by Lori Devoti
“She was,” he said.
Ky’s gaze moved between the two of them. “I just…well…” Her hand tightened on her throat. “You could have killed me.”
He shrugged. “Could have, didn’t.” He wasn’t going to be taken in by female hysterics.
Marina’s eyes narrowed. “Raf’s an expert on spies. I had no idea he was so…sensitive to them.”
Ky’s brows lowered. “Why do you keep talking about spies? I was watching you, but that’s just because…I was nosey.” She threw her hands into the air as if the declaration was a huge admission.
Raf cursed under his breath.
Marina pulled her sister’s hand into her lap. “Don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you, and next time—just announce yourself. As you’ve seen Raf can be a bit quick to react.”
“It tends to keep me alive,” Raf replied, but Marina ignored him. She helped her sister to her feet. Ky wandered from the room, glancing back over her shoulder twice before finally disappearing through the door.
Marina turned on him. “What was all that?”
His hands on his hips, he kept his face bland. “She was watching us. She could be the spy. How well do you know your sister? Gunngar was cut off for a hundred years. You don’t know what may have happened to her since then. What she wants.”
Marina’s lips parted, her face paled then flushed. “My sister isn’t a spy. She has nothing to do with any of this.” Her hands opened and closed. She pulled in a breath and stepped closer. “And just when did you decide you didn’t like spies? And what happened to the Raf who talked to me last night, asked me to change allegiances, go with the elf lords? When I went for the interview, he’d disappeared. I need some kind of cheat sheet to know which side you’re playing from one meeting to the next.”
Raf tightened his jaw. She was right; he had been moving back and forth, switching from what he thought he needed, the stone, and what he wanted, Marina. He still wasn’t sure he could have them both—but suddenly he was determined to try.
“I don’t understand elf politics. Before I decided I needed the stone, I hadn’t even heard of the royals or the elf lords. And even now, I don’t care who rules Alfheim. Hellhounds don’t have a government, we rule ourselves.”
Marina’s eyes flickered. “Alfheim is a lot more—”
“I’m not comparing the two, just explaining where I’ve come from.”
Marina closed her lips over whatever she’d been about to say.
Raf continued. “In all of this I only care about a very few things. The first hasn’t changed. I want the stone and I intend to get it, but the second has. I want you, too.”
Her eyes rounded.
He waited.
She blew out a breath. “Well, get in line. The royals and the elf lords have already staked a claim.” She turned on her heel and walked toward the door, head high and gait steady—every inch the princess.
“And you’re going to let them have a go at it? Without a fight?” He called. “You can’t trust anyone here. The place is built on deceit. Do you want to live like that?”
She stopped. “I do live like that. I have my entire life. It’s the only reality I know. And you know what? It’s safer this way. It’s safer trusting no one, than someone who’s working against you. You tell me I can’t trust Ky, and you’re right, I’d be foolish if I did. But, as much as I’d like to, I can’t trust you, either.” She turned back toward the door and disappeared.
This time he let her leave.
How could he ask someone who’d been raised surrounded by intrigue to trust him? Especially when he kept agreeing to work with one of the groups determined to use her?
It was time to get his stone and cut off his connection to the elf lords. Maybe then Marina would trust him. Maybe then she’d see what they’d had in the past was real.
Raf materialized in front of Cinderella’s castle. It was the only description he could think of, a castle with pointed spires and shiny stones that seemed to change from purple to gray to a silvery blue, then back again.
He stepped onto the drawbridge and glanced around, expecting knights in armor to rush toward him. Instead an unusually thin and pale elf in a black and gray uniform jogged from the outer gate blowing a whistle. “Stop,” he yelled.
Raf kept walking.
“Stop,” the elf yelled again, this time producing a short blade.
Raf turned and strode directly toward the smaller male. The elf held his ground. Short sword raised, he stared up at Raf. “The castle is closed to visitors.” He pointed at a sign that hung on a pole protruding from the drawbridge. “It opens again tomorrow.”
“I’m not a tourist,” Raf replied.
“And you’re not an elf.”
Raf felt no need to argue the point. He turned back toward the castle. “I’m here to see Lord Sim,” he replied over his shoulder. He planned to demand to see the stone, to make sure the elf lord wasn’t lying when he said it existed and the elf lords had it. Then when he knew where it was kept, he’d borrow it. He had no intention of keeping it. He only had one question to ask.
There was a rustle of noise and the elf landed in front of him, his sword still drawn. This time he pressed it against Raf’s chest.
“What type of being are you?”
Raf frowned, annoyed. He would like to get past the elf and on to what he came here to do, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen without either bloodshed or niceties. His preferred choice was bloodshed, but he suspected Sim would frown on a dead guard left lying across his drawbridge—and right now Raf wanted the elf lord to help him.
He smiled, his lips feeling tight across his teeth. “Hellhound.”
The elf bared his own teeth then snapped them together in a faux bite. “Impossible. There are no hellhounds in Alfheim.”
Raf’s nostrils flared. “There is now.” He held out his arms making his case.
The elf lunged. Raf shimmered, but the elf’s blade struck, pierced Raf’s skin.
Materializing behind the elf, Raf growled. The elf spun. He slashed his blade. Raf jumped backward, his mind darting. Instinct told him to kill the elf, but logic told him the guard worked for the elf lords, that he needed to stay calm, assure the guard he was no threat—that if he killed the elf, Raf’s chances of being invited into the castle would disappear.
It was a tough choice, kill the elf and alienate the elf lords, or let him live and keep his relationship protected, for now. His strong desire was to snap the small male’s neck.
The elf whirled to the side, light flashing from his blade. Raf dropped and rolled, his goal to knock the elf to the earth, pin and disarm him. But the elf leapt and landed easily on his feet. His chest barely moving with the exertion, the elf faced him. “Leave, hellhound.” His eyes glittered with warning.
Raf frowned. Alfheim had a history of being intolerant of non-elves, but the guard’s reaction seemed extreme, and Raf’s patience were about used up.
“I’m here to see Lord Sim,” he replied, keeping his voice low and steady, the same tone he would use to speak to a crazed dog.
“I said to—”
His blade held high, the guard started to attack again, but before he could complete his obvious intent, a voice called, “Guard! Halt!”
The elf paused.
Sim appeared and barked out a command in elfin, the words sounding like water rushing over rocks. The elf didn’t look at him, and didn’t lower his blade. Deciding now was not the time to teach the guard manners, Raf shimmered, materializing next to the elf lord.
Sim bit out another command, but the guard only turned, his forest green gaze focused on Raf.
Sim yelled another phrase in elfin, then gestured for Raf to precede him through the barbican.
“He’s old-school,” Sim commented striding at a quick pace. “He came with the castle.”
“Does he hate all outsiders, or just hellhounds?” Raf asked.
Sim glanced at him, his gaze appraising. “I can’t say. Yo
u’re the first of either that I know of who has tried to enter the castle.”
Raf raised a brow, and didn’t reply. But as he followed Sim across a second drawbridge and into the lower bailey, he could feel eyes on him, knew the guard had followed them, was watching him. He angled his body so he could scan the structure they’d left, kept his eyes open for the flash of steel or the glint of an arrow.
Sim, either unconcerned or unaware of the guard stalking them, led Raf to a grassy area filled with picnic benches and barbecue pits. He motioned around the park-like grounds. “This area of the castle is open eight to five. Many elves have celebrations here.”
Raf stared around. Sim made everything sound so positive, but if that were true, if everyone was happy under the elf lords, why did they need Marina to keep the citizens behind them?
Sim stopped next to a statue of two elf children, one wearing a crown, the other carrying a sword. “This symbolizes the old and the new Alfheim. Before rulers were chosen by heredity, now it’s by fitness to rule.”
“The sword?” Raf raised a brow. Make it a fist and it would fit with the hellhound way of doing things, but hellhounds lived alone or in packs. There was no hellhound world, no one hellhound or group of hellhounds that decided things for all. “Is that why you need Marina?” he asked.
Sim frowned. “We need Marina because the citizens believe we need Marina—in reality we don’t.”
Raf had visited too many places where constant force wasn’t needed to keep the peace to believe what Sim said. However, he let it drop. The elf lords were delusional. It wasn’t his problem.
“We met with the reporter. I want to see the stone,” he replied.
“Already?” Geir frowned. He gestured to one of the tables. Raf waited for Sim to sit then followed his lead. “Is Marina cooperating?”
“Have you talked with the reporter?” Raf asked. Evading questions was not a natural hellhound talent. His time in Alfheim was beginning to affect him.
Sim stared toward the barbican. There was noise outside the gates. Yelling.
He glanced back at Raf and smiled. “Someone who doesn’t respect our hours. No matter what, you can’t please everyone.”
The yells didn’t sound like an unhappy family looking for a picnic—more like an angry crowd with torches and hay forks.
“The reporter, no, but the paper should be out soon.” Sim pulled a slim box from his pocket, glanced at it, then spoke into it—asked someone on the other end to bring him that day’s news.
Raf bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like waiting, especially since he had no idea what the reporter might have chosen to print. “While we wait, why don’t we see the stone?”
Sim leaned back. “Is there a problem?”
Raf placed his hands on the table. “I’ve done what you’ve asked so far. I need assurance that what you’ve promised me in return is still available.”
“Are you questioning my honesty?”
There was a crash near the gate, then another. Sim tensed, but didn’t look. Raf smiled.
“Yes,” he replied. “I am.”
Sim fiddled with the box he’d used to call for the paper, then stood. “Fine. I can show you, but you won’t be able to touch it.”
He lead Raf past the picnic tables and the statues, to the back part of the inner bailey and finally into the keep. There were no obvious signs of guards or locks, but as Sim walked through each doorway in front of him Raf heard a sizzle, like some kind of field being disabled. Magical or technological? The elves had skills with both.
They climbed a set of stone stairs, simple and unadorned. In fact the entire interior was bare, stark even, with only a few pieces of furniture dotting the halls. Sim noticed Raf glancing at a wall where a large lighter square of stone shone against the darker stone surrounding it.
“A tapestry. They were all sold,” Sim offered, and kept walking.
Finally after climbing two flights they came to a narrow hall and at the end of it, a small doorway. Sim went through first. This time there was no missing the sizzle. It was more than a sound; it sent every hair on Raf’s body to a stand. He pretended not to notice.
Inside sat a plain round wooden table and on it, a box.
“The stone?” Raf asked. There were no windows in the room, but aside from the sizzle as Sim had crossed the threshold, there were no signs of security to guard the artifact. There was nothing Raf could see that would stop him from grabbing the box and shimmering. He stepped forward and reached for the box.
Chapter 12
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Sim slid his hands into his pockets. There was no expression on his face, no threat, no warning, nothing.
Raf paused. “I can’t see the stone. Does the box open?”
Sim walked a few feet to the right of where he’d entered from and pressed a place on the wall.
There was a creak and Raf spun. The lid on the box slowly opened. As it rose, Raf held his breath. The legends said the stone had a phosphorescent green glow, showing its power was strong and ready to be used.
The lid fell back. Nestled inside on a bed of white silk lay a stone—dead and gray in color.
Disappointment clutched at Raf; he spun. “It’s not it.”
Sim smiled. “You really do need to know what you’re working for.” He moved back to the doorway and slammed the door shut.
Raf lunged forward, determined to grab the elf before he could spring whatever trap he’d laid out in the small room, but the eerie green glow that filled the space brought him to a stop. He turned back. Rays of green light shot from the stone, as if something wanted to explode from within it.
Raf tried to move forward again, but the light was blinding and painful. He placed his arm over his face and staggered a couple of steps before stopping again.
“It won’t let you any closer,” Sim murmured. “Not with the lid open. And if you took the box, and tried to open it by hand…standing close.” He made an exploding noise. “Your brain would explode—just like with the gun I held to your head when you first arrived. The stone would be much more thorough.”
“How do you…?” Legends, you couldn’t always trust them. Although looking at the stone, or trying to, Raf could understand how this one had been created.
“We lost a lord. It wasn’t pretty.” Sim jerked open the door, then walked back to push the button that lowered the box’s lid.
“So, you’re saying the stone is of no use to me? That I can’t ask it a question?” Rage pounded at the back of Raf’s head. As he should have known, he’d been tricked.
“You asked for access to the stone and permission to ask it a question. We are willing to give you both.”
“But knowing how to ask the question, to hold the stone…that’s my problem?” Raf asked.
Sim stepped back out into the hall. “Exactly. You get the princess on our side and we fulfill our part of the bargain. We give you the stone—getting it to work wasn’t part of the deal.”
Raf clenched his fists, and worked to calm the anger that was flooding his body. The stone existed. He knew that now. There had to be a way to use it. He’d just have to find out how to do it.
Sim was already moving down the stairs ahead of him. Raf followed.
He knew where the stone was now. He’d come back later to get it. Then he’d denounce the elf lords, and convince Marina to do the same, convince her she didn’t belong in Alfheim—she belonged with him.
Marina had sat at her desk for hours trying to concentrate on the multitude of invitations she’d received since returning to Alfheim. None of them were from friends. She had no friends. As she’d told Raf, she’d always known she could trust no one, and she’d always kept everyone, even her sister, an arm’s length away.
Everyone except Raf.
She dropped her forehead to the palm of her hand. She’d told him she didn’t trust him—because she knew she shouldn’t. But despite knowing he had come to Alfheim for the stone, and his admitting
that he had been working for the elf lords—not just in Gunngar, but every day since—she wanted to trust him.
Trusting him was insanity; it would get her trapped. She had to remember that, and not to weaken. When Raf returned, she had to look at him as if he meant nothing to her—make him mean nothing to her.
It had been hours since she’d walked out on him. A servant had told her he’d left the mansion. For good?
The thought should make her happy—one less person to betray her, but hot tears formed in her eyes. She bent her head, hiding them from anyone who might wander by her open door.
If only she could hide them from herself, too.
“Princess?” A servant, one of the many new additions to Geir’s household since Marina had left for Gunngar, appeared in her doorway. She held a paper-wrapped box in her hands. “I found this sitting in the front hall. It has the hellhound’s name on it.” The elf slid it onto a small table not far from the door.
Marina flattened her hands and tried to hide the wrinkled mess her fingers had made of the invitations. “For Raf?” Marina frowned.
The package was clearly marked with Raf’s name. It was meant for him, not her. She should instruct the servant to deliver it to his room.
She touched the rough paper. “Is there a note?”
The other elf shook her head.
“A gift?” Marina mused out loud, but from whom?
The servant tilted her head in question.
Marina sighed. There was no elf word for gift or present. Elves didn’t give gifts; elves gave nothing without an expectation of return.
Marina did her best to interpret.
The servant’s brows rose.
Marina gestured for the servant to place the box on a table that stood at the foot of her bed. “It’s a human thing.”
“Oh.” The servant eyed the box expectantly, then glanced at Marina.
The servant wanted to see what was inside the box, and so did Marina. Raf was a guest in her home, by elf rules he had no rights to privacy.
A simple cord kept the paper-wrapping in place. One tug on the string and the bow came undone. It unraveled with a hiss. Marina blinked, thinking for a moment the falling paper had made the sound. Then the noise sounded again—louder.
