Steel Victory (Steel Empire Book 1)

by J. L. Gribble

  A second shattering sound, this time right next to her. Had she been sitting all the way back in the seat, the bullet would have hit her temple. Instead, it whisked behind her back, a hair’s breadth away from slicing up her favorite coat.

  “Incoming!”

  She had no idea how Max managed to unbuckle his seatbelt, draw a gun, and get out of the truck in the space of what seemed like less than a second. After a few painful struggles with her own seatbelt, she kicked open the door.

  The door hit a solid object, sending it flying away from the truck. Victory drew her sword when her feet touched the ground. She paused a beat, taking stock of the situation.

  A situation that, for the moment, seemed to consist of one man with a large branch staggering back from the impact of the truck door, and Max wrestling with a second unknown assailant on the ground, his gun discarded near Victory’s feet.

  She brought her sword to bear when her own opponent looked ready to charge her again. He halted before acquiring a second mouth below the chin, raising his hands away from his body.

  In her peripheral vision, Max had gained the upper hand. She heard more than saw him lay out his adversary with a solid blow to the side of the head. The man went limp, and Max hauled himself to his feet.

  “Gun’s next to the truck,” Victory said, never taking her attention from the man in front of her. Max stooped to retrieve it, checking the weapon and taking up position next to Victory.

  She didn’t have Toria’s innate ability to read people, but she didn’t smell anything inhuman about the man. A deep breath confirmed none of the wild scents she associated with werecreatures. Round ears undisguised by his short hair, so elf was out. And he had a heartbeat, so no vampire.

  Human. She assumed his friend was, too. Then that raised the question—

  “Who the hell are you?” Max brought up the gun to aim at the man’s chest. With the adrenaline of the fight still coursing through his body, he looked ready to pull the trigger. Since their other attacker was out cold, that wouldn’t do at all.

  “Max, go check on Sethri,” Victory said, deflecting his attention. “I’ll handle this guy.” Before the words were all the way out, Max whirled back around to the truck. It took great effort to keep her eyes on the man in front of her and not rush to check on Sethri herself. “Now answer the question. And drop the stick.”

  He didn’t move. Victory took a small step forward and pressed the tip of her sword against his throat. The branch fell from his fingers and landed on the road with a clatter.

  “Good,” she said. “Talk. Now.”

  “We’re stopping you,” he said.

  “Congratulations. Stopping us from doing what?” Why couldn’t she hear Sethri reassuring Max he was okay? Why couldn’t she hear Sethri at all?

  “From contacting the Romans.”

  She lowered her sword, ignoring the drop of blood welling from his neck. Self-control was a wonderful thing honed over the centuries, despite the bloodlust the twit had stirred within her by the attack. “Did you not notice that we are driving back to Limani?”

  But he even had an answer for that. “Then we’re preventing you from bringing news back to your false council.”

  Who else would send two idiots against a vampire and the head of the Mercenary Guild? “You’re a Humanist.” Random guys with an antique firearm? These could even be the same people to assault Syri and the werewolves.

  He drew himself up straighter. “Yes, vampire.”

  So, they had a leak in their impromptu council. Victory liked to think none of her fellows had aligned with the Humanists, but she couldn’t speak for every elf, every werecreature. A few of the pieces began to find places. Fabbri had known about the Romans before she could give Asaron’s news to the council. The Humanists had contact with the invading army. That explained the small force mustered against them, and in time to catch them on their way back. The leak of their diplomatic plans occurred after this evening’s meeting, not before.

  Stepping forward, Victory rolled her hand over and bashed the iron pommel of her sword into the side of his head. It made a satisfying noise on impact, and he fell to the ground in a heap next to his compatriot.

  The entire exchange took place in a matter of seconds, but she started a bit when Max touched her shoulder. “Is Sethri okay?”

  She waited for Max to answer while she knelt next to the man to make sure he still had a pulse. She had misjudged her own power before. Not often, but when emotions were high, the bets were off. And humans were such fragile creatures.

  Max still hadn’t answered her. She tilted her head up, seeking his face against the stars. “Max?”

  “Sethri’s dead.”

  Victory didn’t move for a few seconds. It wasn’t possible. These two jerks didn’t get anywhere near the truck.

  “Victory, did you hear me?” When she did not respond right away, Max gripped her arms and pulled her back to her feet. He transferred his hold to her biceps, keeping her steady.

  “You’re joking.” Despite the inappropriate timing for such a thing, he had to be. No other explanation.

  “No,” Max said. “I’m not. He hit his head hard enough on the windshield to do serious damage. I don’t know exactly what happened, but he had no pulse when I got back to him.”

  Victory looked to the two bodies at their feet. “But...how? They never got to his side of the truck.”

  He shook her, just a bit, before steadying his hands again. “They didn’t have to. It was when I swerved. We all got banged around. Sethri got it most.”

  Victory pulled out of Max’s hands and dashed around the truck. Sethri’s door was open, and Max had laid him back against the seat. No blatant signs of trauma such as a crushed skull, just a sheet of blood covering half of his face from a point on his forehead. She touched tentative fingers to his cheek, his slick blood coating her fingers.

  She moved her fingers down to his neck, checking in vain for the faintest hint of a pulse, despite the heartbeat she didn’t hear. There might still be time to get him back home, get him to the hospital or to one of the elven healers.

  Max appeared at her shoulder. “Can’t you—?”

  “No!”

  He shrank back when she whirled at him.

  Realizing she still had her hand raised, he must have feared she would lash out. Victory paused to collect herself. “No. I can’t save him.”

  “But surely it’s not too late,” Max said. “Or has enough time passed for brain damage to be a problem?”

  “I don’t know anything about brain damage,” Victory said. She faced Sethri again, this time collecting one of his hands in her own. It still felt warm against her skin. “But that’s the point. He’s already dead. To turn someone, you don’t kill them. You—” The explanation caught in her throat, and she dropped Sethri’s hand. The warmth burned. She started over. “You bring them to the brink of death. Sethri is beyond that. If I drained him now, there would be no point.” She backed a few feet away from the truck.

  Without meeting her eyes, Max said, “I knew that.”

  “I know,” Victory said. It helped to hear it. She’d had this conversation with the bereft many times over the years. Despite her own pain, she could still have it with Max. But right now, they didn’t have the time. “We need to get out of here. We don’t know if more will show up.”

  After a small shake of his head, bringing himself out of whatever thoughts immersed him, Max joined Victory away from the truck. “We bringing those two?”

  “Damn straight,” Victory said. “Got any rope?”

  “In the back.”

  Time to mourn later. Max retrieved a coil of thin rope from the bed of his truck while Victory rearranged the unconscious men. They trussed the two up in a fashion guaranteed to make them miserable upon waking.


  Victory couldn’t kill the men she held responsible for Sethri’s murder, but she could still make them pay in her own fashion. Max wouldn’t stop her.

  They didn’t move Sethri to the backseat. Max seemed shocked when she waved off his suggestion to move the body, but there came a time when logic must prevail over romanticism. Right now, speed was of the essence.

  When they retook their seats and Max started the engine again, a surreal curtain descended over Victory. Less than twenty minutes ago, they’d been on their way home. The Romans had been uncooperative, they didn’t manage to rescue Kane or Asaron, and war was still imminent.

  Victory stared out the back window, avoiding looking anywhere near Sethri’s body, propped like a macabre doll in the front seat.

  How had things gotten so much worse in the space of so little time?

  Toria sat Syri at the kitchen table and fetched a glass of water to accompany the painkillers she’d dug out of the bathroom. The time spent sitting on the floor hadn’t been good for the injured elven girl. Her walk was stiff, but she’d waved off Toria’s offers of assistance.

  Syri took the glass, swallowing the two pills dry before taking a long sip. “Thanks.”

  “You going to be okay?” Toria dropped into the seat next to Syri, her own body complaining at its earlier unfair treatment.

  “Are you?” Syri’s measured look bored into Toria’s brain. “You haven’t had the best couple of days yourself.”

  If Toria hadn’t been sure Syri had shut down the link between them, she’d almost be convinced the girl knew her thoughts. But despite her apparent age and relative immaturity by elven standards, Syri still had a lot more years on her. That had to give her a clearer insight into the range of emotions that ran constant across the various species. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “But I wasn’t the one hospitalized.”

  The dismissive gesture Syri made before finishing off her glass of water spoke volumes. “My own damn fault,” she said. “As your mother has so kindly informed me.”

  “Dad told me to bring you dinner,” Toria said. “I didn’t know Mama hunted you down, too.”

  “Don’t worry, she wasn’t that bad.” Syri made to rise, but Toria plucked the glass out of her hands and refilled it for her. “Trust me, I’m in no hurry for my own mother to find out about this. Good thing she’s not in the city.” At Toria’s inquisitive look, she said, “I live with Zerandan. My mother is traveling with her consort in Britannia. Haven’t seen her in about five years. So what’s next, boss?”

  “Wait, why am I in charge now?”

  “Because we’ve done the easy part, getting in contact with Kane.”

  “Oh, so once it gets complicated, I have to start making the decisions?”

  Syri must have heard the strain in Toria’s voice. She set the glass on the table and reached over to gather both of Toria’s hands in her own. In the gentlest tones Toria had heard from her yet, Syri said, “For the immediate future, Kane is safe. That is a huge load lifted from your shoulders. Your mother will be back soon with news of the army and report it to the council. Then we’ll find her and tell her about the weapon. But we don’t know when she’ll be back. So what can we do in the meantime?”

  Kane. Kane was safe. Not happy, not healthy, but safe. She could feel their link, its strength pulsing within her. The urge to send her love to him almost overwhelmed her, but she resisted it in time to save herself from the blinding pain. However, the thoughts alone steadied Toria.

  “The Humanists,” she said. “Mama and the council are busy dealing with the big problem, the one that might kill the whole city.”

  “But that doesn’t matter if the fucking Humanists make it self-destruct from within.” The old Syri was back. “What about that bitch on the council? She still at large?”

  “Far as I know,” Toria said. “You want a snack? I’m always starved after a long working.” Syri emptied her glass again, and Toria grabbed it from the table before standing.

  “That would rock,” Syri said. “You cook, we’ll talk.”

  Laughing, Toria began poking around in her cupboards. “Deal. So do you know anything about Emily Fabbri?”

  “Other than the fact that she was just elected to council and was behind me getting kicked out of the Twilight Mists the other night with your dad, not much. You?”

  Toria related her own personal experiences at Fabbri’s restaurant while grating cheese over a plate of flour crisps and popping them into the microwave. She wound down the story as the timer dinged. “She hates me on a bunch of levels,” Toria said, removing the hot plate with a dishtowel and setting it in front of Syri. “Because I’m a mage, because I’m a vampire’s daughter, and because I probably pissed her off a lot when I called her out on her own territory.” Three days ago? Time sure dragged when life was kicking your ass.

  “And her influence is corrupting the city,” Syri said. “She’s like a fucking plague. Find the source, and we can prevent further spread.”

  At that, both girls dug into the chips, spending a few minutes dealing with hot melted cheese rather than the task ahead of them. When at last they’d scraped the plate clean and licked the last of bits of salt from their fingers, they could face the world again.

  “So, we’re going to hunt down Fabbri, then?” Syri said, pushing the plate closer to Toria.

  “Aren’t the elves and werecreatures already doing that?” Toria put the dirty plate in the sink. She’d deal with real life later.

  “Well, I can find out where the elves have already searched,” Syri said, “but I imagine they’ll tell me to stay home like a good little girl. If they don’t freak out that I’ve snuck out of the hospital and drag me back.”

  “I didn’t realize your community was so small,” Toria said.

  “It sucks being the youngest.”

  Toria could relate. Youngest mage in Limani, youngest journeyman in this branch of the Mercenary Guild, youngest in her own family. “Yeah, it does. So we’re on our own?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Café Lizzette closed an hour ago,” Toria said. “I’m sure it’s already been searched, but it doesn’t hurt to look again. Maybe we’ll find some hint of where Fabbri is hiding.”

  “Can’t hurt,” Syri said. “Let’s go.”

  Toria and Syri sat in Café Lizzette’s parking lot, contemplating the building in front of them. Shadows hid the menacing sign in the front window, but Toria itched to take drastic measures. Like punching through the glass and ripping it to shreds. She would settle for kidnapping the sign’s creator and handing the woman over to her mother.

  It boggled her mind to think she was contemplating such an action. Yes, she was a member of the Mercenary Guild. Yes, she trained in the arts of warfare. She never envisioned herself using subterfuge and guerilla tactics. Throwing her signature lightning from the battlefield while Kane evacuated the wounded. Confronting an enemy one-on-one with crossed blades. That was the path she had imagined this occupation taking her, at least when she wasn’t holed up in a chemistry lab while Kane haunted poetry readings.

  “You think anyone’s in there?”

  Toria squinted through the night into the darkened restaurant windows before answering Syri’s question. “Can you, I don’t know, sense anyone?”

  “Not from this distance,” Syri said.

  “Well, that sucks,” Toria said. “I’ve got the perfect charm for this occasion. Too bad I can’t use it.”

  “Only one way to find out, then.” Syri unbuckled her seatbelt. “Shall we?”

  The two girls left the town-car, shutting the doors with gentle clicks behind them. They stalked across the parking lot, lit by two single lampposts at the entrance of the road. This late at night, not even the fluorescent store signs were lit.

  Picking the front
lock to Fabbri’s restaurant proved simple, and Toria gave a silent thanks to Asaron’s patient lessons. But when Toria tried to turn the knob, it stuck.

  “Damn.” She knelt next to the door, but further investigation showed the lock did release. The ends of her fingers tingled when she touched the knob again, and she jerked her hand away.

  “Let me see.” Syri traded positions with Toria, crouching to place a hand on the knob while Toria kept watch on the silent street. “It’s definitely unlocked. But the place is warded.”

  “What? Warded how?”

  “To keep grumpy people like us out, I imagine,” Syri said. “It doesn’t feel designed to keep things in. It’s not elven work though. Got that metallic mage tinge to it.”

  Warding meant shielded against magic. “Can you get through it?”

  “I can try,” Syri said. “I might need to pull more power from you.”

  “Go ahead, it’s worthless to me right now.” Bracing her back against the wall, Toria held a hand down to Syri, still scanning the street around them.

  Syri threaded her fingers through Toria’s and once again drew power from her. They must make a sorry sight. The journeyman warrior-mage with no magic and a habit of losing her swords, and the injured elven teenager left doing the jobs by all rights Toria should have.

  The emanating power of Syri’s manipulations tickled the back of Toria’s neck, a sensation rather like spiders crawling up and down her spine. Converting human power must take more out of Syri than she let on, wearing down her own resources.

  Let this night end soon.

  “Got it.” Syri used Toria’s arm to haul herself to her feet, at the same time twisting the doorknob.

  The door to the restaurant swung open, and Toria poked a head inside. No alarm blared, just the small flash of blue light announcing her entrance, and no one came running. Good signs so far. The dark eatery looked much different than she last remembered, with the chairs up on tables and lack of kitschy music to match the décor. “No second floor to this place. I guess the back?”