Djibril took a step away from his chair and moved closer to the king. “Please forgive my rudeness, but I need to speak to my father now. Alone.”
He kept his gaze firmly on Konstantin, ignoring the other guest.
Two could play that game.
And he almost never lost.
The Old World Lycan stood and bowed.
“Certainly. I understand.” He turned to the king. “I shall be in my room, awaiting your word. After we have the official go-ahead, I will start the preparations to get your son and his companion to Shadow Bridge.”
Not if I have any say in it.
He sensed the woman stir to his left as her skirt made a rustling sound on the floor. All dressed up in finery as if to impress, her pale arms and long alabaster neck exposed in her light clothing—no doubt making a point of exposing their differences. Clothes do not an aristocrat make, it seemed.
Soon, he and his father were alone. Djibril set his glass on the side table.
“Couldn’t you have spoken to me first about this? I do have a life.”
“You also have obligations, son.”
“That I am aware of, but I deserved a heads up. Even if I had to consent to tracking down this Phoenix guy, why would I ever want to do so with Kseniya Sokolova? Didn’t the ridiculousness of this cross your mind? Her entire family speaks French because her grandmother thinks herself Catherine the Great and they’re still in the court of the tsars. Lofty ambitions, much? But you want me to work with her.”
He’d wanted to ask Marek this very question, but common courtesy had stopped him from causing any more humiliation to one of his father’s guests, especially one so hell-bent on protocol and the ways of the Old World.
“Are you done? You would do well to show a bit more deference to Kseniya Dmitriievich. Apparently, she is not what she seems. We could use her in this case, and that’s all I can say.”
“You want to keep secrets from me while expecting me to be happy about taking a trip with a self-important bimbo who likes to strut on a catwalk in teensy underwear and with fake angel wings on her back and lie half naked in a vat of ice?”
“You mean like your antics during and after a tennis match? John McEnroe has nothing on you,” the king snapped. His patience was wearing thin. “Or in those magazine photoshoots you like to do? Or the latest one where you were caught kissing a married woman—”
“She is separated—”
“Enough! I’ve read what they say about you, and the kind of personality you show to the world. That’s not the Djibril I know. The prince I admire for his charity work. Same with Kseniya. She has … skills.”
“Why does it have to be me?” he again asked, frustration getting the better of him. “I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.”
King Anton linked his hands behind his back while Djibril paced the room.
“You better believe it, son.” He shook his head and softened his tone as though regretful of his temper slipping slightly off the rail. “How long would it take you to find this man? A Phoenix, of all things. How many of them exist in the world? The Dionysios family shall provide all the information you need. You know you’re the best tracker we have, and Kseniya has a great ability to thrive in colder climates, among other things I can’t mention, and she has access to resources. Trust me on this—that’s all I ask. This shouldn’t take you more than a few days. Meanwhile, we gain something priceless by forging strong alliances with the other supernatural powers. And one more thing …”
“There’s more? I imagine something you can actually tell me this time.”
“Enough! I can hear the bitterness in your voice, but that is not becoming.”
The fiery green eyes told him the man meant business, and his word was final.
“I’ve always let you do your thing, but right now, in this moment, I cannot compromise. It needs to be a royal, Djibril. Would you rather I send Zoya? The closest-born to her is Ivan, the son of our chef, and they are both children …”
Lord have mercy! That little prick would not be getting any closer to his sister! Not if he had anything to say about it.
“… and we have this old pact with the immortals of Olympus. We’ve always had. When they ask for us, we ask how far to jump and dance to their tune. In return, they let us live. Simple as that.”
His father had lost him there.
“What does Olympus have to do with— Oh …”
The king nodded. “Finally, you see what I’m talking about. Adri Dionysios is the daughter of god of wine and revelry Dionysos and a maenad, but she was raised by Zeus, the lord of all the Greek gods, and everyone across the realms knows she is officially his foster daughter. Do you really want to displease him, knowing his history with our kind? Think before you speak!”
The Greek gods were notorious for persecuting dragons through time. This thing was more serious than he’d thought. Seeing Kseniya there and feeling cornered had a lot to do with his reservations and inability to look past them.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
And he did. He just didn’t want this. He didn’t want this at all. Was there no other way? There had to be, but his father’s mind was set.
Djibril fumed. He could not fight this because his kind’s future might be at stake.
Truly, his father put up a solid argument, although nothing in this world would make him feel right about this. He’d be honest about the matter, at least.
“I don’t like this now. I won’t like it tomorrow. But let’s get on with it.”
Sitting on one of the armchairs, he rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face, feeling suddenly exhausted.
His father went to sit on the throne and pushed a button under the right armrest. A butler appeared moments later. “Can you please escort our two guests back here?”
“Certainly, Your Majesty.”
“And when they arrive, make sure we are not disturbed.”
When the servant left, his father pressed a foot on a tile in front of him. The floor opened in two places next to each other, a few feet from him. From that opening emerged two gilded armchairs, smaller than the throne but no less imposing with their exquisite carvings all around the back and armrests. The seats were made of solid metal, the rest of sculpted marble, dipped in gold.
He’d seen them before, and he knew for what they were used—although not from firsthand experience.
“You never had to do this, son,” his father said, as if reading his mind. “But it’s time to conclude this pact. This will be done in minutes. Sit.”
Djibril did as asked, and not long after, Kseniya was occupying the other seat while Konstantin Feodorovich Marek kept a discreet distance from them, observing the scene. The woman looked about as determined as Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine, her back straight and her lips pursed together.
From a table next to him, King Anton picked up a large tome, like an elaborate grimoire bound in leather and gold claps, and sifted through its pages, finally landing on what he wanted.
“Hands on armrests,” he ordered.
As soon as they followed his instructions, a power field sparked to life, forming a large bubble around the king, Djibril, and Kseniya.
King Anton started to read his text in Russian—following the old dragon way of signing contracts. Only, rather than with pieces of paper and ink or electronic files, they committed through magic. And dragonfire.
A couple of paragraphs of words summarized their pact.
“Breathe now,” the king ordered in a booming voice.
They both knew what he meant.
Taking a deep inhale, Djibril called to his dragon and breathed out a column of fire. It would have risen to the ceiling if the forcefield hadn’t been there to stop it.
Kseniya followed suit, but rather than fire, she emitted a pillar of ice, which wrapped around the flames. He’d never seen an ice dragon do that. They could also breathe fire, but it took more effort. He wondered if his father had to
ld her what to do beforehand.
They both stopped breathing, so the sight took on a life of its own.
The ice glistened, and his fire wrapped around it, yet, didn’t melt it. On and on they went, wrapping around each other like the strands of a DNA helix.
Fascinating, to say the least.
He stared at the conflagration caressing the ice, as if handling it with care.
The magnificent sculpture of fire and ice throbbed and blazed and shone with a life of its own—terrifying, formidable, but contained.
The king opened his arms wide. “You will go, and you will protect each other.”
With that, he reached inside his shirt and retrieved a large locket, inside which a record of all his treaties and important pacts resided. An item he only wore in circumstances like this. Unlike Djibril, he’d come prepared.
The icy blaze morphed and twisted, attracted to the object made from the scales of Fire Island’s first sovereign. All the kings had worn it since time immemorial. The wrapped column plunged into the medallion, binding them forever now to this pact.
In moments, the forcefield was gone, and so was the fire and ice, with both their signatures, sucked into the locket.
Djibril stared at Kseniya, and she met his gaze without blinking. No emotion whatsoever registered on her face.
No, he didn’t trust her at all.
4
“But, Kseniya … you really have to do it?”
Kseniya rolled her eyes at the endless wailing of her mother and shook her head. “Didn’t you hear what I said? The king bound us together while we sat on those gilded bonding chairs, the once they last brought out when King Anton took the throne and Queen Taitu had to pledge herself to this land.”
Already, she could feel the pull of the prince’s hold on her. Her blood no longer felt light and airy. Instead, it had turned thick, like molasses trickling down a cold spoon. This made her feel lethargic and off her game, and the temper that had been on slow simmer ever since she’d received the summons now boiled considerably close to the edge. Any more aggravation and she would overflow with the rage.
Once inside her room, her mother hot on her trail, she let go of the glamor and stood stark naked in the middle of the Aubusson rug on the polished parquet, her gaze going around to find some clothing. Glamor worked well but only short-term. The longer she had to hold the illusion of the façade, the more her energy reserves were taxed. The way things were going, she’d need all the power she could spare.
Finally finding a pair of old jeans she had discarded because the back sagged and gave her that dreaded diaper jeans look, she pulled it on and then snagged a long-sleeved white T-shirt from the only hanger left inside her closet racks. A huff escaped her. Of course, her sisters had pilfered her clothes.
Still, she needed to pack for her trip. Djibril and she would be traveling as dragons, but their luggage needed to be left with Konstantin Marek’s men ASAP so the Lycans could send them over to Shadow Bridge.
Without pausing in her step, she stormed out of her room and started toward the other end of the floor where the triplet’s rooms were located. Going from space to space in the enfilade structure of the wing, she rummaged and moved on, finding a trusted leather jacket here, a snug pair of skinny jeans there, and some boots hither. Bundling it all in her arms, she pushed through across the hallway to the twins’ rooms, where she found tops, more jeans, and dresses. Damn those girls—they always stole her designer clothes that she got for free for being the égérie of so many famous brands. Usually, she’d turn a blind eye, but this time, she didn’t have time to go shopping or get stuff from her cozy New York apartment, so she had to make do with whatever she had here.
Once back in the corridor, she paused in front of the closed door leading to the attic, where her cousin Elena stayed. She shook her head—Elena lived on castoffs, mostly, and the girl would never dare show Kseniya such disrespect as her sisters did. No, Elena had class. More than she could say about her entirely aristocratic siblings.
She made it back to her room, stopping in her tracks on the threshold. Her grandmother was there. Great. Exactly what she didn’t need. On a weary sigh, she went to the bed and dumped the clothes on the silk counterpane.
“Kseniya, what is this I hear?” her grandmother asked in her snooty French tone.
Best get it over with already. “The pact, Grand-Mère. I have been called to fulfil it.”
“But we always thought that was lore,” her mother wailed.
She raised her eyebrows. “Apparently, it’s not. Bound to the Crown Prince, remember?”
Her grandmother huffed. “That good for nothing spoiled brat. I feel for you, my dear.”
Now that was a first—Irina feeling for someone? This must be really messed up shit, then.
The darkness outside started to lighten. Time was running out. They needed to set out for Shadow Bridge at the break of dawn. Quick, she had to find a suitcase. Her steps took her once more out of the room, the two older women following her like malevolent spirits now.
“… Can’t believe the gall of that family …” her mother would mumble.
“… And that queen who thinks herself so much better than all of us and wasn’t able to birth an heir for centuries …” rattled Irina, always ready to throw shade at the queen who she felt had usurped her rightful place. No love lost for King Anton, though, but she should have been his queen.
Kseniya sighed. She didn’t have time for these theatrics. Things were what they were, and she couldn’t fight that. You play the hand you’re dealt, Alexis had always told her during her time at the Corpus. So that’s what she was doing—making whatever she could out of the atrocious bunch of sour lemons she had been given.
In the coat closet at the end of the hall near the back stairs leading to the servants’ quarters, she found an empty trunk and lugged it back to her room, the women still sniping behind her. All the way, she grumbled to herself about why she hadn’t brought her own practical four-wheel luggage. Everything seemed like a trip back in time in this place. This thing itself seemed at least a century old, but at least, someone had kept it clean all these years.
Once in the room, she closed the door in their faces and exhaled, counting to five to not blow her top off.
When a knock came seconds later, she whipped the panel open, ready to bite the head off whoever had dared disturb her … but her anger died when she saw Elena on the other side. Her cousin had ditched the ball gown for her usual sneakers, jeans, and hooded sweatshirt, her long blonde locks now in a messy bun held together by a pencil on top of her head. Geeky glasses with thick black frames sat on the bridge of her pert nose, making her eyes look bigger.
At least some semblance of normal here. Relief filled Kseniya. With her cousin, she could be herself.
Elena quickly ducked into the room and closed the door behind her. Without a word, she picked up the other handle of the trunk, and together, they carried the luggage to the foot of the bed. Elena plopped herself on the mattress as Kseniya started to fold the clothes over and storing them inside the trunk.
“Goodness, Kiki. When your mother lets loose, everyone gets quite an earful, eh?
She sighed. “You heard?”
Elena nodded. “Every word. So, the pact is actually real?”
She shook her head at that as she ditched her ratty clothing and pulled on skinny jeans, a tank top, and then the leather biker jacket on top. “Who would’ve thought? It was a fairytale, something our parents told us to put us to bed.”
Her cousin sighed and kept watching her, silent, for long seconds.
“What?”
Elena shook her head. “You’re so lucky, you know.”
At this, Kseniya sputtered and almost choked on her spittle. “Lucky? I’m stuck with that spoiled brat who only knows how to throw tantrums on the tennis court, not to mention that he was so turning up his nose at me when we met. Cannot believe he is the offspring of the king, who actually seems quite civ
il.”
“You don’t see it, do you?” Elena said. “Such great things! You’re helping in the war, Kiki. To think it could’ve been me … but you’re the best one for this job. If it doesn’t involve a computer screen, I give it a pass.”
Kseniya paused to study her cousin. True enough, they’d been born very closely together. A twist of Fate had made it such that she shared the closest birth time with Prince Djibril, born as the dawn broke, but it could easily have been Elena in her spot. In fact, Elena’s mother had gone into labor first the previous morning, Eliza joining her late that evening. But it was Kseniya who had been born by the next morning. Elena came into this world just past sunset, when twilight had fallen.
Realizing this sobered her anger a little. Because her dearest Elena who loved gaming and had borne the brunt of being associated with bad seed Chromatic dragons all her life was too much a gentle soul to send into war. Elena had also had so much imposed on her already, too—forced to go to medical school and now becoming a healer’s apprentice when she had no affinity for science just to prove that her ‘bad blood’ would have no bearing on her position in their world, to atone for sins she had never committed.
Kseniya dropped the clothes into the trunk then went onto the bed to hug her cousin. As she pulled away, she pushed the thick glasses up Elena’s nose.
“It’s war, sweetie. Better me than you. I wouldn’t wish this on any one of my sisters.”
The sudden realization made the anger disappear. War. A tracking mission to find a long-lost royal had seemed like a tricky mission for the Corpus, but they were talking of battles with a bloodthirsty Egyptian god and angels in the mix. If these were here, then one could bet demons would also be involved, as well as every other kind of evil to have ever existed. Right now, the people in Shadow Bridge could control the Originals, but for how long?
No, she had to do this. Better her than anybody else.
“You lucky cow, though,” Elena continued.
Kseniya blinked. “What’s lucky about fighting in war?”
Sirens and Scales Page 270
