The Priest's Assassin

by V. C. Willis

  “What’s a matter? Never been scrubbed down by a woman before?” Her voice was husky in my ear. “I don’t bite… much.”

  “Don’t let her lie. They all bite,” warned Ashton.

  Closing my eyes, I searched my panicked thoughts before at last confessing, “I’m sorry, but I prefer male companions.”

  “Never stopped me.” She licked at my ear, and I sloshed to the other side of the tub, out of reach. “Ugh, no fun.” She tossed the rag in the water and crossed her arms. “Fine, but don’t take too long. I have other customers to tend to.”

  With that she left, and I could breathe again. “First the brothel, now this one.”

  “I have to admit, you’re built like me in more than one-way, little brother. You could have endless pleasure at your disposal with—”

  “Hush. I’ve had enough of your patronizing commentary.” I dunked my head underwater, scrubbing my hair free of blood and dirt. Bursting up, I searched the shelf for some soap and whispered, “So who was it that you chained yourself to? You only fed on one person too, right?”

  “We can just leave him here and keep going.” Ashton changed topics.

  “Never.” I dipped into the water to retrieve the cloth, coming back up. “I promised the Lord Knight Paul I would be John’s sword and shield.”

  “Paul Thompson?” Ashton seemed intrigued.

  “Yes. He taught me to use the claymore. Raphaëlle taught me to be you.” Grabbing a bottle of rose oil, I dumped it into the water. “So, that leads me to what I’ve been wondering… She is indeed your daughter, correct?”

  “She is.” Ashton seemed to be relaxed, settling into the conversation. “And Paul Thompson and your John are Lord Raphael’s bloodline.”

  “John suspected as much after reading through the books in his sarcophagus. I take it you didn’t put those there since your blood covered it.” Sniffing the various bars of soap, I found one with rose and saddlewood and began soaping myself down.

  “Well, to make a long story short,” for a sword he seemed to do plenty of huffing, “I served to protect the Traibon family, but when civil war was inevitable, we swapped names, and they went into hiding. As the heir to The House, I married Francesca Vendecci.”

  “Falco’s long lost older sister?” I scrubbed myself clean of all my filth, physical and emotional. “But didn’t she die in battle?”

  “The hell she did,” scoffed Ashton. “Look, we both agreed to it because we wanted freedom and were the last standing champions before the war. But when she conceived a child, it changed the course of everything for both of us. We were obligated to sire a child and well … Raphaëlle became a target, and before I knew it, I had to chase her kidnappers to the Old Continent. Then there’s Sebastian … that bastard.”

  I smirked recalling the journal. “So, that makes her the rightful ruler of Grandmere, or does that mean John is?”

  Ashton fell silent for a long while before daring to reply, “If you want to be technical about it, you and John would be rightful heirs of Grandmere. As for Raphaëlle, she’s now the rightful Virago of the Ifrit Clan in the Old Continent. If that dirty old warlord can overthrow Fallen Arbor, they’d be the ruler of all the people there.”

  Pondering on the information, I dunked into the water to rinse the soap before coming up for air again. “So, our family owns the world?”

  “Well, huh. Now that you say that… It didn’t start that way, nor did we aim for it.” Ashton started and stopped a few more times before at last confessing, “I don’t think we intended it to unfold that way. Every choice has been made to protect family or our homes. Perhaps this is just the Fate’s plan all along…”

  “Fates…” I snorted, climbing out of the tub, and circled around, searching the room. “Shit.”

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “She left me with no clothes or towels.”

  “Where was this Tilda when I had a body to reward her with?” Ashton chuckled before adding, “The bold woman is the best in bed, no?”

  Scoffing, I admitted, “I’ve never been with a woman, brother. Nor have I ever had the desire for it. Wasn’t born that way.”

  “Ah, I swing both ways! Both are a good time,” he roared enthusiastically.

  “Yet you loved Saint Raphael the most,” I pressed.

  Silence fell and the bathhouse door opened to the gawking eyes of Tilda. “Oh my. Let me get you some fresh clothes and towels. How careless of me.” She stood there for a long time until I turned away, though I could feel her hungry eyes lapping up my backside just as happily. “Oh, what was I supposed to do… Ah, yes. Clothes for the god of flesh in my bathhouse.”

  “She’d be worth a try.”

  “No more from you,” I hissed.

  Now, what will all this old-world information mean? Does our heritage still hold value in present day? And what good will two kings be to a broken continent?

  Chapter 35

  The Apothecary Shop

  I came back to the apothecary with all my gear in my arms, and my satchel full of supplies to clean it all. He glanced up from his bowls and bottles at his workbench and nodded. The open sign was back, and he had customers asking him questions. I slipped between the shelves to the back and disappeared without notice. John snored from his bed, a cold sweat painting his body as the fever tried to break.

  Whatever that green goop was, it seems to work well.

  Spreading out my gear across the other bed, I pulled up a chair and got to work. I had spent many days helping clean tack at the stables, and this was no different. The low lighting didn’t bother me, my eyes piercing the darkness with ease. I sat in silence, focused on the mundane task at hand. The sounds of footsteps, heartbeats, and breaths came and went in the shop above us. Not once did the old man whisper and lead on of our presence. Many of his customers seemed to be recovering for a cold of sorts, but one stood out among them all.

  Henry spoke gently and for the first time since that morning, left his chair to tend to her. “Miss Gail, you could have asked for me to come to you.”

  Her voice was broken and rasped, “Thanks to you, I’m feeling better and needed out of the inn for a change.”

  “How are you recovering? I imagine you need more medicine for the headaches,” offered Henry, returning to his chair with a screech as it slid.

  “Yes,” she cleared her throat, trying her best to speak louder. “To imagine I would wake from the Madness. It’s a miracle, Henry.”

  Freezing, I listened deeper, curious now.

  “Indeed.” He was mixing something, the sound of bottles and things shuffling around. “Give me a moment to prepare something for you, Miss Gail.”

  “Thank you.” I could hear her footsteps as she wondered through the shop. “Any news as to why we are waking up?”

  Henry sighed, and after a moment at last asked, “Would you believe me if I told you the Blood Prince broke the curse?”

  Gail’s steps stopped and replied, “Why would The House want it broken? Was it now their way of pushing for victory?”

  “No.” Henry spoke sternly as the sound of scrapping and mixing filled the air. “It was just as impactful on them as it had been on us. An unforeseen side effect of using magic, I hear.”

  “Oh?” She came closer to the old apothecary, intrigue riding on her broken voice. “So, how did the Blood Prince do it?”

  Henry paused from his mixing, his voice lowering, “The Blood Prince and his lover were said to destroy the Fanged Lady, the magical weapon that made bloodeaters.”

  “Why would he do that?” she croaked. “Is that not treason against The House?”

  “There’s no bounty on his head coming from Glensdale,” he countered. “And now they say the First Crowned Blood Prince is back.”

  “I remember my grandmother telling stories of him. Prince Ashton, yes?” A j
ar slid across the table. “Oh, thank you, Henry.”

  “I’ve said too much, Miss Gail. Please know we are hoping to see you find a new life despite your nightmares.” Henry’s heart fluttered. “Don’t cry, dear.”

  “I’m sorry. I … I didn’t mean… Let me go.” And with that, she was out the door.

  “You destroyed the Fanged Lady?” Ashton’s voice brought me back to the room where my ears were filled with John’s heavy breathing and steady heartbeat.

  “Technically that was John,” I whispered, oiling the last few panels of the manica.

  “Falco’s got to be hunting you both down for that one,” guffawed Ashton.

  “He’s dead.” Dropping the manica onto the bed, I grabbed the last item to clean—Ashton. “That too was John’s doing.”

  “What kind of priest is he?” he fussed.

  “He’s a saint, or at least the marking on his back declares him one.” I first started to polish the hilt, surprised how resistant to grime and dirt he had stayed, unlike the rest of my gear and myself. “It’s a long story, brother.”

  “Perhaps you can tell it to me some other time,” he offered. “I don’t need to be cleaned. Get some rest, and I will let you know if someone comes. Pull you out of bed if I have to.”

  Staring at my reflection in the blade, I probed, “About that. It was as if I could feel hands and feet correcting me. Does that only happen in connection to me or…?”

  “Honestly, I couldn’t do that or talk to Francesca in the fleeting time she wielded me. There’s something about you unlocking our Ancestral heritage that connects us in a way I’ve only seen Sebastian have with his blade. If you meet that dirty old man, ask him. Surely an ogre would know more about what is happening to me … to us.” Clearing his throat, he changed topics yet again. “He’s shivering rather hard. Perhaps he needs another blanket.”

  Snorting, I tilted him on the table, imagining it gave him a better view of the room and stairs. Sitting on John’s bed, I could tell his heartbeat raced, and he pulled the cover tight around him in his restless slumber. I let myself lay beside him, my back to his as I stared at Ashton. What a mess I find myself in the middle of. John shifted, rolling over to nuzzle hard into my back as he threw the covers over me. His arms wrapped around me and pulled me tightly into him. A sigh escaped me as his shivering slowed, and his heart settled.

  Perhaps we are good for one another. I don’t think we could have gotten this far without one another’s strength. If Captiva City is in panic, then it’ll be a while before everyone will be able to make it here. We’re stuck until they do, but that’s to our advantage. John will need to recover, and I will welcome the chance for calm while I train with Ashton. The fight will be difficult if I must face more skilled Fractured Ones. We will need the help of The Court at the very least, but will they even consider an alliance with The House after driving them to the mountains so long ago? Perhaps Falco’s death may serve as a token of good faith…

  “I love you, Dante,” John muttered in his sleep. “I promise to find you again.”

  My chest ached with his words, whispering a reply, “Long as I love you, John, I know who I am at any given moment and will find home in your arms.”

  Holding his arms there, I let sleep take me for the first time since we left the library.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  More to Come

  Traibon Family Saga

  The Prince’s Priest

  The Priest’s Assassin

  The Assassin’s Saint

  The Saint’s Bloodeater

  The Bloodeater’s Lover

  The Lover’s King

  The King’s Priest

  About the Author

  V.C. Willis

  Willis is an avid reader of male romances, whether its series like C.S. Pacat’s Captive Prince Trilogy, a standalone novel such as The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller or diving into the many mangas they’ve discovered published and independent artist and authors. With a passion for the characters, worlds, and plots in these fellow Fantasy Romances, V.C. Willis is still left thirsty for more and has taken up the pen to fill the gap in their own reading selection. Wither the debut novel, The Prince’s Priest, a saga of two men who are broody in their own right and love each other, the aim is to introduce works with no other underlying motives. Enjoy sexual tension, raw romance, and amazing worlds. A touch of magic and paranormal should be expected as under other pen names this writer has earned their share of accolades and awards.

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