by Declan Finn
Honor
At Stake
By
Declan Finn
Honor At Stake by Declan Finn
ISBN-13: 978-1533584694
ISBN-10: 1533584699
Cover art by: Dawn Witzke
Copyright 2015 Declan Finn
Printed in the United States of America Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights Worldwide English Language Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my family, who have tolerated me throughout all of this.
A quick word of thanks for the usual suspects—you know, the people who make every book possible, in one form or another.
Erin Lale, for enjoying the book. Kim Richards. Margaret Konecsni, of Just Write Ink! for her early edits. Ann Lewis and Karina Fabian of the Catholic Writers Guild for their friendship and advice.
To my CLFA peeps on Facebook, yay!
To Professor Jason Bieber, of the University of Dayton, for those nights where we stayed up until 2:00 a.m. fleshing out vampires, theology, and history.
Prologue
Lily Sparks was a standard issue girl with a non-standard issue boyfriend. She was short and cute and what might be called “bouncy,” while he was tall, clean cut, and cut a nice, trim figure in his army uniform. The way she was draped on his arm almost made her look like a fashion accessory, though she tended to think of the fellow as something that really looked nice on her arm.
Lily was happy, and had considered getting even happier a little later on. In fact, there was a nice, private alley that looked just perfect for getting the rest of the evening started. Her date was prim and proper, a perfect gentleman since they met.
Maybe it was time for that to change.
Lily changed direction, pulling her man to the alley. It was out of the line of sight for most foot traffic, and dark enough for her purposes. He was caught off guard by the maneuver. When she pushed him up against a wall and wrapped her arms around his neck, he was slow to respond.
The first noise she heard that wasn't from either of them was a cough, followed by a wheeze. Then she saw him out of the corner of her eyes–someone with a knife. The face was young, but the eyes were worn out and old. The only visible teeth were worn away, as though ground down over time.
Lily screamed. Her date turned towards the attacker, and only stared at the new arrival a moment.
“You want to mug us?” he asked, shaking his head slowly. “That's a mistake.”
The mugger smiled as much as he could without a full set of teeth, and came straight for Lily's date. The two men met in the middle.
Lily screamed again, at first in fear for her date, then in fear for her life.
Then in fear of her date as he turned on her, fresh blood around his lips.
Her screams still echoed in his ears five minutes later, as the man in the uniform stood in the alley, his mouth covered in blood, the coppery taste fresh in his mouth.
He smiled the whole time. He was perfectly happy.
Marco Catalano had enjoyed that.
Chapter One: Love at First Bite
September 22, Hudson University, New York City
Amanda Colt looked across the college classroom and hesitated. Something was off. Something in the room felt extremely threatening.
Amanda thought she might have found what it was when she saw him. Blond hair, blue eyes, looked nice enough—5'9” and well-built—though more like a dancer or a gymnast than a weightlifter. There was nothing effeminate about him, however. Quite the opposite.
Amanda slid into the only remaining chair, which the law of Murphy dictated had to be right next to this guy. He sat in the front row, in the corner nearest the windows, not the door—two good reasons why the other students would avoid the seat next to him.
Maybe she wasn't the only one who sensed something off.
The annoying thing was that she couldn't tell what was off about him. He didn't look unpleasant, smell strange, or make any weird noises. In fact, Amanda noted as she took the seat, he didn't do much of anything. His things were all laid out in proper order in front of him, his book was open and ready for notes, and he held a silver pen in his hand. Other than that, he was simply still. His focus was tight on the notebook, and his pen hovered over the page, waiting for a lecture to start.
“You might want to take a picture,” he said, voice deep and resonant, but just loud enough for her to hear. “It would certainly last longer.”
Amanda blinked, then shook herself. “I am sorry,” she said, her light Russian accent coming out like a kitten's meow.
He looked up, and she saw how dark his eyes were. Only because of her exceptional eyesight could she tell his eyes were blue. His face was almost locked with an eternal smirk of amusement. It occurred to her that he was smiling when she came into the room, and when she sat down, and the smile hadn't ever flickered, not even a little.
This man took her in with one sweep of his eyes, and then kept his face locked on hers. She was about as intimidating as a chipmunk, which was unusual enough for New York, but as sexy as the one that got away—you know, that one—only better looking. She was average height with long, red-gold hair that brushed the small of her back in a golden waterfall. Her eyes were a warm, liquid Frangelico brown and her skin Siberia pale. Her outfit today was casual, but form-fitting. Tight jeans and a sweater that should have covered her thoroughly, but they both somehow managed to be quite snug.
“Don't worry,” he said. “I'm sure that I'm not half as bothered by stares as you are.”
Amanda felt a smile tug at her lips, but ignored it. She did not have the fabled “beauty of a supermodel,” mainly because she was above a size zero.
“I am used to it,” she answered.
“I'll take your word for it,” he answered, his stare as unwavering as his smile. She was starting to realize what was wrong with him. He was utterly controlled. “Can't imagine being stared at often.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You aren’t ugly.”
He arched a brow. “Nor am I Leonardo DiCaprio pretty,” he said dryly. “Trust me when I say that I am not in the top ten male models for the year, or for the neighborhood.”
“Neither am I. I am too fat.”
He blinked, possibly for the first time since she laid eyes on him, and went over his scan of her body once more, not leering but reassessing. When he met her eyes again, he said, “If that is your idea of fishing for compliments, you need better bait.”
She nodded, allowing a small smile to slip in. “Good response.” She glanced at the whiteboard with Fencing in big black letters. She was in the correct room. “You are joining the fencing team?”
“I'm here, aren't I?” he replied. He glanced over his shoulder, out the window. The day had been heavily cloudy since dawn, and had only gotten worse. “At least the day's almost over.”
“For me, it is just beginning,” she answered.
He looked back at her and cocked his head. “Truly?” He broke eye contact with her, the gaze moving to her hands and her cheek, and even her neck—going for exposed skin, she realized. “Night classes all the way, is
it?”
“Yes.” She raised her white hand. “Am I that obvious?”
“Yup.”
She held her hand out towards him. “I am Amanda Colt.”
“Have any relatives in Pennsylvania?” he asked jokingly. He took it firmly in his. “Marco Catalano.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
He nodded. “Likewise.”
* * * *
Marco and Amanda walked out of the building and onto the campus plaza. The great lawn of the campus was bracketed on three sides by buildings, and its southern end was butted up against one of the numerous parking lots on campus. They decided to cut across the middle.
As they passed by the large cross in the middle of the lawn, it seemed that Marco kept Amanda between him and the cross.
“So,” she asked, “what is a Physician Assistant?”
“The Marines of the medical profession,” he replied. His smile was still frozen on eternal amusement, as though he believed her ignorance of his profession was more a joke than an offense. “We learn nearly everything that a doctor does in two years, rather than four of med school. We're writing prescriptions after we graduate with a master’s degree, and, on average, making six figures within six years.”
She furrowed her pretty brow. “Really? Why have I never heard of them?”
“Because it's something created by the Vietnam war, and most doctor shows on television have yet to catch up to it.”
Amanda frowned at the two items linked together. “Do you think everyone gets their information from television, or just me?”
Marco sighed, but the expression didn't waver. “The dissemination of information is linked heavily to popular culture. Vietnam wasn't popular. The one major show of our lifetimes that tried to deal with it was called China Beach in the 1980s. Their history was frighteningly bad at times. Physician Assistants were a way of dealing with combat nurses who had learned more practical medicine in the field than major trauma centers. The only time I ever heard of a PA on television was on ER for a few seasons, when they pretended to deal with medical emergencies.”
“Well, thanks for the history lesson. I can see why you would go into that field. Fencing, though…”
Marco gave a short laugh through his nose. “I could say the same of you. You deal with blades before?”
She almost laughed. “Oh yes, more than once. You?”
“High school, when they let us play with swords.”
“Ah, good. It should be interesting.”
Marco hefted his briefcase a little higher. “I'm headed to Brooklyn. I'd offer to give you a lift, but obviously you're just starting your classes for the day.”
“You’re driving?”
“My family needs the car off the street during daylight hours. My father walks to work, my mother takes the train, and I'm the last man standing. Hence, the car. You?”
“I live in the city.” She looked around the campus, and considered skipping her classes and leaving with him. She had her books and syllabi from online, and little was going to happen on the first day. Despite his occasionally disturbing directness, she found him interesting.
“Nice,” he said. “Rich family?”
“You could say that.”
“In which case, I won't say it too loudly.” As he stopped near the parking lot, he nodded to her. “Again, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Ms. Colt.”
“The same for me, Marco.”
He gave a deep, old fashioned bow, then turned and walked away.
Maybe he worries people because he seems like he's out of time and place, she thought.
* * * *
Amanda Colt walked into her apartment, and looked around the quiet flat. There was little there in terms of color. The furnishings were basic. The only part of her life that wasn't frugal was the location, and anything in Manhattan was expensive.
She slipped into the chair at her computer, warmed it up, and typed in a simple name.
Marco Catalano, Brooklyn…
She found nothing.
It was like he didn't exist. How is that possible? In an age when even cats have Facebook pages, how can Marco not have even a single mention online? Where is he from? The Dark Ages?
* * * *
October 15th
Marco Catalano appeared to have one goal in mind.
To cut Amanda Colt's head off.
The student went after her with frequent attacks. She parried and attacked immediately, but his weapon was almost always there, waiting for her. It was practically magical.
However, Amanda's major asset was speed. Marco was quick. She was quicker.
Her next attack was a thrust. He twisted his body to deflect it past him, and lunged forward. She pulled back in time, bringing her sword down on his, nearly sending it into the floor. One flip of his wrist used that momentum to arc the sword around towards him, then overhead, for her face. Her sword came up to meet his, but he pulled back until the sword slid off, then thrust for her collar.
Amanda's blade came down, sweeping his away. She didn't give him time to pull his sword back to first position. She lunged for his center mass. His sword stayed with hers as he retreated, gliding along its length, deflecting the thrust as it came at him. She withdrew, but his sword stayed with hers like glue. The tip went over, down and around her blade like a snake before he flicked his wrist in a flourishing disarm.
“That's enough,” the instructor said.
He pulled back for a thrust that would skewer her, but she grabbed her own sword in mid-flight and used it to parry him. The swords crashed, came down, around, and back up, starting in first position.
“That's enough, thank you,” the instructor bellowed this time.
Marco pulled back, then gave a quick salute with the sword. She returned it, and they both withdrew to the same side of the gym, letting the next two fencers have time on the floor.
Amanda took off her face mask, her long hair tumbling down her back. “That was impressive.”
Marco put his mask in the crook of his arm. His smile was still there. “It's easy when you have a computer-like mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I fence like I play chess. I try to think several moves ahead.”
“You cannot account for everything.”
“Usually, I can,” he answered, slipping his gloves off. He paused in the middle of removing the second glove. “Well, there are always surprises. When you suddenly sped up, you almost had me a few times before I could compensate. If you had just gone that fast at the start, I'm sure I would have been in trouble. Especially when you caught your sword as it was flying. That was a nice touch.”
She blushed a little, slightly mortified that he noticed that. “No one else saw it.”
“That's because they've gotten used to not seeing anything that we do when fencing. It's like they're just waiting for us to get a draw.”
“Then why don't they just let us fight other students?”
Marco arched a brow. She assumed that was a sign of greater amusement, but it was hard to tell. “This semester is, what, a month old? In that time, we were both upgraded from beginners, to advanced, to dueling with the instructor. It's the only way to run the class and get everyone to practice. If they make us duel the others, we’ll essentially be teaching them. If they start making us instructors, I will probably quit. I came here to practice, not sit, watch, and correct.”
Amanda nodded. “I agree. Though, let us face it, we are not exactly fencing.”
He cocked his head, saying nothing.
She smiled and elaborated. “Have you seen professional fencing? It is boring.”
“True, but then, I like to practice as though someone is actually trying to kill me.” He stared at her for a moment. It was like he was trying to read her mind. “Would you like to hang out at some point this weekend?”
“Why wait?”
He glanced at his watch. “Odd, I would have thought you had classes right now.
”
“I do, but I know what they've been teaching lately.”
Marco's smile expanded a moment, then snapped back to the standard smirk. “Heh. Funny, I have the same aversion to core classes—required for the University, yet utterly useless.”
She cocked her head, her long red hair falling over one shoulder. “I thought that your degree made every course necessary?”
“Yeah, but they're still rather basic.”
She studied him a moment, this time trying to read his mind. She was coming up blank. “Do you realize that you seem, hmm, different?”
He stopped and stared at her a moment, and then laughed. He laughed so loudly that the two fencers on the mat both stopped and stared at them. He kept laughing so long everyone wondered how he failed to run out of breath.
“That's a good one,” he said at last. “Where would you like to start?”
“With the two of you,” the club moderator shouted, “outside!”
* * * *
Marco, dressed now in a full suit and tie, and Amanda, dressed in her usual sweater and jeans, looked like an odd couple as they emerged from the basement level gym where the fencing club had been banished to after an incident involving a rapier and the car of the University President.
“Shall we stay to the left, in the shade of the trees?” he asked.
“Why? Are you allergic to the sun?”
Marco's smile of amusement turned into a smirk, even though not a single muscle in his face moved. “I'm actually assuming that your white, Russian skin is sensitive. Otherwise, you wouldn't bother with all that suntan lotion.”
“You do not exactly tan either, for someone who is Italian.”
“You mean 'Catalano'? The family is from northern Italy, and close to Switzerland, and especially close to Celtic raiders who popped in and out of the area a lot, back in the old days.”
“That’s interesting. That old, hmm?”
“Sure, that's why I'm a freak.”
She touched his arm lightly, a fleeting motion of comfort. “I didn’t say you are a freak.”
