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I lifted my head, spitting gravel and blood. "What? No witty riposte? No clever throwaway line?"
"Get up."
Cain grabbed my collar again and heaved me to my feet, setting me down so hard my ankle twisted beneath me. I made a show of wiping the dirt from my face and running my fingers through my hair.
"That's no way to greet a girl, Zack," I said. "No wonder you have to pay for it."
Cain stood there with his arms crossed, saying nothing. His shoulders spanned half the passage between buildings. Dark blond hair topped a face with bulldog features.
"Waiting for me to run?" I asked. "Or still trying to think up a comeback?"
He started forward. I wheeled and sprinted for the end of the alley. A mutt always stands his ground and fights. A Pack werewolf knows when to run like hell. I wasn't a match for Zachary Cain on my best days and today certainly wasn't one of those. I was half Cain's size, but twice his speed. If I could get to the end of the alley, I was safe. The Pack's two best fighters were there, and I wasn't stubborn or stupid enough to refuse help. Halfway there, the Mercedes passed the alley opening again. I lifted both arms to wave and my left foot hit the gravel wrong. As I fell, the silver car slowly vanished from sight.
I scrambled to my feet, but it was too late. Again, Cain reached out and caught me by the back of the shirt. This time, he swung me off the ground. My left foot smacked into a metal Dumpster and I swallowed a yelp. With his free hand, Cain grabbed me beneath the chin and smashed me backward into the wall. My head hit the brick, sending lightning bolts through my skull. He held me there, feet suspended off the ground. Then he reached up and tore my shirtfront open.
"Not much to see, is there?" I said, struggling to talk with a crushed windpipe. "I know, I know, they can fix things like that these days. Call me a feminist, but I think a woman's worth should be defined not by the size of her bust, but--"
I rammed my fist up into his Adam's apple. He grunted and stumbled back.
"--by the strength of her right hook," I said, throwing myself against his chest before he regained his balance.
Cain toppled to the ground. As he fell, I stayed on him, slamming my open hand against his neck and pinning him by the throat.
"Yes, I can talk and think at the same time," I said. "Most people can, though I suppose you wouldn't know that from personal experience."
With a roar, Cain swung one arm up toward me. In midair, a shoe shot down and stomped his hand to the ground.
"Uh-uh," Clay drawled above me. "Elena's played with you long enough. It's my turn."
I waited until Clay moved his foot to Cain's throat, then backed off. Antonio was standing to the side.
"Trap?" I asked.
Antonio nodded. "Clay saw him lurking in the alley. We figured you'd come looking for us."
"So you left a trail and circled that vacant lot waiting for me to take the bait, and Cain to take me as bait."
"Something like that."
Clay hauled Cain to his feet. The redness and dark circles had vanished from Clay's eyes. He was fully awake now. This was what he'd been waiting for.
Cain towered a good six inches over Clay and outweighed him by at least seventy pounds. It was a fair fight.
The two stepped back and looked at each other. Then Cain took a step left toward Clay. Clay mirrored the maneuver, but moved forward to the right. They repeated the dance steps, gazes locked, each watching the other for the lunge. The pattern for the ritual was ingrained in our brains. Step, circle, watch. To win, you either had to lunge without warning or catch the other about to lunge and sidestep. It went on for several minutes. Then Cain lost patience and dove. Clay dodged out of the way, grabbed him by the waistband, and flung him into the wall. Cain recovered in a heartbeat and slammed into Clay's chest, knocking him to the ground.
I won't detail the fight, partly because it would be a boring recitation of hit, jab, grunt, stumble, recover, and partly because I wasn't watching it that closely. I wasn't not watching because I wasn't interested, but because I was too interested. Standing back and seeing Clay get pummeled and kicked and slammed into walls was a bit more than I could bear. Not that I didn't occasionally want to do the same to him myself, but this was different. I would have felt the same about watching any of my Pack brothers fight. It wasn't just Clay. Really.
Although I wasn't watching the fight, that didn't keep me from smelling it. I smelled Cain's blood firs
t, but Clay's followed shortly. When I looked up, blood was streaming from Clay's nose and mouth, making him cough and sputter.
Antonio and I had to stand back and watch. This was how we fought. One-on-one, no weapons, no tricks. It was the wolf in us that dictated the rules of battle; the human side would goad us into winning at all costs. That wasn't to say we'd stand back and watch Clay get killed. If that seemed possible, loyalty to one's Pack brother overrode all codes of conduct. Still, there was a lot of blood and broken bones between life and death, and until that line was crossed, we couldn't interfere.
It finally ended with Cain sprawled facedown in the gravel. When he didn't get up, I thought he was dead. Than I saw his back rising and falling as he breathed.
"Unconscious," Clay wheezed, wiping his shirt over his bloody nose. "You can look now."
"I was watching," I said. "I turned away because I thought I heard something down the alley."
