Patricia. Frieda had been Patricia.
Eric dissolved in a pit of self-loathing. How oblivious he had been. Patricia—Frieda—right in front of him, outing Caro at JDPR. That strange sense of familiarity. Taking the blade and giving it to Iverson. Working with Julien. It had probably been Frieda, masqued like Caro, that his security had seen meeting with Iverson.
Now Caro was dead.
“Get out,” Eric said.
With a startled look, the medic obeyed. Stephan opened his mouth as if to say something, then simply laid a gentle hand on Eric’s arm before leaving. The moment the door was closed, Eric began to slowly and methodically destroy his library. The chaos did nothing to relieve the gaping wound in his heart but it made him feel better to demolish something, and soon he felt an icy pressure descend on him.
Tomorrow, Iverson would die.
* * * *
Caro was stretching after a set of pushups when the door opened. Iverson tossed in a wooden sword without stepping inside the room. “Practice with that,” he ordered.
He didn’t bother telling her not to screw around with it and she knew, as did he, that it was unnecessary. He’d read her well. She wouldn’t let him hurt Eric and if that meant obeying him, that’s what she’d do.
She began moving the sword around, copying moves from movies she’d seen and trying desperately to remember her fencing skills from university. She’d been on the team, but that was a long, long time ago. If it wasn’t deadly serious, she would have laughed at the thought of herself, as a giant, playing alone with a toy sword. Maybe she’d laugh anyway. She tried. No go.
In between sessions, she slept. They gave her a roasted chicken and loaf of bread, which she gobbled up. Each time she woke, she felt stronger and more confident. Yet not as though she was losing herself. Under that ton of muscle, she was still Caro. It occurred to her that her masquing abilities were more robust than she had thought. She had managed four masques now—three women and a man. Julien, the rat, had mentioned that some could shift into only one masque. She wished Eric was here to speak with, to teach her about what she was capable of. To hold her close.
Time passed and she became more numb with every hour. When Iverson’s voice came over the intercom to give her final instructions, Caro knew the end must be soon but couldn’t muster the energy to care. He described exactly what to expect when she entered the throne room. She listened intently, knowing a screwup would cost Eric his life.
“Do you understand?” The voice boomed out from the intercom and she realized that he didn’t want to be in the same room as her new masque. That pleased her. “Tell me what you will do.”
Hating herself for her obedience, Caro rattled through the ritual. Walking to the ring. There would be a desk with Eric and someone in white, a Council member. She had to sign a book and take a sword. There was a long silence.
“Good. Caro?”
She refused to answer.
“What makes this beautiful for me is that I can’t lose. That son of a bitch thinks he loves you, and that makes him vulnerable.”
That goaded her into a response. “You’re wrong.”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t leave things to chance. Trust me. He loves you.”
Caro didn’t even listen. Her heart soared. Eric loved her. Even if it was on the word of a psychopath, and even if she’d killed that love all by herself the other day, she was going to take what she could get.
“Now practice.”
She went back to work, knowing that to slack off would be to sign Eric’s death warrant. Finally, she couldn’t help it, and stopped to put the sword down. This masque took a lot of energy and she was exhausted. It had, after all, been a bad few days. Then, her eyes dropped down and she slept until a rough hand shook her awake and a stony voice told her it was time to die.
Chapter 36
He nearly lost it at the trumpets. Eric generally tolerated rather than enjoyed the pomp and ceremony that came with being Hierarch. There were a few occasions each year—galas, special commemorations—where he ordered the full bonanza of banners, music, and food trotted out for his people to celebrate. He went, wore the tux and robes, and he did what was expected, but he never relished the experience the way, say, Hilde did. Apparently the woman loved the glitz so much that she wore a crown around the house.
Now, when the whole fuss was about what basically amounted to a bloody execution, and the woman he loved had been killed by the man Eric was planning to kill in minutes and the seats were filled with traitors…well. He had an overwhelming urge to take one of those fucking trumpets and wrap it around a post. Instead, he pasted a seriously regal look on his face, adjusted the royally heavy robe Stephan draped around his shoulders, and walked slowly to the dais that had been set up in the front of the room. It was difficult to keep his gait steady but he needed to cover the temporary paralysis that had been caused by the poison on Frieda’s blade. Luckily, the wound hadn’t been too deep but it still interfered with his left quadriceps.
Stephan and Tom took up positions inside the main door. To go any farther would be considered interference.
There were many rules for a defie.
Eric tried not to think about the previous night. Frieda had disappeared and teams were still searching for her. She’d seen the map and God knows what on his laptop so they’d had to jump ahead on the raid. That had at least forced Eric into action—he was still Hierarch and he had a duty to his people, no matter that his heart’s light had been snuffed out. Tom had worked tirelessly to get everyone in place.
The raids were ongoing, conducted secretly to avoid human detection, and there were already too many dead for Eric to accept. Some others had surrendered when they’d realized their treason had consequences and Eric’s team processed them rigorously, wary of traitors. This was turning into a civil war he didn’t want, one that had been instigated by the man he was about to meet in combat. It was another item on a long list of things Iverson was going to pay for.
His people had also reported something strange—what looked like possible human remains in some of the traitor enclaves. He’d worry about that mystery once this was over.
The space looked worthy of what was going to happen, and Eric made a mental note to give Cynthia a bonus if he survived. The throne room was underground, carved out of the earth centuries ago, when it was in the middle of a forest. Now, of course, it was right in the center of an industrial park. Eric’s predecessor had spent a lot of money to buy up the area and Eric had built a deceptively boring warehouse that sold wholesale milling-machine parts above it. Access to the throne room was through several heavily guarded tunnels.
Usually, once in the main space of the throne room, the eye immediately went to the exquisitely carved panels that lined the wall behind the massive mahogany seat that served as the throne. Today a swathe of hangings had been placed to conceal the throne—black satin covered with exquisite embroidery of butterflies and flowers.
Eric took stock as he approached, grateful his leg loosened up as he moved. The viewing galleries on each side of the long room were packed with masquerada. There hadn’t been a challenge against the Hierarch in the last two hundred years, so someone must have been busy with the etiquette books. They were all dressed in green, the ritual color for a defie. Thin nets rose from the front walls of the galleries to the ceiling, a clear reminder that no one was allowed to interfere.
He glared at the observers. How many of them were willing to turn on him?
Narrow lines of salt delineated a square space about twenty-five feet long in the center of the room with a thin green candle sitting at the northeast corner. The candle would be lit when the fight began, and the fight would last until one of the combatants was dead or the candle guttered to nothing an hour later. If both remained standing, they would be forced to break for thirty minutes before fighting again for the duration of ano
ther candle. Fighters were not allowed to mark or cross the salt line. To do so meant instant defeat.
Ten feet away from the salt square stood the dais, holding two objects on a table covered with green velvet: the box with the swords and the book for Eric and Iverson to sign their names before they fought. The Council witness stood motionless beside the table, robed and hooded in white.
The room, which had been buzzing with anticipation, fell silent as Eric stepped up to the dais. As he spoke the ritual words, his voice echoed through the room. “Eric, son of Yves and Jeanne, Hierarch of North America. Let all see how I answer the defie of Franz Iverson.” In a low voice he muttered, “That psychopathic piece of shit.”
The Councilor shot him a look and pushed her hood back to reveal jet-black hair twisted into a low bun. “Michaela, daughter of Miao Lan and Tzu Bao, Head of the North American Council. I witness the upholding of this defie. Hierarch America, take off your ring.”
Eric paused before twisting off his gold band. He’d worn it since becoming Hierarch and now noted with distant interest that it had worn a groove in his finger. He placed it gently in the small wooden dish.
Michaela nodded as if she understood how hard it had been for him to remove the ring. “You may take the form in which you will fight.”
Eric cleared his throat. “I will fight in this form.” He moved his weight to his good leg. Although it could have been worse, the injury would hamper him. Tom had worked with him on techniques to mitigate the disadvantage but Eric knew that his chances of a fast and clean win were gone. It mattered little—with Caro gone, he no longer cared if he survived. His only goal was to kill Iverson, any way possible and preferably with maximum pain.
An urgent buzz rose from the galleries. Michaela turned to him in disbelief. “Hierarch America, do you wish to reconsider?” She lowered her voice and whispered urgently. “What the hell are you thinking?”
Going back was not an option. He had no choice but to fight as he was. This morning, he had been too agitated to even try—another failed attempt at masquing would shatter him. “I do not,” his voice boomed out. “I will fight as my natural self.” Then he winked at the Councilor. Confidence and power.
“As you wish.” Michaela couldn’t chase the worry from her eyes. “Let the challenger approach in his fight masque.” Then she whispered to Eric under her breath, “You get that goddamn son of a bitch, you hear me?”
“I’ll do my best,” Eric promised.
The far doors opened and a giant appeared. A true, honest-to-fuck giant. If Eric hadn’t been ready to kill Iverson for the suffering he’d inflicted on Caro, he might have been a bit concerned at the sight of three-hundred-plus pounds of muscle and bone striding toward him. As it was, all he could think was that there would be more of the man to bleed. His teeth bared. He couldn’t wait.
Iverson stomped up the dais. “Franz, son of Gerhard and Berthe, and I issued the defie to Hierarch America,” he bellowed.
Michaela opened the black leather tome and pointed to a fresh, creamy page. “To sign is to confirm the defie,” she said to Iverson, handing him a pen.
Was it Eric’s imagination or did Iverson hesitate before scrawling his name? It didn’t matter. He was forbidden to speak to the man, which was a good thing. Otherwise the fight might start right now.
Michaela took the pen and handed it to Eric. “To sign is to accept,” she said, loud enough for the galleries to hear.
He signed.
“The defie is accepted and will begin,” the Councilor declared. She opened the box on the table with elegant hands. “The Hierarch has chosen swords. The challenger will choose his weapon first and immediately proceed to the salt.”
The giant stared at the swords as though debating which was the better weapon but then shrugged and plucked one out. Without looking at Eric, he leapt off the dais and moved to the center of the salt square, giving his blade a few quick swipes as though testing its weight and balance. Eric examined him, looking for weakness. The man’s size was a problem and it looked like the giant was fast, but…another swipe. There. It seemed as though he wasn’t fully comfortable in the masque. Eric’s eyes narrowed. Maybe this masque was a last-minute decision. If so, Iverson would be fighting in the equivalent of a suit of armor, protective but cumbersome.
He took the remaining sword and his position near the corner with the candle. In the thirty seconds before the battle started, he let himself think of Caro once more. He felt her soft hair in his hands. The way she’d curled up against him and slept. The stupidity of that last argument and the regret that filled him. The emptiness in his heart.
Michaela lit the candle.
Caro. This death would be for her. To put her soul at rest.
Eric raised his sword and murmured, “For Caro.” Then he wiped every thought of her from his mind.
It was time to fight.
Chapter 37
So this is what it feels like to know you’re going to die, Caro thought with clinical detachment as she stood in the square of salt lines, almost two feet taller and two hundred pounds heavier than her usual size. Not bad. Almost relaxing. She’d known she was going to die since she woke up in that cold cell, so to have the actual moment upon her brought an undeniable element of relief.
She stared at Eric hungrily, memorizing his every feature. His face reflected nothing but an intense hatred that chilled her. It had taken everything she had not to call to him but she believed Iverson when he said he would be observing and his minions would be on alert. She knew he was there; he’d been one of the robed escort who accompanied her in.
The scene would have to be played out.
So far, she had done everything correctly; the book, the sword. It had been strange to walk into the room but Caro had seen it all with a crystalline clarity that she knew she would be able to recall perfectly until her dying day. Which, of course, unfortunately happened to be today.
The giant body felt better but despite Caro’s practice, it was still like wearing a flexible shell, compounded with a dizzying new perspective, almost like vertigo, from the great height. The sword felt more natural in her hand, but she wished she had been given a shield as well. The memories of how it felt to have cold steel shoved through her flesh weren’t pleasant.
Holding the sword at her side, Caro kept a watchful eye on Eric. Iverson had described Eric’s fighting style, but the jerkoff might as well have been talking in Urdu. She had no idea what it meant to be told that someone was soft on the left.
It didn’t matter. Eric didn’t know it was her and he was going to be out for blood.
I love you. Let it be quick.
This was it.
* * * *
What was Iverson doing? Eric circled his opponent slowly, tracking him before committing to a move. Iverson shadowed his every action, sword held at the same angle, body in the same position. The man had chosen a masque that was right on the boundary of what masquerada could manage, and he appeared unsteady. Had he pushed himself too far?
Eric let the tension increase as he refrained from attacking. Forcing Iverson to make the first move would be a small but satisfying triumph. The strain left his body as he gave himself up to the battle. Now there was no time left for thought or hesitation. There was only him and his enemy in a ring of bone-white salt.
Iverson finally made a quick strike with the sword and as Eric expected, it was aimed at his left side. Even if Frieda hadn’t reported back, it was inconceivable that a skilled warrior such as Iverson wouldn’t have noticed Eric favoring it. The leg itself felt strong enough right now, but Eric knew fatigue could be deadly. The fight needed to be short, and to be short, it would have to be brutal.
Eric parried and Iverson came back with another pass. The two swords became live things, flashing shimmering reflections of the single glowing candle against the walls that Eric registered, then ignored. T
hey were a distraction and he couldn’t have that right now. Iverson was quick for his size and extraordinarily strong. Eric managed a slash to the upper arm and another to the chest and the giant shook them off like flies.
The galleries were silent and the only sound Eric heard was his own breath and the ring of the steel blades. Iverson lost some of the little finesse he had, his sword strokes becoming heavy and choppy. Soon he was simply hacking at Eric, relying on brute strength to win what skill could not.
Why wasn’t Iverson targeting the bad leg more often? It was starting to drag now. Not enough to throw off Eric’s balance, but that was only a matter of time. What was Iverson waiting for?
A peculiar feeling settled on him. Was Iverson playing with him? There was the way he used the sword—his technique was better suited to a rapier, the slender fencing sword. The giant should have far more endurance than what he’d shown in the fight. It was almost as if he wanted to lose, but had to put on a good show.
If that’s what the bastard wanted, Eric was happy to give it to him. With a roar of rage, he began to attack his opponent mercilessly, cutting the giant along the leg and slicing deep into the hip. Iverson bellowed as the blood flowed—it had to be enough to weaken him—and Eric knew he was hurt. Another strike and Iverson’s sword skittered away on the ground. The giant growled and launched himself at Eric, trying to knock him to the ground. Eric dodged but was hampered by his bad leg, which gave out completely when the giant’s foot hit him squarely on his injury.
Even as Eric dove over Iverson to the mat, he knew regaining his footing would be difficult. Iverson reached for the swords that lay together, tantalizingly out of reach at the edge of the salt line. But before he could snatch one, Eric rolled over to seize his enemy’s tree-like legs, using every ounce of strength to drag him away.
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