Dante Valentine 03 by The Devil's Right Hand

Author:The Devil's Right Hand [Hand, The Devil's Right]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-10-13T05:23:10+00:00

Another first. Well, wasn’t this a day for surprises.

Knife-work is close and dirty, and his speed and strength gave him an edge. But my katana kept him just out of reach, scabbard flickering in to dart at eyes or to smack at his wrist; wall coming up fast and I was losing ground, giving way under the slashes.

Parried a strike, metal ringing, hurt like hell and would have broken a human’s arm, my sword followed the path laid out in front of it, blurred up in a solid arc and we separated, Power crackling as he pushed at me and I shunted the energy aside.

A thin line of black blood kissed his cheek before it sank in, sealing away the wound, golden skin closing over itself. Perfect.

Flawless.

I had rarely been able to touch him, before. Was anger giving me speed to match his? If so, it wouldn’t last.

I backed up at an angle to give myself more room. My sword-tip moved in precise little circles.

“You see?” Japhrimel said, both knives laid along his forearms, left arm in guard position, right hand held oddly, low and to the side. “I even let you wound me.” His voice stroked along the edge of my defenses, a physical weight. I was overmatched and I knew it. He had too much damn speed. I was harder to kill now that I was hedaira—but I was no match for a Greater Flight demon.

Not even one that was being kind about it.

Fuck that. I licked my dry lips. I killed Santino.

But Santino had only been a Lesser Flight demon, brought to bay by Japhrimel. Killing him had almost crippled me.

Almost killed me.

“Don’t do me any favors,” I spat, and moved in on him.

Speed. Pure speed. Sword flashing, clanging off knifeblades, heard Jado’s voice yet again. No think! Move! Scabbard ripped out of my hand, my wrist momentarily numb, sword whistling as I slashed in return and caught air, ducking under his arm and striking in, forcing him back.

My left hand closed around my katana’s hilt under my right, my ribs flaring with deep breaths. We circled again. I don’t usually fight with two hands on my sword—being smaller than most mercenaries meant I was at a distinct weight disadvantage while I was fully human. So I trained to use every ounce of speed I could get as well as the defensive measure of my scabbard.

But since I’d lost the scabbard and gained some demon strength I might as well make every stroke count.

He darted in, I took the only move I had at that point, leaping back like a cat avoiding a snake’s lunge, sword streaking blue fire, chiming against a knifeblade, whipping down with all my weight and speed behind it in a solid silver arc. He faded away from under the strike then came back, slashing for me, my boots landed on the shockgel. Parried one strike, coiled myself, and leapt.

Tumbling, boots thocking down again, whirling to ward off another strike, now I had the entire length of the warehouse to retreat before I had to think of something good.

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