pride And prejudice And zombies: dawn of the dreadfuls

chapter 13

THE NEXT MORNING'S training began with the usual laps and dand-baithaks for everyone: for mustering on time instead of showing their devotion by arriving early; for breathing too loudly during morning meditation; for having their sparring gowns laced too tight; for having their sparring gowns laced too loose; for, in short, whatever Master Hawksworth could think up. The flimsiest of all the infractions was assigned to Mr. Bennet, who was sent outside to run a hundred sprints across the grounds—backward—for supposedly blinking too frequently.

"Remember: Even one wink of the eye gives The Enemy time to strike," the Master said. "Now, go!"

Mr. Bennet had lingered a moment, expressionless, before bowing and heading for the door.

It seemed to Elizabeth that Master Hawksworth relaxed a bit whenever her father wasn't around. He was less likely to dole out punishments from a corner of the dojo, leaving most of the actual demonstrations to Mr. Bennet, and more likely to take off his coat and vest and move. Sometimes, he merely demonstrated new stances. But other times—the times Elizabeth and her sisters loved most—he flew around the room showing off "ninja fighting styles" with names like the Striking Viper and the Tiger's Claw.

So it was to be this day.

"The time has come for the Way of the Panther," the Master said, stripping down to his shirt sleeves. "The panther is powerful, but supple. Quick, but controlled. Fierce, but poised. You, too, must be all these things. Like so."

He bounced off the walls demonstrating the Panther's Pounce. He sprang up into the rafters demonstrating the Panther's Bound. He whirled in blurred circles demonstrating the Panther's Swipe. And the girls watched in awe. His movements were so graceful, so beautiful, Elizabeth could imagine them more on the stage of a French ballet than in the middle of any battlefield.

And then the Master stopped dead in the middle of the dojo, suddenly still and stiff, not even breathing hard, and announced that it was time for the death move: the Panther's Kiss.

He looked into each of the girls' faces, lingering longest on Elizabeth before moving on to Jane.

"You," he said, and his eyes went sliding back to Elizabeth even before his head turned toward her, as well. It was as if the two parts of him weren't quite in alignment—clockwork gears no longer in mesh. "Up."

"Yes, Master."

Elizabeth stood, stepped forward, and let Hawksworth take her by the arm and spin her around so she was facing her sisters. Then he let go and slipped back behind her.

"The Kiss begins like this," Elizabeth heard him say. "Notice how I move slowly, smoothly. Not lunging but sliding—gliding in, so as not to startle my prey."

Something squeezed Elizabeth's waist, hard, like a corset being over-tightened. By the time she realized it was one of the Master's muscular arms wrapping around her, pinning her own arms to her sides, she felt his chest—his whole torso—brush up against her back.

"The left arm first, here, to prevent escape," Master Hawksworth said, pulling Elizabeth tightly against his body.

Elizabeth saw Mary stiffen and lean forward, taking in the demonstration with a peculiar intensity. Lydia and Kitty, meanwhile, were stifling grins, and even sweet Jane had a wicked gleam in her eye. It had been a hard time for them all, with many a tear, and Elizabeth would've been glad for the chance to give them some amusement if she hadn't been so mortified.

"Then the right arm," Hawksworth said. "Like this."

He stretched his other arm out straight over Elizabeth's shoulder, then bent it back, back, back until it was wrapped around her neck. Her whole body was pressing into his now, from her head to her heels. It almost felt as though he were a heavy cloak draped over her, or a bed upon which she was lying.