Cortney surprises me when she makes the first move. In three long steps, she’s closed the distance between us. I think she’s going to make a swipe for my legs to knock me out of the circle and declare victory, but she swings out with her left fist. I lift my right arm and deflect the attack with my forearm before she can hit my ribs. It’s against the rules to hit each other in the head, but everywhere else is fair game.
I shuffle to my left and position myself more in the middle of the circle, safely away from the boundary. Cortney approaches, once again surprising me by going on the offensive. I’d pegged her to have a defensive strategy.
We dance around each other, exchanging testing punches and assessing kicks. Cortney’s gaze is intense. She’s a better fighter than I’d guessed. If I don’t want to hurt her, I’m going to have to take her out with cunning, not force.
I shift my weight to rest on my back foot but look as if I’m about to lunge forward. Cortney dives, determined to stop my impending advance. I slip back and miss her left hook, causing her to lose balance for a brief moment. That’s all the opportunity I need. I dip low and swipe my leg, knocking Cortney’s out from under her. She tumbles to the mat. I leap on top of her and make quick work of pinning her arms and legs. She wiggles and bucks, trying to find space to break free. After several attempts, her body relaxes and she groans.
“Do you yield?” I ask.
“I yield,” she confirms, then grins. “You know, you could have at least tried to hit me.”
I scoot off her and hold out a hand. “When? I was too busy trying to avoid getting jabbed and kicked.” I won’t insult Cortney by saying I didn’t want to hurt her.
She rolls her eyes, but it’s a playful gesture. “Whatever.” She takes my hand and I help pull her up.
We walk towards the group of waiting students. Instructor Petrov gives me a nod and writes down my win on his clipboard. Then, he motions for two other students to go to our mat. They won’t start until the last fight of the first group is finished. It doesn’t take long. Within ten minutes, each of the initial fights has ended, and the second half of round one begins with our instructor’s whistle.
I watch my classmates spar with less familiar students, confirming Instructor Petrov has divided the fights between groups A and B. As I observe their technique and think about how I’d defeat each of them, I see Peter. He’s sparring with a bulky blond, but he’s holding his own. Like me, Peter uses his size to his advantage by moving swiftly and easily around the mat. He’s tall, but slender. His strikes are quick, strong and well-placed. I find myself smiling and silently rooting for my friend to win.
Unfortunately, the bulky guy’s intuition helps him prepare for Peter’s next move. When my friend’s leg juts out to hit his opponent’s thigh, blond beefcake slides his leg back while lunging forward with a powerful hit to Peter’s ribcage.
Cortney gasps and I cringe as Peter is robbed of breath. He stumbles back. He doesn’t realize he’s stepped out of the mat’s ring until his opponent gives a loud cheer of victory. Peter looks at the mat and shakes his head. He nods to his opponent, then makes his way over to us.
Still huffing, he says, “Well… looks like… it’s up to Aspen to… represent our trio.”
I smirk, but I don’t disagree that we’re a trio.
The rest of the fights end, and we all look to Instructor Petrov for the next lineup.
He reads off names of the females first.
“Miss Thibodeaux will face Miss York. Miss Yaleman will face Miss Quill.” He lists three more pairs of fighters before I finally hear my name. “Miss Van der Klay will face Mr. Burns.”
“What?” A loud voice barks. I look over my shoulder and realize it’s the bulky blond from Peter’s fight. “You want me to spar with a chick?”
Instructor Petrov doesn’t miss a beat. “If you haven’t noticed, Mr. Burns, nine women and eleven men have advanced to the second round. I’m not mathematician, but I believe that means there will be at least one gender-mixed fight.”
Some of the students snicker. I don’t. I watch my opponent sneer with displeasure. My hands clench into fists. I’m suddenly eager to be the girl assigned to fight this guy.
“But it won’t be a fair fight,” Burns protests. Does he think he’s being nice by not wanting to fight me? Does he really think he’s that good that he will wipe the floor with me? If so, I can’t wait to prove him wrong.
“You will spar with Miss Van der Klay, or you will forfeit,” Instructor Petrov clips. “What is your decision?”
Burns sneer deepens, but he spits out, “Spar.”
“Very good.” Instructor Petrov quickly recites the rest of the matchups, then orders us to find our mats. In this round, we will all fight at once. Several pairs of eyes land on me. The onlookers think my match will be the most entertaining. They don’t know how right they are.
Eleven
I stand across from Burns. He’s still frowning, and his arms are crossed. I hear the subtle shift of sneakers against the rubber mats as the other fighters get into position. We’re all eager for the fights to begin. Except for my opponent.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters across the mat, low enough so no one but me can hear him.
It takes all my self-control to not laugh in his face. “Don’t worry. You won’t.”
He’s is not sure what to think of that, but before he’s given the chance to ask what I mean, the whistle blows. I step into the ring.
All reservation disappears from Burns’ face as he, too, steps inside the ring. He may not want to fight me, but he’s not going to back down. Good. I hope he gives this fight his all. It will make my victory that much more satisfying.
We keep our distance, both of us prowling the edge of the circle, weighing how the other steps and which of our feet holds most of our balance. I, once again, feel the thrill of the fight coursing through my veins. I was made for this. I was made for battle. Sure, my God-given opponents aren’t meant to be my fellow students, but they are a good enough substitute until I can get out into the world and fight the real thing.
I make the first move. It’s a calculated one. I intend to draw Burns into action to see how he defends himself. My steps are quick as I move forward. He meets me in the middle of the mat. I swing my right arm, turning my torso to avoid his oncoming punch. The move makes my own hit lose some of its power, but my fist meets its target while my opponent’s grazes my shirt. We leap apart, and resume circling each other.
Interesting note: Burns didn’t bother to defend himself from my hit. He hadn’t considered it a threat. No doubt, he thinks I’m too weak to hurt him. The thought makes me grin.
“Stop dancing around,” I hear Instructor Petrov shout. “Fight.”
I know he’s talking to us. My ears detect the oomphs and gasps as the other partners land blows on one another. Burns and I are the only ones not locked in contact. Vaguely, I hear the sound of the gym doors open and close. I wonder if that means we’ve gained or lost viewers. I don’t look though. I’m determined to win this match, and I can’t take my eyes off my opponent for even a second.
Burns grunts after hearing our instructor’s command. It’s his turn to make a move. He barrels towards me. His hulking mass would be daunting if I weren’t well trained. I spin over my left shoulder just as he swings his arm. I rotate until I’m behind him, then deliver a quick kick with my heel, hitting the back of his knee. He stumbles forward, but rights himself and turns before I can make another hit.
“Bitch,” he snarls low, walking toward me, favoring his injured knee.
I’m positively giddy, and my grin grows.
He growls and lunges, trying to take me to the ground. That is so not going to happen.
I bend my knees and jump up and forward just before his beefy arms can wrap around my waist. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I leap over him easily, flipping forward in the air before I land. The move impresses the crowd. I hear several clap, but my eyes remain on my
opponent.
Burns spins around with incredulous eyes.
“I told you she’s bad-ass man,” an unfamiliar voice shouts.
Burns scowls. I take a wild guess and assume the words come from Freddy Legrand.
Anger makes Burns sloppy. He comes at me again. I duck under his first punch, then side step the next. We continue in this way for several minutes. He tries to strike, and I use my speed and flexibility to keep him from landing a blow.
“Fight me,” he growls. His breathing is heavy. He’s getting tired. Perfect.
“Okay,” I tell him with a shrug. Then, I spring into action.
I’m in front of his face in the blink of an eye. I jab his left rib and right rib, then spin back and escape his grasping fingers before he can wrap me in a bear hug. He comes after me—just like I want.
I turn and deliver a roundhouse kick to his gut. Burns grabs my ankle before I can retract it, but he’s hunched over from the blow. I pull my foot free, then drive my elbow into his back. He hits the ground. He’s too big to shove out of the red circle. I’m going to have to make him yield.
I land on his back and slip my arms underneath his armpits, clasping my hands around the back of his neck. His feet kick back, but he’s not flexible enough to reach me.
“Yield,” I bark in his ear.
His response is to renew his flailing efforts. I tuck my head behind his neck to avoid his scratching fingers.
“Yield!” I pull my arms harder, pressing my forearm deeper into his throat. He can either yield or faint. It’s his choice.
Burns seems to realize the same thing. I feel him shudder, and I don’t mistake it for anything but evidence of his rage.
Finally, he gasps angrily, “Yield.”
I release him immediately.
Unfortunately, Burns decides to do the dishonorable thing. He’s spins on his knees and throws himself into my legs, knocking me over. My butt hits the ground hard. Then, Burns is on top of me, trying to pin my arms and legs. His eyes are wild with the hope of triumph, but he has no idea how often I’ve trained for this scenario.
Using nothing but muscle memory, I bring my knee up and jab it into his groin. Then, using my right arm, I punch him in the sensitive space just below his rib. Like a monkey, I climb onto his back and make easy work of getting him back into a choke hold.
“Yield,” I hiss, already pressing into his throat as hard as I can. I’m pissed he tried to attack me after already conceding defeat.
This time, I don’t have to ask twice.
Burns says, loudly this time, “Yield.”
I hold onto him for another second before releasing and shoving him down on the mat, giving myself an extra second to put some distance between us. I stagger to my feet, and angrily brush away the pieces of hair that’d escaped my ponytail.
“Way to go Aspen.” I turn and see Lex walking towards me. He’d joined the crowd of observing students. He lifts a hand. “High five.”
I roll my eyes. He always likes to high five. I halfheartedly hit my hand against his. Lex grins, then his eyes shift to my opponent.
Burns is on his feet now, and his glare is nothing short of menacing. I glare right back at him. He may be angry about my dirty hit, but I’m not the one who reneged on my yield.
“Isn’t my sister a badass?” Lex asks him. His tone is almost taunting, but there’s also an edge to it. I wonder if Lex had heard Burns’s initial yield. I’d assumed no one had. Otherwise, Instructor Petrov should’ve interrupted the fight.
“Yes,” Burns bites out. I wonder why he doesn’t snap at Lex, but then I remember he’s a Van der Klay. A real one. No doubt, he isn’t interested in making an enemy of Lex.
“Come on.” Lex throws an arm around my shoulders. I cringe when I feel the cool sweat dampening his shirt. Gross.
“Let’s go see who you get to beat on next.” Lex drags me towards the crowd of students. Several are smiling at me, but there are also some frowns. Unsurprisingly, a couple of them belong to Lauren Thibodeaux and her mean girl posse. I ignore them, and instead look for Cortney and Peter.
As I scan my fellow students, my eyes land on someone I do not expect. My legs stop moving. Lex’s arm slips off my shoulders, and I can feel his curious look. “Aspen? What’s up?”
I can’t respond. I blink repeatedly, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me. It takes me several seconds to realize it’s not.
There, leaning against the gym wall with crossed arms and a bored expression, is the one person I’d given up hope of ever seeing again.
Logan.
I’m staring like an idiot. I know it. I should close my mouth and walk the rest of the way to my classmates, but my feet are as heavy as lead. I can’t move. I can barely think. I’m looking at the young man who found me on the streets of Chicago all those years ago. He’d been kind. He’d promised to help Nora and Noah. I’d thought he would find me once it was done. I’d thought he’d look out for me. But I’d been taken into the Van der Klay’s custody, and I never saw him again.
But here he is, staring at me with those dark eyes. His features have matured with age. His strong brow and chiseled jaw are more defined now, but I would recognize him anywhere. I had countless dreams about him during those first few years. I’d relived seeing my first demon and my subsequent rescue so many times.
But unlike the Logan I remember, this one does not wear a reassuring smile or look at me with kindness. In fact, the Logan looking back at me is distant… and cold. His lips begin to turn down as we continue to stare at each other, and it makes me wonder what I could’ve done to deserve such a disapproving look.
“Miss Van der Klay,” Instructor Petrov’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I’m finally able to tear my gaze from Logan. “Will you join us so we can continue the tournament?”
My cheeks flush. Right. The tournament. Lex’s arm goes back around my shoulders, jostling me with another bout of praise for defeating Burns.
I glance towards the bulky guy, and he’s still glowering at me. I’m pretty sure I just made an enemy. The only surprising part about that is it took me so long to do. I had countless enemies at my high school. Being the odd girl out is nothing new to me.
With Lex pulling me, I’m able to move my legs. We reach the group with several long strides. My eyes lift, eager to search out Logan again, but a body moves into my line of sight, blocking him from view.
“Nice job, Aspen.” Trevor smiles, acting like he hadn’t left me in the library after giving me uncomfortable advice. He’s acting like we’re good friends. Which we’re not.
“Thanks,” I return dryly, some of my characteristic attitude returning to me easily. He’s lucky we’re surrounded by people. Otherwise, I would let him know just what I think about his arrogant observation about me yesterday. It’s been driving me crazy, and I itch to put him in his place and warn him not to presume to know anything about me.
We’re matched with our next opponents. Mine is Fiona Yaleman. I’m surprised. The prissy girl hadn’t struck me as a fighter, but looks can be deceiving.
Instructor Petrov blows his whistle, and the third round begins. Fiona puts up a good fight, but my adrenaline and the belief that I can feel Logan’s eyes watching me makes me end the round in less than five minutes.
I’m bent over, my hands on my knees as I catch my breath. Lex pats my back victoriously, singing my praises in an embarrassing manner.
“Congratulations to the five of you who’ve advanced,” Instructor Petrov commends after the last match finishes. “Now, as I said earlier, there is an uneven number of contestants at this stage. One of the five of you will fight a second-year student in lieu of facing a fellow first-year.”
Beside me, Lex’s grin widens. I stand up straight and narrow my eyes. It hits me that Lex hadn’t stuck around the gym just to see me spar.
“But that’s not fair,” someone whines. I’m disappointed to see Lauren is among the others who’d won their last fight. “Whoever fac
es the second year will be at a disadvantage to reach the final round.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Miss Thibodeaux, but life’s not fair,” Instructor Petrov barks. The authority in his tone renders Lauren silent, and she lowers her gaze to avoid his disapproving glare.
“Trevor Welsh will be the opponent. Which of you will face him?”
I glance between Trevor and Lex, surprised. I’d thought Lex would be the opponent.
Lex, seeing the question in my eyes, says, “Instructor Petrov won’t allow me to fight considering you are my sister.” He winks. “He thinks it may give you an unfair advantage.”
I frown. That seems silly, but I’m not going to say anything. My attention returns to Trevor, and I begin observing him, looking for any signs of fatigue after his run with the other second years. If I spar with him, my plan will be to tire him out just like I did with Burns.
“That won’t be necessary,” a deep voice states. It’s smooth and strong. It’s the voice of someone with influence. Or someone who thinks they have influence, anyway.
The entire class’s gaze shifts over to the source of the unexpected words. Logan’s arms are still crossed, but he no longer leans against the wall. His legs are spread into a wide stance, as if he’s ready to face an opponent on the sparring mat himself.
Instructor Petrov’s brow furrows. He looks over his shoulder, and I see the moment he recognizes Logan. “Logan,” he greets. “I did not see you there.”
Logan smiles. It’s not kind, but it’s still breathtaking. Just like with our Combatives instructor, I hear several girls release appreciative sighs. “I’ve always been good at sneaking around.”
Some of the girls snicker, taking his words as innuendo. I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend them to come off that way.
We all watch Instructor Petrov approach Logan. The two men exchange the customary Guardian greeting. Looking as if they are going to shake hands, they grab onto each other’s’ forearms instead. Then, with their free left hand, they clasp down onto the other’s left shoulder.
Demon Guard Page 9
