Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series) Page 32

  The prince shut everyone off. “Enough.” He waited for our respectful attention. “First, I want to know what this sworn enemy thing is all about.”

  Oh, how I wanted to punch the Count’s smug smirk before he answered.

  “A werewolf, Your Royal Highness. The beast decimated two of our best Draugr. The traitors should be executed for that sole crime, as you know.” The Count turned his derogatory gaze on me.

  Crap. I felt the blood drain from my face. Not only was Gavril’s fate on the line but also Émil’s and Francis’s. I looked for Francis’s guidance. He shook his head, warning me. That was not the guidance I was looking for. I ignored it. In all truth, I had no patience for his input. I had to say something. Do something. Gavril’s life depended on it.

  “First of all, he saved my life twice today. Your Draugr were attacking me, so he did nothing wrong but defend m—”

  “The prisoners viciously attacked the consul and our royal guard chief, Your Royal Highness,” the Count said, rebuting my point and making it actually pointless. Crap. “This impostor female is a contemptible and reprehensible criminal. Take her back to the dungeon at once.”

  Right. Not without a fight. I raised my chin, daring Reginald or the Count.

  “What you did to Émil made us fight you. We were not going to let you abuse your tyrant power to torture us. Gavril fought bravely along with us, knowing he could be exposed, and yet never had I seen more courage in my life. He has never been an enemy to us or the crown, and he didn’t choose to come here. You brought us here, and in all truth, neither Francis or Émil had any knowledge of his DNA. So will you please let him go? He should not be here.” I didn’t know what else to say. I wished the prince could understand the vehemence in my voice.

  Gavril was more than my best friend. He was the brother I never had. He was my only family. The prince listened then sat on his throne. He was thinking. The suspense was dreadful. His hazel eyes gleamed with wicked laughter and curiosity as they blinked at me.

  “Reginald, I want the proper documentation to pardon Lady Pearson’s mother’s misdemeanor. Also make the proper preparations for Miss Pearson’s registration. From this moment on, her Royal birthright is reinstated.” He paused and directed his next command at Francis. So the prince couldn’t be that bad if he was pardoning my mother. Could he pardon Gavril?

  “Lord Tarbelli, you will grant me permission to court Lady Pearson. We shall discuss a date for our marriage as well,” the prince said.

  What?

  “The beast shall be executed first hours of the morning,” he commanded.

  I felt a cold bucket of water wash over me. Noo. No. No.

  “A criminal hardly qualifies as a good breed for the kingdom, Your Highness. The law rules that only an honorable pure bloodline must continue with every king. Your father would be appalled,” Count French-Ranarian said.

  A breed? Was that all that I was to them? “I will not marry someone who will not listen to my plea. I will not marry you ever if you even dare to touch one hair on Gavril.” I defied the prince, whose alert gaze furrowed his brow as he leaned in with his hand on his knee.

  Demyan Greco broke into a fit of that weird coughing. It stopped abruptly when the prince glared at him.

  “My dear demoiselle, do you understand that will make you a traitor to the crown? Just like your mother, for which you should appreciate the generosity of my pardon,” he suggested.

  Although I was curious of knowing where was my mother was, at that moment, I was also grateful she wasn’t there in this monkey asylum. My poor mom was safer away from this insane place, and I couldn’t trade a life for a life.

  “Well, in that case…” I turned on my heels and began walking back toward the dungeon. I walked six steps before anyone said anything.

  “What do you think you are doing, Miss Pearson?” The prince raised his tone at me.

  I guess I was back to being a simple peasant—like I cared. Nuh. I turned back to face him with my chin up.

  Francis was shaking his head with disapproval and Demyan was amused about something I could not see as funny. I still wanted to wipe that half-witted smug expression from Scary-face. Two circus guards moved toward me.

  “I don’t think I need your guards. I know the way back into the dungeon. You can execute me at the same time as Gavril. As for my poor mother, she is better off from this—circus,” I said looking at the Count and Reginald. The Count’s eyes lit up, and his lips curved with malicious pleasure as he watched me walking away from the throne and the prince.

  “Your Royal Highness must realize that that leaves you with no choice at all and you must abdicate the crown in five years’ time.” To me—the council—who doesn’t need a royal bloodline, and for as long as needed. Love this law, the miserable Goth-fixated Count thought. Crap. The Count had plans, and they didn’t include me.

  “Lord Tarbelli, do something,” the prince commanded, but his tone of voice held a note of desperation.

  “Perhaps if His Royal Highness would show her more leniency. Other than that, I confess I am at dire straits, for she seems set up to ignore any of my advice.” Francis’s feelings were hurt. I frowned.

  But I was not going to let Gavril be executed in the next hours while everyone was preparing for a doltish, sycophant, and elitist wedding I didn’t want. I was just sixteen, for crying aloud. I had reached the threshold of the large and impressive room. It had no furniture except two thrones over a mezzanine that was three steps higher than the rest of the room.

  “Wait.” The prince stood and walked toward me.

  I crossed my arms defensively and waited.

  “I will not order his eminent execution if you marry me,” he said. I have never been so challenged in my life by anyone else. I will enjoy taming the tigress within, his mind said. Huh, he thought he had me there.

  “You will free him and let him go, and I will consider your courtship. Marriage is off the table,” I said, pointing my finger at his chest. He glanced at my finger, somewhat surprised, then transformed his face into amusement. He leaned closer to whisper something in my ear. I could feel my heart beating loud and butterflies in my tummy at his proximity.

  “Miss Pearson, I am extremely attracted to your fire and beauty.” His breath left me speechless. Whoa, the man needed a thick pair of glasses, like the ones Francis used to wear. There was no way I looked any good. Unlike him, he was not only tall and strong, his skin had been kissed by sunshine, and he possessed a “je ne sais quoi” that vibrated the air with utmost intensity between us, rendering me almost obsolete in dealing with this situation. Focus, Ailie.

  “Does that mean you will free Gavril?” I asked. The Count snorted insultingly. I narrowed my gaze on him.

  “No—”

  “Guards, take me to the dungeon,” I ordered. The guards gave another step, glad this was over.

  “Stop… Miss Pearson, I am the one who gives the orders around here.” The prince was clearly baffled.

  “Clearly you don’t.” I looked back toward the Count before speaking, since I had left the prince speechless again. “And I cannot marry someone whose kingdom is a circus of monkeys in tutus and has a clown with a chair taming the lion king. Good luck with that.” I clearly heard gasping, then another fit of laughter disguised as another coughing spell. I crossed my arms and continued my diarrhea of words. “And clearly I am wasting my last precious minutes here. I could have better answers from talking to that wall.” I pointed at the wall full of coats of arms and blazonry behind him.

  The prince’s jaw was tight as if he was grinding his molars. His gaze turned to Francis for any type of help.

  “I will take full responsibility for the prisoner, Your Royal Highness,” Francis offered. My heart swelled with love for him at that moment. He was not only doing this for me. He was also doing it for Gavril.

  “If His Royal Highness approves, I am willing to grant all my military expertise and resources for any personal need and that whic
h the kingdom may need. I am quite an expert at handling others as you know,” Demyan suggested. By “others” he meant those non-pureblood—lycan. The Count’s opened mouth was gaping so wide, I was afraid not only flies would come in but also things like wet socks. I snickered at the mental image.

  “I don’t think it is wise to have a dangerous beast near my future bride,” the prince said, but his mind spoke differently. Particularly if she is smitten by his courage. So this was about his jealousy? Good God. What for? The man was not making any sense.

  “Your Royal Highness, the kid kisses the ground she steps on. He will never harm her. He can continue rendering his services to me as he used to, and I will supervise his doings,” Francis offered.

  Especially because of that, and because she is willing to die for him or with him. The lucky loup-garou... The prince’s thoughts continued to navigate the wrong side of things, calling Gavril a mythological werewolf. After a moment that seemed longer than any other, he sighed.

  “Fine, Reginald—” He turned to him, and then his eyes locked back on me. “Prepare the bridal queen’s chambers for Lady Pearson. I will make you personally responsible for her comfort. Anything she wants, she will have. No expense spared. You will make sure she changes her misguided opinion of the—circus. Am I clear?” He expected poor humiliated Reginald to kiss my dear old spooty-patooty.

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he mumbled with his sight fixed on an unknown spot on the carpet next to his ridiculous buckled shoes.

  “Monsieur Greco, you will be in charge of the security for my future bride and the royals in the palace as long as the beast breaths alive inside the Palace.” He paused and turned his gaze toward Francis and continued his commands. “Lord Tarbelli, if the beast as much touches a hair on Lady Pearson, you will be tried for treason,” the prince threatened.

  Francis bowed and nodded, accepting the prince’s resolution.

  I was about to argue more about this, but Demyan Greco interrupted our negotiations. He had received some communication in his fancy ear piece.

  “Your Royal Highness, it is Prince Émil,” Demyan Greco said, pressing his hand over his ear piece. Demyan abruptly locked his gaze on me. The prince closed his eyes briefly and turned to see him, missing our brief connection.

  “How is he fending?” the prince asked.

  Demyan Greco shook his head ominously. God, this was so pathetically sad. Émil had been beaten because he knew about me. It was all my fault. I turned to see the miserable Goth-fixated-junkie Count. No, he had done this. He had murdered Émil. God how I hated him at that moment. The reminder that I couldn’t lose control over that kind of emotions held me back once again.

  “He wants to have a last word with Lady Pearson,” Demyan Greco said. A big lump the size of a baseball in my throat was the single indication of shifting from my small victory into the seriousness of Émil’s life. The prince offered me his arm. I frowned and ignored his offer.

  “Mister Greco, please lead me to him,” I asked him.

  He nodded wickedly back at me. I followed him away from the throne room and into the palace. This had been the first time I was in the palace officially. But the last thing I wanted was a tour of the bluenose and shortchange palace. We had seen enough so far. Demyan Greco had his hands behind him as a formality for me as I walked on his right side.

  She doesn’t need to wear a crown. She acted like a queen should. Is she in love with the mongrel? Although watching her kicking the royal arse to the curve was priceless. She tamed a lion. I just wish she wasn’t destined for him. Except I get to torture myself while others have more rights and ownership of her heart than I ever will. Demyan’s thoughts were so revealing. He must have felt my gaze on him as we climbed the stairs, followed by the prince, Count Don’t-count-on-him, and Francis. You could never deserve something so precious. He talked himself away from me and turned his gaze forward, pretending to ignore me. Something inside me felt vulnerable at those private thoughts. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the luxury to discuss them right at that moment, maybe ever.

  I crossed the open threshold to a grand room. A doctor in a white coat nodded back at Demyan Greco. They exchanged a glance. The sight of Émil hooked to machines in a four-post bed took my attention away from them.

  I rushed to kneel by his side, wiping my filthy hands on the cleanest area of my pants. I examined the injuries I could see, and they didn’t seem as terrible as they had before someone must have cleaned them, but I knew beneath the bed covers and under his skin, he must be bleeding internally.

  One of his hands had been smashed to bits and was turning black. The other hand was in better condition. I took it into mine. I felt my face wet, and I simply couldn’t stop myself from sobbing. I had to do something. I turned to see if I was alone in the room, but I wasn’t. The prince had come in, in the company of the miserable wanna-be Count Goth and Francis. The prince and I exchanged glances. I shook my head at him. He directed his attention toward the doctor, avoiding my emotional distress.

  “There is nothing I can do, Your Royal Highness. I am sorry,” the doctor whispered by the antechamber. I wished Émil couldn’t hear them discussing his impending death. I didn’t have time to waste on them. Instead, I turned my concentration on Émil.

  I prayed they were distracted enough not to pay attention to us. I understood the risks of using my healing powers publicly but pushed them to the side. I was going to need every bit of extra concentration to make this as discreet as possible, or we were both going to be in deep trouble to say the least.

  My shaking hands ignited with the familiar green glow. I prayed for strength, which I felt lacking. I needed rest and food. However, that wasn’t going to stop me from saving him. I steadied myself and poured my life force into my hands. They sparkled a deep emerald green, darker and stronger than I’d ever seen it. His breath was fading, and his eyelids were turning from pink to the deadly faint blue. His pain melded with my energy. No one is going to die, I told myself.

  Not today. I dropped into a light trance, extending my senses past my own body.

  Émil held my hand and whispered, “Don’t. I need to die.” His eyes regarded me pleadingly. God, not again. Mother Clarisse had done this to me. She had denied me the chance to save her life. This was so awful. I inhaled deeply and steadied myself.

  “I can’t just watch you die.”

  He smiled, even when he was in visible pain. His hand gestured weakly for me to approach him closer. He was running out of breath. I came closer and offered my ear.

  “They just need to think I did.”

  “But—”

  He closed his good hand over mine to silence me. “Be a dear and tell me every detail of my funeral next time we meet.” He smiled back at me. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? Was this all a sham? Oh, I knew then he was protecting something of great value. Something worth dying for. He was doing it to protect me from those who wanted to have control of it. The location of the medallion.

  “Let me at least help your hand,” I begged him, wishing he could tell me there and then where it was or what it could do. But I also understood it was a useless waste of time asking him. Not only was it the wrong place at the wrong time, but he had also explicitly warned me to stay away from it.

  “Promise me you will be careful here. Promise me that all is not for naught.” He almost crushed my hand with vehemence I thought he didn’t have the strength for. I nodded back at him.

  “I promise,” I said. “But promise me we will meet again,” I said to him.

  “Oh, of that I am sure, doll. Now you go and cry for me. Make sure everyone knows I have gone and don’t exist,” he said, closing his eyes. A weird beeping sound alerted everyone in the room. The machines hooked onto him added more beeping sounds until it became a long ominous and terrible constant sound. His hand left mine.

  “No, please…” I didn’t know at this point what was real and what wasn’t. Had I wasted precious time not saving his
life? The doctor, Draugr, and nurses all moved with frantic speed over Émil. I was dragged away from him without knowing who had taken me away in the midst of the chaos. It was surreal.

  Again, I was back to the night when Mother Clarisse was murdered. Beyond the bounds of reason, I begged to let me heal her even when I didn’t know if I could, as time was running out for her like the last grains inside a sand clock. I could still feel the anguish and desperation of those last minutes. Her breathing was irregular and painful.

  It was happening all over again. My chest felt burning hot, my head and arms and legs were achingly cold.

  I watched silently how the Strzyga doctor tried to revive the body over the bed. I slid onto the floor and cried for his soul next to a wall full of books. I cried for mine. At this point, I didn’t know if I could live, knowing I had the chance to save him as well and I didn’t.

  Just like hers, Émil’s life had flown away so fast. Grief shook me hard. The empty hole in my chest felt like it was taking over my whole being.

  Chapter 34

  I didn’t think I could cry anymore, but I did. I looked at my hands. They were pruning. I had no concept of time. I just knew I had been simmering for too long in this grandiose Roman bath made for ten. Large columns supported a glass dome over the circular bath pool, which was surrounded by radiating pointy rose windows, pinnacles, limestone moldings, and cobalt blue and gold diminutive tiles that decorated the walls.

  A brass replica of Our Lady of The Stars stood in one of the niches. Water bubbled from her feet onto a small waterfall that fed my bath. Enit had returned to check on me.

  “This bath was a technology advancement unique of the thirteenth century.” She held a bathrobe and a thick towel for me. They both had been warmed. Even the marbled floors were heated. I wished I could appreciate the style of the French building. The truth was that I hated it. I hated this place. I wiped my tears with the towel.