Fallen Princeborn: Chosen

by Jean Lee

  Dorjan braces Charlotte, even pulls her a few paces back. Oh, you BITCH, even now you pull that mind control shit?!

  There’s no telling by Liam’s reaction whether or not the controlling words work their magic. “F-fine.” With Arlen’s help, Liam manages to sit upright so he can sheath his blood dagger. Standing is difficult, but managed. Neither parent touches him.

  But Lady Artair does flick at the ceiling with her ringed finger. A little voice flies, invisible and fast, upwards into silence. A heartbeat later, Devyn swoops in and lands in a cloud of dust. He stands with no address and no question. Just this…moment of tensing up. Charlotte can see it in his body as he looks at Liam, Arlen, the Artairs. She catches sight of Devyn’s own burned hands flexing, his spine stiffening. He walks up to Arlen without a word, and loops Liam’s other arm round his own shoulders.

  A servant’s work, caring for a son.

  Dorjan pulls Charlotte further into darkness before the air clears too much and reveals their lingering scents.

  38

  Bombshell’s Many Tastes

  Dorjan transforms into his black-fired four-legged self and keeps his nose to the ground. Charlotte keeps her burned hand in the soft fire of Dorjan’s fur. She can tell by his sniffing they are retracing his steps, which means walking in darkness, then crawling sideways up some side tunnel, walking another tunnel where rot begins to waft, until finally rot and fresh air fill their lungs as they walk out of the Black Tree’s mouth. Twilight’s chill does nothing to ease them after fighting Lord Artair’s fire-mountain self, nor does the sight of the ravaged clearing where Campion had tricked Charlotte time and again.

  The overcast sky breaks directly above them. “There’s gotta be a way to stop this.”

  Dorjan changes back and digs his hands into his pockets, chin jutting out as his stares into the emptiness behind them. “You saw Bearnard. Now imagine Treasa, Keller, and the Alerons like that. We can’t…” Charlotte can hear his teeth grinding before he spits his curses at the ground.

  Be the hope, Charlotte. The Voice holds its hand to her. Inside, her fingers can still close. Inside, she can still hold what should be impossible to feel.

  Stars flash constellations Charlotte doesn’t remember. She doesn’t care. What were stars up there when everything down here was so screwed up? “We can. We gotta.”

  Dorjan’s eyes travel heaven-wards. “Damn, and now them too.”

  Them. Charlotte isn’t thinking about the sky-them. She’s thinking about the birdsong she hears, quick and quiet, flittering through the treetops until a spark of orange pops out of the foliage and transforms into Ember. Curls disheveled, skin sallow, eyes fearful, she looks even worse than when just starving under Orna. “Devyn. They called him.” Her scratched, raw hands grab Charlotte’s arm. “What happened?” Only then does she blink, take in their burned smells, hair, clothes. “We heard such, such roaring, and felt such heat, it nearly melted the benches we built. The matrignis cracked twice, and then the lightning into the atrium—I flew through Rose House, and the blond one tried to catch me, but I pecked his hand and came here to fly into the Pits and see.”

  Charlotte quickly explains, finishing on Devyn helping with Liam up the stairs. Ember crumples in relief. “The blond one’s already promised to kill Nettle and Judoc. We were finally going to know some peace before they…Damn them,” she punches a tree. “Damn their power.”

  But one of them is already damned…the Voice whispers.

  Charlotte clicks her tongue, thinking. “How many wedding guests are coming, you think?”

  Dorjan’s green eye flashes curiosity. “Why?”

  Charlotte gives a big shrug. “Just wonderin’ if any of those supposed allies wouldn’t really love to see this wedding cocked up…family of the bride included.”

  Dorjan’s blue eye sparkles as wickedly as his grin. “Ah. Now that is something to think about.”

  “And I’m also wonderin’ what would happen if those same princeborn people found out Big Bad Bernie can’t use his power much without it sputtering out. Might be something worth, you know, chirping in an ear or three tomorrow,” Charlotte waves a puss-coated hand towards Ember.

  Even Ember smiles at that.

  Nothing smells quite as amazing as hope.

  “There you are, darling!” Darra Aleron peeks through the red arch of the dining room at Charlotte on Rose House’s threshold. Reed rolls his eyes, safe as the doorman merely doing his job.

  Charlotte murmurs a quick thanks to him. Remus’ grumbles from the rose-heaped pit—matriggo or whatever— echo across the clearing. “Then they take their gift right back and expect us to clean their mess before their day?”

  “Oh, shut it,” Willow barks back, “and throw some roses over here.”

  Charlotte glances back at the scouts in time to see Poppy hop on the benches to leap onto Peat, who honks angrily as he spins her around to loosen her grip. “That won’t end well.”

  “Beastly, aren’t they? But I can’t blame them,” Darra gestures for Charlotte to come closer. “Father, do send those scouts hunting before they ruin the ceremonial grounds.”

  Out pops that pudgy, balding man Charlotte caught a glimpse of in the parlor earlier. His shoulders look stuck in a slump, and his nose is so hooked Charlotte wonders he doesn’t fish with it. “Certainly, my dear. A breath of air would be nice, too.” He anxiously looks towards the kitchen archway.

  “They in there?” Charlotte whispers with a claw swing thataway.

  Brutus starts, whirls, whistles, titters. “No. They’re all upstairs with Liam.”

  Charlotte nods nonchalantly. “Name’s Charlotte, don’t think we’ve met. You’re...”

  “Brutus Aleron.” He does a little bow-hop.

  “Is your wife here, too?” For a woman scorned would sure as hell just love some revenge against her attacker.

  Darra’s voice slides over her father’s tense silence. “Oh, she died, long ago.”

  Charlotte murmurs a little apology and stands aside for Brutus Aleron’s skittish walk for the door. Charlotte’s eyes slide after him, noting the stone ring on his finger, and the words of Liam’s mother. And I bet Big Bad Bernie’s to blame. Ooo, wouldn’t Mr. Aleron love to know of his impotence, she thinks with a smirk.

  But then Charlotte looks up at Darra. Bedecked neck to ankle in golden silk, with pearls and sapphires in swirling patterns…Helen of Troy, the bombshell would have driven entire civilizations to war for one kiss, one smile. That’s a girl who gets what she wants. And if she really, really wants Liam... Charlotte’s throat goes dry. “Nice to know you’re not going to kill the commoners for going a little stircrazy,” she says, about to stuff her hands in her trousers until the pain of touching anything shoots up her arms to her brain.

  “I’m not so stupid as to think they’re the ones who ruined the matrignis. Uncle Bearnard’s temper is legendary,” she says with a wink. When Charlotte does a double-take, she adds, “Aunt Treasa is—was—my mother’s sister.”

  “Ah.” A lame response, but better than You’re marrying your cousin?! Eeeew.

  The train of Darra’s gown has been lifted and spread across the dining room table, where two humans stitch more sapphires, pearls, and blue embroidery into place. The man and woman, plump as pears in yellow satin pajamas, coo and purr like pets as they work their needles, eyes half open. Their fingertips leave prints of veli as they work. Droplets sparkle as they drip down their temples like sweat.

  “Aren’t you worried they’re gonna stain that?” Charlotte waves her claw-hand towards them.

  Darra laughs. It’s painfully musical. “What we wear in this form blends with the ‘beast within,’” she says, dramatically low. “Whatever veli is on my garments comes into me eventually. But that—seamstress!” From low to shrill in a nanosecond.

  The woman weeble-wobbles her way around the table and leans in to Darra. “Yes, your highness?”

  Darra purrs and tells Charlotte, “She’s always dre
amed of designing for royalty, so I’ve made myself her English princess. Adorable.” And she unrolls her tongue so its tip glides slowly over the woman’s skin, catching every drop of veli. “I could just gobble you up!” She proceeds to suck the woman’s face—not a peck, not even a kiss. She looks like she’s going to literally suck the woman’s tongue clean out of her head.

  Know what else would be delicious? Vomiting on that dress. But Charlotte refrains and starts to walk away, wondering how to catch Brutus for a moment to tell him about Big Bad Bernie, when Darra finally pulls back. “Did you want to borrow the other one for tonight? I prefer both, but I don’t think Liam’s ever dabbled with multiple partners at once. A shame, really—these two have such vivacious imaginations.” That musical laugh again.

  Jeez,, lady, don’t you have ANY limitations?!

  Charlotte’s shoulders drop. This bombshell could send her shrapnel into a thousand hearts, and they’d happily bleed out. If Liam bled out for her once...well. Look at her. Who wouldn’t follow someone like that to the ends of the earth?

  Darra sighs as she pushes the woman away “Poor Liam’s got no imagination at all, if the commoners are to be believed.” She beckons the man around, his own veli beading around his chest hairs. He bends backward, as though this woman’s tongue lapping up fluid on his chest is all just a part of humdrum normal. “None of the females have so much as seen his room, let alone bedded with him.” She drags her thumb along the edge her mouth to catch a few stray drops of veli while studying Charlotte very, very closely.

  Charlotte stares right back, the smell of jealousy and drive mixing like two overbearing perfumes in a department store. Mmmhmm, I can see the family resemblance now. Gears always turning. Nothing gets by you. If Orna were still alive, I bet you’d have shredded her and used her skin for boots. “Well we can’t all be magic princesses.”

  “No.” A smile unfurls on Darra’s face. A jackal’s smile. “But every princess must have a pet, and I’m thinking of making you mine. You’ve a no-nonsense perspective with Liam’s parents I find most amusing. And I’m sure Liam would appreciate your company in the early years of our marriage.”

  Danger, danger, Charlotte Aegir!

  Of course, when married, Darra could afford to be patient with Liam, just as Treasa was patient with Bearnard—and by patient they mean, screw around with whomever you want until I’m pissed, and then I’ll just kill them and whomever else I feel like when I feel like.

  Great system.

  Power is everything, Liam said had been their lesson, over and over. From what Charlotte saw downstairs, that’s a lesson they pounded into each other as much as into their sons.

  “I don’t know if Killer—sorry, Keller, would like that.” Charlotte rolls back and forth on the balls of her feet, “And besides, ya’ll got so much to do out there in…wherever you people go.”

  Darra’s face turns all saintly sad. “Oh Charlotte, you’re a treasure for all you’ve done.”

  Yeah. A treasure you wanna bury.

  “Surely there must be something we can give you in gratitude.” Those gears, those eyes, like little camera lenses zooming in, clicking every millisecond to capture Charlotte’s reaction.

  You’re expecting something. Okay. Let’s try the tiniest something, just to shut you up. “A painting of the Rockies by Liam would be nice.”

  The little cameras stop clicking. She blinks. “Painting? Oh dear, Liam’s not going to have time for any of that. We’ve got so many countries to scour for commoners—a proper census of Velidevour has never been done, and if Aunt Treasa’s vision’s to be realized, we need everyone brought together for a unified front.”

  “C’mon, you can’t really mean there’s noooo time for his art in all that.” Charlotte tries to sound jokey about it, but her voice is a little too hoarse for light-heartedness.

  Darra glances at the paintings along the stairwell. Shrugs. “You’ve a short time on this earth, being human. We Velidevour understand that passions come and go. He’ll just learn to live without it.” She glances behind her. “Seamstress! I wanted the blue swirling the pearls, not bursting! And where’s my diadem! I need to finish planning my hair before the engagement dinner!”

  Charlotte slinks into the kitchen. She walks by the bowl of Tootsie Pops on the counter by the herbarium. Liam’s window of Arlen’s seaside cottage has faded into nothing but dark pieces of nightfall and a few spatters of rain. No glow of memory. Of Liam.

  Charlotte’s face crumples, but she does not cry, sniffle, or choke. Dumb hands can’t even wipe my nose.

  A candle lights behind Charlotte. On the low sorting table burns one small candle next to a small pile of lavender. Yeah, House, great, but it’s not like I know magic.

  Still, the Voice in Charlotte’s heart does its best to comfort. Take them with you.

  Charlotte manages to brush the flowers into the crook of her arm. Rose House cracks open the closet door, revealing Charlotte’s rooms, silent and safe. She goes in, letting Rose House lock the door behind her.

  39

  Bloody Days

  He’s going to leave me behind. He’s been so clingy, I never thought…

  Charlotte sits on the edge of her bed, elbows on her thighs, head down. Her vision distorts with every tear that pools across her pupils and falls, swift and silent, onto the rug. The stain of her sorrow slowly fills the space between her disgusting shoes.

  She remembers the eagle Liam, crashing down from his mark time and again. Now he will fly, soar through sun and storms. Away.

  Until their leash chokes his neck, strangling him with freedom.

  Voices file into the hallway. It’s not hard to discern who’s who.

  “Shit, Darra’s going to be pissed when she sees him. Maybe she’ll finally listen to me and marry you instead.”

  Don’t let them find me, House. Please.

  “Without a House title? Don’t hold your breath. The only way I’d be chosen heir is if Liam’s drawn and quartered with a body part cast into every ocean.” Keller’s voice is too damn close to Charlotte’s door for comfort.

  She walks through the partition and slides it shut, even though she hears Vincent whine, “C’mon, let’s bust open the chest downstairs before they spoil.”

  There is a tapping on one side of her door, then another, and another. “Could’ve sworn the door was here.”

  Charlotte can hear what isn’t said.

  Keller knows she’s in there.

  “Come on.”

  A pause, then, “Fine, yeah. If your sister can bear being out of that gown for an hour.” Their voices fade down the stairs.

  More voices: Arlen, promising to stay with Liam to monitor the healing. Lady Artair, thanking him—it even sounds genuine. Big Bad Bernie bumbling about Brutus and badgering for supper. They go down.

  Across the hall, Arlen watches over Liam.

  Across that hall.

  Just a few steps.

  Maybe he can put those flowers from Rose House to use. Goodness knows what she’s supposed to do with them, left there on her bed.

  Yet Charlotte can’t stop staring at that stained-glass partition. Her antics in the Pits riled Lord Artair to a murderous rage. Liam almost died from that rage.

  Charlotte had been sure no one raged like Uncle Mattie, with his belt, his grin, his fists. Uncle Mattie’s a right pussy compared to Big Bad Bernie. And for a time, Liam had those Bloody Prince days here in River Vine, sowing pain in the commoners and reaping their hatred in return.

  How could so much anger create such beauty? The window in the herbarium, the clouds of glass for a door to the balcony. Even the meadow on which she leans, with all its slivers of glass perfectly aligned to create a sea of flowers—surely such a beauty had to be rooted in something good. If she could just go in to Liam, and hold the light to his face, and prove to him he’s so much stronger with those who care, who…

  Just don’t go, Liam. Help me skip my stones, toss all those bad feelings into the wa
ter so we can fill ourselves with the kinder things together. Please, please don’t leave me alone.

  A shock, like she’s dragged her feet on carpet for ten minutes before touching a doorknob— I can do this—The shock alters Charlotte’s senses—I can get in on my own—She smells the flowers, flies on the wind—I want to see—The very glass moved with the petals in the breeze—Let me in—The copper frame thins into nothing—I will not fall I will enter I will enter—Shards dance a whirlwind round her—I will soar through time and find the light long lost.

  She falls into soft colors. The meadow is unlike anything she has seen or smelled in her entire life. Arlen’s small patch of earth has nothing on this great expanse, this great expanse populated by three males: Vincent, lanky and golden with his hair still tied back, and the Artair brothers, though a touch younger. Keller and Vincent could be off to their driver’s ed finals, Liam for high school graduation. So little aging, so much time...right? But Charlotte cannot see any signs of history around her. All is meadow and summer sky. Peaceful. Sweet. If not for two of those boys, it’d be perfect, with Liam kneeling in all those flowers, thumb gracing the petals as his eyes wander elsewhere…face drawn, lips set in a thin frown.

  Where is the Bossy Imp? The Healer?

  Charlotte moves closer, wishing she could hug him into a smile. Remember, Charlie, stay on the sidelines, no matter what.

  “I tire of all this wandering, Vincent,” Keller moans.

  “I tell you, the farm is near this field,” Vincent says as he moves to the uppermost point of the meadow’s slope. “You will not be sorry, I promise you.”

  “Li-am!” Keller sing-songs his brother’s name and kicks him in the back. “Get up. Get up or I’ll tell Father you’re dabbling with the pathetic plants again.”

  Liam ignores his brother’s jabs and plucks a single bloom to hold to his face. “Sometimes the most fragile things hold the greatest power,” he says quietly.