Marcus Pelegrimas - Howling Legion

The weapon in Cole’s hands was a short spear carved from a bowed piece of wood. One end was sharpened down to a point and the other was split into two smaller points that resembled a forked tongue. Although the weapon was only slightly thicker than a broomstick, a varnish made from shapeshifter blood, vampire saliva, and God knows what else kept it from breaking or even chipping no matter how many times it was struck. Not only did the varnish petrify the wood, it also bonded the weapon to the person who wielded it. The connection between Skinners and their weapon was made by thorns crafted into the weapon’s grip, which were treated with another paste that healed the wounds they made. They still hurt like hell.

Cole was told he’d get used to the pain. So far, no such luck.

Paige’s baton cracked against the side of his leg. Before he could reposition his spear to one of the defensive stances he’d been taught, Cole was struck on his other knee by a second baton. Pain raced up and down through his lower body. He almost fell over, but managed to keep his balance. The short brunette wielding the batons wasn’t impressed.

Usually, Paige wore sweats or some other, fairly standard workout clothes. Today her hair was pulled back as always, but he could see that the heat in their converted practice space must have been getting to her because she wore tight runner shorts and a baggy T-shirt over a sports bra. “You need to focus, Cole,” she warned.

The moment he lifted his eyes from her sweaty curves, he caught a baton squarely upon the tenderized nerve running down the side of his leg. “Mother—”

Paige snapped her baton straight forward to deliver a quick, stabbing blow to his midsection. Not only did it cut one profanity short, but it took away the breath required to put together another one.

“We’re going to that Blood Parlor uptown tonight,” she said as she circled him. “You need to get your shit together.”

“I’m trying, but you keep hitting me.”

“You let your guard down.”

Gritting his teeth in a vain attempt to keep from looking like a complete pansy, Cole replied, “You pulled out the advanced moves. I haven’t seen that one yet.”

“It’s called thinking on your feet. Most anyone or anything you fight won’t follow a script, you know.”

“I know, Paige, but I—”

He was cut short by another crack from the baton. The simple weapon spun around Paige’s hand like a propeller, switched direction at the last second, and then knocked against the back of his left hand. Both of her weapons also had thorns protruding from the handles, but the easy smile on her face didn’t register the first sign of any discomfort.

“Damn it, I’ve got to use that hand!” Cole whined.

“That’s what I’m trying to get you to do.”

“I mean I’ve got to type with it, not use it as a freaking pin cushion!”

“A pin cushion, huh?” she scoffed. “You’d have to be better at sewing than fighting, so maybe you could knit a nice set of fang cozies for the next Nymar that steps out of line.”

Cole tightened his grip around the middle of his spear and circled to the left. They were in the cellar of an old restaurant that must have served a hell of a lot of ham. The smell of it filled the windowless space so much that the cinder blocks in the walls could have been sliced up to make a passable sandwich. He and Paige had plenty of room to maneuver as long as neither of them tried to jump. His skull sported more than a few bumps after knocking against the low ceiling, which paled in comparison to the damage done to his ego when he’d gotten the forked end of his spear wedged in a beam while attempting an overhand swing.

Paige flipped her baton upward to connect with the lower edge of Cole’s weapon. Just as the forked spear started to come away from his hands, she brought the baton around in a tight semicircle to crack on top of it. Cole snarled as the thorns in the weapon’s handle came out of his palm a bit and were savagely driven back in again.

“Didn’t like that, did you?” she mused. “Tighten your grip and keep your guard up.”

“It was up!”

“Then you should have blocked that.”

No matter how cute she looked, he still wanted to smack the shit out of her sometimes. Staring at her intently, Cole struggled to come up with something to say. The blood was flowing too quickly through his entire body for him to arrive at anything better than a few nasty standbys. Since he was hurting enough already, he kept them to himself.

He took a breath and tightened his grip until the thorns dug into his palms. When Paige swung her baton toward his head, he moved to block but didn’t commit to the parry until it got to him. Sure enough, she pulled back at the last second to try and convert her attack into a chopping blow aimed at his lower body. He was able to drop his guard and deflect the baton with a definitive crack.

“Good,” she said.

Cole smiled and nodded. “Good? Freaking excellent is what that was.”

Smiling as she only did while in the middle of a fight, Paige twirled both weapons before feinting with one and swinging the other at his ribs. Although she managed to land one glancing blow, the other was knocked away by Cole’s spear. After that, she had to use both batons to defend against a flurry of incoming attacks. Paige blocked one after another before backing off. Although Cole hadn’t come close to besting her in their sparring session, the gleam of sweat on her skin told him he was at least making her work for a change. In his first few weeks of training, he’d only dreamed of getting her to work up a sweat. He actually still dreamed of it.

A lot.

As if sensing the mildly pornographic thoughts drifting through his mind, she narrowed her brown eyes and shifted into a sideways stance. That was supposed to present a smaller target to an opponent, but it also brought Paige’s taut yet shapely curves to Cole’s attention. “Now that,” she said with a little smile, “was freaking excellent.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. You’ve been making a lot of progress.”

Cole spun his spear in a few quick circles that sliced through the air while passing on either side of his body before ending up in the exact spot where it started. The flashy move was one of the few he’d actually practiced outside of their sparring sessions, and his palms were so slick with blood that he forgot about the thorns for a moment.

Paige let her eyes wander up and down along Cole’s body before nodding approvingly. “Don’t try to distract me. We need to finish up. I’m about to bake in this cellar, though.” With that, she set her batons down and pulled her T-shirt over her head. Once the sweaty garment was off, she tossed it aside and rolled her head around to work the kinks from her neck.

Every line of Paige’s upper body was accentuated by the sweat glistening upon her skin. Her shorts clung to her hips and backside in just the right way, and her sports bra didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Oh yeah.”

Paige bent at the waist to pick up her batons, and Cole took full advantage of the moment to watch how her tight body shifted through the motions. Every movement caused the muscles in her legs or stomach to tense and relax.

Her first few swings were almost playful. She smirked when he batted them away and even looked impressed when he came close to landing an answering blow of his own. Then the batons flew at him a little faster. Cole ducked under some of the swings and blocked one or two, but caught a couple taps along the shoulders and sides.

“Sorry,” she said. “Did that hurt?”

He tried to ignore the throbbing in the same two ribs that she insisted on hitting every damn time and replied, “Nah.”