Isle of Night (32 page)

Josh was also swept along in her tide, and I caught him looking at me before he could turn away.
Whatever.

“I pity the girl who has to face
her
in the semis,” Yas added.

I nodded. Lilac was looking like a shoo-in for the finals. “Some girl named Antje gets that honor,” I said. There were only four of us left in the semifinals, and I was surprised the vamps were having me face off against a Lilac underling instead of my known nemesis. Ronan's speech had made me realize how much attention the vampires paid to the comings and goings of Acari. I supposed it was one way to pass eternity. “Wonder of wonders, it's not me.”

“Either way, we still have to get you ready.” He looked at Emma. “You brought the tape?”

Nodding, she pulled a roll of white medical tape from her pocket. I automatically held my hands out for her to wrap them.

Emma touched my left pinkie, and I gasped. “Ow.”

“Looks bad,” she said, examining it. The finger was a repulsive shade of purple and poked unnaturally from the rest of my hand.

“I landed wrong.” I felt the bone trying to knit back together, and although I healed fast, it wasn't
that
fast. “I think it's broken.”

“Ya think?” Yasuo asked.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

Emma gently traced the line of the bone from the hand up to the fingertip. “Do you want me to bind it?”

I nodded, rolling my aching shoulders. “Tape my whole body, while you're at it.”

Yasuo was still watching Lilac work the crowd. “They say the last girl who fought her died, like, thirty seconds after the fight began. Could be you facing that shit in the finals. If you beat that Mia girl.”

“You mean
when
I beat Mia.” My voice came out weaker than I'd intended.

“You don't
have
to fight,” Emma cut in. “A lot of girls have stepped down from the competition.”

Emma had bowed out the moment she saw her name pitted against mine on the fight bracket, and I feared the long-term consequences of her decision. “I wish
you
hadn't stepped down.”

It was no secret Emma and I were friends, and a match between us would've made for the sort of drama the vamps craved like catnip.

“I have no interest in traveling, and so saw no need to fight.”

I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “It's about more than just traveling, Em. I worry it's a mistake not to fight.”

The barest lift of her eyebrows was my only answer. Otherwise, she remained intent on her work, her hands working deftly over mine, taping up my wrists and knuckles.

I went on, beating the dead horse, even though it was too late to change anything. “We could've figured out a way to look like we were fighting, but both get out of there alive.”

“Yeah,” Yasuo chimed in. “You'd take a few hits for Emma, wouldn't you, D?”

I nodded enthusiastically. If anyone knew how to take a few hits, it was me.

“They'd know,” Emma said simply. “It's better this way.”

I gave it up, knowing she was probably right. It would've been a big red flag if we'd both walked away from our fight when pretty much every other bout ended with a couple of Tracers toting away the loser.

And Emma wasn't the only one who'd backed out, either. Only about thirty Acari had stepped up to begin with, and then some dropped out once they saw just how serious the combat was. As far as I was concerned, those girls weren't thinking about the big picture. They didn't want to get off the island as badly as I did.

I needed to escape. When I contemplated my future, killing teenage girls didn't strike me as the most sustainable thing for me to be doing in the long term.

“Just be careful.” Emma calmly ripped the tape and smoothed down the edges. “Girls are dying, Drew.”

“Thirteen girls dead in twenty-one fights,” I agreed quietly.

“Not exactly stellar numbers,” Yasuo said.

“And those are the ones we saw die.” Emma's eyes met mine and we grew still. She pinned me with that stoic stare. “Who knows where the others were taken, or if we'll ever see them again?”

“Ambassadors, my ass,” I muttered, spotting Master Alcántara in the crowd. “They're training us to be
killers
.”

Which meant there was no room for error. Unlike the sparring we did in class, the tournament had no point system, no time limits. There was only one rule: The last girl standing won.

Emma sighed, turning my hand over in hers. “How does it feel?”

Holding my breath, I carefully wriggled the fingers on my left hand. The pinkie and ring finger were bound together, but the rest were mobile, if not sore.

And
sore
was an understatement. I was battered and bruised, and didn't know how much longer I could go on. “Feels good,” I said, lying.

“It's not too late. You can pull out.”

“Didn't we just have this conversation?” I'd spoken to her, but my gaze had drifted to the stage, where Alcántara was looking at the day's fight bracket. I shivered, feeling a wave of that nervous-morbid-excited fascination. “Because you know I can't.”

Finding fresh resolve, I glanced from Emma to Yasuo. “Look, guys. I need your support. I've made my decision. I'm going all the way.”

“That's it. Hand it over.” Yas grabbed the tape. We both shot him a look, and he said, “You'll see.”

He took Emma's hand and looped the roll on her finger. “Hold that,” he told her, and pulled down a long strip. He twisted the stretch of tape into a tight coil, ripped it free, then began to wind it around the knuckles of my good hand. He flashed us a smile. “A little Muay Thai technique. Now you just tape over this, and you've got some extra power.”

I flexed my right hand into a fist. It did feel extra strong somehow, like a medical-tape version of brass knuckles. “Nice.”

He gave Emma a broad smile. “We're gonna make D here a fighting machine.”

I laughed. “Not exactly the words I'd use.”

“Come on. You
creamed
Stefinne. She was beating you to a pulp, then suddenly . . . BAM.” He punched fist into hand. “Using the hilt of your sword on her temple—genius, D.
Knockout. Acari Drew advances to the semifinals.
”

“Luck, I guess.” My smile went weak.
Knockout
was a kind word for it. One could also use phrases like
bump off, take out, do in
, or perhaps choose one of the more formal -
ates
, like
eliminate, assassinate, annihilate.

But even more unsettling than adding another kill notch to my belt was the fact that I didn't think it was luck so much as it was something weird happening.

First, I'd earned a first-round bye, which was a fancy way of saying there'd been an odd number of girls, so I got to sit out the first set of matches. To win the bye, I'd answered a trivia question, and it was like it'd been catered just to me.

What's the largest possible prime number?
Poor girls had been tearing out their hair, when I clearly was the only competitor who would've known there's a simple proof to show there is no largest prime.

And then there was my fight with Stefinne in the second round. She'd been beating me soundly, and just when I began to panic, the oddest thing happened. Stefinne had me in a choke hold, a dagger in her hand, and was hauling back for the deathblow.

But then she simply . . . zoned out.

It was the strangest thing ever. One moment she was in her eyes. The next moment, she was empty.

It'd given me the chance I needed. Sliding my sword from where it had been pinned under her leg, I clocked her on the side of the head, knocking her cold. Despite her hatred, I really hoped she might've just been knocked out, might live to see another day, but a couple of Tracers appeared to whisk her away, and I knew that was the last we'd ever see of her.

I shouldn't have won that round. But I did. And then I spotted Alcántara in the audience, with that wolfish half smile on his face.

Now it was time for my next fight, and it was against Lilac's bosom buddy Mia. Part of me wanted to win on my own merit. But there was another part that hoped for more vampire intervention.

Yasuo spoke, tearing me from my thoughts. “You all right, D?”

Rather than answer, I felt compelled to look at the stage. Master Alcántara was staring at me across the platform, his eyes glowing strangely. Inhaling, I gave my rattled head a shake. “Yeah, I'm okay.” I managed a smile and then flexed my hands. “Just contemplating how remarkable it is that one of the most painful things ever is to punch a bunch of soft flesh.”

“That Mia chick is
so
not soft,” Yas said. The three of us watched as she worked through the obscenely limber stretches she did at the start of combat and fitness classes. She had long, stick-thin limbs. Her collarbone, every vertebrae, every rib, stuck out. Her black hair was pulled into a gleaming bun. “Look at her. Girl doesn't
eat
.”

“She was a classically trained ballerina,” I said.

Emma frowned. “Strange.”

“Tell me about it.”

“How'd she end up
here
?” Yasuo shuddered. “And what turned her into Skeletor?”

“Word is, a pesky drug habit. Girl moves to big city; girl meets meth. . . . You can imagine how the story went from there.”

Yasuo grimaced. “Eeesh.”

“Don't be fooled.” I pointed at her as she folded herself in half, wrapping a hand around each foot. “That right there is lean muscle wrapped over bone.”

Emma nodded. “Drew's right. I've seen her in class. She's strong.”

The gong sounded. My turn.

Rolling my shoulders, I took a deep breath. I felt my friends patting me on my back as I stepped toward the stone. “Here goes nothing.”

We both climbed on, and Mia stared at me from across the platform, pure loathing in her eyes. She inhaled deeply and dramatically, then fluttered her hands and bent her legs in a fluid karate form.

Great.
Classically trained in both ballet
and
martial arts.

We were allowed one weapon. Mine was a pretty little switchblade that fit my small palm perfectly. I'd contemplated fighting with my shuriken, but wasn't good enough yet for them to be practical.

I stared in horror as Mia bent to pick up
her
weapon. She'd chosen the kama.

“Seriously?” I couldn't help a spurt of nervous giggling. Basically, a kama was a sickle that old Japanese men used to mow down rice, and young ones used to mow down enemies in back alleys. “You have got to be kidding.”

She shot me a look of total disdain. We waited for the gong to sound again, signaling the official start of the fight, and Mia used the opportunity to whirl her sickle overhead with the same balletic movements she used in her stretches and forms. She took a long, graceful step toward me. “It's a weapon of the ancients. Used only by those with
sophisticated
training.”

She wanted me to find her act daunting. But, really, all her waving around was just starting to annoy me. “It's a damned grass cutter.”

“It's an art.” She did some cranelike pose, rising up on the ball of one foot with that sickle raised over her head. Her pose was elegant and fierce, and she looked like a painting. She cawed her version of a karate
kiop
, but to me it just sounded like an injured monk.

“Spare me.” I'd had enough of these boarding-school dropouts and their posh attitudes. I sheathed my knife.

Whispers rustled through the crowd. Disarming oneself before a fight was not exactly conventional behavior.

The moment the gong sounded a second time, I barreled straight for her. Who says you need to be sophisticated to be a good fighter? Or tall, for that matter.

I squatted and I dove. Straight for her knees.

Mia yowled. The kama flew from her hands. I felt her knee hyperextend as she pitched to the ground. We landed with a grunt.

“Hold . . . still.” I pinned her legs. She began to kick, and I twisted, hitching higher, diving onto her belly. Her body was freakishly thin, and it felt like it might snap under mine. “Not so fancy now, Mia Ballerina.”

The total crudeness of my moves had thrown her off. Even though I couldn't fist my injured left hand, I managed to land a bunch of hits to her belly and ribs. Her abdomen was washboard flat, and despite all the tape, my hands throbbed from the abuse.

“You won't win.” She struggled under me, getting a hand free.

I leaned back as her fist whooshed by me, just missing my chin. I grabbed her arm, trapping it under mine, and wrenched her elbow. “Oh, I think I will.”

I had no plan other than this primitive beating. If things went foul, I had to hope my guardian-angel vampire would bust out some supernatural mojo to help me.

“You won't.” Mia pulled her arm free. And then she laid a bruising backhand across the side of my face. “Because you're trash.”

Time stopped.

In that instant, I was ten and my dad was backhanding me for sitting in his chair when he got home after a bad day. I was fourteen, and he didn't like my eyeliner. I was nine . . . I was twelve . . . I was fifteen . . .

You're trash.
I'd heard it, over and over. I'd been smacked. Disregarded. I'd been in the way.
Trash.

But I wasn't trash. I was better than that. I had an iron will. I knew who I was. I'd have shut down long ago if I didn't. I'd still be in Florida, flatlining in front of the TV, a Coors tall boy in my hand.