Magic on the Storm

Two months of self-defense classes, mixed martial arts, and weapons training did not make it hurt any less when I was thrown over my opponent's shoulder and slammed into the ground.
Yes, I should have tucked and rolled. Would have too, if he hadn't kept hold of my arm and twisted at just the right instant to knock my balance off and make me sprawl like a dead jumper waiting for my chalk outline.

"Give up?" he asked.

My right wrist still locked in his grip, I stretched out my left hand and grabbed his ankle, leveraged to pull down, and twisted. I broke his hold on my wrist and rolled up onto my feet. I got off the mat and out of arm's reach quick.

"I'll take that as a no, then?" Zayvion Jones asked. He was a little sweaty, a lot relaxed, standing halfway across the mat from me. Barefoot, he had on a pair of jeans that, if there were any justice in the world, would not let him flex and move and stretch the way he did in a fight, and a nice black T-shirt that defined the muscles of his chest, his thick, powerful arms, and his flat, hard stomach.

He was every kind of good-looking in the dictionary.

"Take it as a hell no," I said sweetly.

That got a grin out of him, his teeth a flash of white against his dark skin, his thick lips open enough that I suddenly wanted to drop this whole I-kill-you/you-kill-me act and kiss the man.

Instead, I rolled my shoulder to make sure my arm was still in its socket-Zayvion Jones played for keeps-and tried to come up with a game plan to tip the fight to my advantage. He might have bendy denim on his side, but I had something better. I had magic in my bones.

My shoulder sore but still attached and functioning, I stepped back onto the mat.

I could use magic on him. It might be worth ending up in bed with a fever just to take Mr. Superpowerful-Guardian-of-the-Gates down a notch during a practice match.

The void stone necklace, a chunk of rock caught up and caged between silver and copper whorls and glass