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She straightened her shoulders a little more and lifted a brow.
His lips formed a perfect sneer.
She took deep breaths as her heart set up a furious rhythm. How on earth was she going to battle this man-vampire-whatever?
She wondered if she could touch his mind. She sent a gentle feeler. She reached his thoughts. She watched him take a step backward, but she could go no farther. He had shields, tough shields.
He shifted his gaze away from her. He played to the crowds as he crossed the matting. He lifted his hands into the air, his sword now balanced between. He encouraged both cheers and boos as he walked. The crowd roared. Thorne’s warriors taunted him the way the opposing forces had sent a tsunami of boos against her.
When he had traveled from one end to the other he made his way back to the middle then turned in her direction, plowing straight for her.
Would he attack immediately? Was this it? Did the battle begin now, no preamble, no warning, just … fight?
She held her ground, her sword still angled downward in a passive position. The entire arena fell silent. She reached out with her senses. She could hear the rate of Leto’s breathing and the firm, confident beats of his heart. She could read his reactions and intentions one split second to the next. This at least she had the power to do.
Even as he came toward her, she kept her sword in place, the point pressed firmly against the matting.
As he closed to no more than two yards in front of her, she understood he was testing her courage as he looked down at her and met her gaze. He had blue eyes, sharp intense blue eyes. One thing about the Warriors of the Blood, traitor or not, they tended to be prime examples of the male species, ripped, powerful, and gorgeous, Leto no less so.
She never let her gaze waver from his. She sensed that in this moment he meant to challenge her mettle but not to attack, not to hurt.
She lowered her shoulders a fraction of an inch. “Bring it, Warrior,” she said softly.
A faint smile curved his lips as he narrowed his gaze. He turned and brought his sword in a swift arc to within an inch of the base of her neck.
The gasp that flew up from the entire circumference of the arena sounded like a gust of wind. So fifty thousand people had expected her to die without once having lifted her sword.
Again, whatever.
For a long moment, Leto kept the blade poised at her neck, then cheering and applause erupted from a majority of the spectators, a wild sound that went on and on for at least a minute. Throughout the entire time, Leto’s sword hovered at her neck, unmoving, his hands steady as a rock.
When at last the cheering died down, she said, “I’m ascendiate Wells.” She could hear her voice amplified for the entire arena, a bizarre experience just in itself. However, she didn’t let it deter her as she continued, “I believe you were above the Trough two nights ago. May I at least have an introduction before we begin?”
He withdrew his sword from her neck, his expression slightly confused. “I could have killed you just now.” His voice, bearing an exquisite resonance, also reverberated the length, height, and width of the massive building.
She shook her head. “No. That was not your intention.”
“Then you read me well.” He bowed to her. “At least I face a worthy opponent. But make no mistake, Alison Wells. My name is Leto, I’m a general in the Commander’s army, and given the chance I will end your life.”
“Understood,” she returned.
He narrowed his eyes.
He turned away.
Only as he strode fifteen feet from her did she finally raise her sword. Everything in his demeanor had shifted. She sensed it as though he had fired off a flare.
He turned then attacked in a swift deadly whirl. She knew he had expected to strike her down and finish the contest in one blow. But she had already folded behind him out of reach. He turned again and slashed toward her in a mind-bending array of slices and thrusts.
The battle was on.
For the first minute she heard the madness of the cheering, growling, stomping, screaming crowd. Not long after, however, everything disappeared from her awareness except Leto, his sword and his movements. She saw only him. She immersed herself in learning the subtlety of his signals as she made use of her real weapon—her ability to anticipate—just as Kerrick had taught her.
The only strategy she could compose at this point was defensive in nature against so seasoned a warrior. He was a powerful man, yet he could be struck down for good if she let him taste her sword. She understood the power of the blade, the burn, the sharpness of the slice of Second Earth weaponry. She didn’t know how they were fashioned but she knew they cut like the infamous samurai swords.
He moved as quickly as Kerrick. He kept her hopping and folding. After a few minutes, she realized he had settled on his strategy. He was physically more powerful with profound endurance and he meant to wear her down. Simple as that.
She had no doubt he could succeed. Though she was able to match his skill, he would outlast her.
Fifteen minutes into the battle, a bell sounded.
Leto drew back and bowed to her. He turned around and headed to his white diamond, in the Commander’s direction.
Alison waited before changing course. She reached out for his intention. What came back to her was only his need for water.
Assured he would not attack, she turned around to face the applause of Endelle’s contingent. Havily brought her a goblet, which contained Gatorade, thank God. She drank slowly, savoring.
“Be quick, ascendiate Wells. The break is only thirty seconds long.”
Oh, God.
She sucked down the remaining drink.
The bell sounded.
She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rise. She turned and Leto was already on her. She had a fraction of a second to fold out of the way, but just before she did she touched her sword to the back of his leg. He stumbled and fell forward. Blood gushed from a long and very deep slice.
She had cut him.
She had cut him.
Her stomach rolled. She brought her sword up, preparing for him to rise in a blur of movement and assault her again. Instead he flipped over but remained sitting, his eyes wide as he stared at her.
Now he waited for her to make the next move.
Why?
She glanced down at the mats. Blood poured from the wound, forming a glossy lake beneath his leg. He set his sword beside him and put both hands on the wound.
Holy shit! Had she just severed his hamstring? Oh, my God, she had, which meant she could finish the contest right this moment, right now.
A cheer rose up from Endelle’s faction along with a cry to finish him. He continued to stare up at her, his expression intense.
