Page 72 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
“I was so frightened,” Phoebe whispered, and her cheeks flushed as if she had admitted to a shameful secret. “I’m still frightened. What if he—”
“Don’t.” There was no purpose in it, nothing to be gained in the worrying about something that might never come to pass, something that could not be controlled.
“I felt so helpless,” she said, and her lower lip trembled. “I never want to feel like that again.” She squeezed her eyes shut, gave a little shake of her head as if to clear it of the miasma of dark thoughts that lingered still. “Please don’t leave me alone tonight,” she said in a fierce rush. “I won’t be able to sleep.”
He didn’t doubt it. Her entire life she’d been sheltered and protected, and now she had had her first brush with true danger.Tonight—and perhaps for many nights into the future—she’d share the darkness with a bogeyman she’d never had reason to fear before. A bogeyman he had brought down upon her head. Onehehad created.
“I’ll stay,” he said. Until she no longer feared the darkness. Until he’d culled the threat once and for all. And in the meantime—he would teach her how to defend herself.
∞∞∞
The moon peeked through the clouds, shining an eerie light down upon the garden, where Phoebe stood perhaps a foot or so away from Kit, bracing her feet in the position he’d indicated. Midnight had come and gone, but she’d been too overwrought to sleep, and so Kit had suggested a lesson in self-defense instead.
Phoebe had her doubts as to whether she would make a competent student. “I feel extremely foolish,” she said as she lifted her arms, balling her hands into fists, bending her elbows and tucking them tightly against her body the way Kit had shown her. “Why couldn’t I just have a pistol?”
Kit pushed her fists down a few inches. “You want to shield your face,” he said, “without obstructing your vision. Can you shoot one?”
“What?”
“A pistol. Can you shoot one?”
“Well,” she hedged. “In theory.” She knew the generalities of doing so. Aim barrel at target, pull trigger, hope to hit.
“Thenin theoryit’s a poor weapon for you.” He raked his gloved hand through his hair. “You can have a pistol,” he said. “A small one; small enough to fit in your reticule. But achievingproper aim can be difficult, and pistols have the distinct vulnerability of needing to be reloaded. Without proper practice—which could take weeks or months—it’ll be of more service to you as a threat than as a weapon. You understand?”
Not really. But then, she’d never had to defend herself physically in the entirety of her life. She gave a little shrug of her shoulders, careful not to let her hands drop.
Kit heaved a sigh. “If you must pull your weapon, you should attempt to do so at a distance. Even if you cannot aim accurately, your attacker is unlikely to know that. Use the threat of it to keep him at a distance. If you must fire it, do so only at close range, where your aim is likely to be more accurate. You’ll have a single shot, so you must make it count.”
Oh. She supposed that made sense.
Kit slipped his hand into the waistband of his trousers and withdrew a thin blade. “This is a stiletto,” he said. “A dagger. It’s small, lightweight, and good for punching lots of holes in things very quickly, Furthermore, it has no need to be reloaded. Vulnerabilities?”
“I, ah—”
“Don’t drop your hands.”
Damn. They had drifted down while she’d been thinking. She lifted them once more. “I’d have to be close,” she said.
“That’s right.” He flipped the dagger in his hand, catching the hilt with a sort of effortless dexterity that suggested he had altogether too much familiarity with weapons. “You have to be close, and your goal will be to maintain your distance, so it’s not very good as a threat. Your assailant might well wager he’s got more experience with a blade than you have and seek to disarm you. Strike out at the fleshy bits if someone gets too close.” With the tip of the blade, he indicated spots. “Sides, kidneys, stomach. Avoid the chest unless you can manage quite a lot of force behind the strike. You’re likely to hit the ribs instead. Cause a lotof pain—not so much true damage. The goal is never towound. It’s to disable entirely. To kill, if necessary.”
Aim for the fleshy spots, avoid bones, and maintain distance whenever possible. It seemed simple enough. Phoebe flexed her knuckles, concentrated on keeping her fists up, and eased back a step.
“Careful,” Kit said. “You’re about to step on Hieronymus.”
Phoebe turned her head, casting her gaze about to find the turtle—who was some distance away, chomping upon the fluffy yellow head of a dandelion. Before she could voice her confusion, Kit had come up behind her, wrapping his arm about her throat and dragging her back against his body. She heard the clatter of his cane as it hit the ground, and her heart skipped across several beats, anxiety spiking in her chest.
“Never,” he said near her ear, “allow yourself to become distracted. You dropped your hands.”
Oh. She’d given him an opening to go on the attack. “What do I do now?” she asked.
“Whatever you have to in order to escape,” he said. “If you can gauge the position of your assailant’s head, throw your head back as hard as you can. You might just break his nose with the blow. If you can reach his eyes, press your thumbs into them and gouge them out. Otherwise, pull his hair, and scratch or bite any skin you can see.Hard.”
“Bite?” she echoed incredulously, disgusted.
“Yes, bite. In a brawl, you’re not a lady, and your assailant won’t be a gentleman. It’s not a duel to be won honorably; it’s a fight for your life. Contrary to what your sort is fond of believing, there is no honor in dying because you were too morally upright to fight unfairly. Your assailant won’t be giving you a fighting chance. You musttakeone, however you are able.”
“All right,” she said, flexing her fingers at her sides. “I think I’ve got it.”
