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Or maybe it was something simpler. Maybe she just wanted him.
Whatever the future had in store for me and Ethan (or me and not Ethan, as the case may have been), I made a vow then and there not to become one of those vampires. I vowed to stay my own person, to remember who I was, to think rationally about alliances and the people I might have allied with. If only I'd remembered those things a few nights ago . . . or when Mallory had needed me. But what was done was done. A girl could only move forward.
I was limbering up by practicing kicks when Ethan and Lacey made their appearances. He entered the Sparring Room from the main door; Lacey took her spot on the balcony, this time amongst a mass of vampires. The balcony was nearly full, from Lindsey and Luc - who must have been taking a break from their guarding duties - to Margot and Michelle and some of the other vampires I'd had drinks with. They waved at me, a fan club for a once-reticent vampire. But I'd passed through reticence . . . and I'd become one of them, at least in part largely because I was a Novitiate who'd been wronged by a Master. Or Two, if you counted Lacey. Or Four, if you counted the former and current Masters of Navarre.
However regrettable (and however embarrassing), those wrongs had created a kind of bond between me and the other vampires of Cadogan House - a chance for me to get to know them without my rank between us.
Silver lining? Maybe. Or maybe the world just worked in mysterious ways.
Ethan walked toward me, his posture businesslike, his expression just shy of grim. "Prepare to fight," he said. I guess we were skipping the complicated teaching protocols . . . and the greetings.
"Liege," I said, and angled my body toward his, knees soft, elbows bent, prepared to strike or defend.
He must have had aggression of his own to work out, as he immediately struck out with a punch-kick-punch combination that had me hurrying to defend myself. But I parried his punches and the kick, and then tried a shot myself - a crescent kick that he nevertheless fended off. We bounced around the mat for a bit, offering up testing jabs, but not yet committing to an actual punch. The crowd began to murmur and call out for action. I tried a side kick, which he easily blocked.
"You're hardly trying," he said, but he didn't stop moving. He bobbed around me before executing a perfect front kick that caught me in the right collarbone. I think he pulled the kick; it was still bone jarring, but the full force of it would have cracked the bone in half. I rubbed the sore spot, anger beginning to boil my blood. Ethan kept bobbing and weaving; I kept trying to hit him. This, he seemed to think, was exactly the problem - that I was trying to do it, instead of actually doing it. Here we were again, and he was running out of ways to motivate me with fear and anger.
"I want you to use the skills you've learned," he said. "How to rely upon your senses, your instincts." I ducked to avoid a strike. "I'm trying, Sullivan."
"Try harder."
Why did people always think demanding we try harder was going to help? I was trying as hard as I could. My inability to best him wasn't for lack of effort on my part.
"Maybe you're just better than I am."
He stopped cold, then moved so close to me that the bottom of his white gi pants brushed my legs.
"You are Sentinel of this House. It's not an issue of 'better than.' " His expression softened, and he looked at me with those deep green eyes, and instead of baiting me, he encouraged me.
"I have seen you move, Merit. I have seen you perform the Katas with grace and speed, and I have seen you battle men twice your size. Your skill is not the problem. You can do this." I nodded and blew out a breath, and I tried not to look up at the balcony to check the reactions of the vampires who were watching me. I didn't want to see mine or Ethan's frustration echoed on their faces.
Was that the problem? That I had an audience? It shouldn't have mattered. After all, I'd been a dancer; it wasn't as if I hadn't performed in front of a crowd before. And then I thought about the first time I'd challenged Ethan, and how proud he'd been of my skills as a newbie vamp. And I thought about what had been different then.
Suddenly . . . insight.
In that first fight, I'd danced.
I looked at Ethan again. "Can I get some music?"
He frowned. "Music?"
"Please."
"Any preferences?"
I let a smile slowly curl my lips. "Something I can dance to." He nodded at someone behind me. After a moment, Rage Against the Machine began to echo through the Sparring Room. I took a moment, closing my eyes and letting the pounding of "Guerilla Radio" loosen my limbs. I let my body adjust to its rhythm, and when the tension was gone and the world seemed to slow on its axis, I opened my eyes and I looked at him - not as his lover, or the vampire he'd made, or his Novitiate, but as a soldier in my own right.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Begin," he said, and as if it were the simplest thing in the world, I attacked.
I didn't think about it, didn't analyze it, didn't wonder how he might parry or defend. Instead, with the roaring bass line echoing through my chest, I struck out. I started with a high butterfly kick, and before he could defend, using the momentum I'd gained from the kick, I swept a high roundhouse at his face. He grunted and dropped down with his usual speed, then struck out with a roundhouse kick. But I'd seen that kick before. I dodged the move, flipping backward and landing with my body bladed, ready for the next round. "You'll have to be faster than that, Sullivan." The crowd came to its feet.
We both hopped out of our kicks, balancing on the balls of our feet as we waited for our next openings.
"That's better," he said.
I winked at him. "Then you're gonna love this one."
"Not if I move first," he said, then aimed a sidekick at my torso, but I spun around, one hand on the floor as I turned, then aimed a back kick at his head. I missed his head . . . but caught him on the shoulder. His inertia brought him down to his knees, but he hopped up quickly enough. The vampires in the balcony cheered appreciatively.
Hands on my hips, I gave him an appraising glance. "That's better." He snorted with delight.
Ethan kicked again, and this time, I thought I'd try something a little different. I jumped backward into an exaggerated scissor-legged flip that took me ten feet in the air and out of the range of his kicks.
I landed again, and then the sparring really got started. We moved and torqued our bodies as if gravity made no difference at all, as if we were partners in a pas de deux.
"Good," he called out, but there was a brilliant gleam in his eyes.
