The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

He tried another jab, the punch blurring out and back.

Another miss.

They circled. His adversary had been there one moment and gone the next, as if reading his mind. He had no explanation. The easiest way to tell a jab was coming was by a slight flexing in the shoulder. No flexing was noticeable. He was at a loss. Usually a jab would hit something, anything. A shoulder or an arm, at least.

Don’t get reckless,
he told himself.

The Reaper, as he thought of his opponent, continued to circle, perfectly willing to allow him to look stupid. Well, it was time for something bigger. Time to push this. Time to end this.

He jabbed again, snapping out and in, knowing perfectly well he was probably going to miss, which he did. He then tried a combination punch. As soon as his left returned to guard his face, he lashed out with his right hand. It was a perfectly executed combination, but one which netted him nothing.

The Reaper slipped the jab like a true pro and bobbed and weaved under his hard right, eluding him like Ali in his prime.

The Reaper never lost his balance or his nerve. He was never shaken.

Hell, Knight was even a little impressed.

Knight was not without his own tricks. His movement was explosive. He dropped to the ground and swept his right leg. The Reaper jumped easily, avoiding the leg, but Knight had brought his left leg up, which had followed the right. It was a tricky move which was designed to catch even the most elusive opponent off-guard and that’s what it did.

He caught the intruder hard in the chin. Knight flipped over onto his stomach, swinging his right leg back and completely toppling the person in black, who landed on a shoulder. Before Knight could put himself in a position to continue the attack, the intruder rolled twice to the left and arched easily to quick and sure feet.

The hood never moved. As Knight was wondering how the hell it managed to stay in place, the intruder had apparently had enough. In a flurry of fists and feet, Knight was under a severe attack. He stepped back, deftly avoiding the barrage. He used his arm to block the powerful blows. He was backed up to the opposite side of the studio and up against one of his larger paintings that depicted a panoramic view of paradise. He ducked, just as a fist went through it completely.

Although his paintings were not for sale, they were designed really to create a lasting impression of his dreams to be studied later; they still took considerable time and they deserved at least a little respect. He was not especially gifted as an artist, but he wasn’t that bad.

He looked at the hole in his artwork. “Now, I’m pissed!”

* * *

The man was surprisingly skilled. He had developed considerable fighting skills for his mere thirty-plus years. Unfortunately for him, she’d had centuries to hone her skills. Not to mention she was certain that the healing oil had given her an uncanny ability to portend one’s opponent’s moves. It was uncanny and certainly unfair for Knight, but he seemed to be doing just fine avoiding her as well.

She removed her fist from his painting and for a brief second, allowed herself to really see it. What she saw made her gasp.

It was the Garden. A bird’s eye view of it. It was as if this male had somehow piloted a small aircraft over it, or flew over in a hot air balloon. The rendition of it was a little sloppy, but the scene was obvious. Rising through the canopy, like a nuclear mushroom cloud, was the tree—

The force of his kick, which landed squarely on her right hip, sent her reeling sideways across the studio. She skittered across the polished workout floor like a crab out of control. The blow had been powerful and well-placed. Although not designed to be lethal, it was meant to get her attention and it had.

Had she not been perfectly fit and not been the lethal fighting machine she was born to be, she would have been down for the count.

Yes, that’s all I am,
she thought scornfully, as she picked herself up quickly.
I am not woman. Not human. I am a Guardian. I will be to the ends of the earth, or the end of my days, whichever comes first.

She saw how dangerous this male could be and she was impressed. She saw now the look in his eye. He had calm fury. Seeing the painting had been a shock, of course. She should have known better than to let her guard down and it would have cost her her life if he had wanted to fatally wound her. The kick had been designed to show his power, his skill, and even his mercy.

I am an intruder in his home
, she thought.
I attacked him and yet he shows me enough mercy to keep me alive
.

Then again, he could be just toying with her, but she doubted it. He did not seem to take any particular pleasure from the pain he inflicted.

She wasn’t done with him yet. The man had landed a lucky blow in her moment of weakness, her moment of shock. He would not be so lucky the next time. Plus, she was still not convinced that Evan Knight was the chosen one. How could she believe in him, how could she put her faith in this man, if she did not respect him?

She turned and reached up on the wall behind her. She was familiar with the scythe-like weapons. Japanese Kamas were designed to be held in each hand and used with skill. Luckily, she knew how to use them with skill.

She turned to him and held each Kama by the handle. She did not bother to demonstrate her skill with common male posturing. She simply raised them and held them ready for battle. He would know her skill soon enough.

* * *

After he had landed one of his better kicks, his opponent had gasped. A very clear gasp that cut through the strange solitude of their fighting.

It had sounded like a woman’s gasp.

He watched now as his opponent brandished the Kamas with what was nothing short of obvious training. Although tall and looking like the Grim Reaper more than ever now, the movements were smooth and quick. The broad shoulders were angular enough and not necessarily packed with much muscle, although again it was hard to tell. The person, no matter what gender, held themselves with a sort of regal confidence that he could not entirely explain. Maybe he or she was just confident in their own abilities, which were considerable.

His opponent had let down any guard after spying his painting. Had she seen something significant in the painting derived from his very dreams?

He noticed that he was now beginning to think of the robed figure as a female. There was fluidity in her movement, a poetic balance that was rare in fighting men, but that which most truly gifted women possessed. Then what was she doing here and who was she?

She attacked in a flurry of polished steel blades. As always, she was silent. He never even heard her breathe. Her robes flapped through the air, her feet whispered over the polished floor and her movements were as deadly as ever.

He gave her some ground, turning his body often to avoid the deadly blows, most of which were aimed at his face and heart. He felt the metal whisper near his face and ears. There was no opening for him to counterattack. He was solely on the defensive and he was okay with that.

Sometimes, it was better to watch and learn.

He watched her and learned as she was trying to kill him. He still did not know why. Her form was flawless. Had he been lesser skilled, she would have shredded him to ribbons.

Then he heard it. A grunt, a gasp escaping from her lips.

She was tiring.

Granted, he was already wheezing and sweating, as this was perhaps the most rigorous workout in his life, not to mention, it was a fight for his life.

Her hood fluttered back in the whirlwind of her arm movements. He saw an angular nose and thin, pursed lips, and beautiful dark eyes. Then the hood fell back. It had only been a brief imprint on his mind, but it had been enough for him to lose his concentration.

He suddenly dodged left, but she seemed to anticipate that move and brought the right Kama up. He was in trouble. He knew the blow was going to hit home and do some serious damage. He wasn’t entirely in harm’s way, but with a Kama, it didn’t take much to inflict massive injuries.

The injury never came. She switched movements in mid-swing, deciding instead to bring the weapon slashing down, which he easily avoided. She could not have made that mistake by accident. She had him dead to rights, but had shown mercy on him.

She doesn’t want to kill me,
he thought.
Then what the hell is going on?

She lunged forward, blades aimed for his midsection. He sidestepped the sudden attack.

At least,
he thought.
I don’t think she wants to kill me.

She spun, slicing through the air with one of the Kamas. The blade veritably hummed with motion. He dropped, rolling backward, and ended up against the far wall. Enough was enough. He turned and removed two butterfly swords, which were blunt, snubbed-nose weapons that were the perfect counter to the Kamas.

He just happened to be an expert in their use, as well.

She gave him no time to ready himself as she lunged forward. He took a step back, raised the butterfly swords, and blocked her weapons. The hooked Kamas were lodged firmly against the sharp edge of his swords, as the momentum of her attack brought her just inches from his face. He could see the light of her eyes inside the hood. She was powerful and the force she brought to bear on her weapons was almost staggering.

“You fight well,” he said. He gave her a lopsided grin. “For a woman.”

He thought those shining eyes might have narrowed and knew he had probably hit a nerve, which was fine with him.

She released herself from the stalemate and renewed her attack. He met her move for move and sparks erupted from their weapons. She fought like a tiger. Now, he sensed that she was holding very little back and that this time, there would be no mercy. He did not feel the need to launch a counterattack. He did not want to hurt her, if he could help it. Instead, he wanted to know who she was and what this was about.

Fighting defensively, he continued his minor retreat. She mixed up her attack with the occasional lightning-fast hooking kick, one or two of which connected on a kidney. Long ago, his trainers had taught him, the hard way to take a punch, or in this case, a kick. She would have to kick him a lot harder and more often to wear him down.

She brought her weapon up quickly and she got the tip of his chin, opening it up.

The pain was nonexistent, but the blood which now dropped steadily onto his shirt and floor, made his footwork tricky.

Word of advice
, he thought
. Don’t insult her in the future.

If he
had
a future.

* * *

She wasn’t sure why she’d spared him. She had him dead to rights and had countered her own swing with one that was easily defensible. Perhaps she would have been reluctant to bring back, battered and wounded, the man who had been prophesied about throughout the ages. Mother Daughter would be pissed.

Now, she regretted it. The male was cocky and had insulted her. He knew that she was a woman and he was trying to take advantage of that fact.

Her nick on his chin had felt good. Her first real strike against the male. Blood dripped from the wound and she found her footwork compromised by it. Still, she was glad it was his blood and not her own.

She was winded. It was the first time in a long time that a mortal had winded her. Perhaps ever. She was just beginning to see his potential usefulness. However, it was beyond her to see how he could ever replace a Guardian.

She was determined to teach this male a lesson and wipe that smirk off his face.

She launched into another attack, adding sweeping kicks that occasionally landed. He gasped when hit, but for the most part, he was holding his own. She was sure the kicks did little damage, other than make her feel good.

Sweat rolled down her back. The blood on his chin was coagulating. She noticed the shadow of stubble on his cheeks.

“Focus,” she told herself.

She also noticed that he was no longer on the offensive and was merely reacting defensively. She did not know what to make of this. Was it because she was a woman or was there something else?

More than likely, she knew that he wanted to know who she was.

* * *

She renewed her fury. He could no longer think of anything but his own survival. Too many times, the weapons had come close to decapitating him. He watched as his arms seemingly reacted on their own, countering her offensive blitz. They almost seemed to move independent of thought.

He was pressed up against the wall and had lost track of his surroundings. Not a good thing. She had him pinned and he needed room. He had no choice.

She had gotten used to him reacting defensively and was getting careless. He lashed out with a foot and caught her in the mid-section. A solid kick, but not one meant to do internal damage. She briefly doubled over. He knew she was more surprised than hurt.