Fear My Mortality Read Online Free Page B

the door clicked open and I put up my hand to block it. There was another flash, but I knew what it was this time, and I hesitated behind him.
    The Mirror Room. Ceiling to floor, wall to wall, the reflections made even more dazzling by a silver ball turning on the ceiling. On one side of the room, the mirrors reflected rows of shiny weapons hanging from glass hooks. If there were video drones, I couldn’t see them.
    The Basher said, “We just have to make it through another couple corridors, but don’t worry about the fighters. These rooms aren’t scheduled for combat tonight. Just stay close.”
    I wanted to ask him again who he was, why he was doing this, especially when I was a slow healer. He had no reason to help me and every reason to leave me behind in the chaos, but he pushed the door open, filling the walkway with reflective light. As soon as he took a couple of steps, he ground to a halt, pushing me behind him, fixated on the other side of the room. Disappointment blossomed in the set of his shoulders and his sudden indrawn breath.
    His indistinct whisper was garbled behind his voice modulator. “No. They promised.”
    The other person had frozen at the sight of us, a shout revealing his surprise as he rose from a bench seat placed against the far wall.
    It was Michael Bradley. He was dressed in black, but the dark material couldn’t hide the smears and rips, his skin perfectly healed beneath them.
    “Basher,” Michael said, an angry curl to his lips. “Is that what all the commotion’s about? If you’re here for new recruits, you aren’t going to make any friends by blowing up the Terminal.” His eyes were on me and even at that distance, I could tell that a thousand thoughts went through his head.
    The Basher suddenly grabbed me up against him, a knife at my throat. “You’ll let us leave.”
    “Or what? You’ll kill her?” Michael scoffed and the tension radiating off my captor shuddered through me.
    The Basher shoved me a step closer to Michael—and the door on the other side of the room—as the silver ball above us rotated and cast our reflections a thousand times around the room.
    In answer, Michael moved to the left, just a bit, revealing the sword resting down by his side as if he didn’t think he’d have to use it.
    Another step, and another. The Basher’s chest rose and fell behind me, as though he was breathing his soul in and out.
    Michael’s hand tightened on his sword. There was blood on his fingers. He said, “I guess you must be my last fight tonight.”
    The Basher’s mouth was at my ear. “I’m sorry, Ava. I tried.”
    He shoved me aside and leaped forward, snatching a weapon off the wall—another sword—and springing at Michael with the sword raised. Michael’s sword flashed to meet the Basher’s and deflect the blow, but the Basher pushed, and the two weapons grated down each other with a metallic shriek, coming apart just before they chopped each other’s hands off. The Basher sliced again, and again Michael deflected. Then again and again, so fast I could hardly keep track.
    My feet had put down roots on the concrete floor. I huddled in a crouch, knowing I should move back to the wall, get out of the way, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
    The Basher whirled, slashed, his muscles pumped, his legs crouching, springing. Behind his tight facemask, the lines of his face were severe.
    They were evenly matched, neither giving ground nor missing an attack or a defense. The duel moved over to the bench and the Basher dashed up onto it, leaping down with a forceful cut that would have cleaved Michael’s head from his shoulders. Michael dodged, crouched, and swung around to cut the other boy’s legs out from under him. The Basher must have anticipated the move because his sword angled at the last moment. It cut through the air, headed straight toward Michael’s eyes.
    He dropped and flattened himself to the floor just in time, allowing the Basher to lunge over