Evelyn Vaughn - Her Kind Of Trouble

So what the hell, we followed.

The first shop he brought us to had only swords with animal-horn handles, not exactly what I wanted. The next sported highly decorative weapons that looked fit for Sinbad in the Thousand and One Nights, but were actually letter openers made out of tin. And the third one—

Just right. The third souk displayed a collection of real blades laid on silk-lined tables and hung from rope outside the shop. The inside walls displayed them one above the next.

Steel blades. Fighting swords.

Rhys slipped our miniature guide some coins—baksheesh, don’t you know—and I went shopping.

It’s not like I’m an expert on swords. Most of my experience before this summer came from practicing tai chi forms with a straight, double-edged saber. It’s used not so much for fighting as for an extension of one’s self in a fluid, moving meditation. But that practice came in damned useful when the Comitatus attacked Lex and me with ceremonial daggers.

Apparently society members had nothing against guns for your average peons, but knives were used for attacks of any ritual significance. I hoped I’d risen to that much esteem, anyway.

Mainly because I hate guns.

Some of the swords inside this hot little souk I could immediately reject. Almost half of them were just too large for me to comfortably wield, much less carry with any discretion. Just as many were curve-bladed scimitars, high on style, low on personal practicality. But some…

Several dozen straight-bladed swords beckoned me to pick them up, test their heft, swing them.

The grizzled shopkeeper stepped back to give me as much space as he could, which wasn’t much. Luckily, tai chi is all about control over oneself and, when swords are involved, one’s blade.

I barely heard the merchant’s explanation of the benefits of this piece or that—Toledo steel here, Damascus there, replicas of swords belonging to sheikhs and knights. I was too busy listening to the swords themselves.

I tried a sword with too thick of a grip, then one with a basket hilt, like a rapier, which felt awkward to me. I tried one that turned out to be way too long, and another that weighed too much. Rhys said something about being right back, and I nodded, but mostly I was lifting swords, holding them over my head, spinning with them, thrusting them at full arm’s length…trying to find my perfect extension.

For the first week or so after Lex’s attack I’d avoided practicing, and not just because I’d wrenched my wrist in the fight. Every time I’d picked up my sword, I would remember exactly what it felt like to thrust a blade into another human being. Through skin. Into muscle, ligaments, bone. And yes, it was sickening. That’s the point. It’s not that I regretted doing it—those men had given me no other choice when they tried to kill someone I cared about. But I regretted having been in a situation that demanded it.

Then my sifu had suggested that I either choose to swim across the blood or to drown in it. That was when I’d reclaimed my practice, my extension. It didn’t happen right away—but by now, I could lose myself in the slow dance of forms that is pure tai chi without the guilt.

Embracing the moon.

Black dragon whipping its tail.

Dusting into the wind.

I was halfway through a routine, stepping slowly from one movement to the next, before I realized this was it. The sword I held had great weight, great balance. It was the one I wanted, the one that wanted me. Lowering it, I saw that it had a slim blade with a stylish brass S hilt and, intriguingly, a pattern within the hand-beaten steel that reminded me of snake scales. Snakes are a universal goddess symbol, not just for Melusine or Eve or the Minoans. This was perfect.

Wiping my face on my sleeve, I turned to ask the shopkeeper the cost—and was surprised to see that sometime during the last couple of swords, he’d vanished.

How odd. Worse, my throat tightened in warning. Because of that, I had my blade up and ready as I turned toward the front of the shop—and stopped short.

The sharp tip of a scimitar hovered, a mere breath from my tardy throat.

The man who held the sword, swarthy and square-shouldered, was the man who’d helped us at the airport. He still wore the suit. But now, weirdly enough, he had a protective, Eye-of-Horus design painted in blue on his cheek.

“Well, witch,” he said. “Let us see how good you are.”

And he swung.

Had he just called me a witch?

Thank heavens for practice. If I’d had to actually think about anything at that moment, I may have ended up as shish kebab.

Instead, my new sword leaped upward almost before I knew I was moving it. The two blades collided with a steel clash that echoed through the souk.

One steel clash.

That was all I needed.

Tai chi is all about passive resistance, resolving everything into its opposite. Softness against strength. Yielding and overcoming. To meet this man’s force with more force would be foolish, him being so much bigger and clearly more aggressive than me. Instead, I met it with concession, sliding my blade around his.

He did the work of thrusting. His mistake, since my blade remained in the space he was thrusting against. The only reason it merely scratched his arm, instead of stabbing him, was my reluctance to have it yanked from my hand.

I’d drawn first blood, all the same.

He drew breath in a quick hiss. “What kind of fighting is that?”

“Maybe I fight like a girl,” I said. Warned.

When he drew back to swing again, my blade continued to rest against his. When he sliced the air with his scimitar, my sword coiled around his and struck a second time across the light sleeve on his forearm.

Another stripe of blood.

I was the one who demanded, “Would you stop that?”

“I?” The bastard groped outward with his left hand, picked up one of the display swords and, with a sharp jerk, flipped its scabbard to the stone floor. Such a guy. When in doubt, up the weaponry.

Crap.

Now I had two blades to deal with, using only one. My sword couldn’t flow around both of them, and I’m no two-handed fencer, so I had to make myself flow around the man instead. Try to. Wouldn’t you know I’d be wearing a skirt for this, gauzy but long—dress is very conservative in Arabic countries. At least I had on boots.

The cluttered walls loomed in, too close.

When the man rushed me, I had no choice but to back up—fast—rather than take the full force of his attack. Even as I pivoted out of his way, letting him push past me, I stumbled against another table of merchandise. When he charged again, I dived under his weapons to avoid them both.

Gauzy skirt material twisted around my legs, and sand from the floor grated across my skin. Luckily, I managed to roll to my feet—barely—before hitting the opposite wall of this small souk. My skirt tore under one foot. A dagger fell behind me. “What the hell is your problem?”

He swung with his right-hand sword. With my empty hand, I caught his from behind and encouraged it in the direction it was already going as I dodged, throwing him off balance.

He stumbled.

“Why did you call me a witch?” I demanded.

Catching himself, he now sliced the left-hand blade toward me. I blocked it with my own weapon, one ringing impact and then silent adherence, sinuously winding my blade about his.

That didn’t protect me from the first sword, his scimitar. It flashed upward too quickly. To dodge it, I would either have to drop my sword or—

No way was I dropping my sword. Instead, I sank into an almost impossibly low crouch—without having stretched first, which I would regret—and ducked under his elbow. The scimitar whipped through the air above me. But it missed.