Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(84)

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Because she did ache and throb, Fallon dropped down again, lay flat on her back to watch puffy white clouds meander over the blue. “Odds are I won’t fight many enemies I can read as well as you.”

“Next we’ll fight left-handed.”

Her interest piqued, she propped up on an elbow. “Left-handed.”

“There may come a time, and that will, as you said, change things up. But not today. Hand-to-hand, four opponents, no weapons.”

“Right now?”

He handed her the ladle and the rest of the water in it. “Drink. Fight. I’ll take your suggestion, and observe.”

“I’m wounded from—”

“Another excellent suggestion,” he said easily. “You’ve lost your sword in an earlier battle, and now face new foes in hand-to-hand.”

“I’d still have my knife.”

“Assume you don’t for this lesson.”

“My magicks?”

“They’re always with you.”

She gulped down the water, handed him the ladle as she got to her feet. She liked hand-to-hand well enough. Her father had taught her the basics of boxing, street fighting, karate. Mallick had expanded that with different forms of karate, kung fu, tae kwon do.

The katas he’d taught her, insisted she practice, appealed to her. She liked the fluid, deadly dance of them.

He conjured four ghosts, two male, two female. Fallon judged the smaller female as formidable. She looked both springy and fierce.

Even as they formed, she decided to try for the biggest male first. He looked solid, and brutal. He’d be strong, she judged, but likely lacked agility.

Before they could charge her, she charged them, pushed herself into a flying kick, and caught the biggest of them in the throat. Flipping back, she rolled, barely avoided a kick to her head. Whirled a wind to scatter them, and launched at the second female.

Watching, Mallick circled. Not yet, he thought, not quite yet did she have a true balance in her weapons—body, mind, magicks. But he found himself pleased with her progression.

And a great pride in her fearlessness.

She suffered blows—a fist glancing off her right cheek, a vicious kick to her left hip. But she’d learned to use the pain as well as the momentum.

When the smallest woman slid—speed and power—and took Fallon out at the legs, Fallon used that momentum to push up, kick out. And her aim proved true as her boots slammed hard in the remaining male’s balls. As he dropped, she flung power at him, took him out.

Whirling, she spun into the smaller female, managed to catch the boot of the foot that kicked out, flung her hard at the remaining opponent.

The small one proved as agile as Fallon suspected, and sprang back on her hands, gained her feet. But she’d knocked the second woman back, buying some time. She took another kick, saw stars, heard them buzzing inside her head. Spinning again, fast enough to blur.

Back fist, back kick, side kick. Enough to take the ghost woman down. Then crush her hand under a bootheel.

Satisfaction proved short-lived as she flew back under a whip of power. Unprepared, she landed badly, bit back a cry as her ankle turned. She flung up her hand, met power with power.

Through a haze—she had hit her head—she saw the smaller woman leap toward her, a knife in her good hand.

Survival—instinct without thought—snapped in. She pulled power out, yanked in. The knife flew from her enemy’s hand to hers, from her hand into the enemy’s heart.

Furious, flooded with pain, she rose.

“Bitch,” she said as power clashed with power. “You’re done.”

One hand out, pushing, pushing back against power, she cocked the other back, flung forward a blade of fire. It cut through the trembling air, hit its mark. The last of her opponents erupted in flames.

Fallon hobbled a few steps, gave it up, and sat on the ground. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

“We rarely know what we’re capable of doing when cornered.”

“You didn’t tell me one of them would be a witch.”

“Do you think you’ll fight only those without magicks?”

“No, but … fair warning?”

“Battles and wars are never fair.”

He moved to her, crouched down to lift her face.

“My vision’s a little funny.”

“Mmm. A mild concussion. Close your eyes, let me deal with it.”

She did as he asked. “The ankle’s bad. Left ankle. Not broken. Bad sprain.”

“I’ll see to it. Breathe slowly.”

As the ringing in her ears eased, she could. Then caught it again as he moved to her ankle. Pain … a red haze, she thought. Look through the haze to the light. Her stomach wanted to heave so she imagined the sickness as a pool, calming, calming, smoothing, stilling.

His hand skimmed over her throbbing hip, then to her surprise gently over her face.

She opened her eyes, looked in his. “You always say a few visible bruises serve as a reminder to be faster, stronger, smarter the next time.”

“I don’t think you’ll forget. How did you conjure the fire blade?”

“Anger.” Since the healing left her sleepy, she brought up her knees, rested her cheek on them. “The little one had a knife. You said no weapons.”