“You should’ve been here half an hour ago.”
“I had a thing,” Valerie replied. “I’m here now. Where’s Janet?”
“Out. Count yourself lucky.”
“Thank God,” Valerie replied. She quickly crossed to the back of the bar and donned a fresh serving apron. There were several customers in the tavern to wait on, but at the moment, every one of them was gathered at the front windows or wandering out the front door.
“Is that a real Guardian?”
“Wow, what a classic.”
“Is that a Bear Claw emblem on the grill?”
“No way that’s the real thing.”
Valerie did her best to focus on her job but couldn’t help but be distracted by their conversations.
“Whose car is it?”
“Think it’s seen actual battle?”
A half hour later, Janet walked through the front door. She made straight for the bar.
“Ruby, why on earth is there a war car parked in front of my tavern?”
Ruby finished setting a cocktail on the tray Valerie was waiting to serve and smirked. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the new girl.”
Janet turned and stared at Valerie. “This is your doing?”
“Sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to park it.” She tried to look repentant.
Janet wandered over to the window and pulled back the curtain to get a better view. A crowd had gathered around the car. The din of their conversation carried from outside. Janet surveyed the street. “Ruby, how many of these people have come in and bought drinks?”
“I don’t know,” Ruby replied. “Maybe a dozen. It’s attracting a lot of attention.”
Janet pursed her lips and nodded. “Okay, then.” She turned to Valerie. “You can leave it there.” She admired the growing crowd again. “Maybe next time wash it first. If we’re sponsoring a car show, we might as well do it right.”
Valerie smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
The rest of her shift was a blur. Word spread quickly that there was a Guardian 770 parked on Cannery Lane. Business was non-stop, and she was kept hopping all night with new customers. When the steeple clock on Lexington struck eleven, Valerie caught it over the noise of customers. She balled up her apron and stuffed if behind the bar.
“Where are you going?” Janet asked. “We’re still busy. I was planning to keep the doors open another hour if this keeps up.”
“I’m sorry,” Valerie replied. “I have to go. And I have to take the car.”
Janet threw up her hands in exasperation. “Now?”
“There’s somewhere I have to be.”
“You’d better have a damned good reason,” Janet replied. “We haven’t had a weeknight like this in ages.”
“I’ll start early tomorrow. I promise.”
She fished her keys from her pocket and made her way back outside. The crowd around the car had dispersed, but there were still a few people lingering around it.
“Must be part of the exhibitions,” one man said. “Can’t imagine which fighter though. Maybe House Agnor? I heard Gunnar Ragnarsson was competing this year. It could be his steed.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Valerie said as she elbowed her way past. She unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. She tried not to laugh as their mouths fell open, but she relished the stares as she drove away.
When she pulled around to Lexington Avenue, she found the warehouse door up and the lights on.
Damon was standing in the doorway with a sheathed sword in his hand.
She idled in front of the garage, but he stepped aside and waved her onward. She drove into the warehouse and cut the engine.
“You weren’t lying,” he said as she climbed out of the car.
Valerie smirked. “My father used to say, ‘You should never lie about beautiful cars or beautiful women. Because words can never do either justice.’”
“A wise man,” Damon replied, examining the fresh scratches on the fender armor. “And apparently he also taught you how to drive it.”
“He taught me enough. Are you ready to talk about our deal?”
Damon’s eyes roamed over the interior appreciatively. “Full-authority traction controls. Seven-piece armament dashboard. This thing had the works.” He walked around the front of the car and paused at the grill to rub a bit of dirt off the bear claw emblem. “I saw your father fight once. When I was just a lancer assisting a knight named Sir Gwalin in a tournament at Meers. Your father defeated him in twenty seconds. It was the most perfect exhibition of sword form I’d ever seen. One of the reasons I dreamed of becoming a swordsman.”
Valerie ran a hand down the line of the fender. “He did that for a lot of people.”
“You must have learned from him. The forms.”
“Sure. Only every day. For hours.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Henry and I both did. We always tried to follow along, but he was better at it than me. Henry was a natural.”
“What was your father like as a teacher?”
Valerie exhaled and leaned against the car. “I don’t know, relentless? He liked to pit me against my brother all the time. I was Henry’s first victim.”
“You must have dueled a lot.”
“Pretty much every day till Dad disappeared.”
“How often did you win?” Damon asked.
“Not once,” Valerie said. She kicked a bit of dirt off one of her boots. “My father didn’t train me the same way he did Henry. Henry got to concentrate on dueling. My dad always had me doing stupid things. Standing on one leg for an hour, balancing on beams. Practicing cuts a thousand times in a row. He said we all have our own way of training.”
Damon was no longer looking at the car but at her. She hadn’t noticed the color of his eyes before. They were a steel gray that seemed to pierce straight through her. She felt naked.
“So, what about our deal?” She moved around the far side of the Guardian. “You said we needed a war car. I brought you one.”
“Why do you want to do this?” Damon asked.
“I told you,” Valerie replied. “I need to get in front of the king. He’s the only one who can help me restore my name and get justice for my brother.”
“And you’re willing to give up your father’s car to do it?”
“My father would have wanted justice.”
Damon walked toward her. As he got closer, he began rolling up the sleeves on his shirt, exposing his forearms. He held one up to her. “Do you see this scar? You want to take a guess why I got it?”
She studied the line of white in his otherwise olive skin. “You lost a fight?”
“I did. Why do you think that happened?”
“The other guy was better?”
Damon shook his head. “No. He wasn’t better. But I got careless. You know why?”
Valerie shrugged.
“Because I didn’t care,” Damon said. He pointed to the other forearm and other scars. “Didn’t care. Didn’t care.” He pushed his sleeve up past his bicep. “Really didn’t care on this one.”
“What are you trying to say? That you aren’t a very good fighter?”
“No. I’m an excellent fighter,” Damon replied. “In fact, I’ve never lost a fight I truly cared about. Problem is, I get hired by a lot of cowardly people. People who don’t want to fight their own battles. And people who frankly don’t deserve to win.”
Valerie narrowed her eyes. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to make you care about my fight? You need me to tell you how noble it is and all the reasons why Jasper Sterling is a bastard? Because that could take all night.”
Damon rolled his sleeves back down. He walked over to the cabinet where he had set the sword and picked it back up by its scabbard. “What I’m saying is that you came here looking for a fighter. Someone who will win this battle of yours and give you justice. I think you’ve found what you’re looking for.”
Valerie exhaled. “So you’ll do it.”
“Is that what you heard?” Damon said. “You want the fighter who will do anything to win.” He lifted the sword, then threw it to her. She caught it two-handed. “I’ve got news for you. Nobody in the world cares about this fight as much as you. You want justice? Then the only qualified person for the job is you.”
13
Fighter
“Are you crazy? I’m not a tournament fighter,” Valerie said.
Damon crossed the warehouse to a set of cabinets and began fiddling with a combination lock. “You just got through telling me that you dueled nearly every day of your childhood.”
“If you were listening, you would have caught the part where I mentioned I lost every duel I ever fought.”
“That’s the part that’s most encouraging,” Damon said. “Failure is a far better teacher than success.” He got the cabinet unlocked and swung the doors open, revealing a rack of weapons. “The fact that you spent your entire childhood losing to someone bigger and faster and stronger than you is possibly your greatest asset.”
“You’re telling me that being smaller and weaker is helpful?” Valerie scoffed.
“No. But it’s an opportunity to think outside the box,” Damon replied. He fished a broadsword out of the cabinet, thought better of it, then put it back. “You know the story of the siege of Lincoln?”
“Everyone does. It was the birth of the war car.”
“What you may not know is that its inventor, Holbrook, had been failing at creating his imagined war machine for a decade. Everyone thought he was insane and, from all accounts, he likely was. It was only when the French laid siege to the city and everyone was starving to death that his people fully committed to building his vision. When the drawbridge came down and that crazy machine rolled out, it changed history. They routed the French forces that day and on every battlefield for the rest of the war. Horses went to pasture, and the age of the war car was born. So that’s what they put in the history books. Holbrook, the genius.”
“So I’m supposed to get out in the arena and invent an entirely new method of warfare that revolutionizes history? Sure. Why didn’t I think of that.”
Damon donned a pair of padded gloves and took a couple of longswords from the cabinet, then pointed her toward a practice area he had set up. “Come over here. I want to see something.”
Valerie eyed the various sparring rigs and training equipment. “I’m telling you, I’m not the fighter.”
“Humor me,” Damon said. He led her to a starting position on the mat. “Show me a sword form you’re good at.”
Valerie tightened her grip on the sword and thought about the hours of forms she had done as a child. She positioned her feet, then stepped into Rising River. She brought the blade up with flourish as she moved forward, once, twice, then ending with the blade crossed above her head.
“Good. Show me another.”
Valerie stepped back and centered herself. She focused on her sword and stepped into Burning Sky. The series of lateral cuts again ended with her sword held over her head.
Damon lifted his own sword and brought it down gently to hers, resting it on her blade as she held the position.
“And now what can you see from this position?”
She was staring at his muscled chest. “You work out a lot?”
Damon canted his head. “You see a target.”
“Right. That too.” She exited the form, retreating to get out of range.
“Your clearing cuts could use work, but you move efficiently. That’s good. Your enemies will underestimate you based on your size,” Damon said. “And they’re right to. You don’t have the physical strength to compete with some of the monsters that will be in that arena. But you have other skills. Speed will be one of them.”
“I’ve only ever done these forms slowly.”
“Because making a correct move slowly is better than making the wrong move quickly. It’s no use getting faster till you’re doing it right. It’s clear you have the muscle memory. It’s just a matter of waking it up.”
Valerie sighed. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m telling you. My brother was the fighter.”
“Would he have fought for you?”
“Any day.”
Damon cocked an eyebrow. “So what are you willing to do for him?”
Valerie scowled, but his expression was unmerciful.
She swung. Damon blocked the cut but was forced to take half a step back.
“Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He lowered his sword and put it back into the cabinet. “If you were to ask me what I see here, it’s someone who already has the raw skills needed to win.”
“I’ve never won a fight.”
“But you’ve lost a lot of them well. I say that’s better. Take the night to think it over. If you still want to put a tournament run together, I’ll be here. If you’re serious, I’ll train you every day until the tournament starts. But I won’t fight your battle for you. That’s the way of cowards. And if there’s one thing I can say about you, you aren’t a coward.”
“You barely know me,” Valerie replied.
“I’ve seen what I need to see,” Damon replied. “Take that as another point in your favor.”
Valerie handed him her sword. “What about the car?”
“I’ll keep it here. If you win, that’ll be my payment for training you.”
“You want the car? If I lose, I won’t have a way to pay you.”
Damon closed the cabinet. “Then I’d better do a good job.”
Valerie narrowed her eyes. “What makes you so confident?”
“Listen, if you lose, I’m no worse off. But I know a thing or two about fighting for what you believe in. Give it some thought. If you decide it’s not for you, you can always climb into your car tomorrow and drive home. Maybe you’ll find some other way to get justice. It’s your choice.”
Valerie walked back to the Guardian and pulled the keys from the ignition. “Tomorrow.”
Damon crossed his arms. “I’ll be here.”
Valerie stared at the ceiling of the tavern supply closet for a long time. Despite her exhaustion, sleep was elusive. Her mind kept returning to the scene of Henry’s murder.
Henry clutching his wounded shoulder but waving off her help.
The leering smile on Jasper’s face just before he ran his sword through Henry’s chest.
She hadn’t acted.
She should’ve stopped him.
Henry stared up from her lap, his life leaking into her hands. How many seconds had ticked by since his death, and she still had done nothing to avenge him.
When she finally drifted off to sleep, Valerie dreamed the entire city was slick with blood. Her hands were covered in it. But this time it was hers.
In the morning, Valerie was awake before anyone else in the tavern had stirred. She rolled off the cot and walked to the hallway window that looked into the street. Fog blanketed the wharf. The fishermen were already gone, searching for their morning catch. The docks stood deserted and gray.
At the edge of the village, the stone walls of the city stretched up into the fog, an impenetrable barrier between her and her goals.
Her optimism of the day before had vanished with the sun.
Even the tavern seemed desolate. Overturned chairs sat atop tables. The curtains covering the tiny stage hung limp and static. Not so much as a clock moved inside. In the early morning light, this place looked like what it was—just a pitiful, run-down bar. A pitstop for lives going nowhere.
She pushed her palms into her eyes to wipe away the sleep. What had she been thinking? Sponsor a tournament team? Fight in the arena? It was delusional.
She took a step back from the window, and her foot landed in something sticky on the floor. She hoped it was merely residue from someone’s spilled drink the night before, but it felt as though this place was grabbing hold of her. A fly caught in a glue trap.
She had the sudden urge to run. She wanted out.
The morning is for new plans.
She moved into the hallway that bisected the tavern and the neighboring restaurant and made it to the pay phone that hung on the wall.
She dropped her coins in and hesitated only a moment before dialing the number.
The phone rang three times, then someone picked up.
“Terravecchia Manor, how may I assist you?” The voice was familiar. Comforting.
“Eugenia? It’s Valerie.”
“Miss Valerie? Oh my goodness, we’ve been so worried. Are you okay?”
Valerie felt the rush of homesickness hit her like a wave. Eugenia had always answered when she needed her. “I’m all right. Is Charlotte there?”
“Her ladyship isn’t here. She’s down in the city with Lord Sterling.”
“I figured as much.”
“But she gave me a number to give you if you called. She said to contact her right away. Let me fetch the number. . . Okay. Here it is.”
Valerie recited the number back to her as she read it.
“And Miss Valerie, I want you to know we are all just torn up about Mister Henry. We never could have imagined such a thing. Is it true, what they’re saying?”
“He’s gone,” Valerie said.
“But . . . is it true you two attacked his lordship?”
“No. Jasper murdered Henry, Eugenia. While he was unarmed. I tried to . . . It doesn’t matter what I did. Henry is gone.”
The long silence on the other end of the phone was followed by swelling sobs. “I knew they weren’t telling it straight. I knew it. I saw Henry come up since he could barely walk. He’s always been a good boy.” The sobbing on the other end of the phone grew worse.
“I’ll make it right, Eugenia,” Valerie said. “I promise.” When the crying on the other end of the line didn’t abate, she gently hung up the phone.
She stared at the receiver in its cradle for several long seconds, then picked it up again. She dialed the number Eugenia had given her.
A stranger’s voice picked up. “Sterling Tower, how may I direct your call?”
“This is Valerie Terravecchia, calling for Lady Charlotte Terravecchia.”
Sword Fight Page 13
