Page 73 of Angel of Vengeance

“Looks like we’re the last ones at the party,” said Constance, flicking away bits of lath clinging to her clothing.

“You’re one lucky bitch,” said Decla. She advanced, wielding the stiletto.

“So you’ve decided on a fair fight—now that your Neanderthals are incapacitated?”

Decla knew she was being goaded, knew the bitch was supremely dangerous. But she also knew there was nobody who could best her with a knife. That’s why she’d risen to lead the Milk Drinkers, why members of other gangs leapt for cover when they saw her coming. There was no way this young woman—with her milky skin and fancy clothes—knew how to handle a knife. The bitch had cut her hand, but that was only because she’d been taken by surprise. This time, there would be no such surprises. Keeping her eyes on Constance, she flexed first her arms, then legs, before crouching into her favorite fighting stance.

“I’d like my stiletto.”

“I bet you would. It’s mine now.”

At this, Constance merely smirked. She took one step back, then another. With a quick movement she plucked a four-foot piece of wooden molding out of the debris. She held it by one end with both hands, like a golf club, twisting it first one way, then another, as if testing its tensile strength and elasticity.

“What do you plan to do with that?” Decla asked, laughing despite herself. “The javelin competition isn’t until tomorrow.”

Suddenly, Constance planted the staff-like piece of molding hard against the ground, lifted herself into the air, and—legs horizontal—swung toward Decla. Taken by surprise, Decla staggered back, but Constance kept pivoting around the staff like an acrobat, feet toward Decla’s face, and then suddenly emitted such a bloodcurdling cry that Decla stumbled backward, dropping the knife and scurrying out of the way.

Constance immediately threw aside the molding and grabbed her stiletto.

But Decla, looking around at the motionless bodies, first spotted, then snatched up, a twenty-inch sawback machete—once Fishbait’s pride and joy, now hers.

Constance glanced from Decla to the evil-looking knife, then took a step back.

“Nowhere to run, bitch,” Decla said. “Your carnival tricks aren’t going to save you. You’re the one who’s about to be slit like a Christmas goose… and I think I’ll start with the giblets.”

Even before she finished speaking, she leapt forward, blade whistling. Constance leaned backward as the machete carved air her breast had occupied a moment before. Then, using her loss of balance to best advantage, she pivoted ninety degrees, one hand planted on the floor, then leapt to her feet again as Decla got a fresh grip on her blade and tightened its lanyard around her wrist.

Decla took a moment to size up her opponent, who looked back at her expressionlessly, violet eyes narrowed to slits, doing the same. They’d keep this game up awhile longer, see how well her stamina lasted.

Decla lunged. Constance swerved—but in the direction Decla anticipated. She J-hooked the arc of the blade, cutting through the sleeve of Constance’s dress.

Her opponent spun away, but the damage was done. With satisfaction, Decla saw blood darken the sleeve. It was not serious, any more than the wound in the shoulder had been. She could keep this game up for quite a while, carving here and there.

Constance held her stiletto out, its tip bobbing up and down slightly, and, her head lowered, in a half crouch—circled Decla. She suddenly whirled, sweeping the knife in an arc at belly level, but Decla one again anticipated the move and hopped back, rotating to one side like a matador. As Constance’s arm flashed by, she gave her another cut with the machete—just for fun—parallel to the slice she’d already made on Constance’s arm.

The bitch recovered her balance and once again went into a crouch. But the blood was now spreading across the tears in her sleeve.

“Those are gonna scar up good,” said Decla. “Or they would, doll—if you survived.”

She circled Constance, who rotated in turn.

Constance swept again with the knife toward Decla, but it was a feint and she finessed the move with sudden, startling speed, the blade of her knife just catching the fabric of Decla’s sleeve.

“Not good enough,” said Decla.

And it hadn’t been—but the feint itself, along with the alarming speed with which it had been executed, was a reminder to Decla not to get too confident: this opponent was as lithe and fast as a weasel.

Suddenly, Constance kicked up a piece of plaster; Decla dodged, only to realize this had been yet another feint—the plaster had not been directed at her at all, but Constance used her rival’s countermovement to artfully slash at her again. Decla responded quickly, but not quite quickly enough, and Constance’s knife—which had been aimed for her throat—swiped instead across her chin.

“There’s a scar for you,” Constance said, falling back into position.

“Bitch!” Decla was breathing hard now—and she was angry. Nobody had touched her face before.

As she stood back, gathering her wits and taking fresh stock of her opponent, she saw one of the numerous heaps of debris—one directly behind Constance—begin to shift.

Suddenly, Constance—who had been standing utterly still—exploded into movement. Airborne for a moment, she then came back down into a low crouch, lunging forward, thrusting the stiletto into Decla’s thigh and giving the blade a sharp twist before pulling it out.

With a curse, Decla staggered back, partly in pain, but mostly in astonishment at the sudden display of skill and the cleverness by which she’d been duped. She backed away farther as a figure rose up behind Constance, the noise obscured by the cracking and moaning of the dying mansion.

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