by M. L. Ryan
Special Deceptions
Book 5 of the Coursodon Dimension Series
M.L. Ryan
Special Deceptions
By M.L. Ryan
Copyright © 2016, M.L. Ryan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s warped imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by M.L. Ryan
For my boys…
Acknowledgments
I always believe I will be able to crank out the next book in the series in about ten months, but once again, writing this one took much longer. This time, I had better excuses for life getting in the way of art. Or, in this case, death. We lost my mother and father-in-law as well as two beloved pets within the past year, and such events aren’t all that conducive to the creative process. I hope it was worth the wait.
As always, I have many people to thank, my editor, Cynthia Shepp, beta readers, C.M. and T.D., and everyone in the BookGoodies author group that provide reassurance and suggestions. Last, but certainly not least, my heartfelt thanks to my husband and son, who give me the space and encouragement necessary to make my writing dreams come true.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About the Author
Connect with M.L. Ryan
Other books by M.L. Ryan
Pronunciations
1
Kyzal has left the building.
There was no reasonable explanation for that thought to be running through my head. Even in life, the now-deceased Crown Prince of Alenquai looked nothing like Elvis, nor did the memorial service bear any resemblance to a Vegas show. Far from it. In fact, this one—the last, thank goodness—was the gloomiest of the bunch. Not that any of them could be considered particularly uplifting, but today’s collection of bass-laden dirges and grim eulogies made the previous eleven services seem downright cheerful.
My mental wanderings had nothing to do with my feelings for the dearly departed, either. Sure, I found Kyzal to be a pampered, over-indulged know-it-all, but he was Alex’s brother. Regardless of my personal opinions, his untimely demise saddened me, because no one should die in the prime of life.
In the two weeks since Alex’s brother’s unexpected, tragic death, we soldiered through every conceivable sort of commemoration of Kyzal’s life—from a public event held in a monstrous, outdoor venue that mimicked the Roman Colosseum, to a “private” ceremony attended by only a thousand mourners. Today’s was the last—the official service—held in an imposing, cathedral-like edifice near the palace Alex’s parents called home. Everyone who was anyone in the Coursodon Dimension was there to pay their respects: kings, prime ministers, politicians, and captains of industry, along with assorted celebrities from stage, sport, and song.
And me. While I definitely didn’t fit into any of those lofty categories, I knew Alex appreciated my presence. He clasped my hand, squeezing when someone said something particularly poignant. At least, I assumed that was so, given my understanding of the language hadn’t improved much since we’d arrived, and it wasn’t all that great to begin with. Despite the solemn occasion, and the periodic sniffles from some of the many spectators seated behind the family section in the front row, I couldn’t get the picture of Kyzal dressed in a white, sequin-bedazzled jumpsuit out of my head.
“My dear, do stop fidgeting,” Sebastian whispered into my right ear.
At first, Sebastian had sat next to me to translate, allowing Alex to concentrate on the tributes. We quickly discovered those extolling the deceased crown prince’s virtues, or waxing poetic over his untimely passing, tended to cover the same material. By the third or fourth service, there was really no need for an interpreter. Of course, that didn’t stop Sebastian from commenting on my comportment, or, in this case, my lack thereof.
“I’m not,” I argued under my breath, although I was fairly certain I was doing just that. It seemed the better choice, as it prevented me from dissolving into hysterical laughter as images of Kyzal swiveling his hips and singing “Jailhouse Rock” danced through my head.
Sebastian turned and proffered his trademark, single-raised eyebrow. “If you have no awareness of your perturbations, perhaps we should consider limiting your coffee intake.”
Like that would ever happen. I’d brought a large supply of freshly roasted beans and the biggest French press I could pack in my suitcase, knowing the local java-esque beverage just wasn’t going to satisfy. It wasn’t just the deficiency of substantive caffeine in faytri that rankled; it was also that it lacked the ambrosial depth of flavor and aroma required in a great cup-o-joe. Compared to the human dimension, the folks in Coursodon might be open minded and progressive about most things, but when it came to coffee, they lagged way behind the curve.
“I’m not over-stimulated. Quite the opposite.”
“Try imagining something unpleasant,” Sebastian offered. “That technique always works to keep your anger in check. Try visualizing maggots devouring decaying flesh. That is one of your mainstays, yes? Perhaps it will help appease your ennui as well.”
He was right. Fly larvae squirming about in a pus-filled, gaping wound usually helped to distract me. However, his implication that the tedium affected me alone was enough to divert my attention from gyrating pelvises. “Like you aren’t bored out of your mind, too,” I whispered back.
Sebastian arched a brow. “Whilst I agree the sheer repetitiveness of the requisite formalities is a bit numbing, I have enough self-control to appear suitably somber.”
“Try controlling yourself with this image running through you mind.”
As I detailed the reason for my restlessness, his glower morphed into a grin. “Well, Elvis was referred to as ‘The King,’ was he not?”
My tenuous hold on appropriate behavior dissolved, and I had to clap a hand over my mouth to suppress the waves of giggles that threatened to expose my wandering mind. As I dabbed my moist eyes, Alex turned to both of us. Based on his look of disdain, I braced for his censure of our rude behavior. He took one look at me, however, and his expression changed to one of concern.
“Are you crying, carisa?” he said quietly, drawing my shaking body into his broad chest.
Crap. He thinks I’m overcome with grief, I thought guiltily. While I had no trouble with the strangers behind me misinterpreting my quaking shoulders and teary eyes as sorrow, I wasn’t completely comfortable with maintaining the ruse with Alex. Not that I didn’t consider keeping q
uiet and letting him think the best of me, but before I could decide if I should come clean, Sebastian did it for me.
Alex listened, his eyes narrowing. “You envisioned my brother as a bloated, drug-addled, washed-up showman?”
“Of course not,” I blurted, and then glanced around to make sure my admonition wasn’t heard by the other guests. “It was earlier Elvis, the hot, sexy one,” I whispered. In truth, the Kelvis I’d imagined was somewhere in between—chubby but still recognizable—but honesty in a relationship doesn’t necessitate total candor.
“I see,” he murmured solemnly. “I don’t see the connection, but he did tell me before he and Tjryxina were married, women would sometimes throw their panties at him during public appearances.”
The corners of his mouth turned upward, and Sebastian snickered. Soon, the three of us fought to contain the completely inappropriate display of mirth, which I finally quelled by digging my fingernails into my palms. Alex and Sebastian likely utilized some less painful technique honed from years of work as inter-dimensional enforcers, and as long as none of us looked at the others, we managed to control ourselves through the rest of the service.
“I don’t know what came over me,” Alex admitted once the last of the mourners departed and we were finally alone in the hall. “It wasn’t even that funny, but at the time, it seemed hilarious.” He glanced my way and ran a hand through his golden, shoulder-length hair. “I’m relieved that was the last memorial.”
“Me, too, and I’m only peripherally involved.”
Alex inclined his head. “Peripherally?”
“Well,” I explained, “I’d only met your brother a few times. You’ve known him your whole life. I can’t imagine how hard this must have been for you. For all of you.”
As the grieving widow, Tjryxina had worn a traditional, face-covering veil to all the memorials. While it offered her a modicum of privacy in her darkest moments, her posture, which became progressively more slumped as the string of services progressed, testified to her suffering. Alex’s mother and father kept regal, stiff upper lips throughout the ordeal, but outward appearances aside, I knew they were devastated.
Nothing could be worse than losing a child, I reflected, yet even within the family circle, the king and queen never let their sorrow show. Even Alex’s sister Tannis, the most irreverent of the clan, kept up the impassive façade. Me, the second I saw anyone cry—even someone I’d never met—I couldn’t contain the waterworks. Not wanting to make a sniveling spectacle of myself, I relied on conjuring ridiculous scenarios to keep my mind off the grim facts. I wasn’t sure how the royals managed the feat, but I suspected it wasn’t thinking of portraits of Kyzal painted on black velvet.
As if he read my mind, Alex remarked, “Stoicism is a long-standing tradition in the family.” He guided me out to the ornate garden in the front of the auditorium and stared out at the beautiful array of meticulously maintained flowers, fountains, and shrubs. His hair glistened in the sunlight. “Kyzal designed this landscape; did you know that?”
“Really? He never struck me as someone with a love of nature.”
His lips quirked in a wistful smile. “He used to be quite different before the realities of being the next in line to the throne overwhelmed him. Spontaneous. Open-minded. Funny, even.”
Try as I might, I just couldn’t picture his stodgy brother possessing any of those qualities. However, to develop his impressive magical talents, Alex spent a fair share of his formative years living and training with Sebastian. It was possible that his image of a lighthearted Kyzal was nothing more than imprecise recollections of a sibling with whom he hadn’t spent much time.
Being a good fiancée, I kept those opinions to myself and settled for a much safer, albeit cowardly, response—a knowing nod.
“We should get going. We are expected at dinner, and we don’t want to be late,” Alex announced. My disappointment must have shown, because he quickly added, “I know we haven’t had much alone time lately, but after tonight, things should be less hectic.” He took my hands in his and lifted them to his lips. Gently kissing my knuckles, he grinned at the ginormous diamond circling the ring finger of my left hand.
“You know, Blondie,” I teased, “I expected something bigger.” I had no clue how many carats the emerald-cut center stone was, but it had to be a lot, and that didn’t take into account the twenty or so smaller—translation: normal sized—diamonds that were channel-set in the band and setting.
Alex’s smile widened. “There are only a limited number of options when choosing from the crown jewels, and this,” he said, tapping the bauble in question, “was the smallest available.”
I gawked at what I secretly called, “the Hummer of engagement rings,” and asked, “What was the biggest one like?”
“Twice the size. You’d need extra upper body work just to lift your arm.”
“Who needs a rock that enormous?” My question was rhetorical, but Alex answered anyway.
“Apparently, my great-great-grandmother. It was a wedding gift from the kingdom of Masitai. She wore it until the day she died.”
Probably when she slipped and hit her head on the sucker, I mused.
My ring was beautiful, in a completely pretentious, so-not-my-style kind of way. Fortunately, I had no doubt it was authentic, unlike the one my ex-husband gave me as a token of his affection. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough discovering Kyle was a cheating piece of shit, I had to find out his ring was also a cheap piece of shit in the middle of EZ Money Pawn and Jewelry. For the pawnshop owner, women hoping to exchange bad memories for cash only to find the payout was less than they imagined was a weekly occurrence. I wasn’t sure if he meant the value of the jewelry or the relationship. Either way, perfidious tightwads should probably keep in mind Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned when there’s a showcase full of guns nearby. I might have purchased one myself if I’d gotten more than fifteen bucks for the quarter-carat cubic zirconia.
My trip down memory lane provided one new insight. Maybe the reason I’d always had a bit of a chip on my shoulder regarding Alex’s brother—his personality quirks aside—was because his name was so close to my asstard ex-husband’s.
Not wanting to hold up dinner, we walked to the marqizobaz located across the road from the garden. As we entered the magically powered transportation portal, a gazebo shrouded with fragrant, pink blossoms, I broached a subject I’d been hesitant to bring up.
“Since you mentioned alone time, any idea when we might be going home?”
Before he could answer, the familiar sensation of missing a step on a staircase signaled the portal’s activation. To the Courso, intra-dimensional travel through a marqizobaz elicited no adverse effects. I alone experienced the uncomfortable discombobulation, likely because my magic was borrowed, not a birthright. The more I did it, the easier it got, but I feared I’d never step out of one without some portion of my stomach in my throat.
The three-mile trip back to the palace took a mere fraction of second. As was his habit, Alex wrapped a comforting arm around my waist to steady me when we reached our destination.
“You are getting better at this,” he remarked, surveying my face. “You are hardly green at all.”
A commotion along the walkway leading from the marqizobaz drew me out of my post-transport queasiness. A detachment of Royal Guards, decked out in their usual snappy blue uniforms with knee-high, black boots, cordoned us off from the throng of people trying to block our exit. Some of the crowd shouted at us, and though I didn’t catch most of what they said, their jovial tones and happy expressions reassured me they meant no harm. Still, Alex pressed me closer to his body as we navigated past them, and another team of guards filled in behind us.
“What the hell was all that?” I sputtered, glancing back at the still-waving assemblage. In the fortnight we’d been in Courso, we’d used that particular marqizobaz on the north side of the palace almost exclusively without encountering such a scene.
; Alex huffed. “Those were citizens of Alenquai greeting the new crown prince and his lady love.”
“Why did they suddenly decide to show up now?”
“Today’s final ceremony marked the end of the official mourning period,” he answered as he ushered me into the palace.
Once, during my first sojourn to Coursodon, a couple dining in the same restaurant as us recognized Alex as a member of the royal family. They sheepishly requested a brief photo-op, which amounted to a magically rendered, 3-D holograph of them posing behind their prince. Beyond that, I noticed no more than an occasional knowing stare when we were out and about. This, however, was nothing like the low-key encounters with the public we’d experienced before. I really hoped this wasn’t going to become an everyday occurrence, but since Alex’s lips had not yet un-pursed, I decided not to press the issue at the moment.
Instead, we walked silently through the grand, white marbled hallways, up an equally grand, white marbled staircase to our just as grand, white marbled suite. Almost everything in the palace was, well, palatial—beautiful, but a bit over-the-top in a grandiose, yet sterile sort of way. Why the designers of this exalted residence felt compelled to utilize cold rock across virtually every surface was a mystery. A few more wood beams would have gone a long way in making it more inviting, but maybe a royal residence was supposed to be stony and imposing. Our rooms, thankfully decorated to suit Alex’s tastes, disguised the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling slabs with cushy rugs and colorful wall tapestries. Even the generous use of fabrics and textiles didn’t erase the stately stodginess completely, however.
I plopped down on one of the black leather sofas in the living room portion of our suite while Alex went into the bedroom to change into something less funereal than his official royal finery. Admittedly, I was a bit sorry to see him ditch the formal duds; the showy cobalt jacket with a yellow sash festooned with various medals made him look almost unbearably handsome, but was also likely confining as well. In comparison, the sleeveless, gray sheath provided by the royal clothier for today’s use called attention to my defined biceps and was surprisingly comfortable. The only pre-dinner alteration to my outfit I intended to make involved eighty-sixing the matching high-heeled pumps in favor of ballet flats.
