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“I said no going easy. Take the staff.”

Amalthea’s sound of exasperation carried as she dropped the training sword and picked up a wooden staff. I hadn’t fought against one of those yet. She turned back, and for the first time I realized she was in a loose blouse and trousers instead of her usual ornately embroidered dresses. Fashionable for training clothes, but still… different. Had she known this was coming? I didn’t have time to process the implication, because Amalthea had grabbed my usual practice weapon and tossed it to me.

Actually, it wasn’t going to me, but was aimed squarely at Demos’s head. He snatched it from the air with vampire reflexes and extended it to me, hilt first.

“Oops. Guess my aim is a little off.”

“Enough playing,” Demos groused.

Her staff was a little taller than she was, her feet already in a fighting stance while she maneuvered the stave in quick circles. I stood reluctantly, no longer so confident in the skills I’d learned. Drills were one thing, but I hadn’t attempted any kind of sparring yet. “Demos, I don’t think I can win.”

“You may not,” he agreed.

Well, wasn’t that comforting?

“But if you already have doubts, you’ve lost before you’ve begun,” he continued. “Amalthea is good with a staff, but she’s rusty. She rarely practices, because with her foresight, she rightfully reasons she can avoid almost any deadly confrontation. But that will give you an edge. You’re smaller, faster. A staff gives her reach, so you’ll have to get in close. Just remember, the dagger isn’t your only weapon. Even if she does win, it’ll be good practice.”

He gave me a quick pat on the shoulder and shoved me forward. I stumbled, trying to find my balance. It was the first time he’d touched me outside of the slight corrections of my form.

“Ready?” she asked.

No. “Yes.”

“First to a killing blow wins. Begin,” Demos said.

Amalthea lunged for me. I barely managed to clumsily shift out of the way in time to right myself as her staff jabbed at me again. Amalthea might cheat at cards, butit became immediately apparent she wasn’t about to go easy on me. She was relentless, and all I could do was move back, trying to avoid getting knocked out by her staff.

“Fight back,” she said as she thrust in my direction.

I kept dancing around, looking for an opening. This wasn’t a simple puzzle where I had as much time as I needed for a solution—I had to try to think, fast, while Amalthea advanced.

I wouldn’t win. Not while I kept retreating.

The next time her staff came down, I lifted my wooden practice sword. The weapons collided, but I managed to shove her stave up.

“Good,” Demos called.

Good. Or very bad. Because Amalthea redoubled her efforts, her staff moving quickly. I managed to block several blows, getting close enough her staff couldn’t build the momentum it was meant to. But I wasn’t perfect. Her wooden pole knocked into my forearms once when I misjudged the angle, and pain reverberated up to my shoulder.

Feel it later. Fight now.

Vicious instinct drove me, unlike any that had awakened in me before. Sweat dripped down my neck, my chest pounding against the tight fighting leathers. Amalthea was also growing tired, her round face covered in a thin sheen. Had her movements slowed? She’d been chasing me for as long as I’d been running.

A heavy blow to my leg alerted me to the fact that, no, Amalthea was not utterly exhausted.

Shit. I lifted my dagger again, but it wasn’t made to fight against a staff. I went back on the defensive, dodging blocks, jumping backwards while I tried to formulate a plan. Amalthea followed me, as expected, but her blows fell into a pattern. Head, chest, leg, chest, head, chest, leg. She’d switch sides or angles, but as her body tired, so did her mind.

Now. When the next chest blow came, I was ready. Instead of dodging, I deflected. Not fighting her staff but shifting it enough to make her need to adjust her balance. Surprise at the broken pattern made her stumble to regain balance, just barely. I swung my right leg out, sweeping under her left.

She fell. I dropped my dagger and grabbed the staff, my hands opposite hers, and shoved back until she was pinned under me. I pressed down against her clavicle.

Hard.

Harder.

“Yield,” Amalthea sputtered. “I yield.”

I blinked. Sparring.We’re just sparring. I scrambled off Amalthea, offering her an arm to stand. She took it and grinned at me, her eye twinkling with pride. “Well played, Sam.”