Silver Borne (Mercy Thompson #5)(65)

Mary Jo went slowly left, then right, and Paul turned easily to face her. She shifted her weight to the right - but with a blur of speed, she broke left and moved to the attack, dropping into a long, low lunge that looked almost like something a fencer might use, her fist blurring as hip and shoulder rotated into line, driving it forward like a lance. It was a perfect strike, delivered with superhuman speed.

Paul rotated smoothly as her fist flashed through empty air, just grazing his stomach. He brought both fists down like hammers on her unprotected back, driving her flat to the ground with a sound like distant thunder. Next to me Adam grunted, as if he felt the impact of Paul's fists himself.

Mary Jo was obviously dazed. She lay on her stomach, blinking myopically. Her mouth and throat worked like a fish's out of water. Then she drew in a long, shuddering breath and her eyes focused. If her ribs had been hurt before, she must be in agony after the blow she'd just taken.

Any sane person would know the fight was over, and beg to yield, but she was slowly struggling to get her elbows under her and lift her body from the mat. Paul's mouth twisted in a mirthless smile as he watched her efforts.

"Stay down," he told her. "Stay down. Yield, damn it. I don't want to hurt you anymore."

She'd gotten to her elbows and was pulling her knees up when he did a flashy skip-step and brought the edge of his foot down on the back of her thigh, driving her flat to the mats again. A short scream tore from her throat, but she jerked her knees underneath her and popped to her feet.

Her guard was too low, her right elbow pressed tightly against her injured ribs. Below her elbow, a small stain of bright red blood was slowly spreading. Every wolf in the room could smell it, and so could I. I was afraid that one of those damaged ribs had punctured a lung. Her left leg wasn't working quite right, and she took a simple stance with most of her weight on the ball of her right foot. She stood at the very edge of the ring, which eliminated her ability to retreat but also meant Paul couldn't circle behind her.

Paul advanced slowly, carefully, a predator stalking wounded prey. But I saw him frowning at Mary Jo's ribs. He was trying to figure out how she'd hurt them.

He moved left and right, forcing her to use the injured leg, his head tilted. He must have heard the same thing I could - the faint burble of a collapsing lung. Her mouth was open as she tried to get more oxygen.

Paul struck with a powerful front kick with no trace of finesse, but power to spare. Mary Jo snapped both arms down and slowed the blow, which had been aimed at her injured leg, but it still flung her stumbling backward off the mats.

She kept her balance, barely, but the leg was obviously almost useless. A ragged sea of hands pushed her, not ungently, back into the ring where Paul was waiting for her.

"It's okay," Adam said. "It's okay. Yield, Mary Jo."

Mary Jo looked beaten, but as she entered the ring, her injured leg suddenly shot up, toes pointed like a prima ballerina's. Her kick was as simple as Paul's had been. Straight up, angling between his thighs.

He tried to block, but it was already too late. There was a muffled impact, and Paul's breath exploded outward. He backed up rapidly, bent forward with fists crossed over his groin, every muscle in his torso tensed in sudden pain. Mary Jo followed, though I could tell that it hurt, and took advantage of his dropped guard to hit him with a hammer fist to the back of the head.

A perfect nerve strike, I thought. Good for you, Mary Jo.

If he hadn't been a werewolf, he'd have been seeing lights and hearing bells for weeks. His eyes were wolf-pale, and his arms moved strangely as bones began to shift beneath the skin. Paul shook his head, trying to shake off the effects of the strike. If she'd been in better shape, she could have finished him.

But Mary Jo was too slow. He straightened and pulled his hands back to guard position with obvious effort. Then he came at her slowly, implacably, simply walking to close the distance. Her right fist shot toward his throat, but he blocked it with his right hand, then pushed her elbow with his left, turning her body, then smashed a knee into her injured ribs, hard. She went to the mats, facedown and coughing blood. Paul followed her to the mats, landing astride her shoulders. He grabbed one of her legs and began to bend it back, bowing her back into a tight arch. There were faint popping sounds, and Mary Jo scrabbled at the mat frantically, her control shattered and the wolf fighting for survival.

"Goddamn it," he said. "Yield. Don't make me kill you."

For some reason at that moment I looked at Henry. The bastard was watching without any emotion on his face at all.

"Yield," Adam roared. "Mary Jo. Yield."

Mary Jo hit the mat with her right hand, twice.

"She yields," Paul said, looking at Darryl.

"Paul wins," said Darryl. "Do you accept her yield?"

"Yes, yes."

"It is over," declared Darryl.

Paul jumped off of her and rolled her over. "Medic," he said, sounding frantic. "Medic."

A few heads turned to Sam. He stayed where he was, but he all but vibrated with the need to help. He closed his eyes and finally turned his back to the scene. It was Warren who pulled up Mary Jo's T-shirt, and Adam who grabbed the first-aid kit.

I grabbed Jesse, and we both stayed back. Within a few seconds I couldn't see what was happening for all the people who crowded closer.

"Got to pull the rib out of her lung," said Adam tightly. Then, "Just toss the broken bits. They'll regrow." Medicine among werewolves is, in many ways, much simpler - if more brutal - than for humans. "Hold her down, Paul. The more she struggles, the more this is going to hurt." Then in a much softer voice, Adam crooned, "Just bear with us a bit, baby. We'll get you so you can breathe better in just a second."