"Tara K. Harper - Wolfwalker 5 - Silver Moons, Black Steel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harper Tara K)

was already ducking, parrying the blow aside. The heel of her lean, scarred
left hand hit his ribs like a small shovel, lifting him on his toes. She twisted
to stomp the back of his knees, but in the instant in which her hip aligned
with his, his arm snaked around her ribs and he jerked. Her leverage
disappeared. The wolf in her snarled. Her violet eyes glinted. As he started
the flip, she snapped a vicious kick to the back of his head that had
BatayonтАЩs narrow jaw clicking shut and his ears ringing to wake the seventh
moon. She grabbed his thigh and arm and wrenched out. He recountered.
Both slammed down.
He missed her wrist; she missed his temple with her ridge-hand as he
scrambled away to face her. They came back together in a blur of hands and
knees, elbows and feet. He took an impossibly close side kick like a
hammer, grunted, dropped his elbow on her ankle, saw the bones of her
face tighten for an instant, grabbed the slender joint, and twisted. Dion
whipped like a top, midair. Her rotating kick caught him on the shoulder as

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Silver Moons, Black SteelтАФHarper, Tara K - Wolf 05


he ducked. She broke free, went to one knee, back-kicked instinctively to
force distance, and whirled to face him again. Batayon slowly grinned.
When they came together this time, it was his spinning ax kick that clubbed
down across her shoulder, even as she rode the blow. She ducked; he
twisted; they broke apart and danced in broken rhythm, setting and
discarding patterns of movement to tease each other into attack, A feint, a
side kick, a glancing blowтАж Neither one spoke; they simply fought with
silent intensity. Batayon was breathing hard, and there was something
increasingly feral in DionтАЩs expression. He saw an opening, shot a kick, and
it brushed her side, touching cloth, not ribs. She dropped under and swept,
but he felt it coming and threw himself forward. She could not avoid the
tackle. She had time to grasp one of his sweat-hot wrists and, with the speed
of a dozen wolves, partially redirect his momentum, but she was still
flipped in the tangle.
When they broke free again, she was down on one knee, right hand pressed
to her belly, her face twisted in pain.
Batayon saw it just before he threw his spinning crescent kick. He halted
abruptly midstrike. тАЬDionтАФтАЭ
She exploded up, caught him off-balance, threw him with her left arm under
his leg, the other at his neck, and followed him down. Her knee dropped
like a rock on the joint of his pelvis. Strike! It was the voice of a wolf in her
head. Her left hand was an eagleтАЩs claw digging for his brachial artery, her
right fingers curled on his throat.
Batayon froze. DionтАЩs teeth were bared. Her breath was quickтАФtoo quick
for a woman who thought only in human terms. BatayonтАЩs pulse pounded in
his temple. Sweat trickled down his neck. He didnтАЩt move. DidnтАЩt flinch.
DidnтАЩt try to shift away. If he moved at all, DionтАЩs wolf-honed instincts
would close those half-curled fingers and tear his throat like fangs.
The prey is down. Make the kill. The blood lust of the gray mental voices
tightened DionтАЩs muscles like wire. The trickle of moisture that slid around