Sean’s smile turned sharp and dangerous. “I can fuck you up with it, too.”
David fought the urge to roll his eyes. See, nowthiswas Sean Archer—this lethal, threatening man no one else saw clearly. His easy charm hid a wealth of deadly intelligence and ability, exactly like Lhynion.
No one recognized it a thousand years ago, and they didn’t now, either.
Once again, the vision of Sean holding a pixie knife aloft before thousands glimmered in and out of David’s mind. The vision became clearer each time he Saw it, as if the moment drawing closer brought it into focus.
Something huge approached, and Sean had no clue the role he’d play in it.
David shook out of it and resigned himself to pain. “Fair enough. Let’s fight.”
They circled each other, and David considered how best to approach this. He’d been watching Sean fight for weeks now, and despite his hatred for this sort of thing, David wasn’t bad at it. Sean, however, had known how to fight even before he understood who he was, and now he was stronger, faster than he’d ever been.
Sean moved first, but David feinted left. Sean seemed to expect that and drove a fist toward David’s ribs. He barely twisted in time to avoid it. They danced around each other’s blows, each light on their feet, neither landing anything serious.
At the periphery of his awareness, David heard the crowd gathering, larger than usual. “This isn’t going to end well,” he said.
“Yeah, but we already knew that.” Sean swung hard, his fist like a boulder as it connected with David’s jaw. His head snapped to the side. The point of impact went numb while pain splintered outward.
David shook it off.
“You’re hesitating,” Sean said.
Obviously.“Remind me why we’re doing this?”
“So you can prove you’re not soft.”
“I don’t particularly feel the need to prove anything to this mob.”
“Then I will.” Sean swung again, but David dodged. He used the momentum to land a blow to Sean’s face. Something crunched and blood spurted from his nose. The pain echoed through David’s head.
Sean grinned, and the battle raged on. Bruising, breaking, bleeding.
David swung. Sean blocked.
Sean struck. David rolled with the pain.
David gripped his arm and flipped him to the grass. Sean rolled before David could land a kick to his ribs. Sean dove for David’s ankle, and David fell to the ground. Hard.
The air whooshed from his lungs.
Aching, David staggered back to his feet, as did Sean. Blood dripped from Sean’s chin, and David could feel his own trailing down his face. The crowd around them hollered and booed, the masses closing them into a smaller and smaller circle.
“This feels a bit too much like fighting myself,” Sean muttered.
“In a fight between you and you, which one wins?”
Sean laughed. “Probably the one who didn’t get laid last night.” He faked a lunge, but some spark in the connection between them told David to expect it. He gripped Sean’s arm in a move he’d learnedfrom Anna. With a simplistic maneuver, David had his arm tight around Sean’s throat.
Sean knew the countermove—David had watched him perform it at least a dozen times—but he wasn’t allowed the chance.
The crowd exploded into a frenzy, the shouts now outraged and terrified. Dozens of hands ripped David away from Sean. He was held back, his arms restrained, as Sean stumbled to right himself.
Voices rose.
Take him away!
He’s tried to kill the Savior!
