Partial transformation, huh? Was that how alphas worked? Or maybe this was a thing for all werewolves. Gil could definitely do it, though I’d always assumed that he was one of the few who could pull the claw trick. Still, that was technically cheating. Come on. What was I going to do to balance out the brawl? Bite him?
“Hold up,” I said. “This is hardly fair. I thought we were just going to punch it out.”
The look of disappointment on Damien’s face was pretty satisfying, and then Gil came in with backup. “Sterling’s got a point. Wolf versus wolf, that’s fine if everybody pulls out their claws. But it’s a blood trial. The playing field’s got to be even.”
Damien glowered, groaning again as he retracted his claws. He ran his fingers across his lips, licking away his own blood, like he somehow knew that I hadn’t been eating so well. The bastard. It smelled so good, too – dark, rich, and a little gamey.
“Fine. We can do fists and feet. Or – or wait.” He sniffed again, taking one step forward, his focus homing in on, of all things, my jacket bundled in Asher’s arms. “Magical weapon. You’ve got one somewhere in that little peacoat of yours.”
“It’s not a peacoat, damn it. But fine, yes. I’ve got a sword. What’s your point?” I didn’t voice the fact that I found how he could smell magical essences across entire dimensions impressive. Damn alphas were alphas for a reason.
Damien grinned so widely that I thought his mouth had partially transformed, too. But his teeth were just that huge, and that sharp. “I’ve got my own sword, too. Blade against blade. That seems fair.”
I shrugged. “Fine. Sounds good. Let’s do it.” I stepped over to Asher, rummaging through the pockets until my fingers brushed against my beloved sword’s lacquered wooden scabbard. Whispers went around the circle as I pulled it out, and kept pulling, until all three or so feet of it had been extracted from its pocket dimension.
Someone scuttled up to Damien, handing him a long object wrapped in a dark red shroud. He slipped it off, revealing a two-handed sword that was nearly the length of my entire body. Seriously, how was any of this fair?
He lifted the sword above his head, prompting reverent oohs and aahs from the crowd, along with plenty of cheering. It was a beautiful sword, granted, the pommel shaped like a wolf’s head, the blade gleaming in the moonlight.
“Brothers and sisters,” Damien said. “This is a very special occasion. Garm’s Fang will taste vampire blood tonight.”
More cheering, and a fair few curses and slurs thrown my way. I shrugged and did a few squats and stretches. Garm’s Fang, huh? The blade was clearly forged out of some dark metal, so that was probably just a fancy name for the sword. But if this really was Garm’s tooth, then the son of a bitch must have been massive.
“Dude,” Asher muttered. “Something’s off about that sword. I can sense it. Necromantic energy, too. These guys serve an entity from the underworld. I wouldn’t be surprised if that thing had nasty enchantments on it.”
I nodded, finally willing to show him that I was taking this seriously. “I’ll be careful not to get nicked.”
He rolled my jacket up under his arm. “You better not. Like hell are we going to pack your entrails in a duffle bag. We’ll just leave you on the pavement to rot.” He winked at me as he left to join Gil and Jackie at the edge of the circle. “Good luck. Don’t die.”
“I’ll try not to.”
A necromantic sword, eh? It was interesting, how the two wolf clans Gil had mentioned both seemed dedicated to entities of a destructive, if not apocalyptic nature. The Fenrir Folk didn’t sound like they were very interested in peace. The Blood of Garm hadn’t struck me as especially bloodthirsty so far, but they were named for a proper psychopomp, a thing of the dead.
“Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” Jackie said, her voice carrying above the din. “The blood trial has begun.”
She lowered her hand, and fists went pumping and flying up in excitement. Damien pulled Garm’s Fang in a trail across the ground, sending sparks leaping from the asphalt. Faint green tendrils looped up and down the blade, traces of its dark energy.
I raised my scabbard, grinning. Magic sword, huh? Two can play at that game.
10
The lacquered wood of the scabbard felt so familiar under my touch, as was the cord wrapped tightly around the katana’s hilt. Now, swords weren’t necessarily my first choice when it came to warfare. But when you win one in a duel against an actual god, you work that thing into your routine and your wardrobe. You learn how to use it, and you show it off at every given opportunity.
I took my time unsheathing the blade, relishing the tang of magic it released into the air as the scabbard slid off. I admit, I deeply enjoyed the fascinated noises of admiration the sword was eliciting. Arcs of electricity danced along the blade, the sword itself as deadly as a spire of handheld lightning. This was, after all, a gift from Susanoo, the Japanese god of storms. Great guy, honestly. Very likable, and we had a similar sense of fashion.
My fingers clenched tightly, my right hand on the hilt of the katana, my left around the dark wood of the scabbard. The wolves around the
circle might have appreciated the novelty of seeing a second enchanted sword, but if Damien was impressed, he didn’t show it. He stood like a modern-day knight across from me, stoic and strong. I knew the kind of fighter that Damien was. Large and in charge, using brute strength to dominate his opponents. We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. Werewolf versus vampire. Beefy versus skinny. Way too hairy versus way too handsome.
And then he dashed across the parking lot, moving far faster than his two-hundred pound bulk should make possible. The claymore came down from overhead, smashing into the ground as I danced out of the way at the very last minute. Bits of gravel stung as they struck my forearm. I took a quick second to stare at the crater Damien had made in the asphalt.
Oh, shit.
I spun away as Damien swung his sword again. Garm’s Fang sang as it cleaved huge arcs through the air, the sheer length of the blade giving Damien the advantage of terrifying reach with every strike. I ducked, hitting the ground as he swung it horizontally, a move that could quite realistically have lopped my head off. But the size and weight of Garm’s Fang made it unwieldy, and Damien still had to hang on and control the sword as it followed through.
He was open.
I darted in, prepared to strike, the god’s blade crackling in my grip. Seemingly out of nowhere, Damien’s fist came smashing into my face.