by Sunny
Were all Queens like that?
They said I was a Queen . . .
I succumbed to another yawn. My body wanted to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t shut down. Plus, I’d always been a nervous flyer.
After fifteen minutes of torturous pretend sleep, I opened my eyes and looked across the small cabin. My gaze touched on Quentin, his young and open face, the most normal, affable one among them. From there it went to Nolan, Chami, and Aquila, who had all come to my aid, who were supposed to be my friends.
My glance fell upon the dark, resting countenance of Prince Halcyon and skittered away, uneasy, nervous, despite the fact that I was, allegedly, the Demon Prince’s chosen mate . . . maybe especially because of that. How could I accept as fact this supposed betrothal—to a prince of Hell, no less—when I had no recollection of the feelings that had led up to it? The whole story seemed like empty fiction, make-believe.
As to the others, despite all their helpful aid and assistance, I didn’t know them. The only one I trusted here, the only one I knew, was a confessed killer—of me (or, rather, me in a former life!) and thirty other Monère men. Again, knowing something but not remembering it made it seem unreal. The only real thing was what I had experienced with Dante. Absurdly enough, he was the only one I felt safe and comfortable with.
I left my chair and made my way across the aisle. Dante swung his feet down, and I settled into the freed-up space beside him. Ignoring the closed expression of his face, I rested my head against his shoulder. “I’m totally wiped out, but I can’t sleep,” I whispered.
Dante’s stiff, surprised body slowly loosened and relaxed. His arm came around my shoulder, and his other hand stroked my hair in a tender, soothing caress. “That’s all right,” he murmured. “Just close your eyes and rest.”
Held by him, surrounded by his comforting scent, I did. I closed my eyes and felt the tension in me ebb and float away.
HALCYON WATCHED HIS mate fall asleep in Dante’s arms, so exhausted she didn’t stir as Dante lifted her up, turned sideways, lifting his legs back onto the seat, and settled her in a more comfortable sprawl across his chest.
The two were lovers again; their intermingled scent clinging to each other’s skin. He didn’t begrudge the comfort sought and given, then or now. Indeed, Halcyon was grateful for it even while still bleeding from the sword thrust of her innocent question. I’m sorry. You seem familiar. Do I know you?
Oh, my love . . .
It hurt even more than Mona Lisa’s wariness of him. To be forgotten—everything they had shared. That brief, warm touch of her love on his lonely existence.
Halcyon could likely, in all probability, restore her lost memory. A simple compulsion, a command to remember. But his demon presence had not stirred up the demon essence—his demon essence—in her. A curious thing.
There was no sign of demon bloodlust at all. Was it because she didn’t remember?
Memory—belief—were powerful things. Did she no longer react to him because of that lost memory? Or was she truly different now after Mona Louisa, the other dead Queen who resided in her, had been ripped out of Mona Lisa’s soul, and then remeshed together when the two of them, separate and apart, began dying. Had the experience physically altered Mona Lisa that much, so that the demon essence no longer held sway over her anymore? Was she no longer Damanôen, demon living? Or would that affliction return to her if she regained her memory? Or, another thought, if Halcyon used his demon powers on her, would that cause the weakened essence to grow strong within her once again?
Mona Louisa’s dead, entwined spirit had trapped Mona Lisa in NetherHell, the cursed realm of the guilty dead. Tearing Mona Louisa out of her had been the only way to save Mona Lisa. It had even been her choice. But it had been Halcyon who had had to inflict horrendous pain to do so. He still remembered Mona Lisa’s screams. Indeed, they replayed all too vividly in his nightmares. He had saved his lady and then lost her, because afterward she had feared him. Feared the remembered pain associated with him from that point on.
No. Even with the quietly bleeding wound of Mona Lisa not knowing him, not remembering what they had been to each other, Halcyon would not tamper with her damaged memory. She was wary of him, yes, but not fearful.
Dante, however, could restore her memory, his powers of compulsion almost as strong as that of a demon. Interesting that he, too, had chosen not to do so. But then, his advent into Mona Lisa’s life and his leaving had been filled with violence and tragedy, both then and now. He almost pitied the poor bastard even though he held treasure, the woman they both wanted, in his arms now. The tide could turn, not if but when she remembered. Halcyon had hurt her. But Dante had killed her.
And not just her but everyone she had once loved.
EIGHTEEN
I SLEPT FOR hours, so deeply that I didn’t wake until someone roused me. “We’re home,” Dante murmured, touching my face.
I slowly blinked awake, drifting up to that familiar voice, that pleasant touch. “Where’s home?” I asked drowsily. It took another lazy blink to realize I was draped on top of him like an intimate blanket of arms, body, and legs across the seat we occupied. And that we were in a plane full of other people, who carefully kept their faces turned away from us as they left the plane.
“Louisiana,” Dante said, helping me sit up. “We’re at Lakefront Airport. It’ll take another fifty minutes to drive to your house.”
Outside, we were met by a teenage boy—an older teen. His ginger red freckles were framed by flame-bright russet curls. “Mona Lisa!” he cried, pulling me into a hug. “We were so worried. Dante, good to have you back. Thaddeus wanted to come, as did my mom and sister, but Amber said not to overwhelm you. Is it true that you have some sort of amnesia? That you don’t remember us?”
I nodded, a bit overwhelmed as it was with all the names he’d pelted out of all the people I apparently knew. Who were they? Neighbors?
“It’s okay. You’ll get your memory back. I’m Jamie, your friend.” He bestowed a sweet smile as bright as the color of his hair, and continued his excited stream of words. “Any more bags or luggage? No? Man, I can’t wait to hear what happened to you guys. The car’s parked over here.”
The car turned out to be a Suburban that all eight of us were able to squeeze into with surprising comfort. All the while, I puzzled over Jamie. Who—or exactly, what—he was. He didn’t have the full, rich presence of a Full Blood Monère or even that of a three-quarters Mixed Blood like me and Roberto—his power signature was noticeably dimmer, though not as muted as Prince Halcyon’s.
“Are you Monère, Jamie?” I finally asked.
He glanced over his shoulder at me as if surprised by the question. “Partly. I’m a Mixed Blood like you, as is my sister, Tersa. But we’re a half-half mix. You’re three-quarters Monère, one-fourth human, like your brother Thaddeus.”
It was the greatest shock. “I have a brother?”
“Yeah . . . I’m sorry,” Jamie said, growing more subdued. “You didn’t know?”
“I have a brother?” I asked, turning to Dante.
Dante nodded confirmation.
“How?”
“I was not with you then,” Dante said. “The others will have to tell you.”
“You found him right after you became the acknowledged Queen,” Chami said, sitting between me and Dante in the second row. “He grew up like you, thinking himself human. After his adoptive parents were killed, he came to live with you.”
“How old is he?” I asked, trying to contain my emotions.
“He’s seventeen.”
“Oh!” Tears blurred my vision. “I have a brother.” I wiped my eyes, then laughed tremulously as Jamie passed a box of tissues back to me. “I’m okay,” I told him. “That’s good news. Wonderful news, in fact.”
Dante’s arm came around me. “You’re trembling.”
“It was quite a shock. But a nice one.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we tried to keep the shocks to
a minimum,” Dante said, catching Jamie’s gaze in the rear-view mirror.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t blame him,” I said, elbowing Dante.
“I don’t,” Dante said. “But the idea of easing you back into things is sound.”
“What about the other people I’ll be meeting? Maybe you better tell me about them so I don’t embarrass myself.”
“You will not embarrass yourself,” Dante said, reassuring me. “They are all your friends, who care about you, and are aware of your memory loss. Meet them first, see if it triggers any memories.”
I had a feeling what Dante really intended was to space out the shocks. The first one came as we pulled into a long, private driveway. The house that loomed into view was a huge plantation home. The grand, white-columned building was so resplendently well maintained that one could almost be fooled into thinking it a new construction if one didn’t notice the live oaks, draped in lace-like Spanish moss, so thick around it would take two men to hug their girth, proclaiming that this was the real deal, something built a couple of hundred years ago.
“What is this place?” I asked in awe. “A hotel?”
“No, milady,” answered Aquila. “It’s your home.”
Shock number two was the number of people that came running down the front stairs, calling my name. Not Lisa, but the other one—Mona Lisa.
There was an onslaught of quick impressions and then I was surrounded by a happy babble of voices. There were two men, two women, and two younger people about Jamie’s age—a petite girl and a lanky boy matching my height. As one of the ladies ran with a glad cry to embrace Dante—his mother?—my eyes fixed on the lanky boy. He looked like any other seventeen-year-old kid with dark hair and eyes—unremarkable if you could not feel his presence. I searched his pleasantly attractive features for likeness, similarity.
“Thaddeus?” I said, my voice lifted in question.
Everyone quieted.
“Yeah, it’s me,” the boy grinned. “Hey, I thought you didn’t remember us.”
“I don’t. Jamie told me about you in the car.”
“Oh. So I’m like a stranger again to you, huh?” There was kind intelligence in those brown eyes so like my own. “Must be weird being greeted by a bunch of people you’re supposed to know but don’t.”
I laughed. “Yeah, a little.”
“That’s okay,” Thaddeus said. “What about the others? Are you pulling a blank on them, too?”
Only then did I focus on the others, the sweet-looking woman who stood between Dante and Quentin, an arm around each. “You must be Dante and Quentin’s mother,” I said, “though you hardly look old enough to be the parent of two full-grown sons.”
She flashed me a bright smile, holding tight to her boys. “I’m Hannah Morell. I serve as your healer here. Thank you, milady. Thank you so much for bringing Dante safely back.”
“No need to thank me,” I said, looking at Dante. “We brought each other safely back.”
I turned to the petite girl with the russet hair, quiet manner, and subdued energy signature. “You must be Tersa, Jamie’s sister.”
A brief, shy smile. “Yes, milady.”
“And is this your mother?” I asked, glancing at the large Monère woman beside her.
Tersa nodded and the large woman dipped her knees in a curtsy. “I’m Rosemary, milady. I run this house for you.”
“Thank God,” I said in happy relief. “Good to know someone else is in charge of taking care of this huge place besides me. Who owns this property?”
“You do, milady,” Rosemary said.
My eyes bugged out. “You must be mistaken. I could never afford a place like this.”
“It was given to you when you became a Monère Queen,” Thaddeus told me, his dark eyes twinkling. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“More like mind-boggling. Someone’s going to have to explain this Monère Queen business to me later,” I said fervently. My eyes swept to the last two men standing behind the others and I blinked. One was a blond Adonis, literally breathtaking, so handsome he was. The other was one of the largest men I had ever seen, both in height and muscled mass. Put a war hammer in his hand and he could have passed as Thor, the god of thunder. Their presence proclaimed them both powerful Monère males, but the bigger one gave off an extra crank of power in his energy signature.
We searched each other’s faces as I made my way over to them.
“Do you remember me?” the blond Adonis asked. It was a bit unnerving to be held under the intent regard of his dazzling jade green eyes. As if the rest of his looks were not enough to knock you off your feet already.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t,” I said after searching his face.
There was no change in expression, but I had the sense that my words had left him vastly upset and perturbed.
The big giant took my hand and gently turned me to him. I got the impression of careful strength as his large hand swallowed mine. At five foot eight, I wasn’t used to looking up; I met most men at close to eye level. But I had to tilt my head back at a neck-craning angle in order to meet his gaze. This guy had to be at least six and a half feet tall, but it wasn’t just the height that made him so intimidating; it was the sheer breadth and mass of him. If he accidentally fell on top of me, I’d be squashed flat like a bug. His features were ruggedly powerful, his eyes a striking dark cerulean blue. He wore a beautiful gold medallion necklace, and his voice, when he spoke, was a deep, soft rumble. “And me,” he asked, “do you not know me either?”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “Who are you?”
Again, I got the distinct impression that my softly worded apology had eviscerated the big man.
My hand was gently, carefully released as we fell into acknowledged stranger status. “I am Amber,” he said, introducing himself. “I serve as your Warrior Lord.”
The blond sun god introduced himself as well, his smile woefully strained. “And I am Dontaine, your master at arms.”
What the heck was with the titles? “Do I have an army?” I asked, my question meant to be more flippant than serious.
“Not an army, milady,” Dontaine replied, his smile dropping away, “just guards—over a hundred trained warriors.”
Right. As if things were not surreal enough without trying to confuse me more with that incredibly lame joke.
Deciding to ignore the trivial stuff, I concentrated instead on what I had sensed, the strong emotions I had felt emanating from these two, prodding me to ask with shy hesitance, “Are we close friends? Or more newfound relatives, perhaps?”
“They are your lovers,” Dante said behind me.
Pin-dropping silence followed his words.
“Don’t joke like that,” I said, my face flushing, pained embarrassment making my voice sharp and brittle. “It’s not funny at all!” Close friends? Possible. But sex with these guys? No way! Last I knew, I had been more frigid than a Popsicle. Dante was more than I ever dared hoped for, dreamed of. But imagining myself breaking out of my sexual Siberia with these two striking and intimidating men . . . no way. I knew what I looked like.
A blanket of uneasy dismay fell over everyone, as if no one knew what to say to my strong reaction.
“Let’s all go inside,” Halcyon suggested into the sudden silence. The guy didn’t speak much, but when he did, people listened.
We trekked into the house, and if the outside was overwhelming, the inside was even more so. Everything was done with taste and class and lots and lots of money. The gold-leaf wallpaper, in fact, smelled like the real deal, metallic gold. And over my head was one of the hugest chandeliers I’d ever laid eyes on.
I wondered if I had wiped my feet. Probably not, didn’t remember doing so. I stopped and kicked off my shoes, not wanting to dirty the pristine black-and-white marble floor.
“Oh, that’s not ne—” Rosemary bit off the rest of her words as Dante removed his shoes also. “I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “We do
n’t have any slippers on hand, milady. I’ll be sure to get some tomorrow.”
“No need. Just didn’t want to get your clean floor dirty. I’m fine walking around in my socks, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, no, not at all. Whatever you wish, milady.”
She was clearly uncomfortable, and my own uneasiness was starting to rub off on the others.
I looked like someone they knew but didn’t act like that person. And their not-knowing-what-to-do was cranking up my own anxiety in a vicious circle.
A pile of shoes collected at the front entrance as the others all silently removed their shoes, plainly not something they were accustomed to doing.
I cursed my self-consciousness. It was only magnifying the growing awkwardness between us. This whole meet-and-greet felt like one of those horrible blind dates that spiraled calamitously downhill the moment you introduce yourselves, shattering the buildup of pleasantly hopeful anticipation.
How wonderful. The idea of myself as someone’s nightmarish date from hell.
I felt my pulse quicken, my breath coming a bit too fast as I glanced around, my eyes unnaturally wide. “Are you sure you guys have the right person?” I asked with a small, nervous laugh, more serious than not. “This . . . everything—” The mansion that was supposed to belong to me, all these people who seemed to care about me when I had been so bitterly alone all my life . . . “It’s just not me.”
So, so not me.
I didn’t know what to believe. Whether I should believe anything they told me because the life I knew, the person I knew myself to be, was completely different from what they seemed to be expecting.
“Maybe it’s just a horrible case of mistaken identity,” I found myself babbling. “Or maybe I’m just dreaming or in a coma or locked up in some mental institution and this is all just an elaborate fantasy I’m making up in my mind: dream lovers, friends and family, this mansion, all this talk about being a queen, about demons and princes, reincarnation, curses, and being reborn . . .” I paused, gulped for breath, and finished feebly, “That doesn’t happen in real life.”
