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Authors: L.J. Smith
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to the wall.
Morgead flashed a smile at her. Not the cold smile. This one was brilliant, and very familiar to Jez. It made him look devastatingly handsome, and it meant that he was in absolute command of the situation.
“You can give up anytime, now,” he said. “Because I’m going to win and we both know it.”
CHAPTER 8
I can’t lose this fight.
Suddenly that was the only thought in Jez’s mind. She couldn’t afford to be hurt or scared—or stupid. There was too much riding on it.
And since Morgead had the advantages of telepathy and strength on her at the moment, she was going to have to come up with some clever way to beat him.
It only took a moment to come up with a plan. And then Jez was carrying it out, every ounce of her concentration focused on tricking him.
She stopped backing up and took a step sideways, deliberately putting herself in a position where she could make only a clumsy block. Then she gave him an opening, holding her stick awkwardly, its tip toward him but drooping too far down.
You see—it’s my elbow, she thought to him, knowing he couldn’t hear her, but willing him to take the bait. My elbowhurts too much; I’m distracted; the stick is no longer an extension of me. My right side is unprotected.
She was as good at it as any mother bird who pretends to have a broken wing to lure a predator away from her nest. And she could see the flash of triumph in Morgead’s eyes.
That’s it; don’t waste time injuring me anymore…come in for the kill.
He was doing it. He’d stopped trying to get her into a corner. With his handsome face intent, his eyes narrowed in concentration, he was maneuvering for a single decisive strike; a takedown to end the combat.
But as he raised his fighting stick to make it, Jez pulled her own stick back as if she were afraid to block, afraid of the jarring contact. This was the moment. If he caught on now, if he realized why she was positioning her stick this way, he’d never make the move she wanted him to. He’d go back to disarming her.
I’m too hurt to block properly; my arm’s too weak to raise, she thought, letting her shoulders droop and her body sway tiredly. It wasn’t hard to pretend. The pain in various parts of her body was real enough, and if she let herself feel it, it was very nearly disabling.
Morgead fell for it.
He made the strike she wanted; straight down. At that instant Jez slid her leading foot back, shifting just out of range. His stick whistled by her nose—missing. And then, before hecould raise it again, while he was unguarded, Jez lunged. She put all the power of her body behind it, all her strength, slipping in between Morgead’s arms and driving the stick to his midsection.
The air in his lungs exploded out in a harsh gasp and he doubled over.
Jez didn’t hesitate. She had to finish him instantly, because in a second he would be fully recovered. By the time he was completely bent over she was already whipping her stick out and around to strike him behind the knee. Again, she put her whole weight behind the blow, following through to scoop him onto his back.
Morgead landed with a thud. Before he could move, Jez snap-kicked hard, catching his wrist and knocking his stick away. It clattered across the floor, oak on oak.
Then she held the pointed end of her own stick to his throat.
“Yield or die,” she said breathlessly, and smiled.
Morgead glared up at her.
He was even more breathless than she was, but there was nothing like surrender in those green eyes. He was mad.
“You tricked me!”
“All’s fair.”
He just looked at her balefully from under the disordered hair that fell across his forehead. He was sprawled flat, long legs stretched out, arms flung to either side, with the tip of thesnakewood fighting stick resting snugly in the pale hollow of his throat. He was completely at her mercy—or at least that was how it seemed.
Jez knew him better.
She knew that he never gave up, and that when he
Morgead flashed a smile at her. Not the cold smile. This one was brilliant, and very familiar to Jez. It made him look devastatingly handsome, and it meant that he was in absolute command of the situation.
“You can give up anytime, now,” he said. “Because I’m going to win and we both know it.”
CHAPTER 8
I can’t lose this fight.
Suddenly that was the only thought in Jez’s mind. She couldn’t afford to be hurt or scared—or stupid. There was too much riding on it.
And since Morgead had the advantages of telepathy and strength on her at the moment, she was going to have to come up with some clever way to beat him.
It only took a moment to come up with a plan. And then Jez was carrying it out, every ounce of her concentration focused on tricking him.
She stopped backing up and took a step sideways, deliberately putting herself in a position where she could make only a clumsy block. Then she gave him an opening, holding her stick awkwardly, its tip toward him but drooping too far down.
You see—it’s my elbow, she thought to him, knowing he couldn’t hear her, but willing him to take the bait. My elbowhurts too much; I’m distracted; the stick is no longer an extension of me. My right side is unprotected.
She was as good at it as any mother bird who pretends to have a broken wing to lure a predator away from her nest. And she could see the flash of triumph in Morgead’s eyes.
That’s it; don’t waste time injuring me anymore…come in for the kill.
He was doing it. He’d stopped trying to get her into a corner. With his handsome face intent, his eyes narrowed in concentration, he was maneuvering for a single decisive strike; a takedown to end the combat.
But as he raised his fighting stick to make it, Jez pulled her own stick back as if she were afraid to block, afraid of the jarring contact. This was the moment. If he caught on now, if he realized why she was positioning her stick this way, he’d never make the move she wanted him to. He’d go back to disarming her.
I’m too hurt to block properly; my arm’s too weak to raise, she thought, letting her shoulders droop and her body sway tiredly. It wasn’t hard to pretend. The pain in various parts of her body was real enough, and if she let herself feel it, it was very nearly disabling.
Morgead fell for it.
He made the strike she wanted; straight down. At that instant Jez slid her leading foot back, shifting just out of range. His stick whistled by her nose—missing. And then, before hecould raise it again, while he was unguarded, Jez lunged. She put all the power of her body behind it, all her strength, slipping in between Morgead’s arms and driving the stick to his midsection.
The air in his lungs exploded out in a harsh gasp and he doubled over.
Jez didn’t hesitate. She had to finish him instantly, because in a second he would be fully recovered. By the time he was completely bent over she was already whipping her stick out and around to strike him behind the knee. Again, she put her whole weight behind the blow, following through to scoop him onto his back.
Morgead landed with a thud. Before he could move, Jez snap-kicked hard, catching his wrist and knocking his stick away. It clattered across the floor, oak on oak.
Then she held the pointed end of her own stick to his throat.
“Yield or die,” she said breathlessly, and smiled.
Morgead glared up at her.
He was even more breathless than she was, but there was nothing like surrender in those green eyes. He was mad.
“You tricked me!”
“All’s fair.”
He just looked at her balefully from under the disordered hair that fell across his forehead. He was sprawled flat, long legs stretched out, arms flung to either side, with the tip of thesnakewood fighting stick resting snugly in the pale hollow of his throat. He was completely at her mercy—or at least that was how it seemed.
Jez knew him better.
She knew that he never gave up, and that when he
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