Blood Fever (The Watchers #3)

Blood Fever (The Watchers #3) Page 40

“You will do what you always have done, which is what is necessary to survive. I cannot predict what will happen in your fight. There is no plan Hugo has not yet conceived himself, and I fear he will stand in your way.” He cupped my cheek, holding my gaze to his. “But whatever happens, hear this: I will not watch you die.”

I turned and pressed my lips to his palm. I thought of stoic prairie-girl Emma. I had a centuries-old vampire secretly in my corner—whatever my best intentions were, it wouldn’t be a fair fight. I couldn’t bear the thought anymore. “Take my mind off this,” I pleaded. “Show me your powers.”

“My powers?”

“You know. Your Druid powers. Predict the future or something.” I blinked my eyes shut. “Tell me what I’m thinking.”

His hand ever so gently cradled my neck. “I’m thinking perhaps you’d like me to kiss you.”

I opened my eyes and what I saw blew me away. His features had gone soft, as though he were glimpsing heaven. And heaven was me. There’d been a time when I thought I didn’t want to kiss a vampire. Now it was all I wanted.

I slid my hand over his. “I would like it, yes.”

He kissed me, and there wasn’t the hunger of our previous kisses. This was a tender kiss. A bolstering kiss. A kiss to give me strength and tell me I wasn’t alone.

When we parted, I stared at him, memorizing him. How strange to find myself with this creature, whispering intimacies in the darkness. “How is it you’re so different? I mean, all the other vampires come from another time and they’re all sexist pigs.”

He smiled at that. “They’re naught but frightened boys. They don’t know what I do.”

“Which is?”

“That in the body of a wee blond spitfire lies the heart of a warrior.”

Just then, hearing his conviction, I felt that warrior’s heart. In Carden’s words, I heard how he’d once had a mother, a sister. Aunts and grandmothers whom he’d honored.

Someday I’d ask him for his history, but I didn’t think he was ready to tell me, not yet. And I wasn’t ready, either. Because somewhere in his stories, I imagined how a girl might find love for a vampire. And that was something I definitely wasn’t prepared for.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Don’t worry.” I gave my friend an uneasy smile. It was surely the strangest prefight march this island had ever seen—two competitors, about to fight to the death, clinging together like they were each other’s life raft. “It’ll be just like in Star Trek.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked nervously. “I don’t understand.”

She sounded nervous, and I chattered in an attempt to calm her. “You know, like Spock. You hit the right pressure point, and boom—I’m out cold.” She still looked blank, so I said, “You didn’t watch Star Trek, did you?”

She shook her head.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“But I know what to do. I grip your neck.”

“No, you’ll pinch my neck. There are two carotid arteries, one on each side. Doubles your chances, right? Pinch, and I’ll black out.”

“What if you don’t wake up?”

“Just don’t hold on too long. If you let go in time, I’ll be fine.” I gave a brittle laugh. “Several thousand brain cells short, but alive.” What I didn’t mention was that it could also stop my heart, send me into shock, and kill me. But I pictured Carden, remembered his words. I will not watch you die. I gave her an encouraging smile. “Seriously. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Just make it look convincing.”

“Convincing.” She nodded solemnly. “I can do that.”

We’d reached the gymnasium, and I could hear a commotion inside. A crowd had gathered already.

We stopped and locked eyes. We’d been distant lately, but it hadn’t been because we were mad at each other. It was purely due to circumstances—class schedules for one, though Yasuo was the biggest reason. Him, and Carden, too. She’d been enjoying having a secret boyfriend, while I’d been in my own weird world. But I knew Emma. Emma was my friend. We’d get through this.

She held out her pinky. “Friends forever?”

“Forever,” I agreed, twining my little finger with hers. “Pinky swear.”

I opened the door for us, and the shouts and taunts of the crowd swelled—mostly girl voices. Neither of us had many friends in the audience. It girded me. I needed to do this, to fake my own death, to save Emma.

“Ladies,” Alcántara greeted us from his perch outside the ring.

The crowd hushed as we climbed in between the ropes. I caught Emma’s eye. We were together. We could do this.

“Two girls in,” he announced like a boxing emcee. “One out.”

We went to opposite corners of the ring and stood there unmoving, staring silently at each other. Friends forever.

He tipped his head toward us in a dramatically somber gesture. “Commence.”

Emma slid her Buck knife from a holster at the back of her belt. It was thick and serrated, and just seeing it gave me a shudder. She gave me an apologetic shrug.

I flexed my foot, feeling the stars in my boots. I bent to pull one out. My aim would need to be better than ever—not in an effort to kill my friend, but rather to make sure I didn’t kill her.

I stepped forward and gave her a small, reassuring smile. We’d agreed we had to make it look convincing before she pinned and pretend-killed me. Which meant we’d have to draw some blood. I just hoped that, when the time came, she remembered not to twist that knife.

She advanced a few steps, looking reluctant to leave her corner. As she moved, the gym’s overhead lights gleamed white on her wide blade. She might’ve been unwilling, but there was nothing uncertain about the sharpness of that steel.

Once more, I was grateful for this term’s Combat Medicine. I knew the least painful, the safest places to be stabbed. The spots where we’d be least likely to bleed out, those parts of the body that wouldn’t sustain permanent, crippling injury.

Major arteries = bad. Extremities = good.

Feet, hands, fingers, toes were all prime spots, as long as we avoided critical tendons in the hands and stayed far from the arms and legs, which housed some major veins.

The butt, believe it or not, was also a great target, as long as we were careful to avoid nearby arteries. Nick the wrong spot in the butt and you’re toast.

The forehead was definitely something to consider, if we had the opportunity. It’d bleed a lot—head injuries always did—and that would provide some necessary high drama, with the skull protecting all the valuable bits.

The crowd began to hoot and catcall. They wanted carnage, but Emma was hesitating. She was having trouble doing this. I’d have to wake her up, jostle some life into her. See if I couldn’t bring out a spark. It’d be up to me to draw first blood.

I approached and prowled around her, trying to look eager to go in for the kill. I drew a second star, holding one in each hand. I widened my eyes, hoping she’d understand the message. Stand very, very still.

She froze—she got it. I had only a tiny window to act before we looked too obvious. I threw the stars in quick succession. The first I threw at her head and breathed a sigh of relief as it skimmed her hair. The second hit her foot and stuck there.

She made the tiniest shocked whimper, and I had to purse my lips against the emotion. I had to be strong. We could do this.

It was her turn to act, but she wasn’t, so I stalked toward her, hoping to make it easier for her. I shoved her, then shoved again. Come on, Emma, fight.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her down hard, making like I was kneeing her in the gut. I tugged back up, and she didn’t need to fake the sound of pain. I hissed in her ear, “A real friend would fight me.” I hated to do it, but I had to goad her to action or she really would be killed.

Emma flinched back, and finally I saw fire in her eyes. She lunged toward me and slashed at my thigh, managing to tear only the fabric and scrape the skin in the most superficial of wounds that also happened to draw a dramatic amount of blood. She’d been using a Buck knife since she was little and she was good. Thank God.

I realized the crowd was chanting, “Knife, knife, knife.”

The sound turned my blood cold. I guessed I had some real fans in the audience. Not.

Emma’s eyes had narrowed—she was finally feeling the battle lust, and for a surreal moment, I believed it. I believed she’d turned on me. That she wanted to kill me.

It made me feel so alone.

I had to glance at the crowd. I had to. I had to see Carden and feel some sort of support. I looked to the audience, but my eyes lit on Ronan instead. He stood close by, looking like he might spring into the ring and intervene. I had to look away.

Then I spotted him. Carden. He looked calm. I’d be calm, too.

Staring back at Emma, I squatted to pull out my other star, flexing my thigh as I did, encouraging the blood to flow where she’d slashed me. I stood and sprang toward her, pretending a slight limp. I threw as I ran, as lightly as I could, hitting her in the belly. I hoped it was shallow enough not to do any damage. I’d had to do something—it’d look too suspicious if I hit her in the foot again.

Weaponless now, I grabbed her and we began to grapple. I spun, trying to flip her in a move we’d practiced a thousand times in our sparring. She slashed, and her knife sliced my butt.

I shouted, shocked at the pain. It was technically one of the “safe” places to be injured, but man it stung. I stumbled backward.

My uniform leggings were soaked with blood. Emma left red footprints on the floor of the ring as blood oozed from her abdomen and foot. We couldn’t take much more of this.

I needed to end it.

I didn’t give myself a chance to think twice. I just ran for her and swatted her hand. Her knife went flying. With its scalloped grip, I knew she’d never have let that thing go so easily, but I had to pretend to disarm her to make my strangulation more convincing.