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 another 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.