Reckless Cruel Heirs

by Olivia Wildenstein

  After we’d ascertained the bedroom was empty, I stepped closer to the still shots, unhooked one, and lifted it. Two women stood in front of the inn, one old, one Nima’s age. Their eyes were squinted as though the sun was particularly bright. The younger one had her arm around the older one’s shoulders, and her straight black hair was blowing sideways.

  “I think that’s my grandmother.”

  Remo frowned. “Milly?”

  “No. The one who died when Gwenelda rose from her grave. Nima’s birth mother.”

  From the stories Pappy and Nima regaled me with, I felt like I’d known Nova, the woman who’d cried during every showing of Titanic even though she knew how it ended; the friend who’d taken meticulous care of others, whether alive or dead (she’d been the town embalmer); the mother who’d painted the door to the basement morgue yellow so her daughter wouldn’t look upon it with fear.

  I also felt like I knew her thanks to Gwen. Giya and Sook’s aunt still carried my grandmother’s mind and memories within her. Although she didn’t share them often, or freely, from time to time, over a tribal ritual that brought our families together, a reminiscence would trickle off Gwen’s tongue, and I would lap it right up. If Pappy was in the vicinity when this happened, his lanky chest would swell with sorrow, which prompted Gwen to apologize, even though he always insisted it was a gift.

  When I was younger, I always wondered if this made Nana Em jealous; after all, Pappy had never stopped loving his first wife. One day, while we were tending to the pink drosas, which had not only taken residence on one of her house’s walls but crawled all over her roof, I found the courage to ask her. She’d set down her watering can, brushed my hair back, and said that it didn’t make her jealous, that Pappy’s fond recollections made her feel lucky.

  Lucky? I’d asked her.

  Lucky that such a good man decided I was worthy of his heart.

  Neither one of my grandparents had magical brands on their hands or supernatural power in their veins, and yet they’d found true love. Perhaps I shouldn’t discard the companionship of human men. Perhaps I should travel to Earth when we returned to Neverra and try harder to meet someone. Someone as good and kind as Pappy.

  I replaced the picture on the little hook. “I wish I’d known my grandmother.”

  “I wish I’d known mine, too.”

  Even though Stella Sakar’s fate wasn’t my fault, guilt momentarily nipped at my conscience.

  “Who knew we had anything in common, huh, Trifecta?” The tangible blame, coupled with the hateful nickname, eased my conscience.

  I took my gun back and walked out, rewarding his malicious baiting with glacial silence.

  “I was just stating a fact.” He could choke on his facts.

  “I think the inn has a basement. Good thing you still have that nifty pen,” I called out before shutting myself inside the first bedroom.

  I leaned against the door, half expecting him to grumble something about my family being a bunch of murderers before stomping down the stairs and out the inn.

  Oh, Skies, what if he returned to the train and left me alone in this world?

  I rushed to the window, but it gave onto a side alley, not the front door. I squeezed the gun, vanquishing its solid shape.

  I didn’t need Remo. I had dust and running water. And pie.

  I’d survive just fine on my own.

  17

  The Bathrobe

  I drew myself a bath, kicked off my boots, then sank into it fully clothed. Dried blood and mud darkened the water, but I didn’t drain it. I soaked inside without moving until the water became unpleasantly cold, then I sat up and scrubbed my suit with a handful of soap, before peeling it off my bruised body, being extra careful with my tender arm. How I missed the digital application and removal of clothing. So much simpler than getting dressed and undressed.

  Casting a longing glance at my Infinity, wishing it would reactivate, I slung my suit over the shower rail. Droplets beaded out of the black fabric, plinking into the muddy bath. Even though I worried about draining the pipes, my long hair didn’t feel clean yet, and neither did my body, so I turned on the shower head and lathered myself from top to bottom a second time.

  My skin didn’t morph into tiny copper scales here; didn’t even glimmer like it did on Earth. How very strange . . .

  What sort of dark magic blocked out fae powers? And could this magic be wielded in Neverra? I hoped that was impossible, because it would destroy our world.

  When my black hair slid through my fingers like silk, I turned the tap off and stepped onto the cold tiles. For some reason, probably because the inn’s amenities had made me forget where I was, I expected the water to steam off my skin and hair. Instead, a chill skittered over my fire-less body, and I shivered. I searched the bathroom for a towel, but all the racks were bare. Damn. I opened the door and tracked wet footprints over the white tiles and then over the navy runner.

  Just as I remembered I could fashion a towel from my wita, I spotted a bathrobe laid out on my bed. Bingo. It hit me that the spun-cotton garment hadn’t been there before, which meant someone had come inside the room while I was in the tub. Even though I sort of hoped it was the pie-baking person, I imagined it was Remo. I imagined the fluffy robe was his version of an olive branch, and my heart softened a little.

  I tied the robe around my body, then worked on unsnarling my hair with a wita-made comb. Once that was accomplished, I banished my dust back into its tracks and headed toward the door to find the mercurial fae.

  “Remo?” I called out.

  The bedroom doors were all ajar except the one across from mine. I crossed the hallway and knocked. No answer came. I stuck my ear against the wood to make out any sounds. When I didn’t hear anything, not the creak of a floorboard or the groan of a mattress spring, my pulse ratcheted up.

  What if he’d left the inn after dropping off the robe? Or what if he hadn’t dropped it off and it was the pie person?

  Instead of knocking a second time, I twisted the doorknob and barged in. There, lounging atop the bed, one arm slung under his head was a bootless, shirtless, and pantless Remo. He had a towel wrapped around his waist that covered just enough for me to stick around.

  “Didn’t you hear me knock?”

  He was reading a book with a faded cover. The title read Kiss the Girls even though it didn’t look remotely like a romance considering the man on the cover held a rifle. “I did.” He flipped a page.

  “Then why didn’t you answer?”

  “Maybe because I wanted to be left alone.”

  Oh. I shifted on the rug, which was navy like the one in my bedroom. “Well, I just wanted to say thank you for the robe.”

  He finally looked away from his book. “The robe?”

  I pointed to it.

  His frown deepened. “Why are you thanking me for it?”

  “Because it was on my bed when I got out of the bath, and I assumed—” His frown told me I’d assumed wrong. So we were truly not alone in this inn. “Did you meet the other . . . prisoner?”

  “Nope. Basement was just a wine storage and laundry room.” He said this a tad bitterly. I supposed I deserved it since I’d left him to explore on his own.

  “There has to be someone else here, though. The bathrobe didn’t appear out of thin air.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t lay it out?”

  I gave him a pointed stare. I was tired but not delusional.

  “Well they must’ve gotten back while I was showering, because I didn’t run into anyone.” He went back to reading.

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose as I looked over my shoulder at the door I’d left open. I was about to return to the hallway and call out a hello when I turned back toward Remo. “Want to come with me to greet our new companion?”

  “Nope.” He popped the word out like a chewing gum bubble.

  I put a hand on my hip. For some reason, I’d been certain he’d join me.

  He flipped
another page in his book, perfectly disinterested.

  “You’re just going to lie back and read?”

  “Yep.”

  My fingers slid off the absorbent material. “Fine.” I turned and stalked out of his room without closing the door, because I was certain it would annoy him, and because I wanted him to be able to hear me in case the bathrobe-and-pie provider wasn’t entirely selfless and kind.

  To steady my nerves, I sang as I went about poking my head into every bedroom. When I encountered no occupants, I went down to the restaurant, which was as empty and quiet as the first floor. After a quick sweep of the booths and tables, I returned to the kitchen. What I found there made me freeze on the threshold. The door banged into my backside and skull as it swung closed. An oompf fell out of my mouth.

  I stared at the island, at the pie dish. The slice I’d carved out had been replaced, unless this was a brand-new pie. When steam eddied off its crisped dome, my stomach twisted, and not in hunger this time. I scanned the kitchen for a dirty bowl or a bag of flour that might’ve been left out by the baker. Everything was spotless. I backed into the door, which swung out to release me, and then climbed the stairs and burst into Remo’s room on a single breath.

  “The pie,” I said, panting. “It’s . . . it’s . . . whole.”

  Remo glanced away from his book and cocked up a dark eyebrow.

  “Someone baked a new one!”

  His eyebrow slowly leveled back. “They must’ve heard you moan over the last one.”

  I blanched. That would mean they were somewhere in the inn, but where? And why were they hiding? And what did they do with the last pie?

  “Or the house is haunted,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I didn’t have to glimpse my reflection in the mirror over the dresser to know I matched my white bathrobe. “Haunted?”

  Remo sighed and tossed the book on the bed. “We’re not on vacation, Amara. We’re still in prison, or the Scourge, or whatever the hell this place is called.”

  A full-body shiver went through me. “But there’s soap and pie.”

  He rolled himself up and off the bed in one fluid motion, his firm pectorals rippling into firmer abdominals. He was unreasonably handsome and vexingly aware of it.

  “Is there a rule those two things can’t exist in jail?” He strolled past me, closer than necessary, so close the heat and scent of him assaulted me, adding extra beats to my already ramped up heart.

  A smirk clung to the edge of his smile. I scowled to hide my deep swallow. He disappeared into his bathroom, coming back out with his clothes, which hung limp and heavy from his fingers.

  When he began to unknot his towel, I said, “I’m right here.”

  “And?” He dropped the towel.

  Cheeks glowing crimson, I whirled around. Unfortunately, the mirror gave me a direct line of sight on Remo’s backside.

  Naked backside.

  Naked and sculpted.

  Look away, I told myself. Look. Away. But I was terrible at taking orders. Even from myself.

  His body was an intimidating weapon of toned muscle and buffed flesh. Thighs bloated with power framed by trim hips extending into a waist that smacked of rigor and lack of indulgence. A warrior’s body. Deadly to rival men; deadlier to rival women, because how were we supposed to look away from so much male perfection? And on a personal note, how was I supposed to feel about my own soft flesh and slender muscles, by-products of my preferred way of life—indolence and immoderation?

  I wanted to beg him to open his mouth and utter something crude and vicious, but my throat was currently too busy purging the excess saliva pooling at the back of it to produce any sound, so I did the only reasonable thing . . . I dropped my gaze to the doily on the dresser and counted the looped threads.

  The slosh and scrape of fabric against skin had more of my skin heating. Why was I still standing here? Oh, yeah . . . because there might’ve been ghosts outside, and I preferred to be in the presence of an uninhibited faerie than a devious specter.

  “Are you decent?” My voice sounded weird, thready and throaty.

  “I believe I am, but I don’t think you share my conviction.”

  “What are you talking about?” I lifted my gaze to the mirror, found Remo staring back at me in the glass, half-dressed. The good half. Had his chest been covered but not his legs, my internal combustion would’ve made me a pathetic target for that forked tongue of his.

  “I’m talking about the fact that you clearly think me on par with your little Daneelie friend.”

  “We already went over this in the kitchen. Joshua Locklear is not my friend. Plus . . .” I licked my lips, the pillar of flawless masculinity behind me miring my brain’s ability to form rational thoughts. Wringing the life out of the ends of my bathrobe’s belt, I spent minutes sorting through my head, trying to retrieve the words I’d meant to add. It was only when he smirked that they came back in sharp focus. “Plus, why do you care what I think about you?”

  Remo’s eyebrows hugged his piercing green eyes. “I don’t.”

  My fingers slid off the belt ends, and I turned toward him, feeling like I’d somehow regained the upper hand. “You clearly do. You keep bringing Joshua up.”

  “I bring him up, because he’s the reason we’re here.”

  That made zero sense. “He’s the reason I’m here. I still don’t know why you’re here.” I crossed my arms. “Why are you here? I know you claimed stupidity, but that doesn’t explain why you followed me through a mysterious portal. Were you afraid I was headed somewhere fun, and you didn’t want to miss out?”

  He took a step toward me, a giant step that put him right in my face. I tilted my neck farther back so my glare was perfectly aligned with his.

  “I followed you out of the pavilion because I thought you were going after my brother.”

  I tightened my arms. “Does your brother usually hide in the Duciba?”

  Water dripped out of the tunic clenched in his fist and onto my bare toes. “I didn’t know where he was. And then I saw you studying the painted circlet. And I got curious.”

  “So, curiosity made you go after me?”

  A storm brewed in his eyes. “Like I said, it was stupidity that made me go after you.”

  “So, you consider yourself a stupid person, Remo Farrow?”

  “Not usually”—his timbre was low and deep—“but you somehow bring out the worst in me, Amara Wood.”

  I stood my ground even though my heart was clocking my breastbone, and my good sense was telling me to add some space between myself and the bulky fae. “Or maybe I just bring out what’s already there.” Why was I provoking him? Did I want to get stabbed by a pen? Not especially.

  “Your last name suits you. You are a piece of wood. A splinter.”

  I knew this wasn’t a compliment, and I knew I was playing with fire, yet I countered, “Splinters only bother you if they get under your skin. When did I get under your skin?”

  Remo’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, I actually feared death by damp-tunic-strangulation, but then I reminded myself that he’d saved me twice, so he only figuratively wanted to kill me.

  After another long round of eyeball jousting, Remo stepped back, thankfully taking his intoxicating heat with him. “Get dressed. We should try to reach the portal before night falls.”

  The sky was still blisteringly white, but he was right. We needed to get to the portal, and the sooner the better. My arms fell out of their knot, and I arrowed toward the door.

  “Maybe the inn ghost left some ointment for your cuts in your bedroom.”

  I froze on the threshold of his bedroom.

  I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know he was smirking. I heard the lilt in his voice when he said, “Is the great Amara Wood afraid of ghosts?”

  I steeled my spine. “Not the kind who bake pie.” And then I walked out of the room, desperately trying to believe this was true.

  I was in fact so scared that before shu
tting my door, humming at the top of my lungs, I performed a thorough search of the bedroom, going so far as to check under the bed and inside the dresser drawers. Only when I was certain I was alone did I quiet down, close my bedroom door, then my bathroom door, and shrug off my robe. My suit was nowhere near dry, so I rolled it up inside my robe to transfer some of the water over.

  Fat lot of good that did.

  When I pulled my scaled jumpsuit on, stretching the material up my legs, it was still soaked.

  Ugh. Squirming into clothes really sucked. Especially wet ones.

  Just as I got the suit past my navel, the door to the bathroom flew open. Shrieking a little, I squashed my arms over my breasts and flipped around to face the ghost.

  Not a ghost.

  “What the hell, Remo?”

  He leaned against the doorframe, twirling his pen between his long fingers. “I was checking Casper hadn’t killed you.”

  If I weren’t such a prude, I would’ve pummeled his smug face with my fists. “Humming is usually a good indication of liveliness.”

  “How was I to know you were humming and not the ghost?”

  Insufferable faerie. “Can you get out?”

  “You stayed while I got dressed.”

  My blood simmered. “Well, I’d rather you didn’t stay.”

  “Why?” His teeth flashed between his curved lips. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

  I glared at him, until what he was doing clicked. “I rattled you, so you’re trying to rattle me back.”

  “Rattled me? Please, Trifecta. You did not rattle me.” Yet the vein beneath his birthmark throbbed.

  Yep. I’d rattled him.

  Well, I wouldn’t let him rattle me. I uncrossed my arms, giving him an eyeful of my not-very-spectacular-but-perfectly-adequate breasts, and went back to hoisting my suit up.

  Color streaked over his cheekbones, and the pen tumbled out of his hand. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting me to partake in his twisted little game.

  “Are you blushing, Remo? I thought the female anatomy held no more secrets for you.”

  His face reddened some more, but in annoyance this time, and he jerked his gaze to his pen, crouching to pick it up. “And here I thought the princess of Neverra possessed a modicum of modesty, but you’re just like all the other girls in Neverra.” He latched onto his pen and squeezed it between his fingers, not looking up at me.