Isle of Night

“Luck, I guess.” My smile went weak. Knockout was a kind word for it. One could also use phrases like bump off, take out, do in, or perhaps choose one of the more formal -ates, like eliminate, assassinate, annihilate.



But even more unsettling than adding another kill notch to my belt was the fact that I didn’t think it was luck so much as it was something weird happening.



First, I’d earned a first-round bye, which was a fancy way of saying there’d been an odd number of girls, so I got to sit out the first set of matches. To win the bye, I’d answered a trivia question, and it was like it’d been catered just to me.



What’s the largest possible prime number? Poor girls had been tearing out their hair, when I clearly was the only competitor who would’ve known there’s a simple proof to show there is no largest prime.



And then there was my fight with Stefinne in the second round. She’d been beating me soundly, and just when I began to panic, the oddest thing happened. Stefinne had me in a choke hold, a dagger in her hand, and was hauling back for the deathblow.



But then she simply . . . zoned out.



It was the strangest thing ever. One moment she was in her eyes. The next moment, she was empty.



It’d given me the chance I needed. Sliding my sword from where it had been pinned under her leg, I clocked her on the side of the head, knocking her cold. Despite her hatred, I really hoped she might’ve just been knocked out, might live to see another day, but a couple of Tracers appeared to whisk her away, and I knew that was the last we’d ever see of her.



I shouldn’t have won that round. But I did. And then I spotted Alcántara in the audience, with that wolfish half smile on his face.



Now it was time for my next fight, and it was against Lilac’s bosom buddy Mia. Part of me wanted to win on my own merit. But there was another part that hoped for more vampire intervention.



Yasuo spoke, tearing me from my thoughts. “You all right, D?”



Rather than answer, I felt compelled to look at the stage. Master Alcántara was staring at me across the platform, his eyes glowing strangely. Inhaling, I gave my rattled head a shake. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I managed a smile and then flexed my hands. “Just contemplating how remarkable it is that one of the most painful things ever is to punch a bunch of soft flesh.”



“That Mia chick is so not soft,” Yas said. The three of us watched as she worked through the obscenely limber stretches she did at the start of combat and fitness classes. She had long, stick-thin limbs. Her collarbone, every vertebrae, every rib, stuck out. Her black hair was pulled into a gleaming bun. “Look at her. Girl doesn’t eat.”



“She was a classically trained ballerina,” I said.



Emma frowned. “Strange.”



“Tell me about it.”



“How’d she end up here?” Yasuo shuddered. “And what turned her into Skeletor?”



“Word is, a pesky drug habit. Girl moves to big city; girl meets meth. . . . You can imagine how the story went from there.”



Yasuo grimaced. “Eeesh.”



“Don’t be fooled.” I pointed at her as she folded herself in half, wrapping a hand around each foot. “That right there is lean muscle wrapped over bone.”



Emma nodded. “Drew’s right. I’ve seen her in class. She’s strong.”



The gong sounded. My turn.



Rolling my shoulders, I took a deep breath. I felt my friends patting me on my back as I stepped toward the stone. “Here goes nothing.”



We both climbed on, and Mia stared at me from across the platform, pure loathing in her eyes. She inhaled deeply and dramatically, then fluttered her hands and bent her legs in a fluid karate form.



Great. Classically trained in both ballet and martial arts.



We were allowed one weapon. Mine was a pretty little switchblade that fit my small palm perfectly. I’d contemplated fighting with my shuriken, but wasn’t good enough yet for them to be practical.



I stared in horror as Mia bent to pick up her weapon. She’d chosen the kama.



“Seriously?” I couldn’t help a spurt of nervous giggling. Basically, a kama was a sickle that old Japanese men used to mow down rice, and young ones used to mow down enemies in back alleys. “You have got to be kidding.”



She shot me a look of total disdain. We waited for the gong to sound again, signaling the official start of the fight, and Mia used the opportunity to whirl her sickle overhead with the same balletic movements she used in her stretches and forms. She took a long, graceful step toward me. “It’s a weapon of the ancients. Used only by those with sophisticated training.”



She wanted me to find her act daunting. But, really, all her waving around was just starting to annoy me. “It’s a damned grass cutter.”



“It’s an art.” She did some cranelike pose, rising up on the ball of one foot with that sickle raised over her head. Her pose was elegant and fierce, and she looked like a painting. She cawed her version of a karate kiop, but to me it just sounded like an injured monk.



“Spare me.” I’d had enough of these boarding-school dropouts and their posh attitudes. I sheathed my knife.



Whispers rustled through the crowd. Disarming oneself before a fight was not exactly conventional behavior.



The moment the gong sounded a second time, I barreled straight for her. Who says you need to be sophisticated to be a good fighter? Or tall, for that matter.



I squatted and I dove. Straight for her knees.



Mia yowled. The kama flew from her hands. I felt her knee hyperextend as she pitched to the ground. We landed with a grunt.



“Hold . . . still.” I pinned her legs. She began to kick, and I twisted, hitching higher, diving onto her belly. Her body was freakishly thin, and it felt like it might snap under mine. “Not so fancy now, Mia Ballerina.”



The total crudeness of my moves had thrown her off. Even though I couldn’t fist my injured left hand, I managed to land a bunch of hits to her belly and ribs. Her abdomen was washboard flat, and despite all the tape, my hands throbbed from the abuse.



“You won’t win.” She struggled under me, getting a hand free.



I leaned back as her fist whooshed by me, just missing my chin. I grabbed her arm, trapping it under mine, and wrenched her elbow. “Oh, I think I will.”



I had no plan other than this primitive beating. If things went foul, I had to hope my guardian-angel vampire would bust out some supernatural mojo to help me.



“You won’t.” Mia pulled her arm free. And then she laid a bruising backhand across the side of my face. “Because you’re trash.”



Time stopped.



In that instant, I was ten and my dad was backhanding me for sitting in his chair when he got home after a bad day. I was fourteen, and he didn’t like my eyeliner. I was nine . . . I was twelve . . . I was fifteen . . .



You’re trash. I’d heard it, over and over. I’d been smacked. Disregarded. I’d been in the way. Trash.



But I wasn’t trash. I was better than that. I had an iron will. I knew who I was. I’d have shut down long ago if I didn’t. I’d still be in Florida, flatlining in front of the TV, a Coors tall boy in my hand.



I was Annelise Drew, and I counted.



I’d hit and been hit. But, in that instant, I became a fighter.



Mia swung to hit me again, but I snagged her arm in midair. I held her wrist and I squeezed. I imagined that ballerina-thin bone snapping in my grip.



Relax, Acari. Priti’s voice sounded in my head. Breathe.



All my life I’d watched people lose control. And I wouldn’t become one of them. I would probably kill Mia, yes. But more than that, I would defeat her.



I breathed. I was aware of adrenaline pumping through my veins, urging me to act, but I disregarded it. I held myself in check.



I also felt the blood. I hadn’t had any since morning, but I’d been taking it regularly, and it’d made me much stronger than I’d been just a few short months ago. I called to it now, summoned that strong feeling I always got after drinking. I felt my own blood coursing through me, pictured my tensed muscles flush with it, imagined oxygen flooding my cells. I found an inner power—the gift of the blood.



Squeezing my thighs, I held Mia immobilized beneath me. I unsheathed my blade with my left hand. I held it to her throat and smiled. “Surrender, Mia.”



She bucked and spat, clawing at my face with her free hand. “No way.”



“Not very classy for a ballerina.” I pressed the knife harder, until a drop of red trickled down her neck. “I will give you one more chance. Do you yield?”



“Fine.” Her body went limp. “I give up. Just get off me.”



Knowing the Tracers would appear at any moment, I stood. Stepping away from her, I turned toward the crowd. Their indrawn breath alerted me, the looks on their faces telling me all I needed to know.



My knife was in my hand, my arm already raised, as I pivoted back to her.



Mia had rolled to her feet. She held her kama overhead, poised to cleave my shoulder.



I didn’t think; I just threw. I summoned the blood, pictured the blade sinking between her ribs so clearly that it was surreal when it actually did.



Mia dropped to her knees. She clutched her chest. Shock mingled with the hatred in her eyes.



The gong rang. “Acari Drew advances to the final round.”



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE



Yasuo, Emma, and I stood together, ready to watch Lilac’s semifinal match. The winner would face me, that night, in the final round.



My body trembled. My ears rang, my hands throbbed, and pains and twinges riddled my body. And yet unspent energy coursed through me. I’d fought—truly fought.



“You okay?” Emma asked.



Her voice brought me back to myself. “Yeah, actually. I’m okay.”



“You won’t be, if you have to fight her.” Yasuo nodded at Lilac.



The fight hadn’t begun yet, but both contenders stood on the platform, stretching out, bouncing on their feet, psyching up. Her opponent looked nervous, but Lilac just looked ready.