36

DAVIS LOOK LIKE A PEACOCK, STRUTTING around me. He got his own blade, and it a good size, but ceremonial, like his clothes and everything else—bits of feathers and beads, mess that just get in the way. Maybe it ain’t never come down to it for Davis. Maybe the first time be at the powwow when he come out of hiding long enough to see his own folks get cut and bleed. Seems to me this blood fight he wanting be mostly for show, and from the way his O-Negs be cheering him on, they think it for show, too.

But it ain’t. I watch the way I step, keeping low enough to stay balanced if he come at me. The ground ain’t too even here by the stream, and it soft in places. I forget that and I might stumble. Davis, on the other hand, know the shift of the soil here. He be standing up tall like you win a fight by being of a size, not a mind.

I be of a mind. Let him showboat if he got to. But I ain’t got all day. Them ABs be coming, and if Enola and I ain’t gone by the time they get here, then it all been for nothing. So I got to find a way to force his hand. I stop circling. Davis stop a second later, but he closer to me than he been and it make him nervous. He hefting the knife in his right hand, blade up, looking to stab at me. Stabs be killing blows. Me, I just got to make a point.

I hold my knife blade down, ready to slash, and rush him. Davis suddenly drop to a crouch and thrust his knife at me. I sidestep and hook my left arm around his knife arm, hold it tight to my side. With my own knife, I cut off one of his braids. I push through and hope he trip on the uneven ground.

He don’t go down, but I do, ’cause somehow he use my hold to throw me past him. I tuck and roll, keeping my knife out and away from my body. When I come up, knife ready, eyes back on Davis, I be almost up against the watching crowd. They know they place, though, and leave me be.

“This is a blood price, Fen,” Davis say, reaching up to feel where his lock used to be.

“For you, Brother Davis. I ain’t asking nothing from you but to let me be on my way with that baby. I cut you now, them ABs be on us all the faster. You ready for that?”

“Are you?”

He come at me so fast, I ain’t got time to do more than bend to the side, arms out for balance. I feel his blade, but it cut my arm, my scar tissue, and that don’t bleed so easy. Davis turn on me, angry to see his blade ain’t running red. So maybe this ain’t a game for him after all.

He rush me, and this time, our blades connect. I block him, knife against knife, stepping into the blow. If I jump back, he gonna stab me. If I step in, he gotta change the way he holding the knife, or give ground. He gives and I slice him, whirling away. Blood come pouring down the cut on his cheek, pouring down good. He don’t cry out, but he wipe his face, smearing it.

“Enough?” I ask.

Davis’s blood look like war paint on his face, like them folks on All Saints’ Day, decked out for they krewes. He growl at me, “No. This is for Natasha.”

He rush me again. This time, I step forward, past his blade, and hit him in the chin with the top of my head. It don’t pay to be standing so tall after all. His jaw snap shut and his head fly back. He stagger away from me, but I don’t let him get far. I drive my knife into his right shoulder and jump into his body, kneeing his gut.

Davis grunt and hit the ground. His knife go flying across the clearing. My own knife done cut through his vest. It tough leather, made from deer or boar hide, but there be blood darkening the entry hole. I hold my blade against him and lean in close. Around us, his people be muttering and shouting. They ain’t happy. “Davis,” I say. “I ain’t looking to kill another O-blood today. Flip me. Take my knife, and I’ll call mercy.”

“No,” Davis say, gritting his teeth. “Natasha—”

“Natasha weren’t no fool. She’d know these folks need a leader. That gonna be you or no? War coming whether you like it or not. If I call mercy, you let me and the baby go. I’ma get her out of this city. I promised Lydia. I’ma do that. After that . . . you and me can settle up. Whenever and however you want. But we both got to live to do it.”

Davis look at me with them gray-green eyes I used to think be so beautiful. He don’t nod, but I feel his body shift beneath me and I let it. He toss me over and onto my back. I release my grip and he take my knife, pressing it to my throat. Around us, the O-Negs roar in triumph.

“And this is how the price is paid!” he say, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I lower my eyes. “Mercy,” I say. It don’t come out half as loud as his words, but it don’t come easy to me, even in a play. Instead, I start to shake, try to say it again. “I yield,” I say so soft it be a whisper. Davis sneer at me.

“Your blood won’t do,” he say to the crowd, to me. “It’s too thin. Natasha had the blood of a warrior,” he roars. I want to laugh in his face. That woman had the hands of a baby and the eyes of a fox. Sly and cold. He right. We ain’t the same quality stock at all.

He get up off me a minute later and wipe his blood off my knife. He throw it over the heads of the crowd, into the woods.

“Bring the child,” he call to the basket weaver. He take the baby from her. Davis bounce Enola in his arms for half a second. “Leave us,” he say. “Your blood would weaken our tribe. This child would weaken our tribe. Do not return.”

I take Enola and wrap her sling around her like a blanket. I look Davis in the eye and wonder who Enola’s daddy really be. Got to be an OP or an O-Neg, and I know it ain’t one of our boys, or old Uncle Rom. I hope it ain’t Davis. But anything possible.

The crowd part and I walk into the woods where he threw my blade. I find my knife in the dirt and rub it clean on some leaves to get rid of the last of Davis’s scent.

Ain’t much later when I hear a howl split the air. Blood hounds or bloodthirsty ABs, it don’t make a difference. With all them O-Negs close by, they won’t be looking for me right away. Even so, I start to run.