“Yield,” he said.
She stuck her feet between his and knocked them apart. Then she rolled like a monkey between his spread legs, elbowing him in the kidneys as she rose behind him. A second kick behind the knee almost had him on the ground, but he recovered.
“Yield like hell,” she gritted, when she was a few body lengths from him.
“Quit being easy on her,” said Darryl heavily. “This is a fight to the death, Paul. She will kill you if she can. If you accepted her challenge, you have to give her the respect of fighting her honestly.”
“Right,” said Adam.
Paul snarled soundlessly, and stepped back to the edge of the ring, raising both arms to a high block position, his feet perpendicular to each other, hands loosely fisted, deliberately inviting a strike to the torso.
Trouble with baiting a trap like that was that if Mary Jo handled it right, she might be able to turn it into a very big mistake. I grabbed hold of Adam’s arm and tried not to dig in my fingernails. He was tense beside me, muttering, “Watch out, watch out. He’s faster than he looks.”
Mary Jo went slowly left, then right, and Paul turned easily to face her. She shifted her weight to the right—but with a blur of speed, she broke left and moved to the attack, dropping into a long, low lunge that looked almost like something a fencer might use, her fist blurring as hip and shoulder rotated into line, driving it forward like a lance. It was a perfect strike, delivered with superhuman speed.
Paul rotated smoothly as her fist flashed through empty air, just grazing his stomach. He brought both fists down like hammers on her unprotected back, driving her flat to the ground with a sound like distant thunder. Next to me Adam grunted, as if he felt the impact of Paul’s fists himself.
Mary Jo was obviously dazed. She lay on her stomach, blinking myopically. Her mouth and throat worked like a fish’s out of water. Then she drew in a long, shuddering breath and her eyes focused. If her ribs had been hurt before, she must be in agony after the blow she’d just taken.
Any sane person would know the fight was over, and beg to yield, but she was slowly struggling to get her elbows under her and lift her body from the mat. Paul’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile as he watched her efforts.
“Stay down,” he told her. “Stay down. Yield, damn it. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
She’d gotten to her elbows and was pulling her knees up when he did a flashy skip-step and brought the edge of his foot down on the back of her thigh, driving her flat to the mats again. A short scream tore from her throat, but she jerked her knees underneath her and popped to her feet.
Her guard was too low, her right elbow pressed tightly against her injured ribs. Below her elbow, a small stain of bright red blood was slowly spreading. Every wolf in the room could smell it, and so could I. I was afraid that one of those damaged ribs had punctured a lung. Her left leg wasn’t working quite right, and she took a simple stance with most of her weight on the ball of her right foot. She stood at the very edge of the ring, which eliminated her ability to retreat but also meant Paul couldn’t circle behind her.
Paul advanced slowly, carefully, a predator stalking wounded prey. But I saw him frowning at Mary Jo’s ribs. He was trying to figure out how she’d hurt them.
He moved left and right, forcing her to use the injured leg, his head tilted. He must have heard the same thing I could—the faint burble of a collapsing lung. Her mouth was open as she tried to get more oxygen.
Paul struck with a powerful front kick with no trace of finesse, but power to spare. Mary Jo snapped both arms down and slowed the blow, which had been aimed at her injured leg, but it still flung her stumbling backward off the mats.
She kept her balance, barely, but the leg was obviously almost useless. A ragged sea of hands pushed her, not ungently, back into the ring where Paul was waiting for her.
“It’s okay,” Adam said. “It’s okay. Yield, Mary Jo.”
Mary Jo looked beaten, but as she entered the ring, her injured leg suddenly shot up, toes pointed like a prima ballerina’s. Her kick was as simple as Paul’s had been. Straight up, angling between his thighs.
He tried to block, but it was already too late. There was a muffled impact, and Paul’s breath exploded outward. He backed up rapidly, bent forward with fists crossed over his groin, every muscle in his torso tensed in sudden pain. Mary Jo followed, though I could tell that it hurt, and took advantage of his dropped guard to hit him with a hammer fist to the back of the head.
A perfect nerve strike, I thought. Good for you, Mary Jo.
If he hadn’t been a werewolf, he’d have been seeing lights and hearing bells for weeks. His eyes were wolf-pale, and his arms moved strangely as bones began to shift beneath the skin. Paul shook his head, trying to shake off the effects of the strike. If she’d been in better shape, she could have finished him.
But Mary Jo was too slow. He straightened and pulled his hands back to guard position with obvious effort. Then he came at her slowly, implacably, simply walking to close the distance. Her right fist shot toward his throat, but he blocked it with his right hand, then pushed her elbow with his left, turning her body, then smashed a knee into her injured ribs, hard. She went to the mats, facedown and coughing blood. Paul followed her to the mats, landing astride her shoulders. He grabbed one of her legs and began to bend it back, bowing her back into a tight arch. There were faint popping sounds, and Mary Jo scrabbled at the mat frantically, her control shattered and the wolf fighting for survival.
“God damn it,” he said. “Yield. Don’t make me kill you.”
For some reason at that moment I looked at Henry. The bastard was watching without any emotion on his face at all.
“Yield,” Adam roared. “Mary Jo. Yield.”
Mary Jo hit the mat with her right hand, twice.
“She yields,” Paul said, looking at Darryl.
“Paul wins,” said Darryl. “Do you accept her yield?”
“Yes, yes.”
“It is over,” declared Darryl.
Paul jumped off of her and rolled her over. “Medic,” he said, sounding frantic. “Medic.”
A few heads turned to Sam. He stayed where he was, but he all but vibrated with the need to help. He closed his eyes and finally turned his back to the scene. It was Warren who pulled up Mary Jo’s T-shirt, and Adam who grabbed the first-aid kit.
I grabbed Jesse, and we both stayed back. Within a few seconds I couldn’t see what was happening for all the people who crowded closer.
“Got to pull the rib out of her lung,” said Adam tightly. Then, “Just toss the broken bits. They’ll regrow.” Medicine among werewolves is, in many ways, much simpler—if more brutal—than for humans. “Hold her down, Paul. The more she struggles, the more this is going to hurt.” Then in a much softer voice, Adam crooned, “Just bear with us a bit, baby. We’ll get you so you can breathe better in just a second.”
“I didn’t hit her in the ribs,” Paul said.
“Henry knocked her across the kitchen,” said Auriele. “Here. Don’t get that Vaseline all over. Just a little around the wound to seal the Teflon pad, but you’ve got to tape three sides of the pad, and that will work better if you aren’t taping to Vaseline-covered skin.”
There was a wave of relieved silence as whatever they’d managed to do seemed to work and Mary Jo could breathe again. People backed away, giving her space since she was out of immediate danger.
The dojo came equipped with a stretcher—a very basic piece of equipment, just a metal frame with canvas stretched around it and a pair of grips on each end. Alec and Auriele picked Mary Jo up on it and carried her into the house. A human would be down for a long time with a punctured lung. With a few pounds of raw meat, Mary Jo’s lung would probably be fine in a few hours, if not sooner. The ribs would take longer, but she would be back to normal in a few days, a week at most. No worries about infections or secondary infections while missing pieces of rib or lung regrow.
Henr
y hadn’t moved from his place. I noticed that he was getting looks from the rest of the pack. And when they started to move back off the mats in preparation for the final battle, there was a space around Henry—and there hadn’t been before.
As a couple of wolves swabbed up the mess, Paul retreated to his corner of the mat and Adam to his.
I kept my eye on Paul. That nerve strike of Mary Jo’s . . .
At first I thought he’d just shrugged it off; his walk to his end of the mats had been pretty steady. But before Mary Jo’s blood was completely cleaned off the mat, Paul shook his head slowly and raised a hand to rub at his ear, avoiding the spot where he’d been struck. He blinked rapidly and seemed to be having trouble focusing.
Then Paul blew out a long, even breath and found his center. His body stilled, and his breathing became deep and regular. He stood like a statue, bare chest coated with a light sheen of sweat. There was no fat on the man, and he looked like a cross between a Calvin Klein ad and an Army recruitment poster.
After the wet spots on the mats were perfunctorily dried, Darryl stepped back into the center.
“Paul, do you still want to continue with your challenge?”
He looked at Henry. “You hit Mary Jo?”
Was he still a little off balance? I couldn’t tell.
“It was an accident,” Henry said. “Mercy said . . .” He looked at me. “You know, something as fragile as you are should learn to keep your mouth shut, then other people wouldn’t have to take the fall for you.”
“People with as much to lose as you have,” I said, “should control their tempers better.” As an insult it lacked . . . substance. But it was more important to get a quick reply out than it was to be clever. I looked at Paul. “Mary Jo stepped between me and Henry.”
“And you still let her fight?” Paul asked me incredulously. “You didn’t think that might be dangerous?”
“A fight to the death is dangerous,” I told him. “She knew about her ribs. I knew you didn’t want to kill her.”
He stared at me. Glanced at Henry. To Darryl, he said, “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”
Darryl gave him a half bow, stepped off the mat, and said, “Gentlemen, you may begin.”
It started slowly.
With most of the expanse of the dojo between them, Paul made some fancy salute that I didn’t recognize; a graceful flutter of the hands and forearms combined with a half step forward, then back. He made a breathy, hissing noise that sounded alien and predatory.
Adam placed his fists together at his chest, then lowered them slowly and silently, flowing smoothly into an openhanded guard: a more common salute, simple and direct. It looked very similar to the salute my sensei had taught me. The scabs on his hands broke as he moved his fingers.
Paul advanced, a quick series of zigzag steps that let him glide across the mat while making it virtually impossible to predict where his next step would take him. His left arm was high, almost vertical, while his right maintained a low guard, hand positioned unconsciously near his groin.
Adam watched him, pivoting slightly to face him squarely as he crossed the mat. Had he seen what I had? That Paul was blinking as if he were trying to clear his vision.
Adam smiled just a little. For me? I decided that I’d do better to try to keep out of his head if I could figure out how—and let him concentrate on Paul.
Paul’s foot flashed out in a low, scything kick to the knee, and Adam’s weight shifted as he raised his foot in response. As Adam completed the block, Paul’s foot stopped short, then zipped up toward Adam’s right cheek in a modified roundhouse. Paul was strong enough to put some serious muscle behind the kick despite the short distance. Adam barely blocked in time, and the force of the kick made him stumble a half step. Paul danced back out of range.
Adam moved forward slowly, deliberately, a couple of bold steps, eyes on his quarry. Paul retreated, automatically giving ground to the Alpha. He caught himself and glared at Adam, who met his eyes and held them. With weres, a battle could be waged on multiple fronts.
To get away from Adam’s gaze, Paul threw another roundhouse with his left foot, but he was too far away to connect effectively. Stupid waste of energy, I thought, but at least the move let him break eye contact without actually losing the contest. He was using his legs more than his arms, and I wondered if he had hurt his hands in the fight with Mary Jo. If so, it wasn’t enough to matter.
Paul used the momentum from the wasted kick to spin sharply and drive his right heel in a savage back kick aimed at Adam’s stomach. He might be a jerk, but Paul knew how to move, and he was blazingly fast.
Adam again managed to block the kick, but the block only muted the force. Adam let the kick fold him over and throw him back across the mat, springing back with it. Paul came in right behind, arms rising to the high-block position he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam regained his balance just as Paul closed with him, and spun on his left foot and drove his right leg in a side kick. There was the crisp pop of fabric snapping as his leg flashed out to full extension, but it missed Paul by a handspan or more.
Paul’s hands clenched, and both fists came down in an instant replay of the attack he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam was bent at the waist, failed kick still extended, his back exposed to Paul’s descending fists. And then he did one of those kung- fumovie moves, spinning horizontally. I wasn’t the only one who gasped.
The kick hadn’t missed; it was the start of something beautiful and dangerous. Adam’s left leg hit Paul’s shoulder with such force that Paul’s blow went wide, flailing at empty space, as he spun in midair before crashing to the mats.
Paul hit like a pine tree falling, and the sound of his arm breaking was loud enough for everyone to hear. Adam landed on his stomach, one leg trapped under Paul’s body, which was perpendicular to Adam’s. Unlike Paul, Adam’s landing was deliberate and controlled. Before Paul could react, Adam twisted his body and drove the shin of his free leg into Paul’s chest.
In karate movies, they break celery to mimic the sound of breaking bones. Trust me, my hearing is acute, and I know these things: Paul’s ribs didn’t sound anything like celery. A human might have died from that blow; he certainly would have needed CPR. Werewolves are tougher than that.
Paul’s hand slammed the mat.
“He yields,” said Adam.
“Adam wins,” announced Darryl. “Do you accept Paul’s yield, Alpha?”
“I do,” replied Adam.
“This fight is over,” said Darryl.
Adam leaned down to Paul. “That edge you lost in your fight with Mary Jo is what allowed me to take the time to find something that would hurt you—instead of kill you. You can thank her for your life.”
Paul moved his head, exposing his throat to Adam. “I will, Alpha.”
Adam smiled. “I’d give you a hand up—but we’d better have Warren look at your ribs first. One punctured lung is enough.”
I’d been keeping an eye on Henry throughout the fight. I glanced at him just as he stepped onto the mat.
“Alpha,” he called. “I chal—”
He never got the whole word out—because I drew my foster father’s SIG and shot him in the throat before he could.
For a split second everyone stared at him, as if they couldn’t figure out where all that blood had come from.
“Stop the bleeding,” I said. Though I made no move to do it myself. The rat could die for all I cared. “That was a lead bullet. He’ll be fine.” Though he wouldn’t be talking—or challenging Adam—for a while. “When he’s stable, put him in the holding cell, where he can’t do any more harm.”
Adam looked at me. “Trust you to bring a gun to a fistfight,” he said with every evidence of admiration. Then he looked at his pack. Our pack. “What she said,” he told them.
12
WHEN THE PACK ESCORTED ADAM IN A TRIUMPHANT procession into the house, I hung back with Jesse and Sam—both of whom looked pretty wrung out.
Paul had left th
e dojo the same way Mary Jo had, in the stretcher—and he should be resting beside her in one of the downstairs bedrooms that were considered pack property rather than Adam’s. Any member of the pack could and did claim one for sleeping or reading or whatever they needed. With Adam in the house, neither Paul nor Mary Jo would have a problem with control while they healed—their wolves knew their Alpha was in residence to keep them safe.
There were some awful things about being a werewolf. Lots of them. But there were some okay parts, too—and some that were nice. One of those was knowing that as long as the Alpha was around, you had a safe place to be.
Henry hadn’t died from the blood loss, so far as I knew, and had probably already healed. A bullet is a small thing, and the hole it cuts is clean if it doesn’t hit anything hard on the way through—like bone. He’d be up before either Mary Jo or Paul. Of course, what happened to him after that was in question. I suppose it would be Adam’s decision.
Warren hung back until everyone else except for me, Sam, and Jesse were gone. And then he shut the door.
“Adam will miss you in about five minutes,” he told me. “And in six minutes you’re going to need to get him upstairs and in bed without letting the whole pack know that in ten minutes that man is going to be unconscious on the floor.”
“I know,” I told him.
The big cowboy smiled tiredly, though, like me, all he’d done was watch the challenge. “That was a nice bit of fighting. I suspect he could have taken Paul without Mary Jo stepping in.”
I nodded. “But now Paul is back in the pack again, happier than before. And I don’t think that could have happened without Mary Jo.”
“I hate this part,” said Jesse shakily.
“The part where everyone is safe, and you want to find a quiet corner and bawl like a newborn?” Warren glanced at me. “I reckon it’s better than when people aren’t safe—but it’s not my favorite, either.” He wrapped his arm around Adam’s daughter’s shoulder and she snuggled into him.
“There you go,” he said. “You go ahead and cry, baby. Ain’t no one going to say you don’t have the right. Get it over with and cry some for me—’cause if Kyle catches me crying, he’s gonna think I turned into one of those sissy boys.”
Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly Page 137