All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [187]
On the signature line of the page, her mother had printed Audrey Post, and then next to it she had drawn an infinity symbol with a line stricken diagonally across.
Mr. Ma gazed upon her signature, and his face crinkled so hard in concentration that it looked like a prune with two deeply set dark eyes. As he continued to gaze at it, Fiona saw the ink was thicker than she recalled, almost bulging off the page . . . and it scratched deeper into the surface than it ought to have without tearing through.
He ran his thumb over the symbol. Mr. Ma then folded the paper and tucked it into his warm-up jacket.
“So be it,” he whispered. “I accept your challenge.”
One of the older boys stepped forward, but Mr. Ma held a hand up at him and shook his head. “I will do this.”
The other students looked amongst themselves, confused.
Robert’s eyes widened. “Don’t fight him, Fiona,” he said. “It’s a trick.”
A smile creased Mr. Ma’s wrinkled lips. “Listen to your friend, Miss Post. He is correct: I do intend to trick you.”
Fiona saw real concern on Robert’s face. But Robert was always overprotective . . . and he didn’t know what she was capable of anymore. Besides, if he had done this to get into the class, so could she.
“You can try,” she told Mr. Ma.
Mr. Ma looked her over and gave a snort.
He stalked to a rack of weapons, considered the sticks and shields and practice swords, and then selected a pair of wooden samurai swords, bokken, and tossed one to Fiona.
She hefted it. Heavy.
From her studies of kendo, she knew these solid wooden swords couldn’t cut. They had a simple chiseled simulated edge, but nonetheless had enough weight to bruise quite effectively, break bones . . . or even bludgeon a person to death.
Her confidence flagged and her stomach flip-flopped.
What did she think she was doing? Mr. Ma had a million times more fencing experience than she had.
No. She’d sparred with Uncle Aaron and did okay (and she bet Aaron could have walloped Mr. Ma). And when she had fought the Lord of All That Flies, Beelzebub, she’d held her own . . . for a while. At least the Infernal had treated her as a real threat.
Not like a joke, as Mr. Ma did.
Fire sparked inside her and the fear evaporated.
Mr. Ma held the tip of his bokken up. “Come at—”
Fiona lunged.
He deflected her point and whipped his sword around.
She blocked—but the force of his blow sent her skidding sideways in the dirt, and pain shuddered up her forearm bones.
The old man was stronger than he looked. Faster, too.
She feigned high, drop the tip of her sword—thrust up toward under his chin.
Only Mr. Ma wasn’t there. He’d sidestepped a split second before, and his sword was a blur coming toward her.
She twisted out of the way.
Too slow.
The bokken hit her side. Ribs shattered. Every particle of air blasted from her lungs.
Fiona crumpled . . . although somehow stayed on her knees and didn’t sprawl facefirst into the dirt.
She also managed to hold on to her bokken. A small victory.
Necessary, too.
Because Mr. Ma didn’t show mercy. He swung his bokken in a double overhand stroke.
Through a haze of agony, she lifted her sword to block—barely. The impact sent new lightning strikes of pain shuddering through her bones.
She fell, dropped her bokken, and panted in the dust. Helpless.
Mr. Ma stood over her.
Fiona couldn’t breathe, it hurt so much. She couldn’t move. He had her.
“That,” Mr. Ma said, looming over her, “should be quite enough, I think. Go away, Miss Post . . . or you will lose your head.”
His tone was irritatingly polite with just a hint of pity. He turned and walked back toward his students.
No one, but no one, ever turned their back to her in combat. She was Fiona Post, daughter of Atropos and Lucifer—daughter of Death incarnate and the Prince of Darkness. She was a goddess in her own right . . . and more.
The world tinged red through her eyes. She welcomed the pain of her broken ribs. Let it set her mind aflame. Let it burn.
Fiona grasped her wooden sword.
She stood.
There was more pain, but it didn’t matter. The pain was in some