Fairytale

by Maggie Shayne

  Once she returned to Rush, she’d be restored to power. And she’d be obliged to destroy him.

  It occurred to her then that she didn’t even know his given name. She never had. When his family had been banished to the dark side centuries ago, the name had been outlawed. No one could utter it in Rush ever again. His family were the dark ones, and the name he used in this realm, Darque, was only an extension of that.

  Not that it mattered. Not now. Her time had come. All these years she’d awaited this day, and now it was here. She knew...it was time.

  The Dark Prince must sense something was about to happen. She could feel his nervousness, hear him pacing in the room beside hers. He would not be an easy man to trick. His keen mind would spot the slightest flaw in her performance. But she suspected she held the weapon that would make her the victor in this particular battle.

  He couldn’t hurt her. And not just because of the pendant she wore. There was more. All these years he’d held her prisoner, watched her grow and change, as she’d watched him remain the same. Dark, charismatic, and utterly evil. But he’d never been cruel to her, despite that she was his sworn enemy. And she’d been sure to look deeply into his eyes whenever he approached her. She knew she possessed that fairy allure, so dangerous to mortal and fay males alike. And she’d focused that allure on the Dark Prince, praying he’d be susceptible as well. That she could soften his barren, black heart toward her...just a little bit. Just enough.

  She’d soon find out whether her attempts had been successful.

  She relaxed her body, muscle by muscle, and focused on a single spot on the white ceiling above her. She concentrated, waiting for the knowledge to come to her. She’d know what to do. She’d know exactly what to do.

  Staring at the ceiling, but not seeing it, she pictured her sister’s beautiful face, put Brigit foremost in her mind, just the way she had imagined her. The way she’d painted her. And she concentrated. When she’d focused every part of herself, mind and spirit on her sister, she consciously relaxed, letting her mind open like the petals of a flower in the sun. And she knew what she had to do.

  She had to get sick. Very sick. Sick enough so they’d take her from this place to a hospital. She wasn’t sure why she was supposed to do that, or even if she could do it, but she would certainly try.

  Her focus shifted. She concentrated now on the physical rather than the spiritual. And as she willed it, so it happened. Her state altered, and her breathing slowed. Her heart rate followed suit, and her body temperature dropped.

  Yes. That’s it. But more. Just a bit more.

  Focus. She tapped the strength of her will, used all the power she had. And consciousness began to recede. Not enough oxygen now, she supposed, to maintain it. She reached for the lace doily on her bedside stand, caught it, and tugged until the lamp that rested atop it crashed to the floor. That done, she rolled onto her side, close to the bed’s edge. Teetering now. This experiment could kill her. She must be careful.

  She leaned a little farther, heard the door open just as all thoughts faded away. She felt her body falling from the bed, felt the crushing impact on her right side when she hit the floor.

  Darque reached Bridin’s bedroom door at the same time as Kate, the nurse. He flung the door open, surged inside...and paused there as the blood drained from his face. Bridin lay on the floor, amid the litter of broken glass. Her face as lily white as that of a corpse. Her eyes closed.

  “Gods, why now?” he snarled as he moved forward, instinctively bending over to pick her up, then hesitating. The pendant. He couldn’t lay his hands on her as long as she wore that pendant.

  And then Kate was crouching beside him, pressing her palms to Bridin’s face the way Darque had intended to do.

  “Lord, she’s cold as ice!” The nurse caught Bridin’s wrist in her hands, and shook her head. Her eyes widened as she looked up at Darque.

  He scowled down at the beautiful woman on the floor. “Damn you, Bridin, your timing couldn’t be worse.” He stood straight and paced away from her, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. At any moment now, Zaslow would be taking possession of that damned painting. And Darque had to be there when that happened. He had to be sure it was destroyed, at once, before Bridin’s sister ever set eyes on it. He had to witness it burning with his own eyes. He couldn’t trust this to Zaslow. It was too important. And he couldn’t wait.

  Nor could he leave Bridin here in this condition. She looked as if she were at death’s door. Gods, he couldn’t just let her die.

  He turned abruptly, saw Kate maneuvering Bridin’s limp form back into the bed, stroking her hair, muttering softly. He could care less if she died, he reminded himself. It wouldn’t matter to him in the least, except that he needed her. He needed her to secure his hold on the throne of Rush.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded.

  Kate turned on him, wide-eyed.

  “You’re a nurse, dammit. What’s causing this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sighing in disgust, Darque paced toward the bed, stood beside it, looking down at Bridin’s ivory face, the dark circles even now beginning to form around her eyes. The way her hands trembled against the white sheets.

  Kate’s head lay upon Bridin’s breast for a moment. When she straightened, she faced him. “I don’t have a stethoscope here, but I think her heartbeat is irregular. And it looks as if her blood pressure is falling dangerously. We need to get her to a hospital, Mr. Darque.”

  He narrowed his eyes and moved closer. Without taking his gaze from Bridin, he said, “Go downstairs and call an ambulance. You’re to ride in it with her. You’re to stay with her at all times, Kate. Do you understand?”

  Kate nodded and started toward the door.

  “I’ll join you at the hospital soon. I have something I have to do first, but I’ll come there directly. Don’t let her out of your sight for an instant, Kate, until I get there.”

  “I won’t,” she said. “I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry, Mr. Darque.” And then she left the room.

  Darque bent over the bed, lifted his hand as if to touch her face, but caught himself, and drew it away again. “I’m warning you, Bridin of Rush, if this is some kind of a trick...”

  His words trailed off as her eyes fluttered, and then opened, mere slits, unfocused and watery.

  But they caught his and held them, and her pale, trembling hand rose slowly, reaching for his face.

  He couldn’t touch her. But she could touch him with no ill effects if she wanted to do so. It surprised him when her chilled palm settled on his cheek, and her eyes, dulled though they were, still managed to pierce his.

  “Before I...go...” she whispered. “I wish to know...your name.”

  His name? The Dark Prince blinked in shock. “You’re not going to die, Bridin,” he assured her. “You’ll live...long enough to serve my purposes, at least. But since you asked, my name is the same as my father’s before me, and his before him, and many before them. I am Tristan of Shara.” He held her gaze and added, “Ruler of Rush.”

  Her chilled hand fell away from his face, and he saw in her eyes that his barb had struck its target. And then they fell closed, and she said no more.

  Tristan of Shara felt his stomach lurch, and wondered at it. But he lifted his hand, and spoke the words that would remove the invisible barrier which kept the fairy from passing.

  And then he sat down in the chair beside the bed, and he stared at her a while longer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The pounding on the front door came just as Adam reread her letter for the fourth time, while racking his brain to figure out where she’d gone. How he could reach her in time to protect her when he didn’t even know where she’d gone. The interruption irritated the hell out of him.

  “Dammit, Adam, open up!”

  The voice was not one to be ignored. Mac wasn’t the type to yell and pound on a door at this hour unless something was very wrong. Adam clasped the le
tter in his hand, went to the door, and yanked it open.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.” Mac shoved Adam aside and came in, heading straight for the study. “You’re going to knock me right on my ass for this, buddy, but do us both a favor and save it for later, okay?”

  Adam shook his head in confusion. “Look I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t have time to find out. And since I need to borrow your car, I’m not likely to knock you on your ass just now.”

  “Good, because I tapped your phones.”

  “You...”

  “Tapped your phones. Illegal as hell. I could lose my license.”

  Adam blinked. “Why?”

  Mac’s face twisted into a grimace. “Because you’re my friend and I was worried about you. Afraid you were about to walk into another scam perpetrated by another woman. Jesus, Adam, I was with you last time, remember? I didn’t want to watch you go through all that again.” He tilted his head, surveying Adam’s face. “Or am I already too late? Is she gone, Adam?”

  “Yeah, and I have no idea where.”

  Mac sighed in disgust, stomped straight through into the study, and reached for the painting. With a quickness that made Adam cringe, he jerked the painting off the wall, flipped it around, and scanned the back. “Did you do what I told you? With the marking pen?”

  Adam nodded, moving forward quickly and restlessly, wishing he knew what to do to help Brigit. “Yeah. But there’s no sense looking for it. She switched them, Mac. Took the original with her, and I don’t even give a damn. It’s her I want, not the freaking painting.”

  Mac’s head came up sharply. “You knew she’d switched them?” At Adam’s nod, he rushed on. “And you just let her go? Just like that? What’s got into you, Adam, you lost your mind or what?”

  But even as he spoke, Mac was scanning that canvas again, yanking a flashlight the size of a pen from his shirt pocket, flashing its purplish glow over the back in search of the ink.

  “I didn’t just let her go! She told me she had two more days, and I was planning to be there with her when she delivered the damned painting to this Zaslow jerk. But she left early, took my keys so I couldn’t follow. She’s meeting the bastard alone and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

  “Yeah, well you ought to know, Adam, that I just eavesdropped on a phone call from Zaslow. The jerk didn’t ask her to pull this scam. He didn’t give her any goddamn choice. Sounds as if he’s holding the old man, just to be sure she complies.”

  “I know all that. She came clean, Mac, told me everything.”

  “He’s a sadistic bastard,” Mac went on. “Told Brigit that old Raze was sick, started listing symptoms and sounded like he was enjoying it. I thought I heard a moan in the background, but—”

  “Jesus Christ. No wonder she took off in such a hurry.”

  “Ah, hell, Adam,” Mac’s words held a new urgency, and Adam looked up fast. Mac stood, staring at the lower right-hand corner of the painting, and shaking his head. “She didn’t do it, pal. She didn’t switch them. This is the original.”

  “What?” Adam lunged forward. A rush of adrenaline flooded his veins, and it propelled him, pushing him.

  He looked over Mac’s shoulder to see the word, scrawled in Adam’s own hand, illuminated by the ultraviolet glow. Rush.

  “Brigit...” Adam breathed, almost limp now with relief. She hadn’t betrayed him. Even with all the pressure on her to do it, and even when he’d told her he didn’t care about the damned painting, that he’d willingly hand it over to Zaslow himself, she’d been unable to go through with it.

  “This Zaslow is no slouch. He’s an expert. She might have pulled it over on him if she’d waited a few days, let the paint dry. But man, he’s gonna see through this so fast he won’t have to look twice.” Mac frowned hard. “And we both know this bastard has killed before.”

  Adam blinked, shock seeping through his bones, and the need for action making every nerve ending in his body twitch and jump. “Tell me you know where she’s meeting him, Mac.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mac said, with a hard nod. “You bet your ass I know. An hour from here. Binghamton. At the double-A ball field there. We can call the cops and have them—”

  “No cops.” Adam headed for the front door at a run. “You leave your keys in the car?”

  “Yeah, but Adam, we have to notify—”

  “No cops, Mac.” He stopped with his hand on the knob, his palm itching and shaking to send a glance back over his shoulder. “They’d connect her with the other forgeries...the ones in the past. She’d end up in prison.”

  “If she’s guilty—”

  “She was a kid, Mac. You said yourself, she couldn’t have been much more than a teenager when those other heists went down.”

  Mac’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “Okay. All right. It’s your call. But I’m coming with you. You can’t take on a thug like Zaslow alone.”

  Adam shook his head. “No way, pal. This is my fight.” Adam started through the door.

  “Jesus, Reid, aren’t you even going to put a shirt on first?”

  Adam didn’t answer. He jumped into his friend’s car and twisted the key.

  ***

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t betray Adam that way, not when she knew how often he’d been hurt in the past. It didn’t matter that he’d told her he didn’t care. She cared. She’d tried to make herself switch the paintings. She’d gone so far as to take the original off the wall. But she’d never removed it from its frame. Adam had done too much for her. He’d taught her how to love. And there was no room in that love for betrayal. She ended up hanging the original back on the wall, and leaving the house with the copy.

  She’d brought the forgery, its paint still tacky, to the meeting place. It rested in the back seat of her car as she paced the ground in front of the vehicle. The moon was waning, but bright. A lopsided half circle of goodness and light, spilling down on the grassy diamond. The place was abandoned tonight. The season recently over, the bleachers empty. The grass needed mowing, she thought, and the chalk lines had faded. She looked through the link fence that stretched around this end of the field, to the deserted dugouts. And she thought about Raze, and how much he loved to come here and watch the Binghamton Mets. How he’d order a hot dog with extra relish and a Cherry Coke every time, like some kind of ritual. How he knew every player by name, and could predict which ones were destined to get called up to the major leagues.

  She loved that old man. She’d never loved anyone as much as she loved Raze. Until now.

  Zaslow’s van rolled in, and Brigit went stiff. The vehicle pulled up beside hers, the headlights went out, and the motor died.

  Zaslow’s door opened and he stepped out, came around to stand near its nose. She remained where she was, standing nervously at the front of her own car. Both vehicles were aimed at the fence and the field. As if they were sitting there awaiting the first pitch.

  “Well? Where is it?”

  She lifted her chin, felt the wind whipping tendrils of hair around her face. “I want to see Raze first.”

  Zaslow tilted his head, shrugged. “Fair enough. Let’s just get on with this, Brigit. My client was in touch right after I talked to you, and he’s running out of patience.”

  Zaslow stepped between her car and his, to open the van’s passenger door. Brigit moved to stand beside him, and when the interior light came on, she saw Raze, slouched in the seat. His careworn face was relaxed, head tilted to one side. He slumped there, so still she jerked in shock at first, thinking he was dead. But then she saw his chest rise and fall, slightly, but enough, and she drew a steadying breath. She’d take care of Raze. Right now, nothing mattered but that.

  She started forward, but Zaslow stepped right in front of her, blocking her path. “Not so fast, Brigit.” He closed the van door. “The painting.”

  She glanced past him, through the windo
w of the van at his back. In the pale moonlight, she could see a set of keys dangling from the switch. Hope surged in her chest.

  “It’s in the back seat,” she said, inclining her head toward her car, three feet behind her. “Go ahead, take a look.”

  She stayed where she was as Zaslow moved past her to bend to the car and open the back door. She saw him lean in, reach out, and she lunged around the van’s nose, reaching for the driver’s door, just as she heard him yell, “Bitch!”

  A gunshot rang out even as she was about to wrench the door open. Brigit ducked instinctively, covering her head with her hands, pressing her face to the cool metallic door.

  “You lying, cheating little witch! Did you really think you could—could...” His voice trailed into silence.

  Why? What...Brigit straightened just a little, and leaned forward to peek around the front of the van. But Zaslow wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was staring through the chain-link fence at the baseball diamond. Blinking in confusion, she followed his gaze, only to see a dark, menacing form standing out on the field, right between home plate and the pitcher’s mound. Where had he come from? How had he managed to walk out there without either of them noticing? But there he was, standing still as stone, so completely enshrouded in shadow that only his outline was visible. But even without seeing him, Brigit knew he stared straight at Zaslow.

  She couldn’t make out a single detail about the man. It seemed he wore a black coat, with a caped back that swayed in the wind. The collar was turned up, and his face was completely hidden in the shadow of a black felt hat.

  “Enough, Zaslow,” the form said, only Brigit got the creepy sensation that no part of him moved to issue the command. Not even his lips.

  Danger washed over her like a cold breeze. She could smell it, taste it in the air, and her heart chilled in her chest.

  “Mr. Darque,” Zaslow said, and his voice had gone from shaking with rage, to quivering in fear. “What are you doing here this early? I’m not supposed to meet you for another hour.”