Royal Dick

by Melinda Minx

  I climb carefully out of the spring and let myself drip-dry for a few moments. I kept my hair tied up and out of the water, but the humidity and heat has made it frizzy and damp.

  I grab a towel from the wooden rack and towel myself off, and then I put on the robe.

  I walk out of the chamber, where I see Anna sitting there. She’s not reading a book or doing anything. Just waiting.

  “Anna,” I say. “You can...you must be bored just sitting.”

  “Not at all,” she says cheerfully.

  “In the future,” I say, “you are free to read, or do whatever you want to keep yourself occupied. I know the phrase is ‘waiting on,’ but we don’t have to take it literally.”

  “As you wish,” she says, bowing. “Would you like a massage?”

  A massage! I didn’t even think of that, but God, that sounds good. I’m probably not going to get much chance to rest in the coming days, so I might as well go all out while I can.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling. “I would love a massage.”

  “This way, please,” she says.

  I’m taken to another private room, where a big man wearing the same type of white scrubs as Anna is standing and waiting by a massage table.

  I feel my heart race. I thought Anna was going to give me the massage, not this strange man.

  “Umm,” I say. “I, uh…”

  “He’s gay,” Anna whispers to me. “And he’s the best, trust me.”

  I bite my lip.

  The man stands perfectly still. He nods to me, but I’m still not sure if I should allow him to perform my massage, but I don’t want to insult anyone.

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  “Remove your robe,” he says, turning his back to me. “And lay on the table. Place the towel over your backside.”

  I make sure he’s not looking when I remove the robe. Anna has already left the room, which makes me feel even more self-conscious.

  I quickly lie down on the table, wanting to cover myself as soon as possible. I grab the towel out from under me and cover my butt with it. There is a little hole in the table for me to press my face into, which I do.

  I’m now looking straight down at the floor, and it actually feels quite comfortable despite how odd the whole setup seems.

  Then I feel his hands pressing into my muscles. They are strong, and eerily familiar. He was almost as big as Rikard, and his hands feel just as rough, calloused and strong. I don’t quite understand how massaging skin can give a man callouses, but then I realize he likely has to massage big hairy men, as well.

  He is good, and his palms dig down into my muscles, melting even more tension away. I figured that soaking in the spring would have done the job, but apparently I was still tense and knotted all over.

  The masseuse doesn’t speak at all as he massages me, which is just as well. Even if he’s gay, I like to pretend he’s just a floating pair of hands. This is a massage, nothing more.

  I lose myself in the feeling, letting him knead out the stress from all the muscles in my back and shoulders.

  His hands work his way down my back, until they are right above the towel. That brings me out of my relaxation, and I am almost tempted to say something―to tell him to go back up to work my shoulders.

  But he keeps working my lower back, and I feel the towel sliding lower and lower. This isn’t right, even if he’s gay.

  I cough, hoping he’ll stop, but he keeps going farther, and I feel his fingers touching the top of my butt cheeks.

  “Hey!” I snap, and I pull my face out of the stupid table, and tilt my head back at him over my shoulder, ready to slap his face.

  But it’s not the masseuse. It’s Rikard. He’s got the world’s most insufferable smirk on his face, and he laughs when he sees how mad I am.

  “You asshole!” I shout. “You...dick!”

  “I thought I’d surprise you,” he says. “I’ve heard I’m good at giving massages.”

  I glare at him. I’m not about to compliment him after pulling a stunt like that. “It was you the whole time?”

  He nods. “I had Fabian step out as soon as you laid on the table.”

  “You’re such a dick,” I say.

  Was he really just trying to surprise me, or was he testing me somehow?

  “If you don’t trust me,” I say, “then―”

  He waves me off. “Of course I trust you. I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

  I roll my eyes at him and put my robe back on. “I came here to relax,” I say, “not for you to get me worked up.”

  He holds up his palms. “I apologize then. Let me make it up to you.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I’ll surprise you―”

  “No surprises,” I say. “I didn’t like the last one.”

  “Fine,” he says. “It started snowing right after the negotiations ended. There’s freshly fallen snow, and I thought I’d take you on a carriage ride to dinner.”

  He holds out his hand, and I accept it. Somewhat reluctantly.

  We step outside, and I realize the streets haven’t even been plowed yet. Big flakes of snow are still falling, and a winter wonderland of fluffy, white snow coats the streets and buildings. The air is crisp but not too cold. There are very few cars on the streets, as civilians have been banned from using cars until the worst of the damage from the fighting has been cleaned up. The snow helps to make everything even more quiet. The city feels like a magic winter wonderland, and then I see our carriage waiting, led by two horses.

  Rikard escorts me by the arm to the carriage, and helps me climb inside. I try to ignore the squad of soldiers marching in front of and behind our carriage, and just enjoy the magical feeling of being transported by horse-drawn carriage through a fairytale snowscape.

  The sun sets early during Nordian winters, and the only light comes from streetlights, but those soon die down.

  “Why is it getting so dark?” I ask.

  Rikard reaches up and pulls at the awning. It retracts back like a convertible top, exposing us to the elements, but also revealing the stars above us in the sky.

  “This part of the city is off the grid right now; look,” he says.

  I see hanging lanterns bolted onto the street lights, filled with dull flames. Within all the buildings and houses, I notice dozens of candles and a number of gas lanterns. The light is so dim, but it makes the snowy cityscape feel even more surreal, as if we’ve traveled back through time.

  “I’ve never seen the stars like this in the city,” Rikard says. “I thought you’d like it.”

  I grab hold of his arm and lean my head against my husband’s strong shoulder. “I do.”

  We travel through the streets, the horses’ hooves muffled by the ever-deepening snowfall.

  Finally, we reach what looks like a cathedral, but it’s not one I recognize.

  “This used to be a church,” Rikard says, “but the congregation merged with another to build the North Byzantium Cathedral.”

  “They just abandoned it?” I ask.

  “Sold it,” he says. “It’s a restaurant now, one of the best in the city.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe for us to go in?” I ask.

  He smiles smugly. “I had the whole place reserved for us.”

  “Isn’t that unfair to the other customers?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “There were none. Their power is out, too, but I paid them a lot to open up just for us. They can manage a nice meal for two even without power.”

  He opens the carriage door for me. The soldiers form a near wall around us as we stroll toward the entrance.

  The tall, thick wooden doors swing open, and the light from thousands of candles spills out onto the snow. Two men in tuxedos and white gloves stand in front of each door, bowing to us.

  “Let’s go, my princess,” he says, holding out an arm.

  He escorts me through the entranceway. There are hundreds of candles on the floor, forming a pathway. There are lar
ger candles on stands, as well, for eye-level lighting. Even with all the candles, it still is incredibly dim inside. Everything has an almost unreal quality to it. Rikard’s sharp, chiseled features appear softer than normal in the faint light. Even his razor-sharp cheekbones are partially softened by the candlelight. There’s a sparkle in his eye, though, and he grins at me as he escorts me into the main space.

  The pews are gone and replaced with tables, but only one―right in the center―is set in a white cloth with three white flickering candles.

  “It’s amazing,” I say.

  Lanterns are lit along the wall, and more candles are placed elsewhere, illuminating the entire cathedral even though the two of us are only occupying one table. It must have taken them hours to set out and light all these candles.

  Near our table is a large stone pillar on wheels, and when I get closer, I realize it’s a portable fireplace. It radiates warmth, and when Rikard and I sit down, it’s perfectly cozy despite the chill of winter having seeped into this huge space.

  “It’s all so perfect,” I say.

  “Let’s hope the food is good,” Rikard says.

  The waiter standing near us stiffens nervously.

  “I’m just kidding,” Rikard says, turning toward the waiter. “I’m sure it will be great. We greatly appreciate all you’ve done on such short notice.”

  “Of course,” the waiter says, bowing. “Your Highness, would you like to start with some spiced wine?”

  “Yes,” Rikard says, “and a cheese plate, please.”

  The waiter bows and disappears toward the kitchen area.

  “I don’t expect they’ll have a full menu tonight,” Rikard says.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask. “Rikard, before I came here, I considered Applebee’s a luxurious meal. This is like one hundred levels higher than anything I’m used to.”

  “What is Applebee’s?” he asks. “Is that some kind of baked apple dish?”

  I giggle, but his furrowed brows confirm he’s not joking. “It’s...it’s a restaurant in America, one that commoners go to when they want to splurge a bit.”

  “So it’s expensive?” he asks.

  “Not exactly. A hamburger or sandwich probably costs about $10.”

  “Ten dollars?” he says, looking at me skeptically. Then his face shifts, and I see he’s trying not to judge me for how poor I was.

  “A drink would cost another $3,” I say, as if defending myself. “And of course, you have to tip twenty percent to the server. You’re usually lucky if it costs under $20 when all is said and done.”

  “I still don’t understand why it’s called Applebee’s,” he says.

  “I don’t think anyone does,” I say, patting his hand.

  The waiter returns with two mugs. He places them on the table in front of us, and then fills them with a hot liquid from a clay jug.

  The scent of spices and cinnamon hits my nose, and a waitress appears with a wooden board covered in an attractive display of cheese and bread. I’ve had the wine before, on my first date with Rikard. It wasn’t long ago, but it’s already become a special memory, and the smell of the wine is tied closely to it.

  “A traditional Nordian meal,” Rikard says. “Nobility used to eat cheese and bread like this until they were full, then they’d drink until they were hungry again, and only then would they have the main course.”

  “How long did that process take?” I ask.

  “Four, five hours,” Rikard says. “Especially in winter, they needed something to keep them occupied. Otherwise they’d fall asleep at three o’clock when the sun set for the day.”

  “I guess a lot of northern countries drink to stay occupied,” I say.

  He smiles. “I’m not a big drinker, don’t worry. But even a Nordian monk will drink this in winter.”

  He raises his mug, and we clink them together in a toast. I take a sip, and the warm alcoholic liquid coats my throat and stomach as the spicy scent fills my nose.

  “Damn, even better than last time,” I say, leaning back and letting the alcohol warm me up.

  He smiles. “Wait till you try the food.”

  I realize as I look at the perfect shapes of his face outlined in the candlelight, that despite all that has happened and is still happening around us, I’m right where I want to be.

  25

  Siegfried

  “Are you sure this is the right call?” Schlosser asks me from the driver’s seat.

  I just glare at him.

  We’re in an old bus, the thing may be covered in rust, but it’s loaded with soldiers who are fully armed. All of the soldiers are ones who defected with me―the only men still loyal to me.

  The fucking separatists sure as hell aren’t loyal to me. I could see it in their eyes that they were going to take my uncle’s fucking deal and hand me over to be hanged.

  That wasn’t the deal I signed on for, and I don’t just give up. We were going to hit the capital hard, and after we killed the rest of my family, I was supposed to become king. A puppet king, of course, but I’d take that over being the third-in-line-no-name cousin.

  We had to drive through Latvia just to get back into Nordia from the unsecured―or less secured―northern border. Nordia is still in the EU, but ever since we attacked the capital, there have been roaming patrols on the Latvian border with Nordia. “Roaming” is the key word, and our rusted-out bus was able to sneak through without being apprehended.

  Now we’re rolling into the capital. There’s some risk that we’ll be stopped, but it’s not like we’re going to roll right up to the palace, or even to the castle.

  No, I’ve got a more juicy target in mind.

  I take out my phone and send a text.

  “He’s there?”

  I wait impatiently for almost a full minute until I get a response.

  “Yes, with the princess. We’re still cooking the main course, so you have at least an hour.”

  We’re only ten minutes away. My cousin will unfortunately have to live, but without his princess. If I’m going to be king, I’ll need a princess. And even if that plan falls through, I might be able to use her as leverage. Maybe the separatists could renegotiate the deal with my uncle: we hand the princess back alive instead of me.

  As much as I want to kill Rikard, it makes no tactical sense at this point. With him dead, the princess’s value drops drastically.

  The bus rolls up onto a cobblestone road that is freshly salted and plowed. The vehicle has little to no suspension, and each brick we hit jostles and shakes the entire bus, and my jaw along with it.

  I look back at my squad. “We’re just a few minutes out. As much as I’d like to, under no circumstances should you kill Rikard.”

  I get a thrill every time I simply call him ‘Rikard’ instead of ‘Prince Rikard.’

  “He’s not going to go down without a fight,” I say, “so stun him, cuff him, shoot his knee out...do whatever you have to do to put him out of the fight. Just don’t kill him.”

  “Can we shoot the princess’s knee out?” someone asks and laughs nastily.

  “No!” I shout. “Under absolutely no circumstances should you harm her! We need her alive and unharmed, understand?”

  They all nod in understanding.

  26

  Rikard

  The lobster arrives on a large platter. Its red shell looks even more vibrant under the dim candlelight, glistening in butter.

  Jane closes her eyes, takes a deep whiff, and smiles. “This night is too perfect.”

  I bite my lip and smile. It will be even more perfect once I get her to bed. There’s nothing like fucking when it’s snowing outside, warm in bed when―

  I hear a low droning noise, and some kind of soldier instinct deep within me is set off.

  I look up, but I don’t stand. I don’t want to panic Jane unless―

  Suddenly there’s a shout, and I hear the radio crackle from just inside the doorway.

  As I jump to my feet, I see one
of the guards posted inside the cathedral with us jump out into the aisle and into our view. Wooden splinters are flying behind him.

  I hear another radio crackle, and a second guard rushes into the aisle from the other side. “Prince Rikard, get―”

  He doesn’t need to finish speaking. I grab Jane and kick the table over. It falls in front of us, its big wooden mass landing between the door and Jane. I pull her down behind the table and look her dead in the eye.

  “Stay here. Do not move.” The look I send her is serious, and I’m praying she won’t fight me on this. She nods hastily, and I jump out from behind the table.

  “It looks clear!” the guard shouts back to me.

  Each guard is standing on either side of the entranceway. There’s a big stone wall blocking my view of the door, but from the guards’ angle, they can see it.

  “Looks like a bus, Your Highness,” one shouts to me, never taking his eyes off the gun’s sights.

  A bus? What the hell?

  But fuck. Why here? The restaurant isn’t even supposed to be open today, so the only reason they’d attack here is to get to me. Then my blood chills. Or to get…to Jane.

  There’s a commotion from the kitchen, and I see chefs and serving staff peering out its doors nervously, and then they’re all ducking away when they notice the drawn guns.

  I shout back to them. “Is there a back exit?”

  At that moment, I hear screams coming from the kitchen as machine gun fire erupts.

  Chefs and wait staff start pouring out of the kitchen door into the main room. I see a cook struggling desperately to close the door behind him, even as another woman tries to escape. She coughs up blood and collapses, blocking the door.

  “Kitchen!” I shout to one of the guards.

  Jane rushes out from behind table and catches up to me. I grab her hand as the guard turns his back from the main entranceway and raises his rifle to the kitchen door. I reach his side, and I pull his pistol out of its holster, bringing a third gun to our aid, even if it’s just a pistol.