Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series) Page 35

  “What is he doing here?” All right, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  Nicholas looked at me as if I had grown a second head. Francis shook his head at me once again. The limousine door was still closed.

  “Don’t you dare look at me like that. He is the one who tortured Émil to death, imprisoned us, and had his Draugr attack me. What is wrong with you?”

  “Lady Pearson, on the behalf of the kingdom’s apologies, Count Rurikovich was just doing his job to protect the kingdom. Not only was he my father’s adviser and understands everything that comes to the kingdom, it is his job to be here, and what’s more his job is for life.” His voice had a disgruntled tone.

  I looked at Francis for any other observation or explanation. Not the right time to go into this, his mind said. I turned back to the prince.

  “In other words, as the future king, you cannot do crap. Wonderful. Just wonderful.” I pulled the handle of the door open, not waiting for anyone to do it for me or help me out of the stuffy vehicle.

  Once on my feet, Nicholas offered me his arm, even after I had openly insulted him inside the car. I took Francis’s arm instead. I was upset the kingdom had no justice. I also didn’t trust myself if I touched him. Nicholas crossed his arms, looking at me confused as I had rejected him. I chose to ignore him as I strode with Francis.

  I was way too young to marry someone who was who-knows-how-many centuries old and a playboy. I had seen him in Demyan’s memories with two bombshells the night his father was murdered. Not that I was the jealous type. No. Nope. Right? Right?

  Our relationship was not real. It could never be so, I thought, feeling more than disappointed. I was feeling really heartbroken. Crap. But all my confusing thoughts paled at the sight in front of me. I stood there in awe with my jaw dropped. I was not ready for such grandiosity. The royal mausoleum was a large limestone edification that could house Francis’s Paris mansion with room to spare. I imagined the kingdom to have a creepy, cemetery, nothing like this.

  A circus guard was handing black, hooded robes to the attendees. I looked at Francis for any kind of description of what was expected, but he didn’t say anything. He just patted my hand as a gesture that everything was going to be all right. He was worried about my emotions, and I had forgotten my sorrow. After all, Émil wasn’t really dead. A Draugr, I presumed Nicholas’s Draugr, clad him with his cloak and then me, taking my poncho and ugly hat off first.

  That is when my gaze collided with Demyan Greco’s. He held a white porcelain urn, adorned with the kingdoms blue and gold blazonry, and stood outside large wooden doors. Émil’s ashes were supposed to be inside that urn. There was a smirk on his mouth at the sight of my hand over Francis’s. It was contagious in a way, so I grinned softly back at him, hoping no one would notice it.

  Count Something-Nasty-ish, in his black, hooded cloak, formally approached the doors that were locked with an electronic key code and a hand-scanner pad. He pressed his hand onto it. Francis, Demyan, and I exchanged glances. The Count still had way too much power.

  The interesting part wasn’t the building itself until we went inside. The grand foyer led to a small chapel, decorated with gold leaves, and to a gated entrance that led under the building. The gate had also been updated with an electronic key-code pad and hand scanner. This time, the prince was the one to press his hand to open it. I looked at Francis with wide-open eyes for explanations.

  “There have been curious scholars, treasure hunters, and loiters breaking the peace of our ancestors,” Francis whispered, as we watched the small procession of Strzyga stepping down the stairs.

  I counted no more than eight persons. My gaze searched for Demyan among the group. He wasn’t anywhere, except that the Count was now holding Émil’s urn. I kept looking behind us to see if he was still coming, but the main door shut, and I saw no one else coming in. Was he not allowed inside? What was going on?

  The Count’s intense gaze reminded me to act more heartbroken. However, I felt like running away from this insensitive and phoney funeral. As the group followed the Count holding the urn, I faked a sniffle.

  The worn marble steps were dimly illuminated with electricity, so you could watch your step. The mausoleum had been updated to the twenty-first century with electronic security and electricity.

  I wondered if Count Something-Remorseless had searched this place, perhaps even recorded his findings in his notebook. It wouldn’t have been difficult to do so as the king’s personal adviser, but maybe he missed something. I had to examine his notes to determine where should I start searching. If the medallion was buried here… I had to get my hands on the Count’s notebooks, I had to steal them, I realized, and I was not very proud of that. Would Francis help me? Nope, and neither could Gavril. Ugh.

  For a moment, I speculated the medallion’s other possible locations inside the palace as we went farther down. The list was as endless as the number of rooms and dungeons. The concave stone tunnel turned into a wider chamber when we reached the bottom floor.

  The illumination was soft and not intrusive to the eyes. I suspected it was specially made to protect the relics and amazing statues surrounding the room. I looked around, drinking in the room. It was similar to the main antechamber Émil had built underneath St. Émilion’s cathedral, except this one was majestically cold, white, and creepier. It was a crypt full of resting places, life-size statues, marbled cenotaphs, and wall sepulchers with sealed dead remains on all sides. I wondered how old some of them were—probably a millennium at least. The arched stone pillars were more richly carved than those of Émil’s.

  Count Something-Heartless unceremoniously placed the urn containing Émil’s ashes over a marbled, carved niche, just as he had dumped Émil’s body after he’d tortured him. I disliked him so much. I kneeled and prayed a small quartet of the “Dies Irae” for the souls of all these dead Strzyga, since poor Émil was still alive and kicking some waves somewhere.

  “Pie Jesu Domine, Dona eis requiem. Amen.” Merciful Lord Jesus, grant them rest. Amen. Silence had filled the air inside the chamber for my ill-chosen moment. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. I probably broke the protocol—again.

  Francis squeezed my hand gently, letting me know he was there for me. I wished he had been there at Mother Clarisse’s funeral holding my hand. But it would have been scandalous as far as convent and school rules went. I wished I had the time or the privacy to let him know this morning that his friend hadn’t really croaked.

  The prince approached an altar-like marble table. A large, leather-and-brass-covered book with a lock rested on top of it. The prince opened it and began to write Émil’s name and date, then he and the Count signed it. A Draugr handed him a weird, small brass bowl with a cobalt blue liquid in it. A drop fell onto the page and the prince marked it with his left-hand signet ring to seal the wax.

  “The book contains the registrar inscribed with dates for each and every member of the royal crown in the kingdom whose time has untimely expired,” Francis whispered. He saw I was trying to grow taller to see the book.

  Nicholas moved a foot to the right of the book, and I could see part of the large page. I gasped at the impossibility of those dates.

  It was one thing being told I was going to be immortal and another to understand the mortality of our kind. Some kings had lived over seven hundred to a thousand years. Most of them had tragic deaths, as I had come to learn of recently. Being immortal did not guarantee life. Unlike Ash, who was supernal according to Gavril. Ugh. How was I going to vanquish him? Back to the medallion. If just Émil would tell me what kind of mystical powers the medallion had. Would Francis tell me? Could I find books on the subject?

  The Count and other two Strzyga bowed in respect to the prince and left the mausoleum. The funeral was over. As far as funerals went, Émil’s funeral had been quite different from what I expected. The best word choice would be impersonal; nobody was crying for him. It bothered me. He was someone really special. But then I realized he had
cut all ties and relationships a long time ago—to protect me. I pretended to wipe my eyes from unshed tears. It was the least I could do for him.

  “Something worries my beautiful Lady Pearson?” The prince asked with a frown once we were outside.

  Why was he still speaking to me? I tried to listen to his mind before, but it had been of no use. Most of his thoughts were past memories with Émil or his take on how much he liked our accidental rendezvous by the pool the night before. I blushed. I put my hand down quickly, reprimanding myself silently for not keeping my composure in front of the prince and at Émil’s funeral.

  “Uh, maybe,” I mumbled nonsensically, noting that Francis had left me, giving us the pretense notion of privacy. The prince followed my gaze at the Count who was getting inside his limousine. “Nothing you can fix at the moment, Your Royal Highness.” My sarcasm wasn’t unnoted.

  He frowned at my constant attacks. He probably couldn’t explain why I was so set up to ignore courtship from a drop-dead gorgeous prince with more money and class than he would ever know what to do with.

  The truth was that my lack of control scared me when I was with him. Even now, I was longing to be in his arms. But, I realized I had to own up to my actions. I had to apologize for my reproachable conduct at some point.

  “After you,” he said. The prince held my hand as I stepped inside the limousine. He didn’t have to do it, but I suspected he was being chivalrous with me—again. The electrical charge between our hands was intense. We both looked at each other acknowledging it. I pulled my hand from his, and he grinned at my reaction. It was kind of awkward, which made me feel confused, excited, and utterly uncomfortable all at the same time.

  “Lord Tarbelli, would you join me for a refreshment this afternoon? I am in clear need of your wise, sound advice,” Nicholas said, looking at me as I sat next to Francis.

  “Of course, Your Royal Highness.” Francis nodded, conceding the prince a time with him. I was quite sure the advice he was going to ask for was somewhat related to me.

  Chapter 36

  After the funeral, I hid in the queen’s chamber, hoping to regain some control over my traitorous hormones that turned crazy every time the prince smiled at me. The queen’s chambers were now mine, something I thought I could never get used to. I felt more trapped in here than if I had been down inside the dungeons with poor Marcum.

  To make things even more interesting, I discovered these chambers were not exactly private. An army of what I thought to be fashion designers, stylists, top models, and high-end department store reps waited for my arrival. Humans.

  To which, the Draugr had seemingly—or unseeingly since they were invisible—disappeared from my room, which was the one advantage to this. My hands held my face after an hour of a private and very boring, insufferable fashion show. I wasn’t planning on wearing any of those gowns or painful-to-walk-in shoes or expensive clutches with diamonds or feathers. I wasn’t planning on marrying the prince. Period.

  If I could just convince the prince to let Gavril go. I prayed for a miracle.

  “Is there anything less… elaborate, like denim or comfy sportwear?” I asked. At this point, I wouldn’t care if it was my old uniform or any of the boys’ clothing Francis had provided. At least they were comfortable. Anything was better than wearing a corset that was uncomfortably tight.

  Everyone gasped in horror, as if they had seen me in my dungeon garb. Le horreur, quelle drame… I wished Gavril was here to make fun of these people with me.

  “But… my lady, denim is for peasants,” one of the clotheshorses said. She had a small, red-dyed ponytail that looked like a bunny tail from behind.

  “What about leather?”

  That got everyone’s attention. I think their version of leather and mine were quite different. Laughter that sounded like a coughing attack interrupted the start of another battle against the fashion despots and shook me from my yawning apathy. Demyan Greco was inside my antechamber. I smiled at him and gestured discretely to save me from this mess.

  “I think Lady Pearson needs a break,” he announced.

  An older tailor with a flair for Shakespeare questioned his authority. “And you are, monsieur?”

  Unhesitant, I stood up and pulled Demyan Greco out of the room without looking back.

  “Run,” I warned, as we left the circus guards bowing outside my room. I knew Francis was with the prince. This was my chance to speak with Gavril.

  “Mr. Greco, I need to ask you a great favor,” I said, moving not as quickly as I wanted, dragging the weight of an eight-feet-long gown train—a hindrance if anyone would ask. I was grateful I had left the shoes.

  He grinned back at me. “I would be incapable to deny anything you ask me, Miss Pearson.”

  I smiled back at my accomplice. We stopped by the mezzanine that divided the palace west from east.

  “I would like to have a private conversation with my friend Gavril without being the cause of his death. Francis is occupied with the prince. I think this would be a propitious time,” I suggested.

  He nodded, but his eyes were troubled. She loves him, his mind assumed.

  Not that again. I reproached myself, feeling guilty for not noting that Gavril was in love with me before. I just wanted to say hello and see that he was fine.

  “The collar records everything he sees,” Demyan Greco said.

  I sighed understanding. Crap. “Perhaps, we could carry our conversation with a door between us. Could that work?” I asked him hopeful. I also felt something was utterly wrong with Gavril. He should have contacted me long ago telepathically. The distance inside the palace wasn’t that terrible that we couldn’t speak to each other.

  “I have a better idea,” he said, pulling my hand toward the east wing where Francis’s and Gavril’s accommodations had been assigned. He opened a door along the long corridor.

  The room was stark, almost Spartan. No decorations. Nothing personal. Just plain wood furniture. A small bed, a table, a chair, and a fireplace. No plush carpets or priceless artifacts like the rest of the palace, except for a set of black leather and metal armor with a brass helmet standing in the corner. I knew then whose room was this—Demyan Greco’s. I turned to see him, but I found I was the one being observed instead. He smiled back at me when he knew I had figured out this was his room.

  “I ought to be present,” Demyan Greco said.

  I nodded back at him in agreement. At this point I would do anything.

  He stepped toward the balcony doors and opened them for me, lifting the thick drapes. He put his index finger over his soft lips as a universal sign for silence and hid me behind them. I understood what he was trying to do.

  “Wait for me until I come back. Under no circumstance let the camera in the collar see you, or you may kill your friend.” Not counting the cleaning bill of the room, he thought before he left the room.

  A few minutes later, I heard the creak of the old door opening.

  “Pretend you are speaking to me. You have no more than five minutes, so be brief,” Demyan’s voice said.

  “Gavril?” My voice came out muffled by the thick fabric of the drapes.

  “My lady should not be here,” Gavril said, sounding upset at me.

  My lady? What the freak is wrong with you? “I just wanted to know if you were taken care of. If I could do anything for you,” I said behind the drapes, feeling murderous and terribly sad and confused.

  “I am. Now go back to your chamber before we get into trouble.” His voice was somewhat cold. Was he angry at me? Was he in love? My chest tightened, and I felt a knot in my throat.

  Gavril, do you love me? I had to know.

  He stopped for a moment. “I’ll better go, Mr. Greco,” Gavril said.

  No—please tell me. I heard the rush of his steps going out the door, and the sound of the door closing made me feel like I had lost everything. I felt a large void in my stomach, and my breathing had stopped.

  Demyan Greco pulled the cu
rtain away from me. I felt the rush of air over my wet face. I looked at him with blurry eyes as he offered me his handkerchief, reminding me of the last time he had done the same.

  “He is more than a friend to me,” I explained.

  Damn, she loves him. Lucky dog, Demyan Greco thought. Why was everyone set up to think that I was when in fact I wasn’t. Poor Gavril. I was not in love with him.

  “Miss Pearson, somethings can never be, and I think your friend understands this—”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’ve known him since I was nine years old. He brought me frogs, played with me, taught me the names of the constellations. God knows there were times I had wanted to kill him for the practical jokes he played on me. He has been the brother I never had.” I wiped my tears away then locked my eyes on him. I wanted him to understand. “He is the only family I have known.” I waited for Demyan Greco to say anything besides gasping quietly and acting strange. He gently held the right side of my face. There was tenderness in his eyes. What was it with Gavril and Demyan Greco today?

  “Miss Pearson, I think he will be fine for now, and I see you need a friend. A good friend. Forgive me if I have missed the opportunity to be yours. Would you accept my apologies and gift me with your presence tonight?”

  I smiled back at him. “I miss our nightly gatherings. Besides, I have a long list of questions for you,” I warned him.

  “I’ll bet you do, Miss Pearson. Now we should get back. I know poor Reginald must be going crazy trying to find you by now.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I had to do something else before going back to the circus asylum.

  “Would you help me break into Émil’s room before I go back to my torturers?” I prompted him.

  “And why would you want to do that, just out of curiosity,” he asked me.

  “Uh… well, uh—I just want to say goodbye to him. I didn’t have the chance to,” I lied, omitting the purpose of my visit. Not only did we not have time for me to explain to Demyan about my dream with Émil, but I couldn’t trust anyone with the fact that Émil had given me a gift when everyone was looking for the medallion. I could potentially endanger Émil’s life again, even when I thought this gift was a consolation gift. Émil had denied to tell me where the medallion was. Maybe he didn’t know for all I knew, but everyone suspected he did.