass aside and charge at him. He blocks each punch, each kick. I go for his injury again, but he anticipates it and traps my arms with his against his torso. I raise my knee and slam it into his groin. It’s a lazy shot, but I’ve always found it to come in handy when I’m out of options. I slap my palm over his ear as hard as I can and he screams. He cups the side of his head, and in this moment of weakness, I strike my hand at his throat. He chokes and stumbles back, coughing through it. He throws a punch that lands on my shoulder.

My body thrums with rage, and even in this low light, I feel it igniting me as if from within. I see the light haloed around me reflected in his eyes. Am I conjuring that?

“You have to listen to me, Nati.” He holds his hands up.

“You can’t call me that! Stop calling me that!” I punch and he blocks. He tries to pin my arms down again, but I throw myself to the ground and crawl between his legs. I slam my elbow into the back of his knee, and he falls forward.