143 Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three –Hell hath Fury like a Woman’s Scorn (1/2)
The Golden Wing was a pretentious bunch of erinyes-inspired women who had set themselves up as a monastery of sorts, where they accepted orphans, exiles, and the remnants of noble families or merchants who'd lost everything in cutthroat competition, as long as they were young and female.
The Wing turned them into assassins, escorts, bodyguards, and special agents... basically ninjas with fashion sense. One had probably been purchased for 'special services' by the Benedelli heir, flaunting his power via money.
She wasn't hard to pick out, being dressed in gold and black, the colors of the Golden Wing, her attire revealing a finely-honed athletic figure, lots of golden skin, and dark eyes that were measuring Errant up in both arrogance and amusement.
Looked like a Seven. She'd been brought along to cool down his brother, who was a Five treading on Six, and talented and happy to beat people up to show it. And of course, the Benedelli could get some special instruction from an older woman...
”Come now, little brother. Your love of pugilism is one of the few accomplishments you can claim in the family. Are you truly going to let this chance to defend the honor of the Gilderalz before the eyes of our peers pass you by?”
Ah, pride, that Hellish thing thou art... ”Well, yes, brother, I am. I've some conditioning to get back to.” His brother's face instantly blackened. ”After all, accruing some glory for the House and you does nothing for me. I imagine you even have a side wager... yes, I see you do. And I'm supposed to just stand here and be a punching bag while you walk off with the winnings if I do well.” Errant held up his hand and wagged a finger at Guteriz, whose ears started to turn red.
His voice was a little irritable. ”What do you want, then?” It was said in just that tone of voice, as if Errant was an unreasonable money-grubber.
Errant glanced at the Benedelli. ”What's the bet?” he asked.
Slicked black hair, aloof noise, decadent air as if he was above all the masses, at least five hundred gold in an outfit he'd probably only wear once, the amused scion replied, ”A thousand gold.”
”Double it, my brother pays if I lose, I keep it if I win, and he can go talk about the glory of it all and how mighty our family is.”
That seemed to amuse the Benedelli all the more. ”Oh, what pluck!” He glanced at Guteriz, whose face was going black. Errant would get a beating, and his brother's purse would be emptied. If Errant lost, well, she was a Seven, and he was barely eleven years old. It was to be expected. He'd look like an idiot, and Errant could probably even lose on purpose just to spite him.
But Guteriz, to Errant's surprise, just nodded shortly. Privately amused, he wondered just what sort of beating Guteriz had arranged for him. The bet would be paid publicly and returned in private, no doubt.
”Well then, bring her in.” A circle was instantly cleared in the room by the interested scions, and whispers and wagers began to fly. ”Oh, what are the odds? I'll put five hundred gold on myself.”
There was stunned silence, and then the Benedelli laughed aloud in delight. Everyone knew what was going on then, and he stated loudly, ”I'll pay you five to one if you win!” he called out, utterly confident.
Oh, he was about to have a bad day. The glance the fop sent to the hot blonde with the poison nails had all sorts of meaning. She completely ignored it, coldly confident in her abilities, and even a little irritated that she be given a job as simple as this.
Errant put up his fists, and she paused, looking at him. ”Are you certain you don't want to remove your... accoutrements?” she asked delicately.
”Do I need to?” Errant returned casually.
She raised her nose, staring at him. ”That is not a suit of armor. It will hinder you far more then it will protect you,” she said, as if instructing a fool.
”Says a woman trained for horizontal naked combat,” Errant replied, rolling his eyes. ”When you know something about armor, you can give me advice.”
Her eyes sparked with something, tightly controlled, but he hadn't actually insulted her... because she actually was trained to kill people that way.
”It is your funeral!” she stated, and blurred into motion.
Errant turned off his Angel Weight, and stepped into the coming kick.
She was actually really surprised, and had a right to be. He moved as easily in the clumsy, overweight training garb as someone in leathers, smashing aside her kick with a heavy arm, and then directly crashing into her with an elbow before she could dance back.
With a whoosh of breath leaving her, she jumped back, folded over and needing five steps to regain her balance. There was more then a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she stared at him.
”What style is that?” she asked, and this time, her hands came up carefully, half-claws ready to rip and rend flesh, the golden nails indeed poisoned, and ready to be used.
”It's a Thunder style, made to be used against profound practitioners,” Errant replied calmly, gauntlets closed into fists. ”You were probably told I was a boxer.” Her eyes flickered. ”But, you know, there's all kinds of ways hands can be used.” He hopped forwards a pace, as if he wasn't nearly three hundred pounds at the moment, and her eyes narrowed at the display of easy strength. ”So, this is going to hurt. Get ready.”
And completely screwing over her belief that he was going to be slow and clumsy, Errant danced in at her, and began to jab.