Sarah Brennan - The Demon's Covenant

“Nick?” Alan sounded very alarmed.

“Hey,” Nick said to Celeste Drake. “You magicians have duels, right?”

“We do,” Celeste replied slowly. She looked affronted that a demon was talking to her.

“You’ve laid claim to something that’s ours. Pretty good grounds for a duel, I think.” Nick tilted his head. “So let’s have one.”

Celeste’s eyebrows soared upward. “I believe I’ve already pointed out that you don’t have any magic. Do you want me to fry you from the inside out until you turn into a torch blazing for this whole dark city to see?”

“Oh, don’t,” Nick said. “You’ll get me all hot and bothered in public.”

Celeste looked disgusted. Jamie laughed, and when one of the Aventurine Circle glared at him, he turned it into a cough.

“You’re wrong on two counts,” Nick continued. “I don’t want to duel with magic. And I don’t want to duel with you.”

Mae remembered what Alan had said last night: One of the Circle has a special interest in using magic for fighting . Her eyes flew to the two men in the group, trying to size both of them up in the space of a second.

She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself when Nick said, “Can you resist a challenge, Helen?”

The tallest woman in the crowd was as blond as Celeste, but there the similarities ended. Her silvery blond locks were cropped short, her angular face was hard, not like china but like stone, and her white clothes were made of such old material that they moved with her like skin as she pushed past the other magicians and walked across the bridge to meet Nick in the middle.

She wasn’t as tall or as broad as Nick was, but there was a sureness to her movements and a solid, settled look to her muscles. There was a quality about this woman that reminded Mae that Nick was a boy.

Younger than Jamie. Not as tall or as strong as he would be one day.

And he had no magic.

Helen the magician reached behind her back with both hands and unsheathed two swords, long and thin and bright as if they were rays of light cast on water.

“Do you think you’ll even be a challenge, demon?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Nick, and drew his own sword.

It was his favorite sword, the one Alan had given him at the Goblin Market. Mae remembered it as she remembered everything about the Market night. It looked like nothing compared to Helen’s swords, which caught the fluorescent lights set into the steel of the bridge, the glow of the city spread out along the river, and turned all the lights into magic. Every time she moved her swords, they painted vivid trails of gold dust against the night.

They walked around each other in a slow, tight circle, watching the way their opponent moved.

“Two swords,” Nick commented. “Trying a bit too hard?”

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,” Helen said. “If all you can handle is one.”

Nick circled around, and Mae caught the flash of his savage grin.

“Oh, I think all you need is one. If you use it just right.”

Their swords met with a sudden ring, like the peal of a bell. Nick’s sword hit the spot where Helen’s blades met, crossed before her. She smiled, face framed by sharp steel, and Nick disengaged. Helen went low, snake-fast, and struck out at knee height. Her intention was so clear that for an instant Mae saw what Helen wanted as if she’d already made it happen: Nick’s legs scythed out from under him, having him bleeding and helpless for her final strike.

Mae moved forward and was pulled up short by the hard bite of Alan’s fingers into her arm. He pulled her back, tight against his chest, and said into her ear, “Don’t move.”

She didn’t move. She figured he must want comfort, though she wouldn’t have thought he’d seek it by grabbing someone hard enough to bruise.

It didn’t matter for long. They both had to keep watching Nick.

He jumped to avoid Helen’s swords and landed crouched, the aluminum deck reverberating under his feet.

Helen thrust, one sword cutting a golden wound in the night sky. Nick had to slam against the railing to avoid the blow, and then she was sweeping with the sword in her left hand to run him through where he stood.

Nick vaulted over the rail and onto the fragile cables on the side of the bridge, dancing backward on them as if they weren’t impossibly dangerous monkey bars suspended above murky waters.

Helen sliced out at him in a double stroke that could have beheaded him if she’d had more reach. He leaned backward, away from the swords, and for a moment either he or the bridge swayed and Mae shut her eyes, convinced he was going to fall.

“Stop playing around,” Helen snapped. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

Mae opened her eyes and saw Nick crouched like a huge cat on the end of a cable, sword washed in city lights and turned into a sweep of cool silver.

“This is the chase,” said Nick. “Cutting comes later.”

He grabbed the steel rail in one hand, and his arm tensed: the only sign before he threw himself over it, landing rolling on the deck and turning the roll into a stand almost too swiftly to see.

Not too swiftly for Helen. She swung, and Nick swerved. Directly into the path of her second blade, which slid between his ribs.

It was so simple and done with so little fuss that for a moment Mae forgot to feel alarmed. Then she heard the sound Alan made in the back of his throat, scraping and pained, as if he was the one who’d been stabbed. She saw the bloodstain spread slow and red across the white of Nick’s shirt.

Before Helen could draw her sword out, Nick attacked her unprotected side, his sword slicing in. She dived away, her shirt torn and bloody, pulling her sword out of Nick’s chest as she went.

Nick clenched his free hand into a fist and pressed it hard against the bloodstain, then swung in while Helen was still off balance. She fumbled the blade that was still dark and slick with Nick’s blood, and Nick struck her wrist hard with his sword. She gave a hoarse cry and dropped it.

“Now we’re even,” said Nick.

“We’re not even,” Helen said. “I was using magic and my swords before you were ever born.”

“I was killing long before you were born,” Nick told her, suddenly soft, as if struck by a pleasant memory. “I’ll be killing long after you’re dust.”

“You sure about that?” Helen said. “I’m not.”

Their swords met again, once, twice, three times in a ringing flurry of silver and gold, sparks flying into the darkness. Nick pressed in, and even Mae could see that wasn’t good for Helen: With their blades locked, Nick had the advantage of height and weight. He could drive her down.

Mae’s leaping heart went still and cold as a stone in her chest when Helen’s remaining sword flared into sudden vibrant life, humming and glowing with the white intensity of the sun.

Nick’s sword, locked tight with the magician’s, broke in two against it. The blade went clattering to the deck, and Nick was left standing there holding the hilt, a broken shard of steel still attached to it. It looked pathetic, especially next to Helen’s shimmering weapon.

Nick tossed it up into the air, caught it by the shard, and when Helen’s eyes followed the movement for an instant he moved past her guard and hit her hard in the nose with the hilt, then dropped it and punched her in the stomach. When she doubled over, he lunged away from her and across the bridge to seize the other sword, the one she’d dropped.

Helen looked up, blood streaming down her face, as he bore down on her.

She parried Nick’s blow and then struck. The sword Nick held was dimmed, ordinary again, while the one she still held was ferociously bright. It seemed to leap in her hands, and Mae clenched her fists at every blow, the ring of blades meeting turning into a murderous little song. Nick’s and Helen’s feet were moving together, back and forth, like a dance.