Page 100 of Dhampira

“Fuck,” Vander grunted, doubling over. Bracing a hand on one knee, he panted like he grappled with severe pain.

“Do you need to stop?” Lorcan asked.

“No.” Vander straightened, then shook out his arms. Taking a deep breath, he resumed the ready position he’d adopted before.

Lorcan did the same. Again they faced off, neither moving. Then they rushed each other. This time, Vander was more graceful, spinning with the same fluidity as Lorcan.

But Lorcan was faster. Once again, he evaded Vander with no trouble. And once again, he landed another quick series of blows that were little more than taps.

Cursing, Vander hopped backward, favoring one leg.

“Need a break?” Lorcan asked, smoothing his hair.

Vander huffed. “Not unless you do.”

Lorcan assumed the ready position. “Not at all.”

They clashed again, spinning and maneuvering in a sort of dance. Lorcan’s movements were both precise and fluid, his body flowing in a graceful, mesmerizing glide. Vander obviously did his best to hang on, but he was outmatched. Within minutes, he crashed to his knees and then fell onto his side.

“Fucking fuck!” he yelled, his eyes screwed shut. His legs trembled like a moth’s wings.

I started forward.

“No,” Lorcan said, putting out a hand. “You’ll make it worse.”

“What did you do to him?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” Vander croaked, his face tinged green. “I just…need a minute.” He dragged in a ragged breath and then spoke on a whimper. “Fuck you, Lorcan.”

“Language,” Lorcan murmured, not looking the least bit concerned. He met my stare. “You don’t always need a sword to make a statement, Princess.”

Vander flopped onto his back. His chest heaved, but his color had returned to normal. He cracked an eye open and looked at me. “It’s called Matasi. The Drachvi invented it because they’re dicks.”

“It’s an art,” Lorcan said, stepping over him. Taking my hand, he smoothed his thumb down the center of my palm and then curled my fingers over so my hand formed the bladelike angle he’d used on Vander. “There,” he said, a soft smile touching his lips.

My skin tingled where he’d traced his thumb. “Can you teach me to do what you just did?”

Lorcan looked up. “It takes years of practice.”

I had one week until the wedding. “I guess everyone has to start somewhere,” I said.

On the ground, Vander pushed himself upright, one thick forearm draped over his knee. He lowered his silver gaze to Lorcan’s fingers locked around mine.

Lorcan released me, but he didn’t move back. “Yes. I can teach you.”

An hour later, muscles I never knew existed screamed for relief.

The Matasi looked like a dance, but it was a demanding discipline. Every “form,” as Lorcan called the rapid-fire blows, had to be delivered with exacting precision in a specific order and with just the right amount of pressure.

“Lower,” Lorcan said, guiding my hand to the middle of Vander’s back. “The nerve is here. Strike even a fraction of an inch higher or lower, and the form won’t work.”

Nodding, I stepped back and lifted my hands. Fire shot up my shoulders, and I winced before I could stop myself.

Lorcan’s gaze sharpened. “Are you all right?”

Vander looked over his shoulder. The second he saw my face, he swung all the way around. “That’s enough practice for one day.”

“No,” I said. “I’m close. I can feel it.” And I needed at least one victory. My swordwork was pitiful. The vor scapa left my throat raw and bruised. But the Matasi relied on the manipulation of nerve and muscle. I’d grown up helping my mother mix herbs and tend the sick and wounded. I knew how bodies worked. Which ligaments joined bone to bone and how the tiniest pressure could restrict blood flow.