The Last Corvus (completed)

Ch. 32 Isadora

Chapter 32

Isadora

Dimca looks between Hank and I, a quizzical look in his red eyes, "would you mind telling us what's so humorous, Hank? I'm sure the rest of us would enjoy it as much as you."

Hank sobers instantly (but not completely) and only slightly smirks when he replies. "It wasn't anything too important, Captain. Just the fact that Little Girlie here's apparently trying to learn how to fight, and in a dress, is all. You can't actually think she'd hold up in a fight, do you?" I only just realize he has a Brooklyn accent, definitely more commonplace and forgettable than Russian or German.

I'd like to see him do the kick I just did without falling over. IN A DRESS! The mental image is priceless and I suppress a bout of giggles.

Demetrius looks between us and smiles, making me instantly tense. Oh no, this feels ominous. "Actually, Hank, I do. In only a few hours she's learned what it took you just under a year to master. She even just decapitated one of the training dummies with a kick. The one you always had trouble with, remember that one? In a dress, nonetheless."

He crosses his arms, waiting for Hank to spontaneously combust. A few seconds later, his face a livid red-purple from fury and a lack of oxygen, he explodes, screaming in Demetrius's general direction. I don't think he'd dare scream directly at him. "I'm the best man you have! The strongest beside yourself! I'm not gonna let Girlie beat me!"

"Is that a challenge, then?" I jump, realizing that the speaker is myself and that, apparently, I have a death wish.

Hank seems even more surprised than I am, but he hides it much better... a split second too late. I have a feeling everyone saw his little emotional slip-up; and now he's trying to regain standing with bravado. "A CHALLENGE?! Girlie, you ain't worth my time, let alone my energy. It would take nothing to beat you. I'd hate to hurt your pretty little face." He's gotten off his bunk and is now unnecessarily close, leaning over so that we're face-to-face, his boots shifting the hem on my skirt.

Luckily, I've always been hard to intimidate. Instead of addressing Hank directly, I turn to the crowd, not bothering to worry about him so close beside me, knowing that if he tried anything I'd be well within my rights to take him out.

"Well, boys. It almost sounds like the Little Boy here is too chicken to fight a little Girlie," I flutter my eyelashes at them and turn back to Hank, the crowd hooting behind me. "I'd hate to hurt your pretty face, too. Oh wait, you don't have one, so I won't feel nearly so bad punching it in." Laughter from the crowd. "You're right about one other thing, though... it won't take long at all." I say this last part with a satisfied smirk, knowing that he's close to exploding.

Hank has the desired reaction, grabbing my upper arm and dragging me to the stairs. He's about to push me down them when I wiggle loose and jump down, my bloomers catching wind for only a second before I reach the ground, landing perfectly on my feet. The men stop laughing, momentarily stunned by my cat-like landing from ten feet. There's a reason Linden always called me Kitty. No, don't think about him.

Hadn't Dimca told them that I'm more than just human? If Hank had known, would he still have engaged me? Probably, he's a power-hungry buffoon. Speaking of power-hungry buffoons, he's reached the bottom of the stairs and grabs my arm again, hauling me behind him to the training room.

Before I fully even make it in the door, he attacks me from behind, generating boos from the audience that files in after us. Grabbing his arm from around my neck, I only have to flick my wrists to throw him over me. He lands on his back hard and the slight breeze makes my skirt flutter around my ankles.

I lean over him, my face directly over his, and flash my fangs at him. He seems more surprised than hurt- until he notices my fangs, at which point he rolls his eyes back and groans. Looking between Demetrius and me, Dimca only answers with a shrug as if to say 'you were the idiot, what are you gonna do, forfeit?'

Which, of course, he would never do. Not even when beaten to a pulp. I make a promise with myself to not make him bleed, afraid for everyone's safety if I do.

He stands and I wait for him to do something, run or attack, but he just stands there fuming.

Fine. If he won't do anything, I will. Maneuver thirteen, to be precise. Only this time I aim lower, not wanting to decapitate him. My foot connecting squarely with his broad chest, he flies across the room, hitting the jumble of dummies and sending them all crashing to the floor. My dummy's head rolls across the floor and I can hear some of the men squirm and mumble to each other, probably thinking it's Hank's until he stands up.

I'm to him in less than a second and I wait while he catches his breath. He comes at me, somewhat shakily, and I grab him by the throat, careful not to dig in my nails or cut off his breathing. He flails his fists about, desperate to get a hit in, and I dolt slap his ear while simultaneously dodging his attempts. Apparently too hard, he hangs limply in my hand and I lower him gently to the floor, laying him down.

I hadn't even realized I'd picked him off the floor (a feat; he's easily a hundred pounds heavier than I am and a good six inches taller). I turn from him, breathing as deeply as I can, to survey the damage to the dummies. They seem relatively fine, maybe some bent limbs, but that's all. Feeling a sharp pressure on my back, I swing around and back-hand him across the room. He lands amidst the spectators, knife clattering from his hand.

He tried to stab me?! Who uses knives in a fist fight?! Someone being beaten to a pulp and needing some sort of advantage, I suppose. Twisting as far as I can, which isn't far, unfortunately, I can just barely see a small nick in the ribbing of my corset... right above my right kidney. That prick. He had it coming; I don't feel so bad now.

Turning to his unconscious body, I notice his nose is cricked at a strange angle, blood trickling from both nostrils. Holding my breath before the smell can reach me, I think to Demetrius in a panic, "Dimca, he's bleeding and I broke his nose. Can you please get him out of here; I don't want to hurt anyone."

Luckily he's adequately wary and picks up Hank's body, carrying him from the room and leaving me with some of the others. Some of them stare at me in wonder, some in disgust, and some are even brave enough to give me congratulatory pats on the shoulder. I don't really pay attention, for some reason mentally exhausted as I finally let go of my breath.