The Children Of The Night (Book 1, The Bloodline Chronicles)

7. Combat

Camilla

Camilla slammed into the floor with a yelp and slid several feet before rolling onto her side and lifting herself up into a crouch.

"I feel like your going easy on me."

He laughed, throwing his head back. "Camilla, you've been taking a beating for several hours. I can say with pride, I am not going easy on you."

"Well, good." She stood straight, wiping the blood away from her nose. "I'd hate to be seen as weak."

His bare arms flexed as he rolled his shoulders, then gestured with his fingers for her to come toward him.

"Back to it, then." She grimaced, preparing to pounce. Her movements weren't graceful or agile, precise, like his. They were direct and hard. She fought with the skill set her grandfather engrained in her. The only difference now were her senses and strength. She didn't know how to use them correctly and that made mistakes easier to make.

Sparing wasn't the right word for what they were doing, although that's what he called it. It was more like: she'd throw a really good punch and he'd throw ten more her way. But from what he said, this was just basic training. They hadn't started using weaponry yet. That was what she was really good at.

In the midst of the last hour, pieces of Marina's dress had torn clean off. She wore nothing but rags now, which clung to her bloody skin.

She wasn't sweating, which didn't come as a surprise. Suppose Vampir's didn't sweat easily, if at all. She wasn't tired either. Fatigue wasn't a problem anymore and it seemed she could take advantage of that fact, as Alexandre was so keen on doing.

Sure, training with her grandfather sometimes lasted til the sun peaked, but that was with breaks. They hadn't taken one yet. And she didn't know if Alexandre knew the meaning of the word with his relentlessness.

She thought it was both funny and agitating just how unharmed he was. His clothing wasn't torn, he didn't have any of his own blood on his skin, and his hair wasn't a rats nest like hers. She probably looked hilariously bad but he didn't say anything about her appearance, just her technique, which she was immensely grateful for, albeit a little irritated to be corrected on the form she had been perfecting for years.

She dodged his attempt to put his arms around her, probably to crush her, she crouched and swept her foot across the floor, kicking his feet out from under him. He landed on his ass, which she had to stifle a laugh over; and before he could grab her neck, she craned her head to the side and grabbed his wrist. She tried to stop smiling, but she couldn't.

He went so far as to punch her with his other hand but she dodged it again, grabbed his fist and with all her strength, flipped him onto his stomach, climbed on top as fast as she could and held the back of his neck, pinning him down.

She leaned down and whispered in his ear, "This brings me back."

"Confiante, aren't you?" Under her grasp, he struggled around the words.

"It gets you everywhere, so I'm told." His grin didn't go unnoticed by her, so she tightened her grip. "Surrender?"

"Never."

He used his legs to push her up, on reflex she went with the momentum and flipped over, landing on her feet. She went to turn but he took hold of her arms with his and locked them behind her head.

"Gah!" Her legs kicked as he lifted her off her feet and dangled her above the ground.

"Hurts, does it not?"