Wrath and Ruin
Ripley Proserpina
Opal Moon Press
Wrath and Ruin
© Copyright 2017 Ripley Proserpina
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Published by Opal Moon Press
PO Box 224
Middleburg, FL 32050
OpalMoonPress.com
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Cover by Syneca Featherstone
Formatting by AG Formatting
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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
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OpalMoonPress.com
For Stephie—my Diana.
And Reed, the girl who tames wild beasts and speaks wolf.
Contents
What Happens when a Princess is Born with a Tail
When a Prince Meets a Tiger Princess
Pytor’s Poor Tiger Girl
Demon or Girl
The King’s Coronation Celebration
What Do You Wish For?
Bear
Terror
Aftermath
Eggs
Anarchy
A Prince Meets his Beast
Not a Girl, Not a Princess, Not a Soldier, Not a Tiger
There Cannot be More Than One Beast
A Secret Society Adopts a Tiger
Anatoliy’s Squadron Hasn’t Forgotten
The Prince Devises a Plan
Dara Visits Anatoliy
A Change
To the Palace
Polya and Dara
Aleksandr and Pytor Discuss a Game
Pytor Proposes the Hunt to Polya
The King Commands Anatoliy to Participate in the Hunt
Preparations for the Hunt
Polya is Made Ready
Anatoliy Prepares for the Hunt
Polya’s First Train Trip
Let the Hunt Begin
Anatoliy Meets Polya
Polya and Anatoliy Run
Polya and Anatoliy in the Cabin
Polya Dreams
To the Mountain
Pytor Watches the Hunt
On Fire
Anatoliy and the King
Shelter
Polya on the Mountain
Anatoliy the Bear
St. Svetleva Reads the News
Anatoliy Doesn’t Like It
Polya Can’t Be Quiet
Snow
Polya is Lost
Anatoliy and Polya in the Web
Silence
The Weather in St. Svetleva
Polya Meets the Promised Friend
The Priest is Smitten
Horror
Reunion
Readying for the Final Challenge
The Hunt
Polya Alone
New King
Too Late
Excerpt of Revolution and Rising
Alone
Also Alone
About the Author
Note from the Publisher
What Happens when a Princess is Born with a Tail
St. Svetleva, Konstantin 1880
The summer Polya was born, Konstantin burned beneath a merciless sun. Prince Pytor had taken his very pregnant, and very uncomfortable, princess to his summer home. There, the breeze lifted off Lake Fyordia. It ambled through the windows, winding its way through room after cavernous room. He thought the breeze would please her, cool down the princess’s body and her temper.
The heat in the capital city of St. Svetleva was oppressive. There was no movement. The air settled down like a physical weight on the people.
And the people.
Masses of sweating and pressing humanity. The Svetla River, running through the center of the city, was at its lowest, and stagnant. It was too low for boats or for fishing. Instead, every disgusting, dirty child with a full diaper played in it.
Pytor’s princess had held her handkerchief over her nose as their carriage drove through the streets of the city, heaving and gagging until they’d reached the palace.
Even their palace wasn’t cool, despite the servants stationed along the princess’s halls— their only task to wave giant fans in the air to cool her off.
Outside the city, Pytor had a beautiful summerhouse. Of the five summerhouses gifted to each of the king’s sons, Pytor’s was the smallest. But lithe birch trees surrounded it, and it was on the shores of a lake.
He arranged for servants to leave ahead of them, preparing the house for their arrival. He made sure there was a doctor nearby, a good one, not some local yokel who had his hand up a cow before he delivered royalty.
But he had underestimated his princess’s desire to stay in the town. When they had entered the carriage, and he had told her where they were going, she had begun a tirade that started in front of St. Svetleva’s Cathedral and didn’t end until they turned up the long drive at Bishmyza.
The breeze, the one that Pytor had believed would please her, fanned through the windows of the carriage. For a moment, she stopped her verbal assault, closing her eyes. Slowly, the flush left her cheeks, and she looked less like an angry fishwife and more like the girl he’d spied waltzing at his brother’s wedding.
“You’ll be happy here,” he told her, risking his fingers by touching her gloved hand gently. “It will be cool and relaxing. There will be no state dinners and no parties. Just the cool breeze, a comfortable settee and servants to wait on you.”
“I had that,” she spit out. “I had all of that, and parties. And people who looked at me and thought me beautiful. You’ve ruined everything.”
“Ljubav…” he began, and she shook off his hand.
“Stop talking. The sound of your voice gives me a headache.”
Pytor should have been used to comments like those. He was the youngest son of a king. He had four older, handsome, and talented brothers. Though he was also handsome and talented, he lacked the property and the proximity to the throne that somehow enhanced talent and beauty.
He looked at his wife. His beautiful princess. Beneath his gaze, her anger seemed to fade away. She gave him a small, secret smile then closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. Gently, she squeezed his hand before she placed hers daintily in her lap again.
Pytor turned his head to watch the scenery pass. Many in the capital were now using mechanized carriages—modern, unhorsed behemoths that spewed smoke and moved at alarming rates, shaking loose their bolts to litter the ancient cobblestones streets. Pytor chose to travel by horse-drawn carriage to the countryside. Watching the acrid smoke settle in alleys and stick like tar to the white marbled walls of buildings suggested the mechanized carriages were nothing he wanted around his gestating princess. He imagined the smoke curling around her, entering her body and filling up her belly with gray soot.
Pytor had put his foot down. No mechanized carriages until after the baby was born, and maybe longer. He didn’t want his family arriving at the opera looking like they’d emerged from a coal mine.
The first line of birch trees came into view, and P
ytor closed his eyes in relief. When Lara saw the house, when she felt the pervading serenity of the place, she would change. She’d stop being the volatile powder keg she was now and go back to being the gentle soft-spoken woman he’d fallen in love with.
He took advantage of her rest and scanned her body, her ruddy cheeks and her swollen form. His poor princess. He longed to kiss her, to hold her close, but he knew her discomfort made her snappish.
And he blamed himself, because royals had to make babies. He was proof of that. What kind of king needed to beget five royal sons? One back-up was sufficient, but four?
Pytor scoffed. His father had plenty of land and money to go to each of his children, but he only had one crown. And that crown sat firmly on the very healthy head of his brother, Alek.
Sweat trickled down Pytor’s collar and face, making him shift uncomfortably in the seat. He mopped his brow with his monogramed handkerchief. Anger made him hot, and thinking about his eldest brother made him angry. While Pytor’s father may have been generous, dividing land and money between his children, he had not been as generous gifting titles, or brains.
His brother was an idiot who thought all his ideas genius. Surrounded by weak, simpering advisors, he made one tactical error after another. Alek’s yes-men approved every stupid suggestion he had and were leading Pytor’s country to ruin.
Wheeling from place to place at speeds no mortal should achieve, Alek and his cronies ignored the disquiet on the street. When a king moved too quickly, when the faces of his subjects became a blur, he didn’t hear the rumbling. He didn’t see narrowed eyes. He didn’t see the groups of students, huddled around tables in universities, plotting his downfall.
But Pytor took his time. He moved slowly, and he looked. He listened.
Alek was laying the groundwork for a revolt, and he didn’t know it.
Konstantin was a country of haves and have-nothings. Pytor’s father, his grandfathers, and the new king, his brother, ignored the have-nothings. But Pytor knew better. The soft-bodied royals in the castles thought they held the power.
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They didn’t.
They were outnumbered a hundred to one by the hungry, weary masses who lined the streets, and kept the royals’ toes from touching the ground.
The time would come when the peasants awoke from their ignorance, and on that day, the aristocracy would realize how deluded they’d allowed themselves to be.
The carriage stopped, and Pytor was shaken out of his reverie. His daydream of revolt and anarchy—and his brother in front of a firing squad while the crown was placed on Pytor’s head—disappeared like a puff of smoke.
“Are we here?” Lara asked, tired.
“Yes, moja ljubav.” Pytor glanced at his wife. Her skin had cooled, and her sleepy blinking reminded him of an innocent fawn.
She held out her hand, wrist up, a silent request to remove her gloves. Pytor lifted her hand, slowly unbuttoning each pearl button. As he peeled the glove off her hand, she turned her hand in his and lifted it to his face.
“It is much cooler here.”
Pytor recognized the unspoken apology.
The door opened, and Pytor kissed her palm. He accepted.
The servants lined up in front of the house, waiting for Lara to inspect them. She straightened, though her gait was less than graceful, and nodded at the servants before entering the house with Pytor following in her wake.
Bishmyza was less a house than a sprawling, open mansion. It was designed specially for summer. Glass doors opened to the lake, and soft curtains closed against the midday sun to keep the house cool. It was light and airy and Pytor’s favorite place in the world. It was the first, and only, insightful decision his father had made regarding him.
Pytor watched Lara closely, and he was pleased by what he saw. The house seemed to settle her. She trailed her fingers along the glass-topped tables and lifted a blue and white bejeweled egg in her hand up to the sunlight. Pytor saw the delight on her face, and he mentally congratulated himself.
Her hand tightened suddenly, and she nearly dropped the egg. Pytor stepped forward immediately, catching her in his arms and set the priceless egg back on the table.
“Pytor,” she whispered.
Lara never used his given name in front of servants. She lifted a fearful face to him and gripped his biceps, her nails digging through his wool coat and linen shirt.
“The baby?” he whispered.
She nodded, her face crumpling in pain and her nails digging so deeply into his skin he couldn’t help but wince.
The domaćica approached him. “Ser, let us bring the princess to her room.”
Lara took a deep breath, and attempted to stand up again. When she faltered, Pytor scooped her into his arms.
She let out a shocked breath before fixing him with a look of such gratitude he puffed out his chest with pride. He hoped the room was nearby; she was much heavier than the last time he had attempted this.
The domaćica led them quickly through the halls. Pytor strained to keep up, almost groaning when she climbed the staircase. Lara buried her face in his chest, one arm around his neck and another clutching his coat tightly. The footman opened the door to Lara’s room, and Pytor entered quickly to set her on the bed. While he hovered helplessly, Lara writhed.
“I will send for the midwife,” the domaćica said.
“Yes,” Pytor answered, before calling out, “No! Wait! The doctor. I arranged for him to be nearby.”
She curtsied, and the footman followed quickly out behind her.
Pytor unbuttoned his coat quickly, shrugged it off, then undid the top button on his shirt. He was suffocating, and the room was stifling. Rolling up his sleeves, he walked to the doors and opened them. The wind shot through the opening, making the crystals in the chandelier twinkle and chime.
Lara cried out, and Pytor hurried to her side. She clutched his hand and grabbed his arm with the other.
“This should never have happened,” she cried. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He smoothed her hair away from her face. “I’m sorry, moja ljubav. You will be fine. The doctor will be here soon, and then we will have a beautiful baby.”
Lara shook her head, her hair coming loose of its complicated twists to spread out on her pillow like a sunrise. “No, Pytor, you don’t understand.” Pain wracked her body, and she curled around her stomach, squeezing his hand even tighter.
Thank goodness it was his left hand. He would never hold a gun again if she held his right.
“Father Stepan, the Otac at the cathedral, he said I would not have a child. He said that was the sacrifice I made!”
Lara made no sense. Pytor knew enough about childbirth to know women in pain said crazy things. They cursed, and they made promises they would never keep.
But Lara’s desperate tone gave Pytor pause. “I don’t understand.” He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
Lara relaxed into the bed, a respite from the pain. “I wanted to be beautiful,” she whispered, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I wanted you. I saw you, and I wanted you. Father Stepan said I could have you, but I would have to make a sacrifice. He said—” She stopped, wincing. Her back arched, and she pressed her heels into the bed. As she panted, Pytor prayed for the doctor.
He wanted Lara to stop talking. Her words frightened him. They made his stomach clench and his head pound.
“I’m so sorry, Pytor,” she whispered when the pain had passed. “I never thought I would have a baby. I thought that was what he meant. But now I know… the baby won’t live. I know it. He said I would not have a child. He said that was my future.”
Pytor closed his eyes tightly, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.
“Father Stepan?” he asked.
“The priest.” She nodded, eager for him to understand. “The mystic. The one who can grant wishes and tell the future.”
A wave of relief flooded Pytor, followed quickly by a surge of ange
r. Father Stepan. He was an advisor to Alek, a priest who claimed to hear the voices of angels. Whenever Alek made an especially stupid political move, Stepan would reassure him. The mystic claimed the angels, and even God, approved of his decisions.
Pytor wasn’t sure if the priest was mad or brilliant.
“Lara,” Pytor soothed, wanting her to understand. “Stepan is crazy. He will say whatever he thinks you want to hear. All he wishes is to stay in power. He does not know the future. He is not godly. Please, moja ljubav, believe me, and cast this worry from your heart.”
Lara shook her head again. “You don’t understand…” she repeated again and again. “You don’t understand.”
“Ser.” The domaćica waited for him. “The doctor is here.”
She stood aside, and a capable looking man entered. “Ser.” He bowed. “I will send for you after the child is born.”
Lara squeezed his hand. “Stay,” she begged. “Don’t leave me.”
“Ser.”
Pytor glanced at the doctor.
“It is not proper. Please.” The doctor gestured toward the door.
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