Iron Dominance

by Cari Silverwood

  So be it. She’d known this would happen. She’d known.

  * * *

  If palace security shadowed her to the rendezvous point, she couldn’t spot them. Just as well, for Francine de-camouflaged from a wall of tropical plants halfway up the grand stairs that spiraled to the roof. On her slim, muscular body, the greens and creams of the wall and the plants slowly moved across her skin. She was naked, as she had to be, when going quiet.

  The patches of chameleon color merged, then faded to the dark chocolate Francine favored. For the thousandth time, Claire thanked her stars that she didn’t have Francine’s ability. Going naked in enemy territory wasn’t tempting. If things went wrong, Francine had minimal time to grab a weapon or even clothes. There’d be a stash somewhere, though.

  Francine nodded. Though silent, her eyes spoke of the same ache to tell all that Claire felt. Best friends in the past, but what were they now? Could she trust Francine?

  She wrenched her thoughts back on track. How would the Guard watch her when this was going to be out in the open on the roof? If Inkline had some auxiliary plan and security turned up, the wrong people might die.

  The last flight of stairs took her out through a door with a newly disabled lock. Confirmation that they’d infiltrated the palace. Someone was out here. Francine followed her through. She stepped out under the stars, felt the cool breeze, smelled the tang of the sea off to the southwest. Her bustle ruffled and fluttered in the force of the wind.

  Assassin’s garb, this was not. She hungered for a black slink-cloth coat and tights, with a side order of gauss pistol and knife.

  The palace wasn’t made to be overlooked and the only structures, on the same level or above, were watchtowers a quarter mile away.

  Hopeless. Where was security? They’d not given her the plan apart from engage him in conversation and keep him here.

  Slowly her eyes adjusted to the low light.

  Off to the right she saw the glint of moonlight on a swimming pool. In front of her, rendered in gray and black courtesy of the night, was a lounging area flanked by potted palms and sculpted plants in tubs. Ivy on lattice walled two sides of the garden. Inkline sat forward on a white sunning chair. The others, she detected and marked their position.

  She went to him, stood there at parade rest. It was automatic even now. And, she wanted him to think her harmless.

  “Good evening, Claire,” he said crisply. “How have you been?”

  An inane question. She licked her lips. Nerves. Damn, she couldn’t afford nerves. She needed precision, unmistakable purpose. Instead she got nerves.

  His bald pate glimmered with moonlight. Black shirt and leggings—he got to dress properly for the occasion—and a belt weighed down by a pistol on one hip, and sheathed bayonet on the other.

  He unfolded, standing over her. Slick and malevolent, he drew the bayonet and crowded her eye with the tip. She strived not to lean away, succeeded.

  “I’m well actually. I could take that off you in a millisecond.”

  “Of course, but…I have four of my best watching us.”

  She didn’t look. Let them think they were concealed. Francine would be the fourth. God knew where she’d found to hide.

  “You are the fifth, darling.”

  “Fifth?” The knife tip wavered at her lower eyelid.

  “Yes, fifth best. And my, how well you’ve done since we parted ways. Found yourself a Theo and hung on to him. Waiting, were we? For instructions?”

  “Mm-hm.” Fifth best? With sharp time she could run rings around the others. Not the strongest or smartest, but she was fast, and tonight, she prayed that was all she needed.

  “What a pity he’s the wrong Theo.” He laughed. “Of course, I’m not stupid. You’ve been rutting your little brains out, haven’t you?”

  Oh, hell. She swallowed. The knife tip slid down, pressed on her cheekbone.

  “Haven’t you?” The knife went down her face and then throat, never quite cutting, then across to her left nipple. “Haven’t you?” He dug it in a little, and she felt a spike of pain and the wetness of blood on her breast.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And here I was holding myself back because I thought I’d hinder your performance. Why did I bother? Tut-tut.” Even in moonlight she saw the narrowing of his eyes. “Well. It’s good though. After this I’ll know where to come for my relief. Won’t I?” He grabbed her breast, squeezed hard.

  She winced. The churning mess in her stomach threatened to spew from her mouth. “So,” he said cheerily, with eyes as dead as stones. He stepped away, sheathed the bayonet. “Now we’ve settled that, I need you to kill the president. Don’t fail… Fail, and your lover dies. Understand?”

  Oh God. My worst fear. She wanted to shut her eyes and scream. A droplet of sweat ran between her shoulder blades. Inkline doesn’t trust me at all. No one does.

  She couldn’t walk away and let the palace security deal with this, wherever the hell they were hiding. Inkline alive meant Theo would die. He’d not renege on his promise.

  “I understand.”

  Inkline liked to pull all the strings. No second in command. The PME had stopped the assassination order. He was out on his own with no support. If she eliminated him, it would be over. Theo would live. The president would live.

  “I’d like a kiss before we get down to business,” Inkline said.

  She snapped her gaze back on him. The grin on his face made her ill. His lips were parted. His skin glistened.

  Ugh. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought of him pressing his mouth on hers. She backed away, circled. It didn’t matter if she lived or died, only that Inkline died. The others were fast, if not as fast as her. If she stabbed Inkline, they might still get her, and a knife might not kill. She needed something surer, something that couldn’t fail.

  He turned on his heel, following her. “Where are you going? Stop…right…there.”

  She froze. A habitual reaction. He snared her cold hand and brought it soft and trembling to his mouth. Ice ran down her arms, her spine. She needed to let him get close anyway. Needed him stirred up so he thought she was easy prey.

  Five yards back was the edge, with a railing to stop anyone accidentally toppling over. She didn’t aim for this to be accidental.

  “There.” His lips pressed against her knuckles like an amorous snail, wet and squishy. He cupped her breast, wriggled his hand into her cleavage. She could feel his fingers scrabbling about until he grabbed her nipple and clamped down hard enough to make her wince.

  She had to be certain Inkline died. The man always had liked kissing her, groping her. She knocked away his hand, though it made his fingers jerk painfully on her nipple, and fled a few more steps.

  “No. No more.” She put a tremor in her voice, kept on backing away, then let him catch her again.

  “What? Shy?” He chuckled.

  A few more unsteady steps with him pushing…and her bottom hit the railing. Inkline put a hand either side to trap her against the rail. Predictable, arrogant man.

  Up close, silvered by the moon high to her right, his lips shone wet and dark; his eyes were wide, devouring her.

  “Better, pet. Stay.” He leaned in, angling his mouth.

  Sharp time.

  She took his forearm, slithered down, and ducked beneath his arm, whipped around behind, and pushed. He went over the rail like a fish sliding over a dam, with a death grip on her wrist that twisted painfully. A jerk, as his weight yanked on her arm. He tumbled sideways slowly, legs, arm flailing.

  She overbalanced, bent at the waist across the railing. Another second, they’d both be falling.

  The scuffle of shoes from behind warned of others. If they shot her, Inkline would fall.

  She twisted to free her arm, but the swinging weight and his strength defeated her. Inkline’s mouth was wide, lips stretched, teeth bared. If she fell, death would take her. Irrevocable. Sharp time couldn’t stop death.

  The parapet dragge
d on her dress, ripped fabric—another inch, and she’d be too far over to pull back.

  The lights below called to her. Inkline screamed, but the sound hadn’t hit. She leaned into the pull, let herself slide, headfirst, toward the ground. Trails of superheated air sped past her ear, shedding red sparks, heading inward to the roof—bullets from somewhere out there. The watchtowers, of course. Inkline’s head exploded in a puff of slow-moving blood.

  Snipers. What the—

  A sword flashed, carved straight through Inkline at the elbow. She threw her left hand up, clawed fingernails into stone, swung from head down to right way up to hang from her hands. Her back felt like a target. She hauled herself onto the palace roof.

  Sharp time…ended.

  Where are those snipers?

  She staggered and sprawled onto the tiles, on top of a soft body. She’d survived. Her nails were torn to the bleeding edge, her thighs and waist had been scraped raw…but she lived.

  “Francine?”

  Her friend grinned back from underneath her, clapped her on the arm. “Whew. Thought I was too late there. Let’s go.” She wriggled out from under Claire, went to rise.

  “No!” Claire slapped her back down. “Stay. There’s snipers.” She glanced about. Three bodies dead or at least unmoving. No more bullets incoming yet. They’d have to crawl. No telling who those snipers would shoot.

  Inkline is dead.

  She looked at Francine. At least the woman had managed to pull on a pair of loose pants and a black top along with snagging her favorite Hai-na-go sword. Curved and super sharp, the blade had severed Inkline’s arm like it was made of cheese.

  In the moonlight, Francine’s face was a study in chiaroscuro—classic lines of black and gray and silver—serenity, beauty, and a no-nonsense attitude to life. She laid her hand across the back of Francine’s shoulder. Death had been so damn close. Elbow propped, she sucked in a lungful of air. Calm.

  Francine just waited. Like always, she was the tougher one. Nothing knocked her off center.

  “Thank you. Thank you for helping me.”

  Francine grinned and patted the hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s what I was here for. Not Inkline—that bastard can rot, and those others, pah, no better.”

  “Inkline’s dead,” she whispered.

  “Yeah. Unless he’s very good at bouncing and can regrow his head. And we might be dead too unless you got friends here.”

  Claire sighed, her throat full of putty. “I’ve got you. That’s about it.” She should have jumped with Inkline. Then she wouldn’t have to remember Theo.

  “That’ll have to do. We can get out of here. You know, those snipers didn’t shoot at you. Maybe we’re okay?”

  “I don’t think they were aiming at me. You, though, be careful.” She figured they were Dankyo’s snipers.

  Security erupted onto the rooftop—boiling out the door like ants on a picnic mission and climbing up from below the edge of the building. Clever. A bit late, though, to catch her or Inkline going over. She hoped none of them had been brushed off the side of the building by Inkline’s body.

  Yes, she was okay. They’d only let her rot in prison for a few thousand years.

  She stood up, put her shoulders straight, and tried to look strong. But Theo and Dankyo were nowhere to be seen. They’d not even bothered to see if she survived.

  “I’ll try to get you out of this, Francine. Francine?” Her friend was gone. She smiled. At least one of them had a chance at life.

  When they came for her, she said nothing, only holding out her hands to be shackled along with her ankles. And they led her away, hooded, in blackness, with no idea of where she was going—and she didn’t want to find out, for her heart was wrung empty of hope. No one cared, and no one would ever love her again.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Theo put down the binoculars. The flare was fading, but he’d seen enough.

  “Claire’s safe. You can pack up now.”

  “Good.” Dankyo watched him a moment before issuing quiet orders to the snipers.

  The long rifles sheened with blue all down their barrels. Evil-looking things, but they did their job well. Nothing else would have hit with such accuracy at this distance.

  He caught Dankyo eyeing him. “What?”

  “Claire recommended these.”

  “Yes, I know. Your point, man?” If there was one thing he hated, it was people trying to nudge him toward the pathway they wanted him on. He’d make his own roads, thank you very much.

  “They’ll be taking her to a cell for interrogation…unless sir intervenes.” Dankyo helped a house guard manhandle a rifle into its case and snap the clasps.

  Theo narrowed his eyes. “Are you presuming to tell me my duty, Dankyo?”

  “No. Sir. I would never presume to do that. Only to inform sir of facts of which you might be ignorant.” On the word ignorant, Dankyo had jerked the bottom of his suit coat, as if adjusting it.

  “Hmph. Good.” Why had he ever hired the man? Dankyo could be an irritating bastard. Besides, exactly why was he taking the woman’s side in this? Maybe he thought it was protocol to give an employee a fair hearing before taking them out and shooting them.

  He sighed. Only she wasn’t an employee. Dammit, this was an insufferable problem. It felt like someone had stuck their hands inside him and ripped out his guts.

  He strode to the head of the spiraling stairs that led out of the watchtower, then paused. “Let’s get everything back to the airship. And, Dankyo, just to give you the facts…I’ve given instructions to palace security that she’s not to be hurt. Satisfied?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. If Dankyo showed the merest hint of a smile, he’d demote him to cleaning pistons. To his disgust the man was straight-faced as a statue. Damn. He needed to get angry at somebody, and Claire wasn’t here. Whatever would they do with her? She’d laid herself open for the worst. An assassin who was in on a plot to kill the president.

  He laid a clenched fist on the wall, felt the grit of brick grate on his skin. He couldn’t trust her. How could he let someone like that close to him? He wanted to never see her again…yet he also wanted to see her little white backside in the air so he could turn it so goddamned bright red she’d not sit down for a week. Damn!

  He lifted his fist from the brick and looked at the spots of blood, felt the pain and the cold blackness inside him spread.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The cell they held her in was stark yet comfortable—cream walls, a bed that folded down from the wall, a sink, a toilet, and a few books. The barred door was set into a wall of steel bars. Still, she’d have thought it luxury a month ago. Though the first guard was a hulking brute who refused to leave even when she used the toilet, he was soon replaced by another more accommodating one—one with a friendly if rugged face, and he didn’t stare at her like she was some exhibit. Thank the Lord. Having a man watch her pee was going too far.

  Though they’d tried to deceive her, she was sure this cell was somewhere in the palace. The fake carriage trip and the frequent direction changes hadn’t fooled her direction sense one bit.

  Not that it mattered—she wasn’t trying to escape. And she doubted she was going to manufacture some weapon while on the toilet. Maybe they thought she could squeeze through the plumbing. The odd vision made her smile. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought she’d ever smile again.

  She thought awhile. Things had a way of coming out even when you didn’t think about them. The changing of the guard…it meant something. It meant that maybe someone was looking out for her. And that maybe was like a light at the end of a very, very dark tunnel. There was only one person she wanted that someone to be. If there was the slightest hope—her eyes watered, her heart picked up the pace—if there was any at all, she’d try her very hardest to make things right again.

  Only a few hours after her arrival, at maybe four or five in the morning, an officer and a squad of six soldiers in black and gold marched up to t
he cell, stomping to a halt before her guard.

  “I have orders to escort the prisoner for questioning!” the blond officer barked, his words as exact and energetic as his marching. In his hand was a sheet of paper.

  Her guard had been sitting on his chair. He glanced at the paper and stood to snag the key from his belt. “The document’s good. Do you need her in handcuffs?”

  The officer looked at her appraisingly. “Just the cuffs. No hood. Can’t believe she’s an assassin. Got the captain in an ass-tearing mood.” He stepped up to the bars. “Put your hands through the little door and wait until the cuffs are on.”

  A small section of the cell door hinged out, leaving just enough room to put her arms through. Questioning? To be expected. Being difficult would only get her roughed up.

  When she stepped up the officer shook his head. “Nope. Turn around. I’m cuffing them behind you. No sense being too lax. ’Specially considering I’ve heard you can tie a man in knots faster than a blink.”

  She sighed, then did as he asked, turning to put her hands behind her and out the hole. Metal cuffs snicked around her wrists.

  They marched her out of the cell and down a long corridor flanked by cells. Only one other cell was occupied. They went up a flight of stairs and to the third door.

  Inside was a long room lit at one end by a dangling blue light; the other end was in shadow and divided off with a mesh screen. At a plain table were three chairs. The officer sat her down in one chair, chaining her at the waist facing away from the darkest part of the room, before exiting.

  Silence. She made herself listen, slowed her breathing.

  She could hear someone breathing back there. The outer door clicked and creaked open. A woman in an ultracrisp uniform stepped through—a lieutenant. She was accompanied by a skinny pimple-faced young man bearing a sheaf of paper and a typing machine. He adjusted the machine until it was square to the table and sat, his hands poised, ready to type.

  The officer nodded, her sleek red bob swaying, her gaze already keenly advancing over every inch of Claire like a scalpel looking for a place to cut. She pulled out a chair opposite and eased into it.