fist went in, meeting precious little resistance, and the cat hissed again, yowling. She folded over; I

brought up my knee, and her nose crunched against the bony part.

Shit. Now it was really on. If I was serious about just staying under the radar, I should have just let

her hit me.

I backed up, shuffling and hyperventilating, trying to push the red rage away. The world threatened

to turn into the clear plastic goop that hardens over everything when the really weird shit goes

down, the thing that slows down the world so I can move faster. It’s hard to fight that feeling off,

and it’s even harder once the goop closes over you and the world tries to drag you into being slow

and, well, human again.

But I stopped, panting. I couldn’t get enough air in through the crimson wash of fury bubbling and

boiling around the empty place in my chest. Every muscle in my body locked as I struggled against

pure rage. I’d lost it just once at the other Schola; I could’ve hurt Shanks pretty bad that time. It

scared me so bad I don’t want to ever go near that point again.

I should’ve put her on the floor and kept kicking, if I was serious. But you could kill someone doing

that, and she was another svetocha . And my body froze on that knife edge between rabbit-hunching

down in a terrified hole and the cold nasty place that doesn’t care who you hurt.

The tortoiseshell cat leapt, yowling, straight at me. I screamed, a short sharp cry, and Gran’s owl

veered out of nowhere, claws outstretched and yellow eyes glowing. It hit the cat with a crunch like

continents colliding. Anna, her face a mask with blazing holes for eyes and a bloody rictus-grin under her gushing nose, screamed and leapt for me.

The smell hit me then. Copper, fresh salt, and an undertone of spice and something nasty.

Blood. Her blood.

My fangs stopped aching and turned sensitive, quivering, and I blocked her next strike, slapping her

hand down contemptuously and locking her elbow. I twisted and she yelped. I heard the snap of

wings as Gran’s owl broke away and gained some altitude. I shoved her and she went down hard,

smacking the mats a good one before springing right back up like a bad jack-in-the-box.

It was like I was in two places at once. Part of me was on the ground, closing with Anna as she

kicked at my left knee. If she’d connected she might’ve popped it out of the socket or something—

it’s amazingly easy to take out someone’s knee and put them down on the ground. But I avoided it

and cracked her a good solid punch to the face while Dad’s coaching ricocheted inside my head like

a .22 bullet in a concrete room.