Kankaredes nodded his head slightly in the darkness. His eyes were dark, bottomless. “As you wish it, Sire.” He turned and strode from the room into the darkness, his back straight and his walk as cold as the wind from the ocean. The Wolf had spoken and now, as his servant, he was to carry out the orders. Dejeune and the American professor wouldn’t see another full day.
Chapter 19
The day before today was my coronation. I am now officially king of Amor. I was raised to become king. I was raised to lead, but I fear. I fear the people, but more than anything I fear myself. Why is it that we choose our kings based on where they fit in the birth order? Why do we not choose our kings based on the strength of the character of the king? Why do we not ask the members of the city who should be king and have an election as the ancient Greeks did?
I suppose these are dangerous questions for a king to be asking since I rule with out the consent of the people. I rule over them because they were not strong enough to survive their rebellion. I am their king yet inside I feel like a scared child who is only pretending.
Grandmother Elena came to me today. She laid her hands on my head and blessed me, wishing me to be like my grandfather in ways that were not obvious to all and to be stronger than my father. She made me promise not to fall prey to the curse of the Eye of the Wolf. She begged me to not fall under the spell that the stone casts on whomever holds it, to rule with a kind heart and not be greedy as my father was. She made me promise to love the people instead of fear them to bring peace to this land. She made me promise to do away with the Eye of the Wolf, calling it a curse upon our house, a curse created by the sultan whom it had been stolen from. I promised her all she requested; I could never refuse her anything.
Once she had my oath, she placed my grandfather’s crown upon my head, kissed my cheek and walked away. I promised her to do away with the Eye of the Wolf, but I will not. This promise to my grandmother I cannot keep.
Now, as I sit here, with the crown of the King of Amor upon my brow, I sign this entry for the first time….King Malachi of Amor.
Mikayla lifted her head from the diary that sat upon her lap as the cathedral’s bells rang across the island announcing the presence of a new king, King Andrew of Amor. The ceremony that would make him the official monarch was over and the king would parade through the decorated streets in an open, gilded barouche led by a team of four, cheered by his new subjects. They would wave flags, the national anthem would blare, and people would rejoice in the welcoming of a new king just as days before they had mourned the passing of a king.
Mikayla closed her eyes briefly and imagined the streets crowded with a hungry press of people, desperate to get a glimpse of the king, his beautiful wife, and their beautiful children. Her heart fluttered slightly as she imagined Will in his dapper navy suit, a ruby red tie glimmering in the sun, the sash stretched from shoulder to shoulder, announcing to the world that he was the heir to the throne, the Dauphin. His hair certainly would flutter in the breeze, shining bright in the sun, like California sand in the sun. His smile would curve as women threw roses in his direction, and laughter would dance in his eyes at the idea of these people, these strangers loving him without knowing him.
Mikayla frowned as she thought of the thousands of people who had flocked to the island for the coronation ceremony and the month long celebration that would lead to the 900th anniversary party at the end of the month. The press would surround the rich and glamorous who had swept in during the last few days. The Secluded City would resound with music and laughter as balls and elegant dinner parties entertained the royal families of the United Kingdom, Denmark, Greece, and Monaco.
She had been invited to the coronation ceremony and the ball that evening, but she had chosen to not attend. There was no need for her to write about an event that was being broadcast worldwide in fifty different languages. The world would not care to read about the ceremony in her historical narrative when it was so fresh in memory. It was the past that was truly of an interest, not the present.
With that thought, Mikayla turned her attention away from the faint cheers that rose from the street in front to the diary that spread across her lap. She scribbled a few notes on the notepad at her elbow and closed the diary, marking her place. It was interesting to note that Malachi had wished to not be king, to bring democracy to the island, but he had lacked the knowledge or the will to bring about that large of a change. It was also interesting to note that his grandmother, Queen Elena, had wished for the destruction of the jewel, the Eye of the Wolf. Why?
The mention of the Eye of the Wolf brought her conversation with Victoria the day before to the forefront of her mind. She had pushed the idea into the back of her mind, but the mention of the stone and the Queen’s wish to see it destroyed raised questions. What was the curse? And why was it of such an interest to people in the past and present?
Mikayla stood from her beach chair and slipped her shoes on. She slid into the house and locked the diary in a kitchen drawer where it would be undisturbed by any intruders in her house. She checked the lock on the cellar door, the deadbolt that she had added as an extra precaution after dismantling the rope pull in the cellar to the stone door. With her notepad and pen gripped firmly in her hand, she slipped from the house into the crowds that lined the streets. She wove her way through the people working her way towards the Hall of Records where she had started her research and where, invariably, it would end.
Mikayla stepped out of the hot Mediterranean sun into the darkness and cool air of the Museum of History. The place was empty, which wasn’t surprising since all tourists would be enjoying the beautiful weather and the coronation celebration out-of-doors, ignoring the history that had led to this moment for the new king. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness of the light and looked across the Hall of History to the closed door on the other side. A light shone from beneath the door.
Mikayla let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She may have tried to fool herself into believing that she was there to use the Hall of Records, but she knew she was there to use Dejeune’s computer since hers had been stolen and to pick his brain about what he knew about the Eye of the Wolf. Slowly, she made her way across the hall to the door. She raised her hand to knock when the door was thrown open, bright light streaming out, blinding her momentarily until her eyes adjusted.
Rene Dejeune stood before her, a pair of scissors gripped in his hand, the points forward, heart level on Mikayla’s chest. His deep eyes were wide with what initially Mikayla took for fear but quickly decided was surprise. He smiled broadly and stepped back so she might step into his office.
“Doctor Knight, I am surprised to see you today.” His thick accent was warm, welcoming. He moved around his cluttered desk and seated himself again. He picked up a newspaper and continued to clip an article where he had left off. “I heard a noise in the gallery and was coming to investigate. I thought it might be one of those obnoxious American tourists with their flash cameras.”
Mikayla smirked as she slipped into his office and seated herself across from him. “Obnoxious Americans, hunh?”
Dejeune raised his dark eyes. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Mikayla waved a hand in dismissal. “I completely understand. I find Americans kind of obnoxious myself.”
Dejeune bowed a head in a manner than Mikayla found quite regal. He continued to clip his articles. His eyes occasionally glanced over the pages, cold, calculating. They were alone in the museum; he knew they were. He could do it there, then. No one would ever know. He could easily blend in with the crowds outside. No one would ever know. All he needed with an efficient weapon. He flicked a glance at the scissors in his hand. Cold steel, sharp, deadly. He looked over the paper at Mikayla. “So, Doctor Knight, what can I do for you today?”
Mikayla gestured to his computer in the corner. “I was wondering if I might be able to use your computer?”
Dejeune lowered the paper, gri
pping the scissors tight in his fist. “Certainly. Again, my most humble apologies for your break-in. Have the police found nothing”
Mikayla shook her head. “It’s been over a week. They’ll never find it now. I hope whomever has it is enjoying it.”
Dejeune allowed his eyes to grow wide with dismay. His jaw dropped slightly. He thought it the perfect image of disgust. “I sincerely hope you don’t believe it was a native. I would hate for you to leave with that image of Amorians.”
Mikayla shrugged and smiled. Distrust nagged at the base of her skull. “Would it be too much trouble if I might use yours?”
Dejeune shook his head and stood from his seat. He carried the scissors in his hand, pointing out, prepared to run her through. He moved around the desk and hesitated when Mikayla brushed past him. He swallowed stiffly. He couldn’t do it; he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. The Wolf would understand. Dr. Knight wasn’t really that much of a threat. She wasn’t as curious as the Wolf pretended. He would get the diary and the Wolf would be happy. Dr. Knight could live happily ever after.
Mikayla settled into Dejeune’s chair and booted up the computer. She logged into the Internet and typed in her search. She turned her head slightly. Dejeune was staring at her with those piercing dark eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck raised and gooseflesh appeared on her bare arms. The look unnerved her. “Is there a problem, Monsieur Dejeune?”
Dejeune shook his head to clear his mind. He knew Mikayla must go. He knew he must accomplish his goal otherwise his own life was forfeit. He imagined the scissors sliding into her flesh, the blood warm on his hands and grimaced. He knew he couldn’t do that. It would require investing too much and too much blood. She would have to bleed to death, which would take time. Time he was rapidly running out of.
“I was just wondering how your research was going, Doctor Knight.” Dejeune’s voice was cool, aloof, reminding Mikayla of the first time she had met him.
Mikayla turned back to the computer as it downloaded the information it had found in response to its query. “It was going very well, but since everything was stolen, I have kind of stalled.”
Dejeune looked over her shoulder as information scrolled across the screen, and Mikayla hit the mouse key, moving the information to the next page. His eyes widened as he watched pictures of the royal family roll across the screen, pictures with the deceased prince, a piece of history they had tried to forget. It had been the first step in the moves of the Wolf that had brought about the death of that young prince. Why was she looking at it? Why was she digging into the past?
Dejeune straightened from where he leaned against the desk, peering over her shoulder. His brow was furrowed and his mouth set. It had to be done. It had to be done now. He moved through the door of the office, excusing himself momentarily. He pulled the door closed behind him as he set off in search of an efficient weapon that would finish the job and save him, though it certainly wouldn’t save his soul.
Mikayla scrolled through the articles about the royal family until her eyes fell on a family photo. A stranger towered over two children who were obviously Victoria and Will. His smile was the same as Will’s, as were the deep gray eyes that jumped off the screen. Sunlight danced through the blond hair of the three children, blue waves crashed behind them on the beach. The Secluded City spired into the clouds behind them, reminding the world of the power those three children would one day wield.
Her eyes rested on the text, words reporting the death of Prince Jonathan of Amor, the Dauphin, the heir to the royal throne. The article reported that the children had been sailing when the prince was tossed overboard and presumed a victim of drowning. Ships from all of the countries of the Mediterranean had rushed to the sight of the drowning, searching for the body of the lost prince, but he had never been found. Although the press never accused the eighteen–year-old Prince William of the death, suspicion rested solely on his shoulders. Had he killed his older brother in order to inherit the throne or had it been an unfortunate accident of people too young to be out in the storm of that strength, a storm that even experienced sailors had avoided?
Mikayla moved through the pictures on the web page, reading the synopsis of each article, reading the captions and focusing on the photos. Following the article on the death of Prince Jonathan, there were no other articles within the twelve years that had passed. No photos were available, no reports of life or activities. It was as if the royal family disappeared from existence until the death of King James just ten days ago.
Mikayla jerked her head up at a thump from the hall outside. Then, there was silence. The only sound was the steady hum of the computer and the whir of the fans in the ceiling. “Monsieur Dejeune?” She called out. She waited a heartbeat for a response. When there was none, she stood slowly from her chair. Fear that Dejeune had slipped on the highly glossed floor or dropped something that was important tickled at her mind. He had seemed distracted before leaving the room. Perhaps he had slipped and was injured.
Mikayla pulled the door open and stepped from the brightly lit office into the gloom of the display hall. Faint light filtered through the stained glass windows, beaming streams into the glass cases. Jewels sparkled and winked. There was silence in the hall. It was an ominous silence that chilled Mikayla’s blood. There was no reason for the chill, but even the sounds of the cheering crowds could not be heard. It was as if Mikayla were the only person on Amor.
“Monsieur Dejeune?” Mikayla called out again. Her voice echoed back to her off of the marble walls. Only her own voice answered her. She stepped further into the hall, scanning the far side, the doors that led to various parts of the museum. Nothing stirred except the dust motes in the sunbeams, dancing through the still air.
It was then that Mikayla’s nose picked up the sweet, sickening copper smell in the air. It was faint, just a hint that wafted into the nostrils and permeated the senses. She covered her nose with her hand and breathed through her mouth, waiting for the nausea to pass.
“Monsieur Dejeune?” Mikayla called again. The only sound was the rustle of wings of a bird in the rafters of the ancient cathedral that had been converted into museum. Sweat ran between Mikayla’s breasts, soaking her shirt, but her skin was icy. Fear wove itself with anxiety at the stillness of the Hall of Artifacts. She remembered this feeling; the dark, the silence. The feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, tightening and clenching until she was sure she would be sick.
Across the hall, she caught sight of one of the cases open. Its glass door folded back, revealing all of its splendors for everyone to touch and even walk away with. Mikayla glanced around wondering who had opened the case. She didn’t remember it being open when she had arrived earlier. Perhaps Dejeune had opened it to clean some of the artifacts; after all, the museum would be bustling with activity within the next few weeks, especially since the coronation and the 900th anniversary were world-wide celebrated events.
She took a tentative step away from the door into the gloom. Her shoes squeaked on the marble, a loud noise in the stillness. She took another step, this one more confident, further into the room. Again, she called for Dejeune to be answered only by her own voice. Her eyes swept the darkened corners. She reminded herself that the Hall was empty other than Dejeune who had disappeared to run some errand. There was no monster to jump from the shadows.
Mikayla laughed to herself softly and strode with more confidence across the room. Now, she was jumping at shadows. When she had been in Washington, she had walked down darkened streets in terrible neighborhoods, ridden the subway alone, without ever thinking of what might have been in the shadows. Two months in this tiny paradise had certainly changed her habits. She had less to fear in Amor than she would ever have in Washington, yet here she was hesitating to walk across the museum to close a glass case in the dim lighting. She laughed again and marched to the case.
As she drew closer, Mikayla recognized the case as being the guardhouse for the crown of King Henr
y. She frowned as she drew closer. Something wasn’t right; something didn’t set well. The smell of sweet copper was stronger near the case, permeating the air, making the bile in her stomach rise in her throat. She drew closer to the case, her hand covering her face to cut the smell. Her eyes alighted on the interior of the case, rested on the satin pillow where the crown should have been.
It was gone.
Mikayla gasped. She took another step, closer to the case, to get a better look. All fear of the dark and what was hidden in the shadows forgotten. Her foot slid out from beneath her. As she felt herself falling, Mikayla put a hand down to stop herself from hitting the marble floor. It slipped in the sticky, warm liquid that spread out around her, pooling at the base of the glass.
Mikayla gagged as the smell reached her nostrils and her hands and feet slipped in the blood. A scream erupted from her lungs, echoing off of the walls, ringing in her own ears as her eyes locked with the unblinking stare of Rene Dejeune. Blood dribbled between his lips, pooling under his head in a brilliant red puddle. His lips moved silently, working to form one word. His hand gripped her wrist, pulling her closer to him. He looked into her eyes, seeing her for one moment before his last word escaped his lips and his grip relaxed, releasing Mikayla.
She scrambled back, tried to gain her feet, tried to gain solid ground as her heart raced and her breathing hitched. There was screaming. It was only later that Mikayla would realize the screaming had been her own.
She straightened when her feet hit the solid marble floor again and panted, desperate for air, panic setting in. Stars exploded in front of her eyes and she crumpled next to the body of the former royal historian, his dead eyes staring up, silver scissors sticking out of his stomach. Crimson blood blooming across the shining marble floor.
Chapter 20
The cool cloth was comforting. It reminded her of the times when she had had a fever as a child. Her mother would lay a cool cloth on her forehead to bring down the fever and soothe the child. The voice that spoke to her was soft, soothing with a faint lilt of northern Ireland, just as her mother’s had often carried that sound of the homeland she had never known. The voice told her not to worry, nothing was going to hurt her, but she needed to open her eyes.
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