Aequus

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “Ophelia and Oren signed the decrees when Tristan and Freya were a day old. Royalty cannot break marriage decrees; their agreement is binding. Not to mention Oren pushed the first date up before Tristan was assigned to me.”

  “True.”

  “And even if they were to be married tomorrow, the queen has a long reign in front of her. Other than solidifying their alliance, rushing their marriage makes no sense.”

  “Unless,” Zander whispers.

  “Unless, what?”

  “What if Ophelia and Oren are truly working together, as a united front? Think about it, the two most powerful supernatural realms in existence coming together, seeming to be enemies, yet they’re working behind the scenes to secure even more influence? Total realm domination.”

  I stare at Zander because his theory is plausible.

  “It would also explain why the queen is holding Tristan to his promise, knowing he has feelings for you,” he adds.

  His words seep in, before I speak in a hushed tone.

  “Zander, what you are describing is marital coercion, with the purpose of undermining the line of succession.”

  “Yes. I am speaking of high treason,” he confirms.

  “Holy shit,” I blow out in a sharp exhale.

  “Deceitfulness in any form within our world is a clear show of disloyalty—even if committed by the sitting queen and emperor.”

  I scoff. “If your theory is true, as the future heir to the protector throne, I can’t intercede in matters of supernatural sovereignty unless directly attacked. Regardless of my feelings for Tristan. If I step in, my own actions could be looked upon as threatening the security of the two largest and most powerful immortal realms. These accusations could very well trigger a war—and get me killed.”

  His gaze narrows. “As the gargoyle princess, you can arbitrate without your uncle Asher’s approval if human souls are in danger, or a protector’s existence is threatened.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, if they are plotting realm dominance that will include the earth dimension, which places humans in danger. It is your duty to protect them. Not to mention, Tristan is half gargoyle and therefore your subject. It is within your rights to also safeguard him,” he points out.

  “Notwithstanding, we have no evidence or facts to support the conclusion that the queen and emperor are conducting high treason,” I retort. “It’s a theory we just came up with ten seconds ago.”

  Zander’s expression turns sheepish as he watches me.

  My eyes narrow. “Wait, did you really come here just to share news of the change in date, or was it to convince me he’s in danger, hoping that I’d charge in and protect him?”

  I stiffen as the satyr prowls toward me, ignoring my accusations. “We’ll find the evidence, together.”

  I stare into his unyielding gaze, trying to decide if his conspiracy theory has merit. Zander has no reason to lie.

  “Are you trying to start a war? She’s your stepmother.”

  “And he’s my brother. You love him. And he loves you. So stop letting fate and titles decide both of your futures.”

  Without a word, I continue to hold his fierce stare.

  “Isn’t he worth starting a war for, Serena?” he asks.

  My anger vanishes, as does the storm around us.

  Silence settles between us, and over the land.

  It’s as if the universe is waiting for my answer.

  Do I want to start a war to protect Tristan?

  I look over Zander’s face for a few moments before coming to the realization that if this conclusion is true, Tristan is in danger. I have no choice but to protect him.

  “I need a favor,” I demand with a firm resolve.

  “Do you now, champ?” he counters with amusement.

  “Your Highness.” I bow as confusion falls across his features. I look around, uncomfortable but committed. “I understand you’re in need of an escort to a celebration?”

  My eyes plead with him, hoping he plays along.

  “What?” he asks, confused.

  I press my lips together; he clearly doesn’t understand what I’m doing. “My presence in the woodland and water realms has been forbidden. It was declared by a royal order.”

  Zander frowns. “By whom?”

  I bristle. “The future king.”

  “Tristan banished you?” He sounds surprised.

  “He signed the order himself,” I say in a soft tone.

  “That would explain why you haven’t come to him.”

  “Yes, well—” My arms fold across my chest. “Anyway, you’re his brother. I know he wouldn’t deny you anything. As second in command of the Woodland Nymph Royal Guard, and a prince of the realm, you are permitted to bring anyone you’d like to the future king’s marital ceremony.”

  “You want to be my date to your true love’s wedding?”

  I growl. “I’m a princess. You’re a prince. I would be permitted back into the realm for political reasons—as your date. Then perhaps we could find the evidence you seek.”

  Zander falls silent as he studies my features. “You do realize we would be insinuating that we are . . . together?”

  I breathe in through my nose and nod my response.

  He falls silent again and looks around at the trees that line the expansive lake as he works through the idea. After a moment, he speaks again. “Your uncle would have to approve my courtship, even if pretend, and send word to Queen Ophelia of our blossoming . . . relationship.”

  “You mean we can’t just change our Facebook statuses?”

  He tries not to smirk at my joke. “I think this would fall into the it’s complicated category.”

  “My uncle Asher will approve of it. Of us.”

  “And Tristan?”

  I avert my gaze. “Once he knows why, he will be fine.”

  A disbelieving laugh escapes from Zander’s throat. “No, champ. He fucking won’t. Trust me. He’ll kill me. Most likely in my sleep. Shit! And what about Magali?”

  “She’ll understand too,” I lie, hoping my best friend and roommate, who has fallen hard for Zander, will.

  Since one of Magali’s supernatural powers is the detection of deceit, I know she’ll pick up on this fib quickly.

  After a moment, he sighs. “Once in, what’s the plan?”

  I smile brightly. “We find evidence that the queen and emperor are consorting to commit high treason, stop a wedding, start a supernatural war, and dodge death.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” he scoffs.

  “You asked,” I point out.

  “My mistake,” he grumbles.

  I lift my chin. “Tristan is worth fighting for.”

  His gaze narrows as he takes a step toward me. “So you’re saying you feel the crazy, obsessive, I will die for you kind of love for him?” he asks, pinning me with a look.

  Zander once asked me if I felt that way toward Tristan, and I lied and said no. But I do. Deep in my bones, I know.

  “I am crazily, obsessively, and totally in love with him.”

  Zander falls silent and blows out an exaggerated breath.

  “What?” I inquire, unsure of his response.

  “You just used like twelve adverbs in a row.”

  I frown. “It was only three.”

  He runs his hand through his hair. “I love my brother like that too. So, in the name of protection, we’ll do this pretend courting thing. But Magali needs to know from the start. After what happened with Ryker and Ireland, I won’t lie to her, or lead her to believe anything is going on between us. She doesn’t need to go through the heartache again of her friends coupling behind her back.”

  Relief floods me as I nod my agreement.

  Without Zander, I don’t have access to the woodland realm. If I am going to protect Tristan, I need his help.

  “I have another condition,” he says in a serious tone as he takes my hands in his. “I mean, if this is to work,” he adds.

/>   I tilt my head back, curious. “What’s that?”

  “You can’t cry. Not even a little. I mean it. My heart—well, I won’t be able to handle it,” he explains.

  A small smile cross my lips. I found out the hard way that tears make him beyond uncomfortable.

  “I won’t shed a tear,” I vow.

  “You lie; one look at my brother and you’re a goner.”

  “Care to wager?” I challenge. “The winner gets to pick the reward. Anything of their choosing.”

  “Anything?” he repeats as his eyes narrow on me.

  I try not to bristle at the way the word rolled off his tongue, with an underlying roguish sound.

  I dip my chin in confirmation. “Anything.”

  “I accept,” he smirks. “This is going to be fun.”

  We shake on it. “This is business, Zander. Not fun.”

  “Lighten up; life is supposed to be fun. On that note,” he takes a knee. “Serena St. Michael, would you kindly escort me to this small family function I have coming up soon?”

  “I would be honored.”

  He kisses my hand. “Then let the fun begin.”

  Tristan

  THE CANDLELIT ROOM IS A BLUR of dancing, shadowed in false pretenses, and draped in elegant silk décor and crystal place settings—all conceived out of a nightmare.

  My fucking nightmare.

  I close my eyes and behind the lids, all I see is her.

  Visions of sapphire eyes and waves of auburn hair floating in the wind assault me, cutting me to my soul and stabbing at my heart like daggers. Serena St. Michael.

  I snap my gaze open and swallow, trying to remove her ghost from the space it’s embedded itself in. Of its own accord, my hand lifts and rubs my protector tattoo; the throbbing is a constant reminder—of her.

  The gargoyle princess haunts my every waking moment, and in the night’s darkness, overtakes my dreams.

  Since walking away from her, I’ve been unable to concentrate on anything. Except how she tasted. The ache in my chest grows and I flex my hand in a fist in frustration.

  It’s been months. Months since I’ve been entranced by her flowery spring scent or lulled by her laughter.

  Attempting to pull myself together, I focus on the pounding of my heart as the sweat builds along the collar of my designer tuxedo. I tug at the material, trying to alleviate the choke hold it has on me. Christ, I miss my fucking jeans.

  An ancient, silver-plated goblet filled with crimson liquid suddenly appears in front of me. I take it from the rough hand covered in brown leather fingerless gloves and swallow the entire contents in one swig, ignoring the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat.

  Liquid courage.

  It doesn’t help.

  Sadly, I can’t drink my fate away.

  “This is supposed to be a happy occasion, son. Perhaps a smile would be appropriate?” my stepfather, Rionach, suggests, while gazing into the sea of supernatural dignitaries and royalty celebrating with us this evening.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see his lips twitch as he fights to hide a smile. He knows I hate every second of this charade, but my uncomfortable manner amuses the commander’s kind-hearted spirit.

  As usual, the leader of the queen’s guard looks like a combination of ancient Greek warrior and Irish guerrilla.

  He’s wearing his general’s uniform, no doubt chosen to match my mother’s emerald and gold gown. A long, sleeveless, leather vest sits over his garb, an attempt to hide his military appearance—but the sword on his waist is a stark reminder that he is not to be trifled with.

  When I was little, I thought Rionach was a god. I knew he’d protect me from any harm that would come my way, not just because it was his job, but because I was his son. His love for me runs deep. Even if I’m not his by blood.

  But even he can’t stop this lie playing out in front of us.

  “Where the hell is Zander?” I bark out, agitated.

  A deep crease forms in Rionach’s forehead as he runs a hand through his once-golden hair, now peppered with gray, then over his wide nose, before pinching his large chin between his callous fingers, deep in thought.

  “Your brother will be here,” he states with pride for his biological son. “You should relax, after all, Your Highness,” he waves at the room. “This is all in your honor. Tonight, the realms toast to the happiness of their future king and celebrate the peace you’ve secured for our borders.”

  I tense as my heart beats wildly in my chest. Lately, I’ve been struggling to find any beauty or peace within my realm. For me, the world no longer has light in it—just darkness. I’m simply existing. Inhaling, smiling, nodding, and speaking all when I’m supposed to. Nothing more.

  The burden of my title and oaths cast a shadow over everything.

  The Renaissance music emanating from the lutes and virginals echoes around the ballroom as the prestigious guests waltz to each song. It’s normally a soothing melody.

  Sadly, the reality of this moment—this situation—makes tonight’s music the most gut-wrenching sound in existence.

  With each toast and sip of wine the lords and ladies make in my honor, I forge a smile. It’s a bogus act on my part, but not Freya’s. The water nymph princess flits around the room along with my mother, the queen, personally greeting each guest, smiling, and dancing with our realms’ nobles.

  The princess of the water dimension is enthralling and beautiful, her existence meant to lure. Her silver eyes are filled with warmth and kindness as she enchants.

  Sensing my stare, Freya’s eyes lift and meet mine. My childhood friend smiles before dipping her head toward me, as a show of respect to her fiancé and future king. She’s been trained well in matters of court manners. The perfect host.

  The candlelight’s amber hue shimmers off the flecks of glitter in the white twigs that adorn her crown, and the similar branches that frame her slender face. In the light’s warmth, her skin appears less silver—less cold.

  After a moment, she drops her gaze, hiding it under her long, thick lashes, before flashing a pretty glance at the lord standing before her, causing him to smile brightly.

  I inhale my displeasure at being here—with her.

  It’s all an illusion. The poetry, the sheer beauty of everything that surrounds nymphs—it’s all designed to lure you in, to make you feel happy, loved, and beautiful. The reality is, it’s all a sham. A ruse created around desire.

  I mutter under my breath as I watch the maddening scene, praying the wine is poisoned—to end my misery.

  “You should calm down,” Rionach suggests. “You look pale and sickly.”

  “I’m just tired,” I grumble, correcting him.

  Maybe it’s because every night when I lay my head on the pillow, it’s her I smell, preventing me from sleeping.

  “We all are.” He slides me a knowing look. “Every one of us that is witnessing this is exhausted.”

  A server walks by with champagne glasses. We place our empty cups on the silver tray and Rionach takes two more, shoving one at me.

  “Drink. It’ll help you get through all this nonsense.”

  I take it gratefully and raise my glass to him. “Yamas.”

  After I down the contents, my heart slows back to its normal rhythmic pace. I force myself to breathe in and out, because that’s what you do when you’re lost. You continue to exist, as a shell of the being you were before.

  “Your bastard son looks like he’s about to have a panic attack. His pale face makes me think that I should have offered my daughter to the vampires, instead of a half-breed satyr prince.” Oren barks.

  I growl as the Nordic-looking water emperor approaches us. The crown on his slender head tilts, sliding down his white, shoulder-length, stick-straight hair. He reminds me of a weasel. Both in appearance and manner.

  Hard silver eyes focus on me as he gets closer.

  Angrily, I take a step toward him, but Rionach slaps me on the back before tightening his hand aro
und my shoulder in a firm grip, holding me still as he steps between us.

  “Watch how you speak to my son, Emperor. My wife may need your good favor, but I certainly don’t give a fuck.”

  “Queen Ophelia and I both agree that this betrothal is the perfect occasion to celebrate our rekindled alliance. I suggest the prince appear enthusiastic of my generosity.”

  “Your generosity?” I repeat.

  “The offering of my daughter’s hand. You should be honored to be part of such an alliance and match. I suggest you show some gratitude, half-breed, before I turn my unkindness in your realm’s direction,” Oren threatens.

  “There are those that say too many alliances make a ruler look weak,” Rionach counters. “I may not have been born with a crown, but this realm relies on my sword and allegiance. I’d be careful, Oren, how you threaten my son.”

  Oren narrows his eyes. “You may speak like a king, but marrying a queen does not elevate you to the level of one.”

  “And Freya may have a realm, but Tristan has an army, should he need it. One that I command. Remember that.”

  The emperor lifts his chin. “And let me remind you of something. Both you and Ophelia should be kissing my ass for allowing your son’s illegitimate hands anywhere near my daughter,” Oren sneers. “For the sake of peace, I’m overlooking who his real father is—knowing that if Freya bears sons they’ll carry his tainted mongrel bloodline.”

  I cringe inwardly at the thought of having children, let alone with someone that I do not love or care to be with.

  Rionach leans close to the emperor’s face. “I am Tristan’s father. In every way that counts. I also oversee his protection. Before I cut out your tongue for disrespect, remember whom you are speaking to—the future king.”

  Oren snaps back as though he’s been slapped, before righting himself and presenting me with a cruel smirk.

  “Does he fight all your battles for you, young prince?”

  “Yes. He’s the head of my army,” I reply sarcastically.

  “Threaten me again, Rionach, and I’ll see you beheaded, at my command,” the emperor adds before taking his leave.

  I exhale. “For the record, there will be no sons, or daughters, produced from this façade of a marriage.”