On three,
I launched myself into the air with an acrobatic spin that Francis had made me rehearse a thousand times. I used my other wet sock to whip a Draugr’s sword handle away from its hand, and I landed on my feet, twisting the sword in my electrified hands.
Be careful of their poisonous tails, Gavril warned me.
Uh—what poisonous tails? What are you talking about?
Without warning, Reginald made first contact with his sword, taking my immediate attention. Sparks flared. Gratefully I was fast on my feet and deflected his attack. He frowned, not understanding the sudden electrical shock. Once again, he had underestimated the poorly dressed female in front of him. I offered him my best amused grin.
Jesus, Ailie, pay attention, Gavril chastised me.
I was too focused on Reginald to ask more questions or pay attention to the one Draugr left without a sword, whom I neglected giving any consideration. After all, by taking the sword, I had let the invisible creature be truly undetected.
Scary-face threw the wet sock on the stone floor. His eyes held hatred for the humiliation. After that, Francis dominated his side of the battle against the Count.
“Hey, Reginald. A girl is about to kick your farting gluteus maximus.” I repositioned my sword in my hands. He narrowed his eyes on me and thrusted his sword, but his entire body jumped back noting the anomaly instantly. His nostrils flared and his face reddened. I figured getting electrified again hadn’t been much fun. He bared his fanged teeth and growled as he attacked more without letting it go. More sparks flared.
Our swords clashed time after time. He was very strong, while my arms were burning from the heavy weight of the sword, even with all that push-up training. He had centuries of using his sword while I had just weeks of playing with sticks. What had I gotten myself into? I knew I had a couple minutes left at most. Crap.
My one advantage was the element of surprise, which was gone. Reginald also realized that my arms were getting tired. This gave him renewed energy as he raised and thrusted his sword at me with all his might.
Francis sent his thought to me. Ailie, pay attention to his stands.
He was right, Reginald’s stands were too narrow. I took advantage of his mistake. All I had now was speed, so I tricked him with a ballet pirouette, tackling his left leg as I clashed my sword against his. His sword flew off its handle. I heard the clunk sound on the floor. I pointed my sword at him.
A brush of air on my left shoulder sent alarm signals. I moved away from Reginald, pointing my sword in all directions. I had no point of reference where the invisible Draugr was. I had to rely on sound and my instincts. I felt the rustle on my right side not a second too late. I skipped to my left to avoid the Draugr’s pointy tail, feeling something rubbing fast on my arm as it missed it.
I had seen Enit’s tail—just Francis had neglected telling me they were poisonous. I was mentally cursing Francis for being a little late with vital information—again. Crap. Francis was still busy with Goldilocks.
I had no way of knowing where or how the Draugr was going to strike next. I was almost certain that if I closed my eyes I could sense them better, so I did for a split second. I could make out the light silhouette outline of the Draugr inside my mind, about to strike, while Reginald was using my distraction to attack some more. Crap.
I had no alternative but to act unpredictable. I used the sword to launch myself up in the air and against the old stone wall, avoiding Reginald’s sword, as I stepped long two strides on the dungeon wall using the sword as a support pole to balance my weight off the floor. I made a last third step to kick Reginald’s jaw with my foot, finishing on the opposite side of the Draugr, as I turned back upright with my sword. Actually, its own sword—no wonder the Draugr was pissed off. Reginald barely stepped back. This was an unfair fight. Two against one.
I made another swift turn, preparing for his coming attack, barely avoiding the creature’s tail again. That it was when Gavril came to my rescue. Instantly, everyone could see the blue creature as Gavril’s long claws ripped through the back of the Draugr all the way to the front.
“STOP!”
We all turned at the sound of the strong, commanding voice. He had a sword pointed at Reginald’s heart.
Demyan.
The kiss. I grinned and blushed deeply when he grinned wickedly at me. He was not alone either. Ten military commandos dressed in black stood by his side. But his gaze changed, and everyone’s gaze changed equally.
The commandos’ guns aimed at me or something behind me.
I followed their gaze. Gavril.
Gavril had blood dripping from his Canidae muzzle. I understood why everyone was frozen and speechless. The Draugr’s heart pumped its last beats outside its body in Gavril’s hand. His claws retracted the moment he found himself self-conscious, but it was literally impossible to hide the blood and not see his large, sharp claws, even under his monk robe. His arms had grown twice as long as a werewolf—shifter, crap—whatever. Both Draugr lay in a pool of blood on the floor. They weren’t invisible anymore. I could see them with my plain eyes, blue turning quickly into black ashes.
He mouthed a sorry with a forced smile at me as we painfully watched him metamorphosing back into Gavril, my friend who had shifted instinctively to save me. Holy Mother of—
Demyan, the commandos, Reginald, and the Count held their aim at him.
I raised my sword, standing in front of him to protect him.
“Miss Pearson, what exactly do you think you are doing?” Demyan Greco asked. There was great concern in his voice. I turned to Francis for guidance. His sword was still pointing at the Count’s heart. I noted a small exchange between Francis and Demyan. It was then that I realized this was what Francis had patiently been waiting for. I realized then that Enit had contacted Demyan.
“Protecting someone who just saved my life,” I answered.
“You do understand the beast is your sworn enemy,” Demyan Greco said.
“All of you shall be tried for treason,” Count Something-Foolish accused us.
“She doesn’t know the ways of the kingdom, nor were we aware he was a lycan,” Francis interceded.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas, awaits us at the royal hall. He’ll decide. The beast is best if he is left inside a cell where he cannot do more damage.” Demyan’s explanation was directed at Gavril.
I turned to see Gavril.
My job is almost done. You will meet the prince. I was wondering if that was ever going to happen, Gavril said.
I rolled my eyes. If all you wanted was to hang out with celebrities, I could have asked Francis to take us to Buckingham Palace, I teased him. But we both knew his fate was inevitable, and I was not going to sit down and accept it.
Don’t worry about me. Go. He nodded at me with a strange smile. It was full of tenderness. Go, I will be safer inside the cell than up there. He had a point. Gavril stepped into what used to be my cell and locked himself there. You can always unlock me later, he reminded me.
I nodded back at him. “Thank you,” I said to him. He had saved my life. The Count’s rambling babble brought me back to the moment.
“What is Our Highness doing here? He is in danger inside the palace. These traitors are a danger to him. Can’t you see I am trying to stop their treacherous ways? They brought a lycan into the palace.” The Count accused us again like we hadn’t taken notice the first time. However, judging from the sudden lack of color in his face, things were not going as expected.
Francis grinned at the Count. “My apologies, Rurikovich. I was barely protesting our accommodations. I am quite positive the prince will see this as a terrible misunderstanding.” Francis released the sword and kneeled to pick up Émil from his cell floor. He carried him in his arms. Émil had a smirk on his beaten face. It broke my heart to see Émil like that. I read Demyan’s upset gaze at the sight of Émil.
“Prince Émil needs medical attention.” Demyan dictated his order to the c
ommandos in military attire that seemed older. Not immortals, I realized all of a sudden. Two of them helped the two toy soldiers, who were just coming around, up from the floor. The commandos that carried Émil preceded us.
“Take him to his room,” Demyan said.
“NO. Reginald will take him to his room,” the Count said. Right. Like we were going to let him.
“No need. My men will take care of him. Your and Reginald’s presence are ultimately required by the prince.” Demyan’s subtle undertone had a touch of mocking and authority over the count.
It made me feel giddy, acknowledging that Demyan was very powerful. I was just embarrassed that once again I looked dreadful in his presence. We were hungry and on top of that I really-really had to pee. Crap.
“Wait. These are prisoners of the crown. They shall not go around freely in the palace,” the Count protested. But we didn’t pay much more attention to him as Francis and I followed Émil.
“I have an army upstairs, Rurikovich. No one will cause any trouble. Trust me, I will make sure of that,” Demyan warned him indirectly. Four commandos preceded the two-beaten royal guards, Reginald, and the Count.
I noticed Demyan wait to be the last one to leave. I guess he didn’t want to be backstabbed by the Count. I didn’t blame him.
I wished it were wise to speak on behalf of Marcum. But to do that I had to reveal I had some powers to explain how I knew about him. The poor thing was still trapped in there, waiting to either be executed for being of impure blood or freed. I was beginning to realize how racist that sounded. Émil moaned. We didn’t know how bad Émil was either.
Émil’s life took priority, so I decided that Marcum would have to wait a little more for me to figure out how to help him. He needed most of all to be cured, to be Strzyga again. His freedom meant nothing if he was stuck like a monster forever. On the other hand, Gavril’s freedom was everything. He had no option either, when there was an army upstairs and no way to escape the dungeon if not the same way we came in. I would figure something out.
My gaze traveled toward Reginald as we moved inside filthy water and rodent-infested tunnels. As much as I hated my feet splashing directly in contact with this hideous water, my need to find a way to help Gavril out of this mess was greater.
Chapter 33
The magnificent chandeliers illuminated the royal court’s impeccable marble floors and plush carpet. It also displayed the grime and wet dripping from my now soiled kakis. I sighed. One day you will see the funny side of it, I told myself. I couldn’t change the situation, but it was irrelevant even if I could. I had to save Gavril and try to heal Émil and find a cure for Marcum before it was too late. I realized my priorities were shifting. Finding the medallion and vanquishing Ash had to wait.
Suddenly, the familiar humming inside my chest intensified, causing me to have loud and strong, crazy-off-the-charts heartbeats. No matter how much I resisted against running out of that room when we arrived, my feet remained stuck in cement.
The arrow, my mind thought.
The intensity of the arrow’s power within me was as alluring as it was overwhelming. I cracked my knuckles and closed my fists so hard, my nails were digging inside the palms of my hands.
A loud door slamming open interrupted my personal panic attack.
My heartbeat stopped, probably, as I watched someone devastatingly handsome with golden shoulder-length curls that waved and shimmered with every move of his full head, tempestuously pushing open the doors.
Oh. My. God. I realized then it was who and not what. The magnetic source was moving toward me—us—me, I couldn’t decide.
He was the man of my dreams—literally. He was the prince that blamed Demyan Greco for his father, the king’s death in Demyan’s dream memory—slash—verging nightmare. I hadn’t decided yet which one it was.
The prince strode furious to meet our group, but he stopped, startled for a split second. His eyes connected with mine and seemed to trace every part of me. I became self-conscious of my appearance and crossed my arms in an effort to cover my chest. Never had I felt so damp, cold, and grimy in my life. In contradiction, he wore a fitted sports jacket, a pure-white, collared shirt, black jodhpurs, and shiny custom handmade leather riding boots. I wondered if he had been riding late at night before Demyan brought him to the palace.
“Where is Émil?” he asked Francis, not Reginald or the Count. A bad sign for them, a good sign for us. He was just as disgusted by the royal guards as we were.
“Monsieur Greco has ordered medical attention for the prisoner, Your Royal Highness,” Reginald answered in lieu of Francis. There was shame in his voice. He should be ashamed.
“Prisoner—Prisoner? May I remind you he is my uncle and a successor to the crown,” the prince admonished in anger.
“Plotting against the crown, bringing a sworn enemy to the palace, and resisting arrest constitute as acts against the crown, Your Royal Highness,” the Count said.
What? I inhaled deep, my anger growing. I felt liberty to say something about it. “There is no enemy. Gavril is no enemy, and you almost killed Émil, and you brought us here against our will,” I said, my gaze pointed at the Count.
“Lord Tarbelli?” the prince said, asking for his explanation and ignoring my words.
“Prince Émil has committed no crime. Émil has done nothing, and neither have we. It has been shameful and humiliating the way he has been treated, Your Royal Highness,” Francis declared.
“Kostas, tell me what Prince Émil has done in your view to deserve such treatment in my own house without my personal approval or knowledge?” the prince asked the Count.
“Prince Émil and Lord Tarbelli are plotting against His Royal Highness. I was obliged the painful task of interrogating the prisoner. This girl here claims to be Helen Pearson’s progeny. Either they know the criminal’s location, or she is lying about her origin, either way a severe capital crime against the crown.” The Count accused us. Another lie, of course. This had nothing to do with my MIA mother. He was looking for the medallion. Of course, I was not going to let him get away with this.
“Even prisoners have rights. Geneva Convention, relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War, 75 United Nations Treaty Series number 135, entered into force October twenty-one, 1950. Article three clearly stipulates”—I raised my index finger, “—One. Persons taking no active part in the hostilities, including members of armed forces who have laid down their arms and those placed hors de combat by sickness, wounds, detention, or any other cause, shall in all circumstances be treated humanely, without any adverse distinction founded on race, color, religion or faith, sex, birth or wealth, or any other similar criteria,” I shouted at Reginald and the Count. My hands were fists already. Reginald stepped back a little. I guess he was cautious of me. Demyan Greco croaked his laughter that sounded more like a weird attack of coughing.
The prince’s surprised gaze was a mixture of apology and anger and amusement at my rhetoric. However, my gaze on him said a different thing, something too friendly, like, Hi. I find you attractive. My heartbeat was all I could hear pounding in my ears at that moment. My heart(s) felt like they were coming out of my chest at his half grin for me. Crap. Get it together. I am not going to marry him.
“Ehem.” Count Something-Fishy cleared his throat. “Thank you for the lecture in human affairs, but the kingdom has its own rules we follow. After all, it is a monarchy. Maybe your mentor should be teaching you those rules. Also, as a female, you are not allowed to address His Royal Highness unless he addresses you first. Lord Tarbelli should have at least told you the protocols while at court rather than plotting against the crown.” The Count accused Francis yet once again.
Seriously?
“Thank God the Dark Ages are over, because last I checked, I am a free citizen and I have the right to freedom of speech.” I was just getting started.
Francis held my shoulder firmly to stop the verbal diarrhea I was about to unleash. He knew I was going t
o scream an assault of ginger convent-learned expletives at the Count, along with my human lectures. Or worse, I was going to punch him in the nose.
Everyone else waited for the prince to say something, but he seemed strangely taken, even amused by my reaction for a brief moment. “That is for me to decide, Kostas.” The prince reminded the Count who gave orders, and who was the one to carry the crown.
Francis’s tight lips had his usual calm. Nothing was swaying him at the moment, not even the accusations. How? I wondered.
I was wrong. He spoke. I was beginning to think he had lost his aristocratic gut.
“Your Royal Highness, if I may speak,” Francis suggested.
The prince nodded.
“I apologize on behalf of Miss Pearson’s enthusiasm for political science. Albeit, her point reminded me of something rather important for the kingdom. No one should be above right and wrong. The ruling of your father had always been categorized as one of the fairest. Is our future king contemplating following his example perhaps, Your Royal Highness?” Francis’s words had gone deep into the prince’s reflections. His eyes had shaded for a moment.
“Indeed, I had a full year to reflect deeply upon my father’s death about his great example. The kingdom requires my full attention now, but I plan to do some much needed changes.” He paused, looking at me. Scarface frowned. “Now, Monsieur Greco, tell me your perception of the situation.”
“The kingdom needs to acknowledge Miss Pearson’s existence. Rurikovich has clearly undermined Your Royal Highness’s authority.” Demyan winked back at me.
“You dare to accuse me? You are nothing but a filth to the kingdom’s blood lineage,” the Count said.
The prince flinched. I gasped at the insult. Demyan’s eyes narrowed at the Count with an unspoken and very chilling threat, barely noticeable as he covered it with a sardonic unemotional mask. Those two had several unsolved accounts.
Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series) Page 31
