"As you said, all's fair," Morgead said, with a small, cold smile on his lips. "You have your weapons. I have mine."
And then he threw another of those Shockwaves at her. Jez was better braced for it now, but it still rocked her on her feet, took her attention off her weapon-
Just long enough for her to screw up and let him in.
He drove upward to catch her stick from below. Then he twisted, sweeping her stick in a circle, forcing her off balance again, trying to topple her backward. As Jez fought to recover, he struck to her elbow.
Hard.
Wham!
It was a different sound from the crisp whack when wood hit wood. This was softer, duller, the sound of wood hitting flesh and bone.
Jez heard her own involuntary gasp of pain.
Fire shot up her arm, into her shoulder, and for a moment she lost her grip on the stick with her right hand. She forced her fingers to close on it again, but they were numb. She couldn't feel what she was holding.
She couldn't block properly with one arm useless.
And Morgead was advancing, that deadly cold light in his eyes. Absolutely merciless. His movements were relaxed and easy; he knew exactly what he was doing now.
Two more whacks and he got through her guard again. The oak stick slammed into her ribs and she felt another wave of sickening pain. Gray dots danced in front of her eyes.
Fractured? Jez wondered briefly. She hoped not. Vampires could break each other's ribs in fun and know that everything would heal in a day or two. But Jez wouldn't recover like that. Morgead might kill her without even meaning to.
She couldn't let him keep striking her-but she couldn't retreat, either. If he got her into a corner, she'd be lost.
Whack-wham. He got her on the knee. Pain sparked up and down her leg, lighting every nerve. She had no choice but to back up. He was crowding her relentlessly, forcing her to the wall.
Morgead flashed a smile at her. Not the cold smile. This one was brilliant, and very familiar to Jez. It made him look devastatingly handsome, and it meant that he was in absolute command of the situation.
"You can give up anytime, now," he said. "Because I'm going to win and we both know it."
Chapter 8
I can't lose this fight.
Suddenly that was the only thought in Jez's mind. She couldn't afford to be hurt or scared-or stupid.
There was too much riding on it.
And since Morgead had the advantages of telepathy and strength on her at the moment, she was going to have to come up with some clever way to beat him.
It only took a moment to come up with a plan. And then Jez was carrying it out, every ounce of her concentration focused on tricking him.
She stopped backing up and took a step sideways, deliberately putting herself in a position where she could make only a clumsy block. Then she gave him an opening, holding her stick awkwardly, its tip toward him but drooping too far down.
You see-it's my elbow, she thought to him, knowing he couldn't hear her, but willing him to take the bait.
My elbow hurts too much; I'm distracted; the stick is no longer an extension of me. My right side is unprotected.
She was as good at it as any mother bird who pretends to have a broken wing to lure a predator away from her nest. And she could see the flash of triumph in Morgead's eyes.
That's it; don't waste time injuring me anymore ... come in for the kill.
He was doing it. He'd stopped trying to get her into a corner. With his handsome face intent, his eyes narrowed in concentration, he was maneuvering for a single decisive strike; a takedown to end the combat.
But as he raised his fighting stick to make it, Jez pulled her own stick back as if she were afraid to block, afraid of the jarring contact. This was the moment. If he caught on now, if he realized why she was positioning her stick this way, he'd never make the move she wanted him to. He'd go back to disarming her.
I'm too hurt to block properly; my arm's too weak to raise, she thought, letting her shoulders droop and her body sway tiredly. It wasn't hard to pretend. The pain in various parts of her body was real enough, and if she let herself feel it, it was very nearly disabling.
Morgead fell for it.
He made the strike she wanted; straight down. At that instant Jez slid her leading foot back, shifting just out of range. His stick whistled by her nose-missing. And then, before he could raise it again, while he was unguarded, Jez lunged. She put all the power of her body behind it, all her strength, slipping in between Morgead's arms and driving the stick to his midsection.
The air in his lungs exploded out in a harsh gasp and he doubled over.
Jez didn't hesitate. She had to finish him instantly, because in a second he would be fully recovered. By the time he was completely bent over she was already whipping her stick out and around to strike him behind the knee. Again, she put her whole weight behind the blow, following through to scoop him onto his back.
Morgead landed with a thud. Before he could move, Jez snap-kicked hard, catching his wrist and knocking his stick away. It clattered across the floor, oak on oak.
Then she held the pointed end of her own stick to his throat "Yield or die," she said breathlessly, and smiled.
Morgead glared up at her.
He was even more breathless than she was, but there was nothing like surrender in those green eyes. He was mad.
"You tricked me!"
"All's fair."
He just looked at her balefully from under the disordered hair that fell across his forehead. He was sprawled flat, long legs stretched out, arms flung to either side, with the tip of the snakewood fighting stick resting snugly in the pale hollow of his throat. He was completely at her mercy-or at least that was how it seemed.
Jez knew him better.
She knew that he never gave up, and that when he wasn't too mad to think, he was as smart as she was.
And as sneaky. Right now the helpless act was about as sincere as her wounded bird routine.
So she was ready when he threw another blast of Power at her. She saw his pupils dilate like a cat's about to pounce, and she braced herself, shifting the stick minutely to push into his collarbone as she leaned forward.
The energy smashed into her. She could almost see it now, with the sixth sense that was part of her vampire heritage. It was like the downrush of a nuclear cloud, the part that went flowing along the ground, destroying everything in its path, spreading in a circle from the point of impact. It seemed to be faintly green, the color of Morgead's eyes. And it packed quite a punch.