The third-year leader from Cat’s drift, the stocky one with the necklace of scars, Bragen, knocks Quinn unconscious with a punch combination that leaves my mouth hanging.
Once Imogen is called to the mat by Neve—another third-year in Cat’s drift, with short strawberry-blond hair and deep-set eyes—I sense the pattern.
“This is about me,” I say quietly to Rhiannon when Imogen lands a solid kick to the other girl’s head.
“That makes it about us,” she responds. “Please tell me you’re wrapped and wearing your armor.”
I nod.
Imogen and Neve exchange precise, calculated blows until Devera calls it a draw after they’re both bleeding.
“Catriona Cordella and Violet Sorrengail,” Devera announces. “Disarm and take the mat.”
“Don’t do this.” Maren tries to talk Cat out of it, but there’s nothing but determination in her narrowed gaze.
“Of-fucking-course.” I hand the conduit to Rhiannon.
“Why am I not surprised, Cat?” Imogen glares across the mat before turning toward me.
“It’s fine. Predictable but fine.” One by one, I unsheathe all thirteen of my weapons and hand them to her.
“She’s got at least five inches on you, so watch for her reach,” Rhiannon says quietly.
“From what I remember, she’s quick on the attack and won’t leave you much time to react, so commit to your moves. Don’t hesitate,” Imogen adds.
“All right.” I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, fighting like hell to steady the nerves that have my stomach doing somersaults. If I’d known this was where today was headed, I would have acted earlier, maybe laced her breakfast with the fonilee I saw growing on the ridge just beneath the valley.
“You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says with a nod. “You were trained by the best.”
“Xaden,” I whisper, wishing he was here and not on the border.
“Me.” She nudges me with her elbow and forces a smile.
“Violet?” Sloane moves to Imogen’s side. “Do me a favor and kick her ass.”
My mouth tugs into a real half smile, and I nod at her before stepping onto the mat. Guess nothing unites foes like a common enemy, and for some reason, Cat has decided I’m hers. The mat has the same density as the ones at Basgiath, the same feel under my boots as I walk to the center, where Cat waits with a malevolent smirk.
“Scratch her eyes out,” Andarna suggests. “Really. The eyes are the softest tissue. Just jab your thumbs in there—”
“Andarna! Use some common sense,” Tairn snaps. “The kneecaps are a much easier target.”
“Quiet time, now.” I slam my shields up, muting Tairn and Andarna as much as possible.
“No weapons. No signets,” Devera says. “Match ends when one of you is—”
“Unconscious or taps out,” Cat finishes without taking her eyes off me. “We know.”
“Begin.” Devera steps off the mat, and I block out the noise around me, giving all my focus to Cat as she takes a familiar fighting stance.
I do the same, keeping my body loose and ready for movement. If she’s quick on the attack like Imogen said, then I’ll need to play defense.
“This is for Luella.” She comes at me with a combination of punches that I block with my forearms, shifting my body so the blows glance off without their full impact. It’s…easy, like I know the choreography. Like it’s muscle memory. Her stance adjusts, and I jump back a second before she kicks out. Connecting only with air, her balance falters as I land, and she stumbles sideways.
Holy shit. She fights like Xaden.
He trained both of us.
Defeating a dark wielder begins with knowing where they rank in age and experience. Initiates have reddish rings to their eyes that come and go depending on how often they drain. Asims’ eyes fluctuate in degrees of red, and their veins distend when riled. Sages’—those responsible for initiates—eyes are permanently red, their veins perpetually distended toward their temples, expanding with age. Mavens—their generals—have never been captured for examination.
—VENIN, A COMPENDIUM BY CAPTAIN DRAKE CORDELLA, THE NIGHTWING DRIFT
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
So much for thinking I have the advantage.
Her eyes flare, like she’s come to the same conclusion as we circle each other, and then they narrow in a way that makes my stomach clench. Devera may have set the rules, but something tells me Cat is about to break them.
“Does it bother you?” she asks, lowering her voice as she raises her hands. “Knowing he taught me first? That I had him first?”
“Not at all, since I have him now.” I swallow the sour jealousy that rises with the burn of bile in my throat.
“Really?” She jabs, and I weave. “The thought that I know what he tastes like?” She throws another combination that I block, then retreats as if it was nothing but a test. “How his weight feels above me?”
I will not vomit on this mat. I refuse.
“Nope.” But shit if that picture doesn’t play out in my mind as vividly as a nightmare.
Her hands on his skin, her mouth on the curling lines of his rebellion relic. Envy and anger roar in my ears, dulling my senses, and I blink rapidly to clear the image, but heat prickles my skin as power rises within me.
She comes at me again, and I throw my forearm up in a block, but she shifts unexpectedly, and when I block for the cross, she nails me with a left hook.
Pain explodes in my cheek, right on the bone, and I stagger backward, touching my face reflexively to check for blood, but she hasn’t split the skin.
“I think it does bother you,” she says softly as we circle again. “Seeing me here, where I belong. Sleeping right down the hall. I bet it keeps you awake at night, knowing I’m a better match for him in every way, counting the seconds he tires of your frail excuse for a body and comes back to the woman who knows exactly what he likes and how he likes it.”
Every word she speaks raises my temperature, but I refuse to take the bait, so I’m ready when she charges forward this time, twisting as she jabs for my face. I manage to counter, landing my blow in the same location she’d hit me.
Pain shoots up my wrist, but I’m happy for the sting.
“You know what bothers me?” I ask as she bounces back on her toes, cursing when the back of her hand swipes at her cheek and comes away bloody. “That you’re obsessed with fighting over a man.” Rage fuels my movements when I go on the attack, but she’s ready for every combination I have.
Because they’re all fucking his.
“You going to do something about this?” I hear someone ask from outside the haze of anger that’s slowing my reaction time.
“She wouldn’t want me to.” The answer comes from the edge of the mat as Cat lunges toward me, and I’m too focused on her hands to block her feet when they sweep mine out from under me.
I’m airborne for a heartbeat, and then my back hits the mat, rattling my bones and stealing my breath.
Cat follows me down, leaning her forearm against my throat and cutting off my air supply as she leans in, her mouth right next to my ear. “You seem angry, Violet. Are you just now realizing you’re nothing special? That you’re just a convenient placeholder he can fuck?” Her laugh is low and cruel. “I know how good he is. I’m the one who taught him that little trick he does with his fingers. You know, the one where he curls—”
I see red and throw every ounce of my rage into the punch I deliver to the side of her ribs, right where Xaden taught me to stab, and then I draw back and do it again, savoring the dull sound of the crack of her ribs and the jarring pain that shoots through my hand, along my wrist, and up my arm because I know I just delivered ten times worse.
She cries out, falling off me to her uninjured side, and I gasp, filling my lungs before hurtling my body after hers, rising onto my knees and slamming my fist into the side of her face with a satisfying thud before she can recover. Now she has my mark on both sides.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snap. “It is not my fault that he doesn’t love you!”
“Of course he doesn’t!” She grabs hold of my arm and rolls with astonishing speed, twisting it behind my back.