Hello, everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks for reading <3

-Plum

29 – It Doesn’t Mean Anything

It turned out that Hector didn’t need to worry about an awkward dinner with Gladia; she didn’t make an appearance. In a way, he was glad; despite Orin’s advice and his instinctive agreement with the man, he didn’t feel ready to talk to her. He figured he’d get around to it, and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt in the meantime. Of course, Gladia’s absence wouldn’t save him from having to talk with anyone else.

When he and Orin came down the hill, the sun was close to the western horizon, and Hector managed to slip into the house, making his way to his room, and stepping into a hot, steaming shower before anyone else came around. He luxuriated in there for half an hour or so, then Evie started allowing message pings through. Lemon, Sass, Kristy, Iris, Burton, and even Sparling were eager to check on him.

The only one that surprised him was Sparling; he’d been part of the blow-up—seen Hector storm off, and witnessed Gladia’s rage. Hell, he’d even participated in the bluff about replacing him with another fighter. If it was a bluff. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that he wasn’t sure.

“Just tell them all I’m good—cleaning up. I’ll be out soon.”

//Done.//

Hector warred with himself as he dried off and put on some clean clothes. He didn’t like being the center of attention, and he couldn’t decide which would be worse when it came to garnering more of it—staying in his room and skipping dinner, or going out and facing everyone. In the end, he decided he was too old to hide in his room, and he knew damn well it would only add fuel to the fire where at least some of his friends were concerned—namely Sass and Lemon.

So he dressed in some of the comfortable slacks that he’d purchased back on Sojourn—stylish according to Iris. He put on a loose, white linen shirt and pulled on some cowboy-style boots that he’d bought on a lark, remembering his old days in the Guard. Then, he made his way out to the patio where dinner was being served.

String lanterns hung from the boughs of genetically engineered oaks, and the scent of smoked meat filled the air. Sparling’s staff stood behind long wooden tables, ready to serve side dishes and meats, though it seemed clear that most everyone had already eaten some. Dirty plates were stacked on busser’s tables, and quite a few people had food in hand, standing around eating and chatting.

Orin grunted a hello around a bite of something, and Demon raised a glass of something—it was pale blue and fizzy, and Hector had the feeling it was an energy drink. Hector couldn’t recall seeing the strange fighter drink alcohol; he seemed to value being in control, and considering his history, Hector couldn’t blame him. He nodded to the two former thugs and walked toward the food service, only to be immediately intercepted by Sass and Lemon.

“There you are!” Sass said. She was dressed in her usual style—close-fitting black fatigue pants over punk-style boots, and a breezy, sleeveless blouse that left nothing to the imagination where her muscular shoulders, biceps, and chromed lower arms were concerned. Lemon, by contrast, wore an elegant yellow summer dress, and though she hadn’t made herself up as elaborately as when she’d worked as a doll, her effortless beauty and grace stood her apart from the rest of the crowd.

Not so hard, Hector mused, looking around at the fighters, ship’s crew members, and staff. It was a motley collection of misfits and outcasts if he’d ever seen one.

“Hector?” Lemon asked, and he realized he’d failed to respond to her hello—or to Sass’s exclamation.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m a little worn out, and the smell of the food is distracting me.”

“Come on!” Sass said, gesturing to the food tables. “I’m ready for seconds.” They went together, and Hector led the way, nodding to each of the servers as they offered their goods. At the end, he figured his plate weighed a kilogram or two—potato salad, beans, brisket, ribs, and smoked chicken meat. It was more real animal flesh than he’d ever eaten in one serving, and in all honesty, it made him feel a little queasy if he thought about it.

That notion faded quickly enough as he tucked in. His body was hungry for nutrients, and the flavors were enough to banish all concerns for decency. While they ate, sitting together at one of the round patio tables, Sass went on about how she’d heard the details of his “stress test” from Burton, and how Sparling’s men were still in recovery. She was clearly proud of him, and by virtue of being his student, of herself.

Hector grunted along, nodding or shaking his head to questions. Lemon mostly watched him eat, her big gray eyes hard to read, though he knew there was something behind them he didn’t really like—something he couldn’t put his finger on. At one point, as he pulled the meat off a beef rib, Sass said, “Sparling says the meat’s all local. He has freezers full of it on the ranch.” After a moment, she added, “I never even knew this kind of food existed.”

“It doesn’t, really—not for people like us,” Lemon replied.

Hector mulled the words over, pushing his mostly empty plate back and sighing, tempted to reach down and loosen the button on his pants. The dinner was extravagant by low-born standards, but it was just a normal day in the life of a Royal. The Contis used to have similar dinner parties weekly—sometimes several times in a week. It occurred to him that Grover Sparling was making a statement—one that was probably aimed at Gladia. He was saying, “Here, see, I’m one of you.”

“He can’t be happy,” he muttered, failing to keep the thought inside his head.

Lemon wrinkled her brow at him. “Who?”

He shook his head, but then relented, speaking softly, “Sparling. He probably wanted Gladia to be here.”

“Where is she?” Lemon asked.

Hector shrugged, turning to regard the bar, though he failed to avoid Sparling’s gaze as the older man tried to catch his eye. “I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to you two later. I should say hello to our host.”

He walked over to the bar, nodded to the neatly dressed man mixing the drinks, and said, “Sparkling water. Put some citrus and vodka in it.”

“Of course, sir.” While the man worked, Hector looked at Sparling and nodded. The other man nodded back, and in just a moment, before Hector even got his drink, he was there, standing beside Hector.

“Glad you made it. What’d you think of the spread?”

Hector smiled, taking his drink from the bartender, then looked Sparling in the eye. “It was good. One of the best barbeques I’ve seen.”

“Hah! One of the best! You’re something else.” Sparling gestured to the cobbled path leading off the patio and out toward one of the gardens that bordered the house. “Walk with me while I smoke, will you?”

Hector sipped the drink, found it very stiff, and followed Sparling. As they moved away from the crowd, he asked, “Your fighters doing okay? The ones I cut?”

Sparling waved a hand. “They’re fine. Their egos are bruised, but they learned a valuable lesson—there’s always a meaner dog from a bigger kennel. Am I right?”

Hector thought about it—about the Praetorians he’d known and the ones he hadn’t. He thought about the men and women who weren’t on the books, the secret bodyguards of the Imperials—those who would stand between them and death when the Praetorians fell. “Yeah, there’s always a meaner dog.”

“Right. I’m glad you can see that.” Sparling sparked his lighter to life and lit his old-fashioned cigarette. Hector secretly smiled, amused that the man didn’t understand that Hector was talking about himself. “Anyway,” Sparling said, sucking some smoke into his lungs, “I want you to know that regardless of what Gladia decides with regard to the plan, you’ll have a part in this rebellion if you want it. I’ll see to that. If you’re not in the Games, then we’ll at least need you to help to uncover this traitor, assuming he comes here with Loyal.”

“He will,” Hector replied.

Sparling regarded Hector for a few seconds, pausing to stand beside a planter full of thorny shrubs bearing blue flowers. “You’re a cool customer, aren’t you? Not too worried about being on the outs, huh? I guess I can see why, what with that ship of yours. Hell, you’re a capable son of a bitch. I suppose you figure you can just forge your own road from here if you have to.”

“I recognize I made a mistake if that’s what you’re asking,” Hector replied, trying to see around the man’s gruff assessment. “As for Gladia…” He shook his head. “It’s between us.”

Sparling chuckled. “Sure, sure. I’ll be honest with you, Hector. You’ve intrigued me since I saw you fight at the mine. Every time I think I’ve seen what you can do, you surprise the hell out of me. I hope you still want to fight in the Games because I’ve got Loyal’s ear—at least as much as his sister does. If she tried to get one of his boys to take your place, I’m going to make them earn the spot. Think about that before you roll over, yeah?”

Hector shook his head. “I don’t roll over.” He tossed back the rest of his drink, then flicked the dregs into the shrubbery. He held the alcohol in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing, thinking about an idea that had come to him at Sparling’s words. “What are the odds that the traitor is one of the fighters Gladia mentioned?”

“One of Loyal’s…loyal men?” Sparling laughed. “I don’t have a clue. What are you getting at?”

“Well, if you can get them to spar with me, I might be able to figure out who the traitor is. I used to fight with him all the time.”

“And you? Aren’t you worried they’ll figure out who you are?”

Hector shrugged. Too late to change my name now. The thought was fleeting, and he didn’t say it aloud; there was no sense getting Sparling interested in the name Hector. Instead, he said, “I’ll use a different style.”

“You can do that—change up your style?”

Hector nodded. “My style combines a number of techniques. I’ll limit myself.”

“And that’ll fool him?”

“Yeah. I’ll need a knife—better if I don’t display my aura.”

Sparling frowned, shaking his head as he inhaled through his cigarette. “I’m sure I spoke to Loyal after I saw you at the mine. I was crowing about that red aura of yours.”

“Well, message him. Tell him to keep it to himself. I mean, you don’t think he’s been talking about me like that, has he?”

The older man rubbed his chin, then he shrugged. “Well, won’t hurt to ask. In any case, I’ve got an armory here. Have Burton show you. I’ve collected a hell of a lot of nice blades over the years. Borrow any you like.”

Hector grunted his acknowledgment, and before he could catch himself, he clasped Sparling’s bony shoulder and gave it a comradely squeeze. “I appreciate you trying to see things from my position.”

Sparling took his cigarette out and dropped it onto the path, letting it lie there, glowing dull orange as a trail of acrid smoke drifted up between them. He studied Hector for a moment. Then he shrugged. “I take it this guy did something pretty bad to you?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“So your priorities weren’t straight. You had some stuff screwed up in here—” Sparling lifted a gnarled finger and tapped Hector on the forehead. “I’ve made a few mistakes for vengeance in my day. As long as you tell me you’re squared away now, that you won’t risk our whole goddamn movement, I’ll back you with Loyal.”

Hector nodded, finding he liked the man even more after his blunt talk. “Yeah.”

“Right, then. Care to sit with me in my parlor? Have another drink and maybe a smoke?”

“Another time, Grover. I’m dead tired.”

Sparling cleared his throat, shrugged, and said, “Well, tomorrow, then.”

After that, Hector had a fairly easy time slipping away from the dinner. People were getting drunk, the music was getting loud, and nobody was looking for him—not after he’d walked off with Grover Sparling. He made it to his room unseen, and when he closed his door behind him, he sighed, turning to stare into the darkness of his suite. For the first time in a while, he felt like he’d lost control of the rudder—like things were spiraling a bit too fast for him to course correct.

//It was heartening to learn you had Grover’s support, wasn’t it?//

“I don’t know, Evie.” Hector shook his head. He started to answer her aloud. Then, he leaned his head against the door, using the wood to ground himself as he thought better of it. I think he just saw a rift, and he’s trying to insert himself. Maybe he thinks he can earn me as an ally—for what, though?

//You think he might be at odds with Gladia? Loyal?//

Hard to say. He might just be angling to grab as much as he can when the world order gets shaken up. I’m sure there are other players in their rebellion; maybe he doesn’t think Loyal’s Ventress faction will go as far as they hope.

//It all exposes our lack of depth—in terms of our understanding, I mean. There’s so much we don’t know, not least of which being the players.//

True.

Hector turned away from the door, started to unbutton his shirt and took a step into his room, triggering the automatic lighting. The warm, amber glow illuminated the space. He ran his eyes over the bed, the breakfast table near the glass patio doors, and—Lemon standing outside, her pale dress blowing in the evening breeze as she stared at him, like a hunter who’d spotted her prey.

Hector grunted in surprise, irritated with himself for not noticing her. He could see fine in the dark, after all; he’d let his exhaustion and his spiraling thoughts distract him. What if it hadn’t been Lemon? The patio door latch was old-fashioned—manual—so he walked over, twisted the bolt and pulled the door open, looking down into Lemon’s eyes.

Hector wasn’t a fool. He saw the depth of emotion in those pale gray irises—the silent intent, the buried emotion. He shook his head briefly, swallowing before roughly saying, “I’m tired.”

Lemon put her hands, cool and warm at the same time, on his chest and gently pushed, following him into the room. “Good.”

“I mean…I mean, I should be alone.”

“Nobody should be alone,” she replied, leaning into him, pushing harder, directing him to the bed.

“Lemon…” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Damn it.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said, and as his knees hit the bed and he sat, she straddled him, putting her knees on the mattress on either side of him. She cupped his face in her hands, pulling, forcing his eyes to lock with hers. “I’m no innocent girl.”

Hector’s mind raced, searching for objections, and he settled on the worst of them. “You wanted to know about the Games? The truth is, if I win, that means I’m probably going to die.” There it was, the truth—the simple fact he’d been denying even from himself. If he won, and he got a shot at the Governor, the odds of him surviving the aftermath—the bodyguards, the armed security, the subsequent manhunt—were vanishingly small. Even in his old life, in his old body with his old aura abilities, it would have been a suicide run.

Lemon didn’t let go of his face, but she drew back a little, searching his eyes. After a moment, she shook her head. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do…” he protested lamely, but then her lips found his and she kissed him so tenderly, so delicately, that he caught his breath, unable to fathom such a gentle touch. Has it been so long?

“No, you don’t,” she whispered huskily, pressing herself down on him. She was all soft curves and warmth, and his mind began to melt, his thoughts running together incoherently.

Growling, Hector pushed her back, her lips trailing a thin line of saliva from his. “Dammit! Lemon, even if I live after Drusus, if I win free—you have to know, I…” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “There’s no walking away from what I’m going to do.”

“Hector,” she whispered, leaning into him again, pushing her lips against his ear. “I don’t care. This doesn’t mean anything. Just…just take me!"

Hector knew it was a mistake. He’d made plenty of mistakes, though, hadn’t he? In his old life, in this new life—he’d acknowledged more than once that he wasn’t a machine. He was a man, and sometimes a man had to be allowed to do something, even if he knew it was stupid. So he grabbed Lemon, and he pulled her to him, and he met her lips with his. Then, he threw her on the bed, and while she wriggled out of her dress, he ripped his shirt off—kicked his boots and pants off.

He stared at her, chest heaving, taking in the curves of her naked form, pale in the moonlight. Every thought left his mind, then, and he fell on her. Just as she’d asked, he lost himself in the moment, for once forgetting things like vengeance and duty and the ideas of right and wrong.

Later, when they lay in a tangle of sweat-slick flesh, both panting, Hector held Lemon close, and he savored the feel. He worked as hard as he could to memorize it because it felt stolen; it felt like he’d done something extravagantly foolish and sneaky. Before long, Lemon fell asleep, her breaths soft and steady, the rhythm of her heart gentle and relaxed, and Hector felt renewed guilt and anger…and fear.

He lay there hating himself even as every fiber of his being wanted to love Lemon. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist, forcing himself to remember his oath, the words he’d sworn when he’d become the Guardian Primus of the Conti family. As he pictured the children—fierce Fernando, gentle Jasmine, and little Nora…and Esme, beautiful Esme—he felt his breaths grow steady. He felt his heart harden. They’d been slaughtered, and everyone he’d cared about thought he’d done it.

Lemon’s breathing, her warmth, her heartbeat—they all faded, and Hector’s world turned cold with his need for vengeance. Gently, he pushed her off him, turned onto his side, and stared at the wall. In his mind’s eye, he sparred with Lucien Vigilant again; he remembered every single move his old friend ever made, and his thoughts turned crimson.