Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(74)

“No!” A shriek from the glass box. Mósí. “You are promised to the ring, as is she. You cannot forfeit the fight without angering the Diyin Dine’é.”

Neizghání lifts his chin and shouts back at the Cat. “What is the anger of the gods to me? Will my mother turn away from me? Will my father strike me down? I am not afraid.” He looks at me, but he’s playing to the crowd. “And you, Chíníbaá,” he says with a knowing smile, “are you afraid?”

I swallow. Lick at lips that are dry, and remember why I’m here. “Ma’ii’s played us both. He has the fire drill.”

He looks surprised. “Of course he has the Black God’s drill. He stole it from my mother’s House in the West. He has promised to return it to me once we are done here.”

“But . . .” I stutter, my mind trying desperately to process this new information. Neizghání knows? Does that mean I’m right and he’s part of this? Or does it mean that the drill has nothing to do with the monsters at all? But then how . . .

The crowd is too loud. Screaming for our blood. I can’t think.

Neizghání looks down at me, something like pity on his face. “Cede the fight, Chíníbaá. Go home.”

“No.” I know I’m being irrational. That I don’t need to fight Neizghání at all. What little logic I can muster is telling me that Ma’ii is behind this, that the promise of the fire drill was just a ploy to lure me here to face Neizghání. I’ve been set up and the only way out of the trickster’s game is to walk away. But I can’t. Pride and fear and too much anger make it impossible.

The Bear clan guard was right. Ma’ii’s got my number down.

I stand up straight. My eyes rove over the stands. I remember what the Bear clan guard said about playing to the crowd. I dig deep, past the fear and shock, rally long enough for this: I cock my hip out, raise my B?ker, and with a kind of easy confidence that Kai would be proud of, I start cleaning my nails. Slow, unconcerned. With seven inches of sharp steel.

“Perhaps you are the one who should surrender,” I say. “Let it not be said that I, Chíníbaá, am not without mercy!”

It’s the most ridiculous kind of bravado, but it works. The crowd roars. And now they’re chanting my name. Chíníbaá! Chíníbaá! Not as loudly, but it’s better than it was.

His frown deepens. “What are you playing at?” His voice is low now, pitched only for my ears.

“You left me,” I hiss. “I thought you weren’t coming back.” A thought occurs to me. “Were you coming back? Ever?”

He doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Just stares me down. Son of a bitch. And I realize I’m not scared anymore. I’m pissed off.

“We fight!” I scream, throwing up my arms. The crowd echoes me, picking up the chant of my name, pushing it to a frenzied pitch.

He shakes his head, disgusted. “So stubborn,” he mutters. He’s not happy.

“You should know,” I fire back. Childish, but I don’t care.

“Just remember that you chose this.” He brings his hands together in a booming clap. “No mercy, then. We fight!”

And the bell rings.

I strike.

He blocks my attack, pushing me back, light on his feet. But I am light on mine, too.

We circle, testing. Strike, parry, again. It is so familiar, this violent dance. We’ve done it a thousand times in practice.

His reach is twice mine. He slashes, lazy, ripping across my bare arm. The ice of his blade burns across my skin, and then searing heat, and blood trickles down my bicep. He’s drawn first blood. Easy. Just like that.

I don’t wait. I draw on my clan powers. Liquid fire flashes through my veins, like drinking flames, and time seems to slow as I speed up. My muscles flex and bulge, expanding. Power buoys me, sends me soaring. And now we are closer to matched. But the clock is ticking on my clan powers, and he’s moving again.

He rushes me, trying to take me to the ground. I wait until the last moment, then move, bringing my foot in to sweep his legs and let his momentum carry him down. He hits the dirt with a grunt, surprised. I lung for his kidneys, knife pointed, but he rolls and I hit air.

He’s on his feet, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you actually trying to kill me?”

“That’s the idea.” I know he hasn’t seen me this fast since that first time, and I’m not a desperate little girl anymore. He’s made sure of that.

One minute he’s there, and the next he’s on me. This time he anticipates my speed. He wraps huge arms around me, pushing to take me to the ground. I fight him, digging in and pushing back. He roars, muscles bunching. Then he lifts me off my feet and slams me down. My breath flees, and I gasp for air.

The crowd explodes in screams and he laughs, raising his arms theatrically at their cries. He turns that smile on me. He’s not even breathing hard. “I miss this,” he says. “I miss you. Come back to me.”

I lie there trying to breathe, trying to understand his motives, his next move. “You left me.”

His face is virtuous, but his voice mocks me. “I needed some time.”

“For a year?”