I took one sword; he took the other. I swung my blade. Hmm. Lighter than two and a half pounds. More like two pounds, six ounces. No, five. Point of balance about five inches. Good sword. Fast, strong, lively.

We walked away from the racks, giving ourselves some space to dance.

“Why don’t you use your own sword?” George asked.

“He might break it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Hugh put his hand on his heart.

“He would,” I told George. “He’s a sonovabitch.”

Hugh laughed. “We just met and she knows me so well.”

I shrugged my shoulders, moving them forward, stretching my back. “Rules?”

“Full contact,” Hugh said. “Yield.”

I had expected first blood. “Full contact, yield” meant neither of us would hold back and we wouldn’t stop until one of us was backed into a corner or in real danger of losing a limb or our life. One of us had to say uncle for the fight to end.

“You sure about that?” I had a lot of aggression to work out.

“Are you afraid?” Hugh asked.

“Nope. Your funeral. Ready?”

Hugh spread his arms. “Introduce me to the afterlife.”

I thought you’d never ask.

I walked toward him. He would expect a European opening with a European sword. He wouldn’t get one.

If I killed him now, he would never tell Roland about me. It could be just a sparring accident. My sword slipped and cut through his aorta. Oopsies. Dreadfully sorry.

I was closing the distance. Hugh still had his hands out. He had no idea how pissed off I was.

I could make it look like an accident. I could make him pay for everything that hurt inside me.

I picked up speed, spun, and let myself off the chain, flying into movement like a pebble shot from a slingshot. The world slowed; each second stretched as if underwater.

I slashed diagonally, right to left over his chest. He stepped back to dodge.

I sliced right to left. Another step, hands up.

A low lunge, cutting left to right across his lower stomach. Hugh still dodged, but now with a purpose. He’d identified the cuts—I was hitting along eskrima’s cardinal angles. About time. I reversed the slice, cutting in the opposite direction across the stomach. Hugh moved to parry, point of his blade down, body turning, planning to catch me with his left elbow.

Our swords touched.

I hammered my left fist into his jaw. The jawbone crunched and popped out of its socket. Hugh’s mouth hung open, his lower jaw out of place. I’ve had my jaw dislocated before. Right now the pain was exploding in his skull and it had to be excruciating.