Ethan vaulted from his seat, jumped toward Cyrius, who’d pulled open a desk drawer. I caught the glint of metal, felt the buzz of steel in my bones. He had a gun.
Damn it. My arm had only just stopped aching. I did not want to get shot again this week. I’d let Ethan handle that one.
You got him? I asked Ethan.
I’ve got him. She’s yours.
Damn right she was.
I unsheathed my katana as the vampire regained her footing. I could give credit where credit was due: She’d held on to her sword, and was resetting to face me again.
Good. That would make the fight more interesting.
“You should tell me your name,” I said, raising my blade so it hovered in the air between us. “I mean, if we’re going to fight like this.”
She lifted her chin. “Leona.”
“Merit,” I said.
“I know who you are. The spoiled little rich girl.”
There weren’t many insults that would hit me dead-on, but that was one of them. I felt the sting, opened my mouth to argue that I wasn’t spoiled. And while I was mentally trying to justify my existence, she moved.
She wasn’t as fast as me, but she was big, all of it muscle that gave her plenty of power. Smiling, she moved forward, holding the sword aloft the way a knight might have carried a broadsword. She sliced down, the katana whistling by my head as I ducked away.
I’d barely pivoted when she tried another strike. Her arms were long, and she had a lengthy reach. I hopped onto a stack of the file boxes, jumped over the arc of the katana she swung at my feet. That made three strikes in a row for her, whereas I hadn’t managed one since my initial kick.
I considered using that as strategy—letting her wear herself out while I tried to stay in front of her. But that wouldn’t be much fun.
I bounced up and flipped over her head, spun my katana horizontal, and sliced across her torso. The blade caught leather, carved right through it, and stripped a line of crimson across pale skin.
She roared with agony and fury, brought the katana’s pommel down hard onto the arm I’d injured the night before. Pain jolted through my arm—a needle-sharp stab surrounded by a column of deep, dull ache. Tears sprang to my eyes, an involuntary reaction, and my knees went wobbly.
“Little rich girl,” she said, fairly singing it as I groped for the nearest column of boxes, tried to keep myself upright while my brain struggled back against pain.
Sentinel?
I’m fine, I said, risking a glance at him and Cyrius. Ethan had gotten the gun away; it was tucked into his jeans. But Cyrius had found a pearl-handled knife and was thrusting it toward Ethan.
You could use the gun on him, I pointed out.
How dull that would be, Ethan said, dodging a thrust. You need help?
That question was enough to have me rolling my shoulder, demanding my brain ignore the pain. I adjusted my fingers around the katana’s handle.
“It’s my father’s money,” I said. “Not mine.”
“Like it matters. All you Housed vampires are the same. You think you’re better than everyone else.”
This time, I wasn’t going to wait for her to nail me again. I took the offensive, moving forward, setting the pace and driving her back. I sliced horizontally, and she met my sword, blade against blade, the strike of steel against steel clanging through the air. I struck again, switching up my positions and direction.
Leona was bigger than me. I wouldn’t beat her with sheer strength, and maybe not with stamina. But I was faster and better trained, and could probably force her into a bad move.
“You know,” I said, “Reed’s got plenty of money, too. It doesn’t make sense you hate me, but work for him.”
Leona scoffed, spittle at the corners of her mouth as she worked to counter my strikes. “I don’t work for Adrien Reed. He’s a businessman.”
She used the world like a shield. “Yeah, keep saying that if it eases your conscience. But you know it’s only half right.” I switched up my attack, went for my favorite shot—a side kick that she batted away with an enormous hand. She tried to grab my ankle, but I cleared her, then spun and brought the katana around again.
Another clang of metal against metal. The sound made my teeth ache and my chest tighten with concern. The katana’s cutting edge was sharp, hard steel. It was designed to slice and too brittle for prolonged blade-on-blade strikes.
Another overhead strike—one of her favorites. This time, I spun the blade in my hand to raise the spine, which was less brittle, into the blow to protect the sword’s integrity. I still had to deal with Catcher, after all.
The woman had power, and the shock of impact passed through me like one of Mr. Leeds’s concussions. But it must have passed through her, too. When she raised the sword again, her muscles quivered with effort.
We’d reached the desk again, and I jumped onto one of the chairs, then over it, putting space between us.
She kicked the chair out of the way, stalked forward, spinning the katana in her hand.
“Did you know who killed Caleb Franklin?” I asked her.