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“She does now.” Ignarius returns a tight, impatient smile. “Unless you wish to be collateral damage, step back.”
A vague recollection of Goodfellow’s warning at the pageant resurfaces. No rules. Got it. I shoot Alfie a wink in my mind. He returns to his group of Chaser friends and mumbles about this only ending in slaughter, but I know he means mine of her—not the other way around. I hope.
He mentioned something outside about underestimating my opponents. The thought spurs me to reassess Dahlia. She’s fast, too fast for a human. Nothing visible on her changed when Ignarius ripped away her charms. One must be enchanted for speed, maybe even strength.
This lesson is about assumptions, so what do they assume about me?
That I’ve got a card up my sleeve—something big enough to warrant selection as a Shadow, despite having the face of the enemy. TheyknowI have no charms making me pretty. The light from Tinger’s pendant is hidden beneath Fox’s black shirt. So they must assume that without a pretty face, all I have are my wits and fighting skills. Why else would the House of Shadows choose me?
I’m still wondering the same question because it’s not to have me as their new queen, despite Varen’s quirky words. I’ve been there and rejected that.
Apart from my ability to sense the flow of magic, I have no other advantages. Oh, wait. I have my halfling shifter traits—speed, smell, sight. Granted, I’m not as fast as Dahlia, but I can keep up. And I’ve killed.
Many, many times before.
For all her talk about not making the first move, she comes at me again with a quick one-two jab. I dance back, but my knee smarts, and I limp. Her next strike glances off my shoulder, and I fall into the first ring of spectators. Max tries to protectGeraldine, but we all clash and scramble awkwardly. This tower room isn’t big enough for sparring.
“You hurt?” I ask. She took the brunt of my fall. I try to push myself off without making it worse. Max’s gaze widens over my shoulder, tingles scorch my back, and a hard shove propels me forward. I headbutt Geraldine. Blood spurts from her nose. Pain radiates from mine.
“No!” I drop to my knees and use Fox’s long shirt to stanch her bleeding. Geraldine’s whimper is small, but the agony in her eyes is epic. Clenching my jaw, I take Max’s hand and guide him to use my cape instead of my shirt. No one offers to help. Not even Alfie. It fills me with hot, itchy rage. I shoot daggers to where Dahlia smugly retreats, barely a hair out of place on her silken head.
When a rival wolf invades another’s territory, there is no hesitation to defend the pack. In fact, the defender strikes first, and they keep attacking until the rival submits, flees, or is dead. Dahlia knew what she was doing, kicking me into these two. She saw me walk in with them, sitting and chatting, handing my cape to Geraldine for safekeeping. She thinks if she hurts them, she’ll hurt me. What she doesn’t realize is that she’s now marked them as mine.
Straightening, I turn and give my knuckles a one-handed crack. While my arms dangle loosely, I stretch my neck and target her scent—cloying, floral, tart. She’s no godlike crow shifter. No acid-dripping monster. I’ve faced down a two-thousand-year-old vampire Unseelie High Queen and lived. Dahlia is just a mortal relying on stones for an advantage.
To them, I have nothing. Iamnothing. Which means I have nothing to lose and everything to gain, just like those charms wrapped around her wrist.
“You going to stand there all day and stare?” she taunts.
“You gonna stand there all day and let me?”
Her cockiness fades. My lips curve with an idea, and I limp closer.
“Cowardly shot,” I say, “kicking someone while they’re down.”
She shrugs. “Normal rules of engagement are out.”
“So no one will mind if I steal your pretty Chaser chain and use it to strangle you?”
Incredulous laughter erupts from her pouty lips. My smile becomes feral, wolfish. My canines aren’t as big as they used to be when I shifted, but they’re still extra sharp. Fear flashes in her eyes before she hides it with a snarl contorting her features into something as ugly as mine.
“You’re such a pathetic, disgusting waste of space,” she spits. “No class. No elegance. Why anyone wants someone grotesque like you is the greatest mystery in Avorlorna.”
“Sounds like you’re jealous.”
If I could shift my claws out, I’d gouge her delicate throat. But instead, I shove down the emotion Rory hated so much and lean into their prejudiced opinion of me. At this point, it can’t get any worse.
So, I spit in her face.
Horrified, she balks and reaches for her contaminated eye. She’s so revolted she might puke. I’m not stupid enough to go straight for her wrist-chain. I lean a little further and tighten the noose. She wants inelegance? Fine.
I go wild, screeching, brawling, and scratching her flawless skin with intentionally clumsy movements. Consecutive hits to her vanity blind her to my nimble, pick-pocketing fingers. Her Chaser chain falls into my palm.
For the Gold.
Now it’s time to teach this bitch a lesson. I wrap my legs around her torso, twist until I’m at her back, and loop the chain around her throat. I hold Ignarius’s coal-eyed stare as I chokehis Shadow with her own damn charms—the ones he probably gifted her.
The silver cuts into my palms, burning enough to scar. My muscles scream in protest, tremble, and threaten to give up. But I lock them in place. I ignore the distant voice telling me everyone is right, that I’m not good enough. I’ll lose. I don’t know what I’m doing making these types of decisions for myself. It was better when I followed orders and did as I was told.
