Kiss of Steel

by McMaster, Bec

  Blade looked up in shock. “My queen?”

  “Your name?” she repeated gently.

  He had to think. Honoria could barely breathe for the sudden gleam of hope. Beside her she could see Vickers quivering with rage, his knuckles whitening on the chain links.

  Blade cleared his throat. “I were born ’Enry Rathinger.”

  “For your services to the realm, I name thee Sir Henry Rathinger.” She touched the tip of the sword to each of his shoulders. “Arise, my knight. And greet your peers.”

  The room erupted into mayhem. Vickers went pale with fury, and the prince consort stared at his wife with a deadly look on his face.

  Through all of the shouting and shocked gasps, Honoria found and met Blade’s gaze. He looked stunned. He knelt on the floor still as the room raged around them. Honoria found herself grinning stupidly, and then he was grinning too. The room faded away. All she could see was her love, and there was a chance now. A chance!

  His laughter faded away. He pressed his fingers to his chest, then his lips, and then held his hand out toward Honoria, palm upward.

  The moment gave him strength. Determination washed over his expression and he surged to his feet, silencing the roar of the crowd. The queen stepped back, trailing the borrowed sword along the marble tiles. Her gaze met her husband’s with a little flare of defiance.

  “You,” Blade said, focusing on Vickers. “I challenge you to a duel.”

  Vickers glared at him, then gave an ugly little smile. “I accept.”

  Chapter 30

  “He favors his left side, but don’t overextend, for he’s used it to his advantage in the past.” Barrons helped Blade slide his hand into the grip of the dueling sword. Blade gave a slight twist, and the overlapping plates of the hand guard extended up, enclosing his hand. The sword truly became an extension of his body. The only way to remove it would be to remove the arm.

  Blade took an experimental swing. It was heavier than he was used to, but perfectly balanced.

  “What other weapon do you want?” Barrons asked. “The shield? The mace?”

  Vickers was hefting a shield. Their eyes locked on each other. “No,” Blade said. “Just this.” He flicked open the razor in his palm, feeling it settle there like an old friend.

  “Unorthodox,” Barrons murmured, glancing around, “but it should give the crowd a thrill.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  Barrons grinned. “Aye, but, Sir Henry, you’re one of us now.”

  Blade grunted. He was nothing like them and he never would be.

  The floor had been cleared to reveal a brass ring cut into the marble. This was where the duel would commence. Any man who stepped outside that circle instantly declared forfeit.

  He had to focus. Vickers would be no easy kill, Blade knew, and the darkness within him was bubbling up, threatening to overtake him again. He couldn’t let that happen. There had been a moment when he’d woken from that monochrome nightmare and realized that he’d been about to tear his way through the Echelon with no thought to Honoria or his own safety. All that had mattered was Vickers and killing him.

  Blade looked down and clenched his fist within the protective casing of the sword hilt. If he lost control like that again, Vickers would have him. And Honoria would be better off dead.

  She stood by the dais, her chains placed in the hands of the Lady Aramina. The plain white robes of a blood slave revealed more flesh than was courteous, but she held herself still, ignoring the speculative glances of the men around her. There was a certain untouchable feeling that she projected, as though she had forgotten the world around her and focused only on Blade.

  When she saw him looking, she gave a weak little smile that didn’t fool him for a moment. She was scared. For him.

  “Are you ready, or should you like a few more moments to stare at your whore’s face? To memorize it for your years in hell?” Vickers taunted.

  Anger flashed through Honoria’s eyes, and Blade smiled. There. That was how he wanted to remember her.

  Turning, he favored Vickers with a cool look. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. You were a dog that should have been put down after you murdered your sister. An oversight I am about to correct.”

  Blade stepped into the brass ring. Silence fell across the room as the crowd craned their necks to see. He knew what Vickers was trying to do: rile the monster within so that he lost control. Nothing would ever ease the pain of Emily’s death—or the press of guilt he felt whenever he thought of her—but Vickers had his share of blame in that too. Yes, it had been Blade’s hand that ultimately caused the killing stroke, but he’d only been Vickers’s pawn.

  Thank you, Honoria.

  “Ain’t nothin’ less interestin’ than a man who keeps repeatin’ ’imself. Any time you’re ready, Your Grace.” He gestured to the ring. “I wouldn’t wanna keep you waitin’ after all ’em years.”

  “You will learn that I am nothing if not patient,” Vickers said as he swept the luxurious fur-lined cloak off his shoulders and tossed it at one of his cronies. He stood for a moment in his gold-leafed armor as though testing the edge of his sword, but his position placed him within a ray of light that shone through the glass panes in the ceiling. Some of the ladies in the crowd gasped.

  Knowing the figure he presented—strong, tall, his armor gleaming like an invulnerable god from legend—Vickers stepped into the circle.

  And Blade attacked.

  Vickers parried the blow with ridiculous ease, despite the fact that the edge of his heel was dangerously close to the brass ring. But Blade didn’t want to force him out of the circle and win by default. He wanted the man dead. He backed off.

  Vickers smiled darkly as though realizing his opponent’s intentions. He took a mocking step forward. “Come. Do your worst. Show us your little alley tricks.”

  A glimpse of Honoria drifted through the corner of Blade’s vision, white-faced and stiff with tension. Mine, whispered the darkness within.

  She’s bloody mine, he snarled back silently, feeling the press of the demon upon him. It wanted Vickers’s blood. For once they were in agreement.

  Forcing himself to block the hunger—even Honoria—from his mind, he lunged forward and met Vickers’s sword. The duke parried each thrust with economical skill, a little smile playing about his lips.

  “You have strength,” Vickers commented, whipping his shield up to block another blow. “But little skill or grace. Perhaps you should have chosen the broadsword. It seems more suited to your rudimentary style of hacking.”

  “You talk too much,” Blade said, slashing across Vickers’s guard. The wound at his side gave a warning throb and he pulled the blow unconsciously. It scattered harmlessly off the shield.

  As Vickers danced back, his guard lowering for a moment, Blade kicked him in the face.

  Vickers went down, his head cracking against the cold white tiles. The crowd gave a collective gasp, surging toward the circle with bloodthirsty glee. Blade leapt forward, bringing the sword down in a sweeping stroke. The duke saw it coming and rolled. Sparks showered off the marble as Blade’s sword bit deep.

  “Do try not to mark the atrium, Sir Henry,” Morioch called. “The marble is Italian. Very costly.”

  Blade circled Vickers, balancing low on his feet.

  Vickers got up and scrubbed blood from his nose. His eyes were darkening with fury. “You fight like an alley cur.”

  It was intended as an insult, Blade assumed. “Aye.”

  “Whatever was the queen thinking?” Vickers said, countering the next two strokes with exquisite ease.

  “Mayhap she wanted to see me slit you a new smile.” Blade waved the razor at him. “I don’t think she likes you.”

  Vickers’s gaze narrowed on the deadly weapon for a moment. “I grow weary of this toying. I thought to give you a somewhat honorable death, but why bother? You have no honor, and there is none to be gained from defea
ting you as a gentleman. Let me show you what a sword is for.”

  The rapier streaked toward Blade with vicious speed, but he blocked it. Barely. Then Vickers flicked his wrist and the tip sliced across the overlapping leather plates of Blade’s manica. He danced back on light feet as Vickers showed him just how easily he could pierce his defense. The swords tangled, Vickers lunging forward with elegant appeal and disengaging just enough to score a strike. Something stung hot and furious across Blade’s cheek. The scent of coppery blood filled his nose as the duke actually turned his back on him and bowed to the crowd. Blade wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand.

  Barrons caught his eye, gesturing swiftly with his hands as though trying to show him what to do. Someone clapped for Vickers. The duke of Morioch, of course, a smile on his thin lips. On the dais, the queen was watching, her hand secured beneath her husband’s.

  And Honoria was staring at him, her lip clenched between her teeth. She gave him a reassuring smile when their gazes locked, but he saw the truth written in her eyes. He could not defeat Vickers like this. The man was incredibly fast. Monstrously fast. And his skill with the rapier was superior in every way.

  “That is called the botta-in-tempo. A simple form, but highly effective,” Vickers lectured. He held the point of his sword low, as though daring Blade to attack.

  All right, then. Blade hefted his own sword. If he couldn’t win fighting Vickers’s way, then he would do it with his own. He made another preemptive strike.

  Vickers met the expected attack with a disdainful expression. “Pathetic, really—”

  Blade spun low under the point of the swords, his heel sweeping Vickers’s left foot out from under him. The little razor sliced in beneath the edge of Vickers’s breastplate. Blade felt it bite in, and then Vickers was falling with a surprised snarl, trying to bring his shield up in time. Blade leaped forward, the heel of his boot crunching into the breastplate. It crumpled beneath the force, the breath leaving Vickers in a rush.

  The duke’s head hit the marble, and his eyes widened in horror as his hair started shifting.

  What the hell? Blade missed the chance for another crushing kick as Vickers rolled. His hair tumbled half over his face as though he’d been scalped. A bloody wig.

  Blade flipped the tip of his sword and the wig sailed through the air, landing outside the circle. The room gasped as one, and Blade froze as Vickers looked up with a murderous gleam in his eyes. His scalp was pasty and bare, the skin flaking around a few straggling tufts of wiry hair. The sudden stench of sweet rot escaped him.

  “You son of a bitch,” he swore quietly. No wonder Vickers was faster than Blade. This was no blue blood he faced but a man well into the Fade.

  Shocked cries rang through the room as they saw the duke’s changed appearance. A man wearing enough heavy powder and rouge to hide the effects of the albinism. No doubt beneath the heavy breastplate and the padded shoulders, they would find the duke’s body starting to wither into the lean, stringy muscle tones of a vampire.

  “A vampire,” Blade spat. Elation soared through him. It didn’t matter now. Vickers would die. By his hand or by the executioners. And Vickers knew it.

  A look of fury and despair flashed over the duke’s face as he scanned the horrified crowd. They drew back from him, surging for the exit. His peers and so-called friends, and they turned their noses up at the first sign of the Fade.

  Slowly, Vickers’s gaze locked on Blade.

  “You’re done,” Blade laughed in sheer amazement. “You die today.”

  “Damn you,” the duke spat and launched himself at his opponent.

  He was no longer playing. This time he meant to kill. It took everything Blade had to turn aside a furious strike that almost decapitated him. He staggered back, step after step, barely keeping the rapier between them.

  Launching a rebutting kick against Vickers’s shield, Blade somehow turned the man off balance. The razor slashed across the duke’s face, almost an echo of Vickers’s previous blow. Blood splashed off the end of it, and a lady screamed as it spattered across her face. “It burns! It burns!”

  Blade ducked, sweeping under the next strike. He saw a chance and barreled forward beneath the edge of steel, his shoulder striking Vickers in the chest. They both went down, but a twist of Vickers’s hips sent Blade rolling over the top of his shield arm, momentarily leaving the duke open.

  Wrong bloody side. His razor was in the other hand, but he tried to slash at the duke’s face with his rapier. It was too unwieldy, and Vickers jerked his head aside as the sword harmlessly raked over the tiles.

  Both of them rolled, coming to their feet in low crouches. Vickers ripped at his shield and flung it aside, crumpling a quartet of youths with the heavy steel.

  As Blade watched, he wiped at the blood staining his cheek. Smooth, pasty skin met Blade’s incredulous eyes. Vickers’s wound had healed itself.

  “There are advantages, it seems,” Vickers said with a deadly smile. “I shall die, but by God I shall take you with me.”

  The line of metaljackets had formed up between the pair of them and the crowd on the dais. The prince consort had not shifted, his face a blank mask of cool interest. He meant to see this duel finished. Only then would he move to destroy Vickers. And perhaps see two enemies vanquished in one day.

  This time Vickers was prepared for his opponent. As Blade swept under his sword, Vickers countered with a dagger that had somehow appeared in his hand. It sank with a meaty thud between Blade’s ribs, opening up the vampire’s claw marks from the tunnel. Blade staggered, blood patterning the floor with dark, almost violet drops.

  Vickers gave him no time to catch his breath. The rapier slashed down Blade’s face from eyebrow to jaw. Blood dripped into his left eye and he turned instinctively, barely avoiding the responding attack. A reflective strike with the razor glanced off Vickers’s crumpled breastplate with a steely shriek.

  Blade barely had time to blink before the sole of a boot appeared in his vision. For a moment the world disappeared, and then he found himself on the floor, his head ringing from the crack of the tiles. As his head lolled to the side, he caught a glimpse of Will’s furious form trying to force his way through a pack of restraining blue bloods.

  And then Honoria, her face white with terror as she shoved her way through the metaljackets, the chain around her throat hauling her to a halt. She ripped at it, and though the duchess of Casavian had twice her strength, the end somehow sailed free. Honoria swung the chain and it sailed through the air, wrapping around the duke’s raised weapon.

  He jerked almost contemptuously, and Honoria gave a cry as she fell onto the floor in front of Vickers.

  Vickers straightened, curling his fist around the chain. An ecstatic laugh burst from his lips. His eyes were flooded with a demonic matte black. “And now I have you both.” He raised his sword, looking straight at Blade. “This time, you watch your love die.”

  “No!” Blade screamed.

  No, the darkness echoed.

  A moment of the constant fight, the edge of control slipping through his fingers. And then he made a conscious decision. He could not win, not against Vickers’s superior strength and speed. And so he let the darkness flood over him, through him, sinking itself into every cell of his body.

  The room fell away. Color leeched from the world. And Blade leaped for Vickers.

  His body cut through the air, almost as if time slowed around him. Vickers lashed out with the rapier, sending the stroke meant for Honoria toward him. Blade twisted minutely and it swept past him, the cool air of its passing rippling against his throat. The edge of his rapier sank through Vickers’s crumpled breastplate like cutting through soggy bread, the force of the blow driving the duke back.

  Twisting his wrist inside the hilt, Blade felt the wrist guard unlatch, and then he was free of its cumbersome weight. He rode Vickers to the ground, ignoring the sudden flood of heat as the dagger pierced his side again.

  Somewhere in
the distance someone was screaming “mine!” over and over again. Blade drew his fist back and smashed it into Vickers’s face. Blood burned his skin like acid, but the thought was distant, the rational notation of pain for a form long since gone.

  The darkness wanted only to kill, to protect what was his. Blood sprayed across the floor, darker than his own but not quite the viscous black fluid of a vampire. Then bone gleamed in the pulpy mess of Vickers’s face.

  “Blade!” A hand caught his arm and he spun, drawing back his fist with a snarl. Honoria froze, her shackled hands held in front of her in a placating manner.

  “You must come back,” she whispered. “I need you to let him go.”

  “I am always me,” Blade replied in a cool voice. The body on the floor in front of him was nothing but a mess of flesh and mangled bone, the face crushed to so much pulp. He looked down in puzzlement. There was blood all over him, a mixture of black and gray. His hands hurt.

  Honoria reached out, taking his hand in hers. They trembled and he gripped them strongly. “Please,” she said. “They will not allow you to live.”

  He looked around at the shocked crowd. Though danger stalked the arena, none of them had fled. Bloodlust now overruled their fear, and the metaljackets that surrounded the circle gave them a feeling of invulnerability.

  His lip curled. He could mow the metaljackets down before they even saw him coming. It was simply a matter of…

  Honoria squeezed his hand. “No.”

  He stroked her face, leaving a smear of blood across her cheek. “You are mine. They tried to ’urt you.” The clink of the chain caught his attention and a growl curled through his throat.

  “No,” she said, catching his hand and pressing it against his cheek. “Vickers tried to hurt me. He is dead. And you must let go before they decide to kill you too.”

  “I can kill ’em all,” he said. Could she not see how easy it would be? They were peacocks, fluffing their feathered fans.

  Honoria hesitated. “Please. For me.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to kill. He had only just begun. “Wet the walls with blood…”