Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series)

by Sophia Alessandrini

  Couldn’t be that complicated, could it?

  She isn’t ready to hear everything right now. I hope I have enough time to prepare her for her life role. The kingdom will need someone as strong-willed as her, he thought. “You will know everything when I see that you are prepared to handle what life will bring you. Today isn’t that day. Just trust it is in your best interest that you do as told,” he said.

  I watched the long clumps of my hair fall to the floor and Enit collect them into the jet’s small garbage can. I felt the helpless humiliation playing havoc with my emotions. My eyes pooled with tears.

  ”Really?” Twenty minutes later, I had a dark-brown, short, boy haircut.

  “I know this shan’t help how you feel at the moment, but it ought to grant you certain freedoms and protection,” Francis said. So he kept saying. If Ash was able to threaten me in my dreams when I was at St. Mary’s, I didn’t think there would be much anyone could do. However, I suspected Asmodeus wasn’t the only threat awaiting.

  He couldn’t have chosen a worse time for it, if he had charted the stars and consulted a damned oracle beforehand. Gavril continued his litany of insults for Francis. He disapproved of this disguising.

  Out of the room’s small closet, Francis produced a leather bag full of clothing uniquely tailored for me. He handed me a white dress shirt, corduroy slacks, a pair of leather Italian dress shoes, and brown cashmere-silk socks. Enit handed me a special elastic band to wear over my chest that looked almost like a strapless bra but was intended to hide my girly assets. A boy! My alter ego had been playing with the idea of seeing Demyan again—as a girl. But I was being delusional, and that made me angry.

  “You are my fourteen-year-old nephew,” he told me as he took a picture with a hand camera.

  “I look like effin Jason Peabody.” I frowned at the sight of the digital picture he had taken that resembled the young movie actor with the worst track record of scandals.

  And just when things couldn’t be stranger, he also carried all the fancy tools on the private plane to forge my passport, which he did with master finesse in a matter of a few minutes. I gaped. I didn’t know what to say. I was technically going to France under a cover identity. I wished I could learn one day to do that. It would have saved me so many headaches back at St. Mary’s. He handed me the finished product.

  He read the document in his hand to me. “Alain Albret. Age fourteen. Canadian from Vancouver, BC.”

  I looked at him in consternation. I had never been in Canada or Vancouver or anywhere for that matter.

  “Memorize your birth place and date,” he ordered. A couple minutes later, he took the passport back and saved it with the other documents he carried in a special leather portfolio that he closed with a zipper.

  So I had a name and a last name, but I couldn’t use them, just like he said I wouldn’t use my school documents, and I still couldn’t understand why. It was probably the same reason I had been secluded in St. Mary’s without a last name. The whole thing made me want to cry and scream, but all I could do was breathe. On the bright side, if I wasn’t put in a French prison for forging a passport, I would be in the right position to seek Father Dominique.

  I wondered if Ash, a.k.a. Asmodeus, could be fooled too.

  From the little window next to my seat, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, and Perseus still shone bright in the night sky, even when the first glow of dawn illuminated the canvas as we crossed the Greenwich Meridian line—a north-south line that represents the prime meridian of the world. It was longitude zero, selected as the reference line for astronomical observations. Today was tomorrow—literally.

  The blue sky softened with contrasting, blushing long strikes of white stratus that drifted lazily. I couldn’t tell the different nuances of blues apart. They blended with pinks, golds, and oranges as we crossed the meridian. There was something about welcoming a new day—such a gift, unwrapping the world anew.

  Behind us, the stars still shone while I beheld the upcoming sunrise. To me, it was amazing that every place on earth was measured in terms of its distance east or west from this line. The line itself divided the eastern and western hemispheres, just as the Equator divided the northern and southern hemispheres.

  One could say it was magical, yet no one in the world gave it a second thought. I pondered the many magical things in this world, like who knew Earth was round, or that Earth was nothing but a grain of salt in a multitude of universes. Or that the human body had more cells than our galaxy had planets and stars. Or that technology was not an act of black magic.

  Imagine if the Puritans of the 1600s would have time traveled, what would they have said of smartphones, smart watches, smart TVs, PCs, or jets? Why couldn’t the Sisters’ or the world contemplate my powers to be the same? But the reality was that the world wasn’t ready for someone like me—a Strzyga. They would never be. No one would see past the fact I wasn’t human. I was not human. Not in the past, now, or ever. Sunshine came through my window, and my eyes felt like they had sand inside, reminding me I hadn’t slept any. I closed my eyes for a brief time and focused instead on what was waiting for us.

  France

  Chapter 21

  The Eiffel Tower rose in our view through the windowpanes, just like the photograph of the old cutting I’d stolen from an old atlas book. (The one I’d left abandoned in the shoebox at St. Mary’s along with the letter Mother Clarisse had left for me and that Francis had turned into ashes). I yawned, feeling exhausted and five pounds lighter in my head.

  Ugh. My hair was gone. Gavril muffled a short growl, sitting next to me. I wondered why he had been so upset, more so than me. I took my gaze from the reflection inside the small window and looked at the city under our view. Gavril rested his head over my shoulder, joining me to overlook the same view.

  Nothing prepared me for this sight. I just couldn’t stop myself from gasping and sighing at every sight of the city from the air. The morning sunshine glimmered over the Seine River. Paris, the City of Light.

  Paris. We were landing in Paris. I’d never dreamed in my wildest that I would. No, never. Gavril shook his tail against the leather seat next to mine with excitement.

  “Are you ready?” Francis asked me, picking up sheets of paper from a printer I didn’t know he had aboard.

  I felt the jet descend as he carefully packed those documents into his leather bag.

  NO. I wasn’t ready. France? Nevertheless, the sense of adventure within me won my unexpected excitement verging on panic. I could only hope that memorizing the entire French dictionary when I was at St. Mary’s would prove useful. Now it was time for some answers. I inhaled for courage, nodding like a bobblehead doll back at Francis.

  As the jet hit the tarmac, Francis pulled out his smartphone and moved his fingers with the speed anyone at the academy would have envied as he texted. Once the jet stopped moving, Andrei told us to wait for the customs cortege to come. He exchanged a secret nod with Francis as he opened the door and unfolded the steps.

  Sunlight and fresh air came inside the jet. I heard someone marching up our steps and saw him hand a package to Andrei. In turn, he handed it to Francis, and another silent understanding exchanged between them. I bit my bottom lip and rubbed my knuckles endlessly.

  Stop worrying… Oh, shit, Gavril said when we watched Francis open the package and pull out a leather leash, a leather muzzle for Gavril’s snout, and a bright neon-orange vest. Gavril glared at Francis with contempt as I fastened them onto him. Stop smirking, it isn’t funny.

  Francis handed me the small leather bag that contained my boy things. As we stepped out of the jet, my heartbeat quickened, and a strong humming reverberated inside my chest. I blamed it on the excitement of landing in Paris. Francis pulled an envelope from his leather bag. Inside, he had paperwork for Gavril and me.

  “He is a K9 Corps Disaster Rescue Dog,” Francis told the official holding the handstamp. The official nodded as if this was all routine.

  I told you, Gavr
il said to me.

  He was right. Francis had more connections and resources than I ever thought possible. He took care of clearing customs for me. I only had to answer a couple questions, fake being calm, and offer a soft smile—which at that exact moment may I say, was almost not only incongruent but also a difficult thing to achieve since I have never been a boy nor was I calm—at the official stamping of our passports. I thought for one split moment the official could read my mind until he said, “Welcome to France.”

  “Secret operations are essential in war. Remember that all war is based on deception,” Francis quoted, who else, Sun Tzu. So now it was okay to lie. Just great! On the other hand, I now wondered if everything I was taught at St. Mary’s was right or if Francis’s teachings were wrong. This was so confusing, even screwed up.

  Ah, stop worrying. Things are simpler. Life is full of gray areas.

  So now, am I supposed to stop telling black and white apart, right and wrong? What about good and evil? I asked him, reproachful. But I already knew the answer. Things were not that simple. Gavril sighed heavily without an answer for me. Not simple.

  To make matters worse, men with dark sunglasses, dressed in dark suits and polished black shoes, seemed to be casually positioned around us as we walked out of the terminal. Francis’s jaw tensed, but his gaze barely acknowledged them. It was hard to say whether we were in trouble or not, but I had a feeling Francis wasn’t quite happy.

  We took a common airport taxi, wolf, and everything. Francis gave the taxi driver the address in perfect French. I turned my head to see behind us. I saw many cars in traffic. I had the paranoid feeling we were being followed. Nevertheless, I kind of put it in the “under the bed” section of my head next to the dust bunnies as the city greeted us. I was so excited, I wasn’t even paying attention to anything that Francis was saying. My eyes were for Paris.

  I gasped with every turn, every bridge, and every incredible building I saw. Building after building was a piece of history. But the coup de résistance was when we drove near the Arch de Triumph. The buildings became mansions next to each other, with façades made from large, warm, and elusive pieces of cream-gray limestone and nothing but a wide sidewalk and large green trees next to them.

  Our taxi stopped and parked in front of a park. My gaze turned to the opposite side. Different sizes of decorative wrought iron, acting as a tall fence, surrounded a small garden no wider than a sidewalk with ridiculously tall and pruned topiaries. Behind them rose the most formidable mansion. Francis paid the driver.

  I froze with looking at the front door. Two life-size, marble lions guarded the front steps, and the building was covered by a small glass-and-iron roof.

  “Art Nouveau glass, representative of the Belle Époque of France,” Francis said when he caught me admiring it. The second-floor windows had beautiful wrought-iron balconies bathed with midmorning sunlight. The third floor had smaller white windows with smaller wrought-iron balconies that were aligned symmetrically over the very Parisian style of zink rooftops. This was only the view of the front. I was sure there were more surprises to come.

  “You live here?” My voice squeaked, almost as though I was whining.

  “Home sweet home, as you say in America.” Francis pulled his key out and opened the large double door for me.

  This is it. This is the beginning of my new life. Whatever that meant…

  My bag slid off my hand and thumped on the marble floor when I stepped inside.

  Toto, I think we are not in Kansas anymore.

  I couldn’t stop from gawping. Gavril walked alongside me, but I guess he was as speechless as I was. I thought my neck was going to break as I gazed at the large crystal chandelier that hung in the foyer underneath a most glorious hand-painted dome. This was a palatial, architectural-digest-magazine, picture-perfect, multimillionaire, empty mansion. It was obvious he spent little time in this house, judging from the old sheets covering most of the furniture.

  “I have no butler to take care of us, but there is a couple that maintains and cleans up the house when I am not here. I will call them in later and make arrangements to help us once a week,” Francis said, almost apologetic. The marble floor was clean. I turned to see him with utter incredulity.

  He called this home? Butler?

  I moved to explore the first room contiguous to the foyer. It was a large library with rows and rows of books from top to bottom. It had an assigned area with a large state-of-the-art communications center with modern desks, gigantic flat screens, and rolling, swiveling leather chairs in our immediate reach. If he had computers, I could search for Father Dominique. I turned to see him, agape.

  “Seriously?”

  “I believe the right expression in French would be sacre bleu,” Francis said, amused of my exulting whoas and ahs, as I looked at his high-tech equipment.

  I guess while in Rome… Gavril moved from the foyer to exploring the rest of the mansion. If I was to guess, it had to do something with the kitchen.

  “Here, allow me to show you to your room. You must keep the mutt off the duvets and furniture,” Francis said derisively, as we stepped up to the second floor.

  I could see why. Everything here was priceless centuries of history. Gratefully, Gavril was still looking into the kitchen pantry. I didn’t want Francis’s words of caution to offend him.

  After a most spectacular tour of the staircase and upper hallway, Francis showed me to my room. By then, Gavril had caught up with us just in time for the reveal.

  I felt like crying.

  It was the most beautiful place on earth. Although it wasn’t girly, and the taste was overly opulent, my room was beautiful. High ceilings and a large window balcony brought light inside the room, reflecting prismatic effects over the fine crystal chandeliers. It was so different from the closet-size, dark, cold, and Spartan room I had at St. Mary’s. My hand traveled over the exquisite embroidered-silk wall panels, with sage green delicate twining vignettes that matched the posh bed cover, and fine antique furniture that made me wonder its original time period and historical value. I made a mental note to study these.

  “My apologies. All my guests tend to be male friends,” Francis said, as if I could complain of the fantastic accommodations.

  “No, it is perfect. Thank you,” I said to him. Obviously, he had taken my emotional display the wrong way again.

  Francis opened the balcony windows to let a fresh breeze aerate the room. The smell of jasmine inundated the room instantly. I explored my balcony. The jasmine vines grew on my sidewall, crawling into a manicured pattern all the way to my balcony. I looked over the edge and saw a hidden garden with a stone fountain stained by time.

  “Refresh and take a rest. Enit will bring you some food later. We will start training tomorrow morning.” Francis closed the gauze curtains.

  I followed Francis’s advice. I took a nice hot shower and wore sapphire-blue silk pajamas, two-piece boy ones. I wasn’t used to those kind of luxuries, but I could easily get used to them. The past events hadn’t let me rest as I should have. I’d barely closed my eyes during the long flight. Everything was catching up with me in a bad way. I was emotionally exhausted, and I needed rest.

  I crashed on the bed like a rock.

  Chapter 22

  Another dream! Not another one, for God’s sake! I couldn’t take another poor sleep night. This had to stop. I just couldn’t believe I was standing inside a fiddle-faddle maze of tall shrubs—a garden. Really?

  Crap. Was this ever going to end?

  A beautiful woman, wearing a silk emerald gown and crown, carried in her hand a ceramic mask on a stick. She went through me as if I was made of air and strode inside a maze to meet someone. I was invisible to her. I felt compelled to follow her. I wondered if her crown was part of her costume—it looked real.

  Very carefully, she walked away and hid behind the tall shrubbery where she turned into another hallway made of the same greenery that was part of the labyrinth. I followed her, bu
t she disappeared as a pair of arms wearing white and red embroidered sleeves held her ransom. The sound of her giggling was like sweet chimes. Suddenly, I felt uneasy. I was intruding in someone’s private affair.

  I turned around and sought the exit to the maze. I quickly found myself in the midst of a posh party. A masquerade. Everyone wore fanciful masks and costumes. Women strode like exotic birds wearing colorful gowns with wide skirts, revealing frocks, tiny-waist gowns decorated with feathers or lots of frills, ruffles, bows, and lace, while the men wore finery in their coats, waistcoats, and breeches. It wasn’t as exuberant as the ladies, despite the periwigs some of them wore. I felt like I had stepped back in time, and I was in the middle of the seventeenth century.

  However, the shrubs were lit with thousands of small lights, fanciful decorations, music, champagne, and food platters. A different era? No, it was a recent time, despite the costumes. There was no electricity in ancient times. Next to the gardens, a palace stood majestic. It seemed vaguely familiar, yet I had never been there. I was sure of it.

  The sound of a terrifying scream called everyone’s attention. It had come from somewhere inside the palace. I turned around and left the garden party, and as in dreams often happens, one second I was in the gardens and the next I was looking for the source of a frightful scream inside a palace. I stood watching inside the foyer of the palace. A puddle of thick red blood stained the marbled floor, a Greek tragedy in the making. A man kneeled next to the body of another. The sight stopped me from walking out of this gruesome scene. Crap.

  I recognized Demyan’s black knight leather tunic, except sans his metal mesh armor or helmet. Instead, he wore a black ceramic eye mask that he pulled over his head with his bloody fingers. Aggrieved, he diligently attended the dying man on the floor. The king.

  It was the same king who defended someone about to die by Demyan Greco’s sword in what I’d thought then to be a daydream. It was still unclear to me if it had been a dream or if Mr. Greco was capable of entering my mind just as Ash had done before. A sobering thought.