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The moment the gong sounded a second time, I barreled straight for her. Who says you need to be sophisticated to be a good fighter? Or tall, for that matter.
I squatted and I dove. Straight for her knees.
Mia yowled. The kama flew from her hands. I felt her knee hyperextend as she pitched to the ground. We landed with a grunt.
“Hold . . . still. ” I pinned her legs. She began to kick, and I twisted, hitching higher, diving onto her belly. Her body was freakishly thin, and it felt like it might snap under mine. “Not so fancy now, Mia Ballerina. ”
The total crudeness of my moves had thrown her off. Even though I couldn’t fist my injured left hand, I managed to land a bunch of hits to her belly and ribs. Her abdomen was washboard flat, and despite all the tape, my hands throbbed from the abuse.
“You won’t win. ” She struggled under me, getting a hand free.
I leaned back as her fist whooshed by me, just missing my chin. I grabbed her arm, trapping it under mine, and wrenched her elbow. “Oh, I think I will. ”
I had no plan other than this primitive beating. If things went foul, I had to hope my guardian-angel vampire would bust out some supernatural mojo to help me.
“You won’t. ” Mia pulled her arm free. And then she laid a bruising backhand across the side of my face. “Because you’re trash. ”
Time stopped.
In that instant, I was ten and my dad was backhanding me for sitting in his chair when he got home after a bad day. I was fourteen, and he didn’t like my eyeliner. I was nine . . . I was twelve . . . I was fifteen . . .
You’re trash. I’d heard it, over and over. I’d been smacked. Disregarded. I’d been in the way. Trash.
But I wasn’t trash. I was better than that. I had an iron will. I knew who I was. I’d have shut down long ago if I didn’t. I’d still be in Florida, flatlining in front of the TV, a Coors tall boy in my hand.
I was Annelise Drew, and I counted.
I’d hit and been hit. But, in that instant, I became a fighter.
Mia swung to hit me again, but I snagged her arm in midair. I held her wrist and I squeezed. I imagined that ballerina-thin bone snapping in my grip.
Relax, Acari. Priti’s voice sounded in my head. Breathe.
All my life I’d watched people lose control. And I wouldn’t become one of them. I would probably kill Mia, yes. But more than that, I would defeat her.
I breathed. I was aware of adrenaline pumping through my veins, urging me to act, but I disregarded it. I held myself in check.
I also felt the blood. I hadn’t had any since morning, but I’d been taking it regularly, and it’
d made me much stronger than I’d been just a few short months ago. I called to it now, summoned that strong feeling I always got after drinking. I felt my own blood coursing through me, pictured my tensed muscles flush with it, imagined oxygen flooding my cells. I found an inner power—the gift of the blood.
Squeezing my thighs, I held Mia immobilized beneath me. I unsheathed my blade with my left hand. I held it to her throat and smiled. “Surrender, Mia. ”
She bucked and spat, clawing at my face with her free hand. “No way. ”
“Not very classy for a ballerina. ” I pressed the knife harder, until a drop of red trickled down her neck. “I will give you one more chance. Do you yield?”
“Fine. ” Her body went limp. “I give up. Just get off me. ”
Knowing the Tracers would appear at any moment, I stood. Stepping away from her, I turned toward the crowd. Their indrawn breath alerted me, the looks on their faces telling me all I needed to know.
My knife was in my hand, my arm already raised, as I pivoted back to her.
Mia had rolled to her feet. She held her kama overhead, poised to cleave my shoulder.
I didn’t think; I just threw. I summoned the blood, pictured the blade sinking between her ribs so clearly that it was surreal when it actually did.
Mia dropped to her knees. She clutched her chest. Shock mingled with the hatred in her eyes.
