“Goddamn it,” he said. “Yield. Don’t make me kill you.”

For some reason at that moment I looked at Henry. The bastard was watching without any emotion on his face at all.

“Yield,” Adam roared. “Mary Jo. Yield.”

Mary Jo hit the mat with her right hand, twice.

“She yields,” Paul said, looking at Darryl.

“Paul wins,” said Darryl. “Do you accept her yield?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It is over,” declared Darryl.

Paul jumped off of her and rolled her over. “Medic,” he said, sounding frantic. “Medic.”

A few heads turned to Sam. He stayed where he was, but he all but vibrated with the need to help. He closed his eyes and finally turned his back to the scene. It was Warren who pulled up Mary Jo’s T-shirt, and Adam who grabbed the first-aid kit.

I grabbed Jesse, and we both stayed back. Within a few seconds I couldn’t see what was happening for all the people who crowded closer.

“Got to pull the rib out of her lung,” said Adam tightly. Then, “Just toss the broken bits. They’ll regrow.” Medicine among werewolves is, in many ways, much simpler—if more brutal—than for humans. “Hold her down, Paul. The more she struggles, the more this is going to hurt.” Then in a much softer voice, Adam crooned, “Just bear with us a bit, baby. We’ll get you so you can breathe better in just a second.”

“I didn’t hit her in the ribs,” Paul said.

“Henry knocked her across the kitchen,” said Auriele. “Here. Don’t get that Vaseline all over. Just a little around the wound to seal the Teflon pad, but you’ve got to tape three sides of the pad, andthat will work better if you aren’t taping to Vaseline-covered skin.”

There was a wave of relieved silence as whatever they’d managed to do seemed to work and Mary Jo could breathe again. People backed away, giving her space since she was out of immediate danger.

The dojo came equipped with a stretcher—a very basic piece of equipment, just a metal frame with canvas stretched around it and a pair of grips on each end. Alec and Auriele picked Mary Jo up on it and carried her into the house. A human would be down for a long time with a punctured lung. With a few pounds of raw meat, Mary Jo’s lung would probably be fine in a few hours, if not sooner. The ribs would take longer, but she would be back to normal in a few days, a week at most. No worries about infections or secondary infections while missing pieces of rib or lung regrow.

Henry hadn’t moved from his place. I noticed that he was getting looks from the rest of the pack. And when they started to move back off the mats in preparation for the final battle, there was a space around Henry—and there hadn’t been before.

As a couple of wolves swabbed up the mess, Paul retreated to his corner of the mat and Adam to his.

I kept my eye on Paul. That nerve strike of Mary Jo’s . . .

At first I thought he’d just shrugged it off; his walk to his end of the mats had been pretty steady. But before Mary Jo’s blood was completely cleaned off the mat, Paul shook his head slowly and raised a hand to rub at his ear, avoiding the spot where he’d been struck. He blinked rapidly and seemed to be having trouble focusing.

Then Paul blew out a long, even breath and found his center. His body stilled, and his breathing became deep and regular. He stood like a statue, bare chest coated with a light sheen of sweat. There was no fat on the man, and he looked like a cross between a Calvin Klein ad and an Army recruitment poster.

After the wet spots on the mats were perfunctorily dried, Darryl stepped back into the center.

“Paul, do you still want to continue with your challenge?”

He looked at Henry. “You hit Mary Jo?”

Was he still a little off balance? I couldn’t tell.

“It was an accident,” Henry said. “Mercy said . . .” He looked at me. “You know, something as fragile as you are should learn to keep your mouth shut, then other people wouldn’t have to take the fall for you.”

“People with as much to lose as you have,” I said, “should control their tempers better.” As an insult it lacked . . . substance. But it was more important to get a quick reply out than it was to be clever. I looked at Paul. “Mary Jo stepped between me and Henry.”

“And you still let her fight?” Paul asked me incredulously. “You didn’t think that might be dangerous?”

“A fight to the death is dangerous,” I told him. “She knew about her ribs. I knew you didn’t want to kill her.”

He stared at me. Glanced at Henry. To Darryl, he said, “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

Darryl gave him a half bow, stepped off the mat, and said, “Gentlemen, you may begin.”

It started slowly.

With most of the expanse of the dojo between them, Paul made some fancy salute that I didn’t recognize; a graceful flutter of the hands and forearms combined with a half step forward, then back. He made a breathy, hissing noise that sounded alien and predatory.

Adam placed his fists together at his chest, then lowered them slowly and silently, flowing smoothly into an openhanded guard: a more common salute, simple and direct. It looked very similar to the salute my sensei had taught me. The scabs on his hands broke as he moved his fingers.

Paul advanced, a quick series of zigzag steps that let him glide across the mat while making it virtually impossible to predict where his next step would take him. His left arm was high, almost vertical, while his right maintained a low guard, hand positioned unconsciously near his groin.

Adam watched him, pivoting slightly to face him squarely as he crossed the mat. Had he seen what I had? That Paul was blinking as if he were trying to clear his vision.

Adam smiled just a little. For me? I decided that I’d do better to try to keep out of his head if I could figure out how—and let him concentrate on Paul.

Paul’s foot flashed out in a low, scything kick to the knee, and Adam’s weight shifted as he raised his foot in response. As Adam completed the block, Paul’s foot stopped short, then zipped up toward Adam’s right cheek in a modified roundhouse. Paul was strong enough to put some serious muscle behind the kick despite the short distance. Adam barely blocked in time, and the force of the kick made him stumble a half step. Paul danced back out of range.

Adam moved forward slowly, deliberately, a couple of bold steps, eyes on his quarry. Paul retreated, automatically giving ground to the Alpha. He caught himself and glared at Adam, who met his eyes and held them. With weres, a battle could be waged on multiple fronts.

To get away from Adam’s gaze, Paul threw another roundhouse with his left foot, but he was too far away to connect effectively. Stupid waste of energy, I thought, but at least the move let him break eye contact without actually losing the contest. He was using his legs more than his arms, and I wondered if he had hurt his hands in the fight with Mary Jo. If so, it wasn’t enough to matter.

Paul used the momentum from the wasted kick to spin sharply and drive his right heel in a savage back kick aimed at Adam’s stomach. He might be a jerk, but Paul knew how to move, and he was blazingly fast.

Adam again managed to block the kick, but the block only muted the force. Adam let the kick fold him over and throw him back across the mat, springing back with it. Paul came in right behind, arms rising to the high-block position he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam regained his balance just as Paul closed with him, and spun on his left foot and drove his right leg in a side kick. There was the crisp pop of fabric snapping as his leg flashed out to full extension, but it missed Paul by a handspan or more.

Paul’s hands clenched, and both fists came down in an instant replay of the attack he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam was bent at the waist, failed kick still extended, his back exposed to Paul’s descending fists. And then he did one of those kung-fu movie moves, spinning horizontally. I wasn’t the only one who gasped.