Rachel Caine - Bite Club

Eve had clearly spent her time in the gym checking out every corner of it, because Claire had no idea there was another part to it, behind a door near the restrooms. Behind it lay a couple of racquetball courts (safely caged up behind clear plastic), and even an indoor tennis court; maybe the vampires had been craving it and couldn’t get out in the sun. But at the very back was a wood-floored room with racks on the walls that held swords, as well as neat stacks of white uniforms and those funky mesh helmets.

“Right. I wouldn’t start you out with a saber,” Eve said, moving Claire from contemplation of one particular row of choices. “Too whippy for a beginner. How about a plain old foil? You can only target from the neck to the waist; no double touches. Easy peasy.”

She grabbed a couple of the long, slender weapons and tossed one to Claire, who caught it. It felt strange in her hand, but not at all heavy. The blade was kind of square, and there was a round tip on the end. She made a tentative slashing motion with it, and Eve laughed.

“It’s a lunging weapon,” she said. “Hang on, let’s get you suited up before you start attacking anything.”

Suiting up sounded much less complicated than it actually was; by the time Eve had finished dressing her like a sword-bearing doll, Claire felt clumsy, hot, and claustrophobic. Between the thick padding and the tight mesh helmet, she had no idea how she was supposed to move, much less fight.

Eve had her own fencing suit, which she took out of a cheerful, skull-featuring bag of her own. Her outfit was black, with a pirate skull and crossbones where the heart would be. She looked dangerous. And a little bit crazy, even without the beekeeper helmet.

“Okay,” she said. “First fighting lesson is, we don’t fight, so stop pointing that foil at me. It’s not going to go off.”

Claire blushed and dropped the point down toward her toes. “Sorry.”

“No worries. You couldn’t hit me, anyway,” Eve said, and smiled. “I’m going to line up next to you. Just do what I do, okay?”

The first thing, apparently, was how to grip the sword properly. That took a while. Then there was lunging, which involved stabbing the sword out in a smooth, straight line while stepping out on her right leg in a deep crouch.

It hurt. A lot. In fact, after about ten of those, Claire was gasping for breath and sweating; in about fifteen, she was ready to cry. Eve stopped after twenty, but it seemed like she could have gone all day.

“I had to put all this on for that ?” Claire muttered, as she pulled off her helmet. Her hair was soaked with sweat and sticking to her face. “Seriously? Nobody even waved a sword at me!”

“You have to get used to the weight and moving in it,” Eve said. “Suck it up, newbie.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Yeah, well, a lot. I had to do it. You should, too.” Eve winked. She moved off to a padded pole that had a red circle marked on it, and practiced some lunges on her own. Her sword point landed in the circle every time.

Claire spun around at the dry sound of hands clapping. She hadn’t heard anybody come into the room, but there he was, dressed in white fencing gear, with a sword in one hand and his helmet tucked under his arm. Oliver. He looked leaner and harder in the uniform.

Next to him, also dressed in white, was another figure. Amelie. The Founder of Morganville had never seemed so small before; the clothes she wore tended to enhance her height, as did the high heels. But like this, Claire realized that Amelie wasn’t much taller than she was, and was very slender. In the fencing clothes, she could have passed for a boy, except for the feminine curves of her face.

“You’re coming along, Eve,” Amelie said. Eve broke off her lunges and stood very straight, sword point down. “I remember when you first began your lessons. I had to give personal approval for anyone who practiced those types of martial arts.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while since I was competitive,” Eve said. “Hey, Ollie.”

“For that,” Oliver said, “you may step onto the piste.”

“I didn’t come to fight.”

“You’re dressed for it. What is that—a foil? Nonsense. You’re more suited to an épée.” Oliver snorted and took another weapon from the wall, which he threw in Eve’s direction. She grabbed it out of the air with her left hand. It had a deadlier look to it, Claire realized; more like a triangular blade than the square base of the foil. Still had a tip on it, but it looked like a tougher thing to master.

Eve shrugged and tossed the foil back to Oliver, who put it on the rack. “All right,” she said, and cut the weapon—the épée—through the air with a hissing sound. “Your funeral, dude.”

Oliver bared his teeth in a grim smile and put on his helmet. “I doubt it,” he said.

Eve put on her helmet, too, and stepped into the narrow path marked on the floor. Claire moved back to stand by Amelie, who watched with an intense, focused expression on her pale face. As Eve and Oliver raised their swords in salute, she nodded and said, “Go.”

It was literally over in seconds. Claire was used to the kind of fighting from the movies—long, clanging duels with lots of moving around and occasional cape swirling. This was fast and incredibly deadly. She didn’t even see what happened, only that there was a blur of motion, some metallic clangs that came too fast to register, and suddenly Eve was standing there with Oliver’s sword tip tenting the fabric of her pirate-skull emblem, right over her heart. “Well, crap,” Eve said, and took a step back. “No fair using vampy speed.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I don’t need to. Fencing was a survival skill in my day. Again?”

“Sure.” Eve backed up to the far end of the marked-off strip—the piste?—and settled into a low crouch that somehow didn’t look at all awkward.

“Go,” Amelie said, and there was another blur of motion. This time, Claire made out a couple of things—one, that Eve seemed to lunge for Oliver’s chest and then dropped way down, and her point took him in the lunging leg. His slid over her shoulder. Eve hit the ground and rolled up to her feet, raising her épée in triumph.

“Dude, gotcha !” she said. “Mortal wound, right there. Femoral artery. You are so dead .”

He didn’t respond at all, just walked back to his spot on the other side of the strip.

“Seriously? You can’t walk away with a tie?” Eve asked. She’d pulled off her helmet, and her black eyes were wicked bright. “Can’t we all just get along?”

“Fence,” he barked. “Don’t talk.”

Eve popped her helmet back on and took her place on the strip. Amelie drew in a breath, and instead of giving the signal, said, “Oliver, perhaps you should let it go.”

His helmeted face turned toward her, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said it, and then focused back on Eve, who was taking the en garde stance. “Start us,” he said. “Two out of three.”

“He doesn’t like to lose,” Amelie said to Claire, and shrugged. “Very well. Go!”

Claire focused, and managed to see exactly what happened this time. Oliver lunged. Eve parried, but he was ready for it, and got his blade back in line by knocking hers out of line. She tried for another thigh wound, but that didn’t work this time.

Oliver slammed the point of his épée into her chest so powerfully, it drove her back a step and made her drop her sword.

“Oliver!” Amelie snapped, and he backed off. Eve staggered backward, lost her footing, and fell on her butt. Her épée clattered away across the floor as she put both hands to her chest, then reached up to rip her helmet off. Her face had gone chalk white, and her eyes were huge.