Steel Victory (Steel Empire Book 1) (33 page)

She wouldn’t quibble over trivialities, despite the fact that Article Seventeen gave her the right to retain all weaponry. They were at war, after all. A point to Octavian for not being stupid. In silence, she dangled the pistol from her pinky for the soldier on her right to retrieve, then stood with her hands held a few inches from her sides.

Reassured that she wasn’t about to replace the pistol with a knife, the aide approached with the handkerchief. He handed it to Victory with another bow. She assumed the small coat of arms belonged to Octavian. Presenting it for her keeping implied that she remained under his protection during the audience.

“Thank you,” she said to the aide. “Please lead on.”

The soldiers fell into an honor guard around them, escorting Victory and the aide through the camp’s command center. Shouting officers who coordinated with other areas of the camp via radio fell silent when they passed, staring at the scruffy armed vampire being given the deference due any Roman lady of birth. Rumors must be spreading like wildfire already.

Spotlights lit a group of tables near the largest pavilions. General Octavian stood ready to greet her, distracted from his stance of attention just once to sign a clipboard for yet another aide. His support staff dropped what they were doing when Victory halted a few feet from Octavian. The officers saluted as one, and Octavian bowed.

He held the position for the full three seconds decreed for a high-ranking military official to give a member of the lesser nobility. He did the political dance well, even dressed in fatigues and dirt-scuffed boots.

Victory inclined her head when he rose. “Thank you for the chance to parlay,” she said. “If there is any question of my use of Article Seventeen, I assure you I can be found in the history books in the seventh dynasty House Galerius, as Leto Galerius’ first wife.”

“Thank you,” Octavian said, “but I don’t think a check will be necessary.”

Convenient, since such a check would be impossible in their current situation. She folded his handkerchief into a small square before tucking it away in her pocket. She withdrew a delicate white satin glove that had been wrapped around her belt. Its twin had been ruined years ago by a much younger Toria playing tea party. So it caused her no hardship to toss the glove to the dirt between them.

Octavian stared at the glove, then traded bemused looks with the officer next to him. “You can’t be serious,” he said to Victory.

“Deathly serious,” she said, “as it were.” She kept her gaze level, resisting the urge to give her own short bark of laughter. The situation had indeed shifted from the strange to the downright absurd.

“Didn’t your little town outlaw dueling fifty years ago?”

“Luckily, we’re three miles from the city limits,” she said. “Are we going to get on with this, or do I need to insult your manhood or something equally juvenile?”

After exchanging one more nod with his fellow officer, Octavian said, “Then I see I have no choice but to accept. Dare I ask the reason for this little stunt?”

“Sure,” Victory said. “If I win, I have effectively decapitated your army and left them no choice but to turn around and go home.”

“And if I win, I imagine I’ve just killed an obnoxious vampire whose forces will fight all the harder. I’d hardly call that fair.”

“Too bad you already accepted the challenge,” Victory said. “Your choice of weapon, sir.” She could feel the smirk emerging on her lips at the effort to retain dignity in the face of such a bizarre scenario. Asaron would be proud.

“I will confer with my officers,” Octavian said, a note of stiffness appearing in his voice. He was not as amused, evidently.

“Take all the time you need.” She’d surprised him. That was a good thing. Now how long she could drag this little drama out?

The minutes stretched while a huddle of men surrounded Octavian, and runners were sent back and forth with messages and directions for other areas of the command center. The rest of the war did not halt for her, after all. Victory took the time to study the officers around her, all of whom stared at her with blatant curiosity until she met their eyes. Then they were back to work, pretending they’d never paid any attention to her, nor that they’d found themselves unable to meet her direct gaze.

“I’ve made my decision.” Octavian’s announcement jerked her attention back to the man in front of her. He stood flanked by subordinates, solid resolve emanating from the entire group. “The weapon shall be pistols. My second shall be Commander Tiberius Ibrahim.”

“Silver bullets, I assume?” Victory said.

“Of course.” Octavian made a slight gesture with one hand, and yet another aide ducked into one of the pavilions behind them.

“Excuse me, sir,” Ibrahim said. “But the lady has no second herself, leaving the requirements for a formal duel unfulfilled.” His voice dripped with satisfaction as he probed for any hole in Victory’s farce to exploit.

A soldier’s shout of warning rang out behind Victory, and rifles all around the command center sprang to attention. These must be the elite guard, to be outfitted all with firearms. She turned on her heel, keeping her hand from her own sword lest Octavian decide she had broken their terms of truce.

A lone figure emerged from the shadows between two of the grander pavilions—a tall man, battered and blood splattered. He pushed messy red hair out of his face, leaving behind another bronze streak.

It was the loveliest sight Victory had seen in days. He’d probably been waiting to make such a dramatic entrance.

“I’ll be her second,” Asaron said. “I almost wish she’d chicken out so I could take you on myself.” He walked across the silent clearing to take his comforting place on Victory’s left. “But alas, my girl would never do such a thing. So let’s get on with this.”

Octavian had sent two soldiers running during Asaron’s speech, but the elder vampire laughed while the men passed by. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The kid is long gone, too.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” the general said, a growl entering his voice. “Since it seems I have no control over my own camp anymore.”

The aide returned from the pavilion and presented a wooden box to Octavian. The general opened it to reveal two ivory-handled pistols. With a curt nod, he directed the aide toward Victory.

The young officer approached with hesitant steps, stopping far enough away that Asaron was forced to step forward to give the pistols a proper inspection. He wiped his hands on his battered leather trousers before handling the fancy weapons. He checked the chambers, popping out the single silver-plated bullets and reloading them with deft fingers. Asaron gave a double thumbs-up to Octavian before returning to Victory’s side.

While Octavian had his aides mark out the official twenty paces that would separate the duelists, Asaron said to Victory, “You sure about this, love?”

“I can take one bullet,” she said. “Just...make sure that’s all they get the chance for, okay?”

He captured one of her hands in his larger ones, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Mikelos will haunt me to the end of time if I let something happen to you.”

“I know,” Victory said.

“Are you going to kill him?”

Before she could respond, Octavian called out from across the command center. “If you’re quite ready.”

Asaron joined Ibrahim to the side of the marked out line, the two seconds creating an incongruous pair. Victory took her place where another soldier indicated, accepting her weapon with a simple thanks. The soldier did not return her politeness, but that was to be expected.

She hefted the pistol, preparing herself both mentally and physically. Down the line, Octavian stood with military precision, waiting for Ibrahim to call the beginning of the duel. Victory cocked the gun and leveled it at Octavian, nodding her own readiness.

“I hereby revoke my protection of the Lady Victory Galerius,” Octavian said. “You may proceed, Commander.”

“Yes, sir,” Ibrahim said. “On my mark, sir, my lady.” He raised an arm to the dark sky.

Victory drilled holes in Octavian’s head with her eyes, but he avoided her direct gaze. She felt his own attention aimed at her heart.

“Mark.”

She wasted no precious time before squeezing the trigger. She kept her arm steady while simultaneously shifting the rest of her body, side-stepping with a short burst of vampiric speed.

A bloom of red appeared over Octavian’s stomach at the same instant a searing pain shot through Victory’s right shoulder. She’d forgotten how much silver burned under her skin, unlike the simple electric tingle above.

Chaos broke out across the command center. But most importantly, the bullet missed her heart, the last spot truly vulnerable to a vampire her age. She remained on her feet.

Judging by the shock on Octavian’s face as he clutched his stomach and stared at her with wide eyes, he hadn’t been expecting her to still be standing.

Two of Octavian’s officers ran toward her with swords drawn, past their wounded general already being tended by Ibrahim and a medic. Asaron slammed into one of them from the side, tackling him to the ground and distracting the other long enough for Victory to wrestle her sword from its sheath.

Feeling her strength flow out of her along with the blood from her shoulder, she managed to swing her sword underneath the soldier’s guard and catch him between his pants and bulletproof vest. The tip of the blade pierced his skin, and she flung him aside, twisting the sword out of him with the flick of her wrist. He landed with a howl, blood pumping from his stomach.

Victory didn’t give him a second look. She stalked toward Octavian, and Asaron joined her side, wiping fresh blood from his mouth.

They drew to a halt a few feet away from where Octavian had been lowered to the ground. The medic had pressed bandaging over the general’s wound, frantically trying to stem the flow of blood. Victory smelled stomach fluid. Even if they managed to fix the wound, Octavian was at huge risk for infection. Ibrahim drew his sidearm and stood to face them.

“Stop!” He cocked the pistol and aimed it back and forth between the vampires, unsure of who posed the greater threat. “You got what you wanted. Now get out of here before I have both of you killed.”

Victory exchanged glances with Asaron. They couldn’t stop now. Not when they were so close to cutting out the heart of this fruitless invasion. Fighting had mostly ceased around the camp, leaving only the screams of wounded. Having no idea who had emerged the victor, she couldn’t take any chances.

Asaron drew the knife tucked into his belt and let it fly at Ibrahim. It stuck in the commander’s neck, forcing the man to drop his gun and clutch at this throat. The medic bolted to his feet and ran as Ibrahim collapsed over Octavian’s legs.

In another burst of speed, Victory stood over Octavian, placing the tip of her sword against his throat. Soldiers all around the clearing aimed guns, crossbows, and longbows at her, poised to fire.

“If you kill me,” Octavian said, gasping out the words around his pain, “you won’t make it out of here alive.”

“Good thing I’m already dead, then,” Victory said. “This is what you get for taking on Limani. This is the message your men will take back to the Emperor.”

“I am glad to die for my—”

Victory couldn’t wait any longer, judging from the amount of her own blood soaking her leather vest. She pressed down on her sword, using her own weight to push the blade through Octavian’s throat. The tip glanced off his spine, leaving a jagged, spurting gash.

A collective howl went up around the camp, and Asaron dragged Victory to the ground with him. Bullets passed over their heads before a second shout called off the soldiers’ hasty actions.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?” Victory said. She gritted her teeth before a gasp of pain could escape her mouth. Asaron had most of his weight on her injured shoulder, but she wasn’t going to complain about him saving her skin.

They grabbed hands and rolled to their feet, balancing their weight against each other for momentum. Now she noticed Asaron also bled from multiple wounds—he hadn’t reached her side unscathed. “Run!”

Drawing on reserves of strength she hadn’t known still existed, the two vampires dashed from the camp. She wasn’t sure who hauled who most of the way in the blind blur as men and tents gave way to trees and brush. But the next thing she knew, dark woods surrounded them. Starlight brightened a road a little farther ahead.

“Come,” Asaron said. They made it the rest of the way, but Asaron collapsed onto the side of the road first. Victory sank to her knees next to him. “See?” Asaron said. “We’re good.”

“We’re both going to bleed out before we make it home,” Victory said. The wound on her shoulder screamed. The silver bullet in her body prevented any healing, and she felt herself draining away by inches. And Asaron had too many bullet holes to count, despite the amount of Roman blood he’d taken once freed from imprisonment.

“Stop. Hear that?” Asaron peered down the road, and Victory followed his gaze with eyes that felt hard to keep open.

A truck appeared, chugging along the road as if it didn’t know a war was on. A truck with a Roman license plate on the front fender. Cursing this sudden bad luck, Victory pushed herself to her feet using her sword for balance. Not that she knew what she would do if the truck was full of soldiers bent on revenge.

The vehicle slowed, finally halting right next to where Victory stood. She raised her sword with hands that couldn’t quite tell whether they still had fingers attached to them.

The passenger-side window rolled down, and a head popped out. “Hey, Mama!” Toria said. “You and Grandpa need a ride home?”

EPILOGUE

Mikelos slipped his hand into Victory’s underneath the council table. While strange to have him by her side in this setting, it also felt reassuring after the whirlwind events of the past few days. But he helped to fill the room, disturbingly empty without Lorus and Fabbri, both in police custody. And Sethri, ready to be buried the next evening.

A speakerphone sat in the middle of the conference table. From it emanated the strong voice of the young Roman emperor, dimmed only by the distance of an ocean. The council had nominated Victory to be acting head, due to both her political experience and knowledge of how to deal with temperamental nobility from her days as a professional bodyguard.

“So now that you’ve ruined my plans to expand my territory on the New Continent,” Emperor Benedictus said, “and alerted the entire British Empire to be on guard against future attacks, how do you propose to amend this problem?”

“Need I remind you, sir,” Victory said, “that your use of a nuclear device breaks international treaties, never mind your attempts at expansion. So I don’t believe Limani owes you any sort of apology.”

The rest of the council gaped at her, though Mikelos sat back in his chair. He’d done his share of standing toe-to-toe with nobility.

“Well, the British ambassador here in Roma has been clamoring for apologies since the news broke yesterday of the attack on Limani,” Benedictus said. “And we’ve not even done anything directly to the British.”

And here the emperor began to show his true youth, at least in the political arena. The old emperor might have trained his nephew up a bit more before passing away and feeding him to the wolves.

“If you’ll take a piece of advice from an old mercenary who has dealt with the British,” Victory said, “they don’t really need an excuse to clamor for anything.”

“I’d hate to ask your opinion of the Empire, then.” A short chuckle emerged from the speaker.

He was lightening up. She could work with this. “While honorable to a fault, I feel your typical Roman citizen believes Might makes Right.”

From her other side, Max stifled a laugh. One of the human members of the council, on the other hand, looked ready to pass out from embarrassment.

“I thank you for that, my lady,” Benedictus said. “Your honesty is a refreshing change from my ministers here in Roma. I don’t suppose I could tempt you with the honor of a state visit? I realize I have much to learn yet about ruling.”

“It is quite tempting,” Victory said. “But right now, my place is here in Limani. However, I believe I could offer you a piece of advice?”

“Be my guest,” Benedictus said.

“Don’t apologize to the British,” she said. “They will be sated by a formal apology to Limani. Which can be made at a conclave between all three countries designed to revisit the old treaties. Since I’m the only person in any of our three governments still alive who was part of the original treaty discussions, I feel obligated to admit it is time for some changes to be made. Territorial negotiations can certainly be made part of the new meeting.”

Silence from the speaker. The emperor probably hit the mute button for a short discussion with his own advisors, surrounding him as the rest of Limani’s council surrounded her. Everyone in the room on her end of the line tensed, waiting for a response.

“My lady Victory? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sir,” Victory said. “I’m not pressuring you to make a decision now, of course. Just offering my opinion on the situation.”

“And a good opinion it was,” Benedictus said. “Let me first announce here the need for a conclave between the Roman Empire, the British Empire, the official city-state of Limani, and any other countries wishing to attend, in order to discuss global matters in this new era.”

“Thank you,” Victory said. “Limani will be glad to attend.”

Toria sat with Kane and Syri in the back of the baking trial room, ready to sneak out at the first opportunity. They’d come to support her mother, one of the prime witnesses in Lorus’ trial for treason against Limani.

It had been an arduous trial, stretching through the long days of summer. Treason was serious business in Limani, and this was the first trial for such in over seventy-five years. Lorus never claimed innocence, but evidence of his guilt had been carefully drawn over the space of the last two months.

Now the room was packed to the brim, while television cameras shared the scene throughout the rest of Limani.

“How are you feeling, Syri?” Kane narrowed his eyes at the elven girl. “Too much yet?” A woman in the row ahead of them turned her head to glare at his interruption of the proceedings.

Syri had been stuck in the hospital for two weeks after the final battle, due to aggravating internal injuries from her original attack. Even now she wasn’t quite a hundred percent. But what most amused Toria was Kane’s attentiveness to the girl, who’d been inseparable from them since her release from the hospital. She was even coming to Europa with them in the fall, to attend the conclave called by the Roman Emperor.

“I’m fine,” Syri said, waving Kane back. “Shush.”

The central tribunal officer stood from the long table at the far front. Every little movement in the room ceased and silence descended over the crowd. He cleared his throat, and Toria felt everyone draw closer.

“In the trial of the city-state of Limani versus Lorus Erikson,” he said, “Lorus has been proven guilty of state treason and has been sentenced to death by hanging. No appeals will be granted due to the defendant’s previous documented confession.”

He banged his gavel, and the room exploded. Toria lost sight of her mother in the front row when people around them bounded to their feet. Cheers, jeers, and even various expressions of dismay surrounded them.

“Let’s get out of here,” Syri said. “It’s done.”

“Finally,” Toria said.

Fabbri clasped Victory’s hand as they stood at the edge of the pier. She would board a Roman cargo ship bound for the British colonies as soon as the deliveries to Limani finished unloading. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.”

“I am, too,” Victory said. “Such is life.”

Fabbri picked up one of the packs at her feet. “So it is. Though to be fair, banishment is preferable to death.”

“So it is,” Victory said.

Two dock workers approached, ready to bring Fabbri’s belongings on board the transport. “Guess this is it,” Fabbri said. “Take care of the city, Victory. And good luck in Roma.”

“I will,” she said. “Good luck yourself.” Victory moved away while Fabbri helped the men gather the rest of her bags. The encounter had been awkward, but she’d been the one to volunteer to see the woman out of Limani territory, now that Lorus’ trial was over. Missing the man’s execution at noon hadn’t pained her in the slightest.

She returned one last wave as Fabbri boarded the ship, then turned back toward the customs house where Mikelos waited in the air conditioning. She sank into the chair next to him in the empty waiting room and let her head fall to the side to rest on his shoulder.

“She off?” Mikelos said. He looked up at her from his pages of musical notation.

“She’s gone,” she said. “The world can go back to normal now. At least until the fall.”

“You excited to go back to Europa?” Mikelos patted her knee before rising to his feet. “Visit the old stomping grounds?”

“I’m more excited for next week’s emergency elections, when I no longer have to act as interim council head.” Victory followed Mikelos out of the waiting room and out to the town-car. The horn from the cargo ship sounded, and they paused to watch it back away from the pier. “But yes. The trip will be good. The world needs it.”

The surreal situation did not hit Toria until mid-song on the Twilight Mists dance floor. She froze, staring at the other dancers and people lounging on couches or chatting at high-top tables. “What are we even doing here?”

Kane and Syri had been dancing rather inappropriately together next to her, but she assumed that had to do with the fact that Duncan, Kane’s ill-fated date from earlier in the summer, was staring at them from the bar. They broke away from each other.

“It’s Thursday night,” Kane said. “Thursday night is half-price drinks and industrial music. I’m here for the drinks and the boys. You’re here for the music and the drinks and the boys. Syri’s here because she’s been attached to us all summer. And possibly for the boys.”

“You’re the only man for me, darling,” Syri said.

Kane laughed. “Still not interested. What’s wrong, Tor?”

“This!” Toria waved her arms around. “These people! They’re acting like nothing happened this summer.”

Kane took her hands in his. “Come on, hon, it’s not that bad.” He must have seen the stress in her eyes, because he said, “Should we call Daliana for dinner tomorrow?”

Toria had occasionally seen Daliana in her official capacity since high school, and both she and Kane had visited her multiple times over the summer. The elven psychiatrist had been booked solid for weeks as the residents of the city absorbed the recent events, but she was willing to see them at her house over meals rather than during office hours.

“This isn’t some flare-up of my nonexistent posttraumatic stress disorder.” Toria shook her head. “This is dehydration. Let’s get beer.”

Once the three were ensconced on their own couch, beer acquired, Toria continued. “This isn’t over. This won’t be over until the conclave in Europa. Which we can’t attend. Despite the fact that we are the reason there is still a Limani to attend the conclave.”

“Is that what this is about?” Syri said. “Not being able to go next month?”

“Fall classes start in two weeks.” Kane reached across Toria to clink bottles with Syri before taking a swig of his beer. “I’m not taking a semester off and messing up our graduation date. Sorry, love.”

“I could go,” Syri said. “I graduated college last century.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere without us,” Kane said. “Not until we figure out just how much of your magic is entwined with ours after being in Toria’s head. Zerandan’s orders. And Victory’s.”

A knot began to loosen inside Toria, and a bit of tension drained out of her tightly wound soul. “So life can go on as normal, and we can go back to being treated like children.”

“So life can go on as normal,” Kane said, “and we can dance. After we finish our beer.”

Toria draped her arms over the top of the couch to either side of her, drawing Kane and Syri closer. “We really are stuck with you now, aren’t we?”

“You complaining?” Syri said.

Toria laughed. “Not complaining at all.”