The dagger was Damascus steel, a birthday present from her dad when she was young. Its hilt was as familiar as a loved one’s touch. Her gaze wandered as she turned the old-fashioned stone with one hand and gently pressed the blade against it with the other. Her eye caught the katana hanging on the wall.

Phantom pain panged in her abdomen. She’d felt the bite of a blade exactly like it, but her hands itched to wrap around its elegant hilt. During the fight with the fae assassin—the one Tetra had hired to kill Sinatria—she’d stolen this katana. Its balance had been peerless when they’d fought.

Val sheathed the sharpened dagger and strode to the wall where the katana hung. She lifted it, blew the dust off the blade, and swung it in a series of guards and strikes. It was weightless in her hand. Val wiped the blade with a silk cloth and held it to the forge’s light, admiring the reflection of the yellow glow on the perfect steel.

Not steel, technically. Tamahagane had been perfected by the Japanese, with a little magical help from the dragons who secretly lived among them. Val had never forged tamahagane, and she doubted that Frode had. Making the starting steel took three days of monitoring, and that was before it was hammered and folded time and time again, then melded into a single blade, then coated, then polished. The process took months.

The result was a weapon of beauty and absolute deadliness.

Val returned the katana to its rack. It was magnificent and lethal, but it wasn’t hers, not the way her dagger was. However, her dagger had been of little use against bullets and tasers.

She didn’t have months to forge an upgrade, but she could make an addition.

Val returned to her workbench and opened a drawer to pull out the heavy cast-iron pendant she’d been working on for weeks. The carvings surrounding the smooth disc flowed from the curves of the Iron Hills to the city skyline’s sharp edges. Genevieve rampaged across the middle.

“Something’s still missing,” Val whispered.

She ran her thumb over the carvings. Gemstones? Her amulet throbbed, heat permeating her shirt. Rubies? Val wondered. Or were the carvings incomplete? The amulet’s throb couldn’t tell her.

Giving up, Val dropped the pendant back into the drawer and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Something that works for bullets,” she murmured.

The amulet pulsed like a galloping heartbeat, and inspiration flooded Val’s mind. She sketched furiously. Val’s wrist got stiff, then her neck, but she didn’t slow down. The idea flowed from her as easily as breathing.

When she stopped, panting, the amulet almost burned her skin. The design made her grin. Outlined in pencil on richly colored parchment was a broad leather armband featuring a round disc almost as wide as Val’s wrist.

The drawing beside it showed metal scales sliding out of the armband. An arrow pointed at the final drawing—a round shield two feet across that unfolded from the armband.

Val held the parchment up and grinned. She had a new project to work on.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Music and cheering pulsed from the basement of the squat building in Queens. Cars lined the street, everything from tired old beaters to souped-up sports cars, and Val squeezed Genevieve into a spot behind an aged but polished VW Golf.

The Golf’s owner had parked like an ass. Val rolled her eyes as she stepped out of Genevieve and slung the duffle bag over her shoulder.

Her phone buzzed as she marched toward the back door. Liam.

Are you there yet?

Yep.

Did they let you in?

“That remains to be seen,” Val murmured.

Her stiff legs, tight from a tedious day of guarding Blair and Yuka at the factory, loosened as she strode down the sidewalk. The back door bore the MMA arena’s loud red-and-blue logo. A burly man in a suit guarded it. He had a nametag clipped to his lapel.

He held up a hand as Val approached. “Fighters only. These are the locker rooms. Spectators go around the front.”

“Yeah, I know.” Val fished out her laminated MMA license.

The guy’s eyebrows rose as he checked it, but he didn’t ask questions. He handed it back and gestured inside.

Val strode into a locker room filled with the smells of sweat, sports drinks, and testosterone. Lockers slammed, masculine voices laughed, and several men turned to stare at her as she strode past. She wore her undercut wig today and didn’t bother to look at them. She strode to the locker number she’d been assigned in the email from the promoter and flopped onto the bench.

I’m in.

Good luck. I’m watching the livestream. I still think you should have gone for one or two classes at the gym.

Val scoffed.

I Googled the rules. I’ve got this.

Liam sent a facepalm emoji.

Val grinned as she unzipped her bag and pulled out the MMA gloves Liam had helped her buy. Fighting with gloves seemed dumb, but she slipped them on anyway, then struggled to pull them tight over her wrists.

A bald, tattooed guy sat beside her. “Need a hand?”

Val held out her arms. “Thanks.”

“New here?” the guy asked, strapping the gloves tight.

Val laughed. “My first time.”

“No coach?” The guy raised his eyebrows.

“Is that a problem?” Val asked.

The guy chuckled. “You’re Valerie Stonehold, aren’t you? The chick who makes jewelry and kicks ass?”

Val grinned. “Yep.”

“Then I guess we’ll find out.” The guy winked. “See you in the final.”

He left Val to it and strode out of the locker room. A harassed-looking official, ID badge swinging from his lapel, hurried into the room.

“Manny Evans, Valerie Stonehold, you’re up!” he called.

Val rose. It was time to enter the cage.

Heat, lights, and the announcer’s blare greeted Val as she strode to the arena. The crowd bounced and roared their approval under flashing lights, but Val didn’t look at them. Her attention was on the octagonal cage. The white mat was four feet above the floor, and foam padding covered the cage’s metal mesh walls. A referee stood at the center, all baseball cap and seriousness. The announcer, who wore jeans and a sports jacket, yelled into a microphone. Val heard her name but ignored the rest.

She strode up to the cage at the same time as her opponent. He was shirtless, exposing his ripped abs and shoulders. Muscles flexed restlessly in his arms as his coach checked his gloves.