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“Right,” said Nix.
“Like eagles use.”
“Sure,” said Tom.
“It was a battle cry—”
“Dude,” said Morgie, who sat on the bench, his shaved head still bandaged. “You screamed like a little girl. I’m kind of embarrassed to know you.”
“No,” said Lilah before Benny could reply. The Lost Girl, with her snow-white hair and feral eyes, stood leaning on her spear. “Not like a little girl.”
“Ha!” declared Benny. “You see? I told you it was a—”
“It was like a pig,” said Lilah.
Benny whirled toward her. “No, it wasn’t—”
“A little pig,” she said. “They squeal like that when you try to catch them.”
Benny turned away from her and saw this information register on the faces of each of the others. Even Tom was losing the battle to hide a smile.
“It’s a war cry,” Benny said between gritted teeth.
“The war cry of a ferocious piglet,” suggested Nix.
Benny raised his sword and waited for Nix to do the same.
Tom called, “Hajime!” The Japanese command to begin.
Instantly both wooden swords flashed out, and there was a sharp klack! as blade met blade. Nix attacked with a flurry of overhand and lateral cuts, and Benny shifted in a circle, taking many small steps in order to keep his feet balanced and in constant contact with the ground. The blades slithered and crunched and tokked over and over again as they moved. Benny ignored Morgie’s constant oinking sounds and the fake eagle cries from Chong.
Nix was incredibly good with a sword, even though she had been training only as long as Benny—five short weeks. Benny was a reasonably good athlete, but better at baseball and wrestling than swordplay. Nix was a natural, and in the instant after Tom started each match, her face underwent a change from the smiling, freckly girl who Benny loved to something else. Infinitely more intense, incredibly focused. And ferocious. Even though she lacked Lilah’s years of experience, Nix was every bit as aggressive.
It impressed Benny.
But it also scared him.
Her attack never faltered. She never backed off. Her sword flashed and moved in a blur, and it was all Benny could do to defend himself. Tom had taught him how to deal with aggression: evade and protect, then look for a lull and attack. But Nix never paused; there was no lull.
Gradually the catcalls and jokes from the others faded as the duel went on. And on.
Benny lost count of how many strikes he blocked; and the only attacks he managed were weak counterattacks intended to prevent a combination. He gave ground constantly.
Then Benny saw something that absolutely chilled him. Something that almost made him forget to block.
It was Nix’s mouth. Her lips.
As she fought, with every strike of her sword, her lips formed a word.
A name.
Charlie.
The name of the man who had killed Nix’s mother.
Charlie Pink-eye.
With sickening clarity, Benny realized that Nix was not sparring with him; she wasn’t playing. She was fighting.
