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The guy’s eyes widened. “Iaido? With branches for swords?”
“Hai,” I agreed, trying not to flinch when he switched his style to meet my branch with equally smooth parries.
Crap. He knew that, too.
He said something in what I assumed was Japanese, but I shook my head. “I don’t speak it.”
He frowned, like I’d let him down again. I wondered how upset he’d look if he knew I’d only finished ninth grade.
His strokes were coming faster now, and Iaido wasn’t cutting it. I dropped low, rolling toward him and swinging my staff at an angle toward his knees. The staff connected, barely above the knee, and he leaped back, cursing.
“Dirty,” he gritted out.
“Effective,” I returned with a grin.
He was right, though. This was not a traditional style, more street fighting. But Del had said shorter and weaker fighters couldn’t afford to fight clean. There was no way I could match this guy without getting a little dirty.
“I should have expected dirty from Southern,” he sneered.
I laughed. He wanted to insult my pack? Be my guest. “You have no idea.” I did a backflip, taking a chance that he wouldn’t strike while I was showing off. For some reason, I wanted to impress him.
That was my first mistake.
He took the moment I was regaining my balance to aim a quick flurry of strokes at my head and shoulders, then managed to twist his staff under mine and pull. My branch landed across the clearing.
He bowed. “Well fought.”
“Not done.” I darted forward to grab his branch, tossing it away in a slick move with both hands.
He let out a laugh. “Got no quit?” He dropped into a jiu-jitsu stance, and I realized I was in for it now. He was huge, and his balance was so perfect. The only way I was getting out of a wrestling match was with luck.
Or more dirty fighting.
“Never got the chance to quit,” I panted. I dropped low and set my fingers into the leaf mulch, grabbing for the dirt underneath. He leaned forward, arms ready to grapple. I pulled my hand up and out, spraying the dirt into his open eyes.
“What the hell?” He coughed, scrabbling back, scraping one hand at his face.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t resist. While he was blinking away the dirt, I grabbed his arm, twisted my leg behind his knee, and pulled him into a classic takedown.
It worked, for a minute. I slid off with a muttered, “Good fight,” thinking to get some distance in case he was pissed. I got about six inches away before I felt his hands on me.
“You little punk,” he grunted and reached around my waist, grabbing hold of my sleeve and pulling behind me as he slammed me up and over his shoulder, then into the ground.
Pain exploded in my gut as all the air rushed out of my lungs.
He leaned close and growled while I fought to breathe. “You fight dirty, and you smell like shit.” And then he sniffed me. Twice. “What the… What is that smell?” He leaned even closer, sniffing again, and the hand on my arm loosened slightly. “It’s not possible.”
I didn’t know what he meant. I was dealing with my own impossibility. Something weird was happening as I gasped.
His touch was doing something. Freezing me in place, and warming me up at the same time.
It felt like a swarm of ants was rushing from where he touched me on my arm to the rest of my body. Maybe he’d broken something inside me. My chest suddenly ached, and then other parts, lower, started to echo the pulse. The shock of getting my breath knocked out of me was accompanied by a more stunning realization.
The man’s weight on me should have been terrifying, but instead, I felt like I wanted him to press harder against me.
It felt good.
“Spicy and sweet,” he growled, inhaling deeply.
