I flopped back on the mat, letting out an annoyed huff of air. That was embarrassing. I didn’t even make it thirty seconds that round.

“You have one more life,” the voice on the intercom said. “Do you want to take a break first?”

I got to my feet and turned to where a large, skeptical man named Bubba watched me through the window. I considered telling him to forget about the last life. Surely I’d humiliated myself enough for one day.

I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.”

Bubba made a face like, wow, she’s an idiot. I was very familiar with this expression.

He pressed a button on his computer, and the practice dummy retracted, squeaking as it zipped along the track mounted to the ceiling.

I put my hands on my hips as I took a deep breath. Four lives, and I died within two minutes each round. I really was an idiot. Bubba was a good judge of character.

“You sure you don’t want the body pads, Clara?” Bubba asked over the intercom. “You took a pretty big hit just now.”

“No.” I shook out my shoulders. “I don’t need pads.” Pads were for football players. I’d never had padding to protect me from a hit.

“The girls usually take the pads,” he said. “Especially . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Especially the girls who didn’t look tough. Especially the girls with their dark brown hair in French braid pigtails and breasts that were made to hold up dresses, not jump around fighting monsters. I really shouldn’t have been doing this in a regular bra. Sorry, boobs.

“I don’t need pads,” I said again.

“All right. Ready?” Bubba asked over the intercom.

“Yeah.”

“Sword.” Bubba sounded like he’d lost what little faith he had in me.

I grabbed my sword from the mat. It wasn’t actually a sword, just a plastic tube that looked like it belonged on a vacuum cleaner. It had a light on the end that glowed green if I hit a weak spot. I’d only seen it light up once, briefly.

The buzzer sounded, indicating that I had five seconds to prepare. I tightened my grip on my vacuum attachment.

There were four practice dummies hanging from the ceiling, but I’d picked a level one session, so only one jolted away from the wall. It was made out of a large punching bag with plastic arms attached, complete with four-inch claws at the end.

It looked cheap, and stupid. Until it started moving.

The dummy flew at me, metal screeching as it zoomed forward. It was made to approximate a real scrab, and it moved incredibly fast.

Claws sliced through the air. I stumbled backward, the mat squishing beneath my feet.