"Dmitri spent a full day filing away at that leaf spring to make me a metal bow that I couldn't break. He said, 'Detroit iron will never let you down.' For a Russian, he had a high regard for American craftsmanship."
I smiled at the memory of Dmitri. "He was a skilled craftsman. It was a tough draw, but it held up to my practice sessions."
Fletcher sneered. "You think playing with a homemade bow makes you an archer?"
"No, I think tens of thousands of shots with an iron bow made me a good shot."
As I mentioned the iron bow, a ripple of disgust waved through the crowd.
Fletcher shook his head and scoffed "Where is this magic bow now, Princess Iron Bow?"
"Back home," I said, ignoring his jibe. "And not magic," I said. "Just a bow that can withstand a werewolf's strength."
Whispers ran through the crowd, repeating his insult, accompanied by titters of laughter.
I held up my selected bow and said, "I'll make do with this one."
I spent another ten minutes selecting arrows, rejecting any that were even slightly out of true.
"How many arrows do we need?"
"Highest score out of ten arrows wins," said Fletcher.
I grabbed a quiver and put a baker's dozen of arrows in.
"Thirteen arrows?" asked Fletcher. "You know that is an unlucky number." But he took an equal number of arrows for his own quiver.
"Screw luck," I said. "Luna Iron Bow makes her own luck." If the bastards wanted to taunt me with that name, I would wear it with pride.
I took a leather armguard and strapped it to my left forearm, then strung the bow and gave it a practice pull.
It was awkward to draw. I looked over the other bows as I considered changing.
The smart-ass kitsune hissed, "It's not the bow, your tits are too damn big!"
Had my body changed that much over the years? Sure, my breasts were a tad larger because of my pregnancy, and I had grown since my years as a flat-chested Girl Scout, but this was a big change.
"That's why Amazons cut off one tit," said Naomi in English as she walked up to me.
"I'm not an Amazon, and cutting off a breast is not an option," I said.
"That would make feeding both twins at once a challenge," she replied.
We both heard the gasp from Princess Jade at the same time. "Twins?" she asked.
"Motormouth," I said to Naomi. "Weren't you the one who told me most of the Fae spoke English?"
Naomi had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment, then her irrepressible nature reasserted itself.
"At least twins," said Naomi, shifting back to the local language, "or maybe she'll have a litter of eight, like most wolves."
"That's not possible," countered the princess. "If it were possible, they would overrun the human world with those beasts."
Nice to know what she really thought about werewolves. "Did you just call my unborn children ‘beasts’?" I asked in a low voice. The nails on my hands extended involuntarily.
Naomi shook her head to warn me that attacking the princess directly was against the rules. Instead, she turned to the princess and said the one thing that would hurt her most. "Eight werewolf princesses—raised to hate their dear aunties—would really screw up your fiefdoms, wouldn't it?"
Naomi looked around at the hundreds of Fae, who were hanging on every word. "How's it feel to be outnumbered by one beastly princess?"
The jibe hit home. Magic gathered around Princess Jade and she looked at me with disgust. She raised her hands and I felt the prickling of magical energy, like the stings of a thousand bees.
My extended nails became claws. I took a step toward the princess, only to find Naomi in front of me.
"Beat the archer first," said Naomi. "Then you can take care of the jaded princess."
To my surprise, Fletcher was standing in front of Princess Jade, murmuring soothing words to her. Her face softened, and she looked at Fletcher with affection.
The bee sting bite of magic slowly faded, and I retracted my claws.
With a sour expression, Princess Jade said, "Please excuse my intemperate words. Let's continue the Challenge. Surely the contest will make these words fade."
I nodded acceptance, and the tension eased.
With a surprising practicality, Naomi said, "We've still got to get you a vest or something so you can shoot without ripping off a nipple."
"I can adjust my stance," I said. "Shoot from a different angle."
Naomi shook her head. "No, this guy is good. You need to shoot from the position you're most comfortable with."
"How do you know how good he is?" I asked. "Couldn't he just have a magicked-up bow?"
"He stands like an archer," said Naomi, "one shoulder is more muscular than the other, and the lower side of his forearm is lighter than the rest of his skin from wearing a protector for many years. He's probably shot hundreds of thousands of arrows." She gestured at the crowd. "Look at how many archers are here. Archery is obviously this kingdom's favorite sport." Naomi paused for effect. "And Fletcher is the best in the kingdom."
"You shoot?" I asked, hoping she was just guessing.
"Of course," she replied. "I prefer knives, but I can shoot a bow. It was part of my training."
Typical Japanese understatement. I had the feeling she was at least Olympic level at anything she had trained in.
"How do you handle the problem with the bowstring?" I asked.
Naomi looked away and said, "I shape-shift to be flat-chested when I use the bow."
"Not an option for me," I said. "I'm stuck in this shape for the foreseeable future."
We were interrupted by one of Fletcher's aides coming up. In his hands was a leather vest very similar to Fletcher's, but without the runes inscribed into the leather.
"Sir Fletcher says that it would be unfair to enter this contest with milady at a disadvantage."
Before I could refuse, Naomi said, "Tell Sir Fletcher we appreciate his offer and accept gratefully."
I donned the leather vest. Naomi helped me pull the drawstrings tight, flattening my chest enough that my draw was unimpeded.
In minutes, we were standing about seventy-five feet away from two targets. They looked like the targets I was familiar with, fabric stretched over hay stuffing, with concentric rings circling a red bullseye.
I stood at my mark and examined the target. With my vision, the bullseye stood out like it was only ten feet away. Then the target blurred slightly, as if seen through a heat haze. But in this twilight world with no sun and no moon, direct sunlight to create heat shimmers didn't exist.
With my next blink, the haze was gone, like it had never existed.
Fletcher made a gracious motion with his hand and said, "Ladies first, I insist."
I suddenly had doubts. I was good with a bow. But here, with a new bow, facing off against the kingdom's champion?
My phantom wolf half-nipped my ass. She wasn’t one for introspection or self-doubt. Wolves live in the now, no worries for the past or future. For her, if we lost this little contest, we could just kill everyone.
Comforted by the thought of mayhem, I drew my bow, held my breath, and loosed the arrow.
Tracking the arrow as it flew, I glimpsed the haze again. It was there for less than a tenth of a second, then gone. I blinked to clear my eyes and the arrow was centered in the bullseye.
The crowd groaned at my shot and then started to murmur in anger.
To my surprise, Fletcher held up one hand to quiet them and said, "An excellent shot, milady. Now it's my turn."
With a casual grace, he drew an arrow from his quiver, drew, and fired off his shot, all in less than a second.
If anything, his arrow was better centered than mine.
Our next three shots were the same, each squarely in the bullseye. My shots were better centered than Fletcher's, but our shots counted for the same number of points. The crowd groaned at each bullseye I made and cheered at each of Fletcher's.
My
fifth shot was again perfectly centered. But Fletcher's was off by several inches. The crowd groaned and jeered. One man, a self-appointed cheerleader, led a rousing song that detailed all my shortcomings, both physical and mental. The Fae language lent itself incredibly well to insults. I marked his scent and features for a future encounter.
I stood for my sixth shot and the heat shimmer swam in front of my eyes again. My subconscious threw up an old memory.
A traveling carnival had come through town, one of those with cheap rides and games of chance. My packmate Dmitri, still yet to make his first transformation, had been swindled by one of the carnies with a rigged game.
The game had comprised a race involving counters and dice. The carnie cheated by miscounting the first few throws, leading Dmitri to believe he was having a run of good luck. When the final two throws came, "luck" was against Dmitri.
That lesson had cost him all his wages from his summer job.
I blinked and found I had been standing for several minutes with my bow drawn. The crowd had fallen silent at this display of stationary strength.
"Is milady all right?" asked Fletcher in his most unctuous tone. His snarky smile, so much like the cheating carnie’s, told me my subconscious was right. His bouncing between seeming chivalry and nasty comments was designed to keep me off balance.
"Just stretching a bit before winning," I said with a smile.
I loosed my sixth arrow. But this time, I intentionally aimed for the edge of the bullseye, several inches off-center. Once again, the heat shimmer flashed in front of my eyes and the arrow curved to hit the center of the target. Something was improving my score.
Fletcher's shot was about six inches off-center, giving me a comfortable lead.
Fletcher—no, more likely Jade had an invisible assistant to ensure victory for her Champion.
Thoughts racing, I considered how she had done this. What could be both invisible to werewolf sharp senses, and strong enough to alter the flight of an arrow?
Only one thing made sense. A zephyr, a spirit of air held together by magic.
Fletcher's shot was an equal distance from the bullseye as mine, leaving me ahead. But Fletcher looked too confident, as if certain he would win.
I wished I could seek Mason's advice, but the rules forbade it. Although the same rules hadn't prevented Jade and Fletcher from cheating.
Air and magic. What could harm air and magic? How about a drop of anti-magical werewolf blood?
I pulled my lucky seventh arrow and pretended to examine the tip while pricking my finger. A tiny drop of blood anointed the arrowhead. Almost invisible to my senses, the drop sizzled as the ambient magic of the Fae world ate away at my blood.
This world really hated werewolves.
I drew my bow and loosed the arrow as quickly as possible, almost without aiming.
The arrow sliced through the zephyr and an almost silent scream reverberated through the air. I looked around, but the death screams of the spirit were ultrasonic, inaudible to the pointy-eared crowd.
My shot was off by at least ten inches. Fletcher's was in the center of the bullseye and he was now evenly matched with me.
"An unlucky shot, milady," he said. "Surely your next will be better."
"I'm sure it will," I said.
"Would milady care to make a side wager?"
I raised an eyebrow in query, even though I knew what was coming.
"I've never had the pleasure of consorting with a lady of your nature," he said. "Would you like to wager a night—"
"No," I said flatly. "Werewolves mate for life." Not exactly true, but true for me. I realized my drawn bow was aimed at Fletcher's genitals. Would his magical armor protect him at such a close range? Did the protection stop at his beltline?
He got the message and shook his head. "I beg milady's pardon."
I turned and loosed my eighth arrow. With no interference from the zephyr, it hit dead center in the bullseye.
Fletcher started to sweat when my ninth arrow also landed squarely in the center of the bullseye.
Then he breathed a sigh of relief when his shot matched mine.
"Last shot," I said. "I feel really good about this one."
It was a good shot, still in the red, maybe a fraction of an inch off-center.
Fletcher's hands were shaking slightly, and I briefly wondered what his punishment would be for losing a rigged match.
Fletcher drew, aimed, then stopped. He eased the tension off the bow and took a deep breath. He licked his lips and rubbed sweaty palms on his legs.
But he was a champion, used to facing bad odds. He calmed, took another deep breath, and made his shot with grace and strength.
Even though the targets were seventy-five feet away, I could tell that the last arrows were both centered exactly in the center of our respective bullseyes. If there was a difference, it was less than a millimeter.
"Huh," I said. "What happens if we have a tie? Sudden death shootout?"
Fletcher's shocked look reminded me that these fairies didn't understand sports metaphors.
The crowd was now silent, no more jeers at the "beastly bow lady." It was like they held their breaths in unison.
Fletcher sneered and said, "I believe a closer look will show my shots are better centered."
I gave him my ‘really?’ look, stowed my bow next to my quiver, and walked toward the targets, intent on measuring the last arrows.
I knelt in front of Fletcher's target and examined his last arrow. I grinned at seeing that his arrow was slightly off center.
The faint creak of flexing wood and the burning feeling of someone taking aim were my only warnings. Still on my knees, I spun and saw Fletcher taking aim at my heart.
From this position, evading his shot would be almost impossible. I prepared to leap. Even with an arrow through my heart, I could still rip his throat out before dying.
Things happened quickly. A thrown dagger flashed toward Fletcher, neatly cutting his bowstring. The dagger reversed course in mid-air and returned to Naomi's outstretched hand.
Before his bow hit the ground, a lightning bolt flashed from the gray sky toward Fletcher.
At the last instant, the lightning bolt diverted from Fletcher, striking instead a random fairy in the crowd.
Wait—not so random. The Kentucky-fried fairy was the jeer-leader who had been conducting the chanting crowd. The stench of ozone and powerful magic wafted over the field.
Wearing matching smiles, Naomi and Mason exchanged a nod.
This treachery might mean I won the contest, but I had to fight down my wolf's anger. Releasing the wolf here would be disastrous. Dangerous for the bystanders and to my cubs.
The wolf backed down slowly, only retreating when I promised that our human side would take care of this bastard.
"Fletcher," I said. "We're not done. Restring your bow."
27
Fletcher's mouth moved soundlessly. From the triumph of shooting me in the back, to the broken bowstring, to the missed lightning strike, it was too many shocks in too short a time.
"Fletcher," I said again, "restring your bow and pick up that arrow." He shook his head.
I nocked an arrow and aimed at him. "This is your last chance to defend yourself."
Almost too fast to see, a sneaky smile crossed his face. He was confident in his skill and the magical protections on his leather vest.
Without taking his eyes off my pointed arrow, he pulled a bowstring out of a pocket. In seconds, he had his bow restrung and had picked up his arrow.
"We each have three arrows left," I said. "Since you already took a shot at me, I think it's only fair for me to return the favor."
The crowd behind Fletcher suddenly realized that they would be the backstop for any errant arrows. They scrambled to get away. I held my pose for another sixty seconds to give them time to escape.
Fletcher's eyes focused on my arms. I had been holding the flexed bow for over three minutes, a difficult feat for most a
rchers. Fletcher was hoping I would show some signs of strain.
I gave him my most relaxed smile and said, "Don't worry, I won't get tired. It'll still be a fair contest."
"Is this your 'sudden death' rule?" he asked. He faced me squarely, not sideways to minimize my target area.
"Let's find out." I loosed my arrow. It should have pierced his heart, but at the last second it veered away. The stench of magic wafted across the field.
Fletcher smiled and raised his bow. "My turn, Iron Bow."
The overconfident bastard loosed his arrow, and it sped toward me. Unfortunately for him, my reflexes let me twist away at the last instant. The arrow flew harmlessly past my chest.
"My turn now," I said. I pulled my second arrow from the quiver. I pretended to examine the arrow for damage and pricked my thumb with the needle-sharp tip, putting a drop of werewolf blood on the arrowhead.
Once more, Fletcher stood squarely, secure in his protection. Confident that an arrow anointed with my blood would pierce any magic, I decided to humiliate Fletcher instead of just killing him. I adjusted my aim slightly.
The arrow flew, passing very close to Fletcher's head.
He started to grin, then winced and brought his hand up to his bleeding right ear. The horror on his face as he looked down at the ground and saw the pointy tip of his ear on the ground made me smile.
"Luna," hissed Naomi in a voice that carried over the murmurs of the crowd, "I wanted a matched pair of those pointy ears. Now he's worthless."
Now everyone knew what had happened to those earless assassins who had been cropping up in the wake of our travels.
Even injured, Fletcher was tough. He wrapped a cloth around his head. His eyes narrowed in calculation. He now knew I could pierce his protection, so he changed his tactics.
"My turn," he said and drew, nocked, and loosed an arrow in an instant.
Before his first arrow was halfway to me, he had already loosed the next one. Clever hunter—if I evaded the first arrow, the second would hit me.
I twisted to my left, bringing my right arm to the front. Fletcher's first arrow slid past my chest, slicing a groove in the leather of my vest.
Lycan Legacy - 4 - 5 - 6: Princess - Progeny - Paladin: Book 4 - 5 - 6 in the Lycan Legacy Series Page 24