at him as he handles the first weapon he’s had while inside Mara. He turns the blade in his hand, as if he can’t quite believe I’ve given it to him, and then looks back up at me.
I get over my surprise quickly enough to lift my blade at him. “Practice,” I sign.
Even without Jeran translating, Red seems to understand. He lifts the sword too, the weight of it effortless in his hand, and touches the blade to mine.
I twist my sword suddenly, attempting to disarm him, but he anticipates my move and spins his blade out, tossing it to his other hand with ease. He steps toward me with the blade raised.
He stops the sword an inch from my chest. I sidestep and yank out a dagger, pointing both blades at him, and spin low, ready to catch him on his legs. But he anticipates that too, shifting out of the way and bringing one of his boots swiftly down on my dagger. He moves much faster than his height would suggest. It reminds me uncannily of the size and speed of Ghosts, and I find myself swinging out at him less in play now, and more in defense.
He dances with me, parrying in sync, seemingly as used to a blade as any soldier I’ve ever fought. The others have gone quiet now as they watch us. Red is no Corian—we haven’t had years together to train, to match up our every move. Nor is his style at all like a Striker’s. He doesn’t move quietly in the same way we do, doesn’t test the sound that each of his steps makes. But he’s good—really good. Good enough that I think he might be toying with me, intentionally holding his true skill back.
I make a final move, arching back to twist my dagger toward his neck. He catches my hand by the wrist. His skin is as shockingly warm against mine as it had been in the prison, as if he were running a constant fever.
I know immediately that, if he wanted to, he could break my arm with a single snap—but his grip is gentle enough that I realize he’s only holding me in defense.
We stay still like that for a moment, our eyes locked, neither of us wanting to step down. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jeran’s shocked expression and Adena’s wary one. My cheeks flush in frustration at the strength of Red’s grip. I’ve fought many much larger than me—but his brawn feels less like a human’s and more like a steel vise. Why couldn’t I be fast enough to stop him? How can he move so quickly?
In Red’s eyes, I see a hint of the same amusement that had been on his face when his damn mouse scurried up my arm. Then he releases me and takes a step back, giving me a subtle bow of his head. My skin tingles where he’d held me, the warmth of him seeping into my bones. Is he mocking me now? He isn’t even trying.
Again, I find myself thinking about what must have been done to him in the Federation. What had they meant him to become, before he escaped?
It’s my last thought before the air splits with the wail of a battle horn.
We all turn toward the sound and draw our blades in unison. Guns appear in our hands. I look to the horizon, where a red glow sits low and angry, the telltale sign of fire on the plains. It’s where our neighboring compound is supposed to be.
Before I can think anything else, screams go up from the front of our encampment.
The cease-fire is over. The Federation has crossed the warfront.
9
My first thought is that it’s impossible.
Ghosts have never wandered this far into Maran territory—it would have to mean that two of our main defense compounds at the warfront have been overtaken.
And if those compounds have already fallen …
But there’s no time to let this terrible thought sit in my mind. I’m already on my feet, blade in one hand and gun in the other, shifting into an attack formation before I can register exactly what has happened.
Red moves quickly into a crouch. Beside us, Jeran and Adena draw their weapons at the same time. Even from here, I can feel the inferno at the front of the compound. Soldiers rush by with blankets and buckets of water, while screams of agony fill the air. Outside the gates comes the gnashing of