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Arrogant bastard.
I made sure he regretted it, springing forward and rocketing into a dive, all the way to the floor, cutting him at the knees.
He growled at the contact but managed to bite his tongue.
The apparatus beep punctuated his retreat.
1-0.
He settled on his en-garde line. “Again.”
“Your instincts…” I snapped my fingers, turning away from him and returning to starting position. “…they’re not as good as you think.”
“I’m not paying you to talk, Jane.” He rearranged himself back into proper stance. “I’m paying you to fence.”
Be this way, and I will shred you into ribbons.
The next match, I bullied him by circling my sword the entire time it was in the air, hiking up his guard until his parries became fidgety.
He returned the favor with long, impressive strokes that kept me on my toes, plunging into my personal space when I least expected and coming at me with such hostility, you’d think I’d beheaded the Terracotta sculpture inside his home library.
He wielded a lethal combination of strength, speed, and combat joy. A true fan of the art of war.
The point of his sword kissed my shoulder. I grunted as if the contact hurt, pulling back with a yelp. “Ugh.”
1-1.
Zach retreated, strolling away as he admired his sword. “Be graceful in defeat.”
Famous last words.
We returned to our en-garde position and began again.
2-1.
3-1.
3-2.
As the bout progressed, I had to admit Zach could probably cinch a spot on the Olympic team.
He possessed all the coveted traits. Speed, agility, inhuman precognition, and superior observation skills.
He moved like a dancer with elegance and unparalleled discipline.
Midway through the second period, I’d stopped keeping track of the score. All I knew was that I would beat him.
I never lost.
I hurled the sword at him. “Why fencing?”
He dodged artfully.
If my question surprised him, he didn’t show it. This was more than I’d spoken to him in all four months we’d practiced together.
Without a cover to keep, I indulged my curiosity.
Correction: I intended to blow my cover on purpose.
