The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,207

twins advanced on him again, about ten feet apart, and now they looked distinctly upset. Gods, Jean thought, most men would take a broken nose as a sign to run like hell. But the sisters continued to bear down on him, malice gleaming in their dark eyes. The eerie red-and-white light was at their back, and it seemed to outline them in eldritch fire as they spread their blades for another pass at him.

At least he had room to maneuver now.

Without a word between them, the Berangias sisters took to their heels and rushed at him, four knives gleaming. It was their own professionalism that saved Jean this time. He knew before it happened that one would feint and one would strike home. The sister on his left, the one with the broken nose, attacked a split second before the one on his right. With his left-hand hatchet raised as a guard, he stepped directly into the path of the one on his left. The other sister, eyes wide in surprise, lunged at the space he’d just slipped out of, and Jean swung his right-hand hatchet in a backhand arc, ball first, that caught her directly atop her skull. There was a wet crack, and she hit the floor hard, knives falling from her nerveless fingers.

The remaining sister screamed, and Jean’s own mistake caught up with him at that moment; a feint can become a killing strike once more with very little effort. Her blades slashed out just as he was raising his right-hand hatchet once again; he caught and deflected one with his raised hatchet, but the other slid agonizingly across his ribs just beneath his right breast, laying open skin and fat and muscle. He gasped, and she kicked him in the stomach, staggering him. He toppled onto his back.

She was right on top of him, blood streaming down her face and neck, eyes full of white-hot hate. As she lunged down, he kicked out with both of his legs. The air exploded out of her lungs and she flew back, but there was a sharp pain in his right biceps, and a line of fire seemed to erupt on his left thigh. Damn, she’d had her blades in him when he pushed her back! She’d slashed open a ragged line along the top of his thigh, with his help. He groaned. This had to end quickly, or blood loss would do for him as surely as the blades of the surviving sister.

She was back on her feet already; gods, she was fast. Jean heaved himself up to his knees, feeling a tearing pain across his right ribs. He could feel warm wetness cascading down his stomach and his legs; that wetness was time, running out. She was charging at him again; red light gleamed on steel, and Jean made his last move.

His right arm didn’t feel strong enough for a proper throw, so he tossed his right-hand hatchet at her, underhand, directly into her face. It didn’t have the speed to injure, let alone kill, but she flinched for a second, and that was long enough. Jean whipped his left-hand hatchet sideways and into her right knee; it broke with the most satisfying noise Jean could recall hearing in his life. She staggered; a rapid yank and a backhand whirl, and his blade bit deep into the front of her other knee. Her blades came down at him then, and he threw himself sideways. Steel whistled just past his ears as its wielder toppled forward, unable to bear weight on her legs any longer. She screamed once again.

Jean rolled several times to his right—a wise decision. When he stumbled up to his feet, clutching at his right side, he saw the surviving sister dragging herself toward him, one blade still held tightly in her right hand.

“You’re bleeding hard, Tannen. You won’t live out the night, you fucking bastard.”

“That’s Gentleman Bastard,” he said. “And there’s a chance I won’t. But you know what? Calo and Galdo Sanza are laughing at you, bitch.”

He wound up with his left arm and let his remaining hatchet fly, a true throw this time, with all the strength and hatred he could put behind it. The blade struck home right between the Berangias sister’s eyes. With the most incredible expression of surprise on her face she fell forward and sprawled like a rag doll.

Jean wasted no time in reflection. He gathered his hatchets and threw on one of the sisters’ oilcloaks, putting up