Blood Prophecy
Page 70

“Not good enough,” Lars argued fiercely. The Furies shouted their agreement. “She nearly exposed us all. My own son fell to a Huntsman just last night because of her recklessness.”
“Murdering a sixteen-year-old girl won’t bring him back,” his wife said wearily.
He growled like a wounded bear. “If they won’t grant me an execution, then I demand blood debt. Her life for my son’s life.” He smiled then, and it made me take a step back. “Trial by combat.”
“Are you kidding?” I blurted out. He was more than twice my size. All I had were bats. A few circled over us, squeaking.
“If you insist on that antiquated tradition,” my father suddenly interjected loudly from the edge of the crowd, his eyes flashing, “then my daughter has the right to name a champion to fight in her place.”
“Fine. Who will it be? You?” He chuckled condescendingly. “The peacemaker?”
“No,” my mother corrected, stepping out from behind my dad, her smile cold and dreadful. “Me.”
Lars blanched.
If I’d been five years old still, I would have added a “nah-nah-nah-boo-boo.”
The crowd fell silent. He let go of my hair and I scrambled out of his reach, rubbing my tingling scalp.
“You can still withdraw with honor,” Dad said gently. “And we can reconvene the council and continue with the real work of the hour.” Lars spat on the ground. “Guess not,” Dad added mildly. “Before you begin, know that my daughter was the victim of possession and has been exorcised. The Hounds’ handmaiden will attest to it.”
“The one allied to your family?” someone scoffed loudly. “With your own son initiated? What do you take us for?”
“Are you maligning Kala?” Finn asked quietly. He was tall and blond and usually so silent it was creepy. He could have given Sebastian lessons. He was also thousands of years old and I hadn’t seen him since Isabeau had first arrived at the courts. Those months felt like years.
Whoever had spoken lost herself in the crowd.
“Choose your own shaman,” Dad suggested. “And have my daughter tested.”
“No, we’ll decide now,” Lars insisted.
A Chandramaa guard stepped forward, holding two quarter-staves with pointed tips. She was tall, with short black hair and the red insignia stitched onto her sleeveless tunic. She gave Mom the black-tipped staff and Lars took the white one. They each had a red feather attached, like the one the guard wore in her hair.
Someone I didn’t know placed the crown on the ground between Mom and Lars. More Moon guards stood in a circle, defining the battling ground. Lars’s clan stood behind his wife, fists over their hearts in solidarity. “Dad,” I said, holding his hand tightly, as if I was still a little girl. “Has anyone realized this is the twenty-first century? This isn’t justice.”
“I know,” he squeezed my fingers. “Don’t worry,” he added, but I could see the way his jaw clenched. Mom was the only one who didn’t seem bothered. She actually looked pleased.
“To the death, I presume?” she asked lightly, swinging her staff experimentally to get the feel of it.
“Yes,” Lars replied.
“No,” his wife broke in hotly. “I’ve lost my son; I won’t lose my husband too.”
Lars raised his eyebrows. “Alva, she’s tiny.”
Alva looked disgusted. I had the distinct impression that if she’d had an iron skillet nearby she’d have clobbered him over the head with it. “Don’t be an ass.” She pointed at the guard, fangs extended. “First blood.” Lars grumbled but didn’t say anything else when his wife shot him the kind of look I thought only Mom could wield.
Mom inclined her head. “First blood is acceptable.”
They both held out their left hands, palm up. The Chandramaa guard scored them lightly with the tip of a ruby-handled blade until blood welled to the surface. They flung the drops over the crown and stepped back; the fight had automatically begun.
Lars attacked first, his staff missing Mom so narrowly I yelped. The pointed tip slammed into the dirt with such force it sounded like a horse’s hoof hitting the ground. It stuck slightly when he went to swing it again. Snow and earth flung in every direction. Mom ducked and used her own staff for leverage. She swung around, using her locked legs as a battering ram. Her boots smashed into his chest. Lars staggered backward, knocking down several bystanders.
He swung low, hoping to catch more across the knees. She leaped up nimbly, slamming the butt of her staff into his shoulder. He howled, bones cracking. But she hadn’t cut through his skin and there was no blood. The fight continued.
Their staffs cracked against each other, like bones breaking and skulls shattering. Mom deflected a downward blow by reaching up with the staff in a horizontal position. Lars parried her next attack by smashing it aside. She danced backward and then extended, flipping the staff in both hands as if it were a sword. She thrust forward, hitting his sternum. She feinted low and when he went to block she caught him in the throat. He gagged, his muscles contracting viciously. He slammed his staff down into her upper thigh, catching her at such a brutal angle that her leg gave out. She fell to one knee.
“Helena,” Dad breathed.
Mom shifted her hold on the staff and instead of using it to get back on her feet, she jabbed up, hitting Lars under the chin. The staff kept going, hitting his mouth and nose. Blood splattered into the ground.