The Eye of the Wolf

by Sadie Vanderveen

Victoria smiled broadly. “Why, you must attend, Mikayla. It is the event of the year. I know William would want you there, especially since he seems to have relocated to this house from the palace in the last few weeks.” She examined her nails and frowned at the sight of a broken nail. “I hadn’t realized the day we walked about that the two of you were so close. Why ever did you not say something?”

  Mikayla mumbled something and stood from her chair. Suddenly she needed something to drink, something to wet the dry throat that was plaguing her. “Can I get you something to drink, Victoria?”

  Victoria giggled and stood from the chair. She slipped an arm through Mikayla’s and walked with her to the kitchen. “Oh, don’t be a ninny, you don’t have to wait on me. I am perfectly capable of helping.” She simpered and giggled about the ball that was just a week away. Her voice painfully high in Mikayla’s throbbing head.

  Mikayla pulled glasses from the cupboards and poured juice over ice before handing the cut-glass crystal tumbler to Victoria. Victoria smiled sweetly and took the glass. She led the way back to the living room, a smug smile on her face.

  Victoria left Mikayla in peace several hours later, after mindless chit-chat that made her head ring. She stretched out on the couch after downing two Tylenol, willing the headache that had centered itself in her forehead away. She closed her head and cushioned her head on her hand beneath the pillow Victoria had fluffed over and over while sitting on that very couch. Chanel still permeated the air making Mikayla wrinkle her nose in disgust.

  Her hand slid under the pillow and settled. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift, hoping for peace when peace had alluded her so often since her arrival on the island that was supposed to be a romance novel but had turned into a Stephen King horror. Her mind traveled back a week, then more, to the day Inspector Harrison had appeared on the doorstep, raining streaming behind him off of the porch roof. She had been reading the diary with Will at her side, the idea of finding the Eye of the Wolf fresh in her mind. They had shoved the diary under a cushion before admitting the inspector.

  Mikayla’s eyes flew open. Her hand groped beneath the cushion seeking the fine leather cover of Malachi’s diary, but her fingers felt nothing but the covering of the couch. She tore the cushions from the couch and shook each one as a long, low moan seeped from her mouth. She lowered herself to the floor, gaping at the stuffing that littered the floor, the torn cushions, and the emptiness where Malachi’s diary should have been.

  Chapter 24

  He pulled the pack of gum from his suit coat and carefully unwrapped the spearmint. He chomped down heartily on the mint as he folded the gum wrapper in the shape of a bowtie. His wife used to find his tinfoil origami humorous; now, after thirty years of marriage, she found him old, tired, boring. Her eyes had begun to stray to the young man who cared for their lawn and as cliché as it sounded, cleaned the pool. The irony was sharp. They had moved to Amor ten years before from London to escape the dangerous elements that plagued the city, to find peace in paradise. Now, he was investigating murders, lost in a maze of misdirection, and again the royal family was at the center of the deaths, just like his first case.

  Inspector Harrison flipped the tinfoil bow tie onto the desk in front of him. His worn leather shoes rested on top of a stack of folders filled with solved cases, mostly B and Es at the local resorts. They experienced this every summer with the influx of tourists. The criminal element seemed to follow the tourists, but not murder. Murder never followed the tourists.

  He glanced at his watch: one a.m. He knew his wife had shoved his dinner in the oven for him to eat when he finally made his way home, just as she had during those long years with Scotland Yard before permanently moving to the island that had promised paradise and peace. There had been peace during the twelve years they had resided there. The last big case had been when they first moved, the accidental drowning of Prince Jonathan. He could still picture Prince William, as he had been at eighteen, sitting across the room in the leather chairs that had been worn even then, his eyes wide and his hands fisted together. The boy had been scared beyond belief, scared that he had murdered his own brother through carelessness. It was a cross he still continued to carry, Harrison knew. Now, here he was, twelve years later, investigating the deaths of three people, and at the center of it all, the same royal prince of Amor.

  He scanned the folder on his lap. The murder of Rene Dejeune, royal historian and preservationist. The biography of Monsieur Dejeune was uneventful. His life had been bland, boring, filled with museums and rescued artifacts. He had been discovered by a tourist who happened to wander into the museum following the coronation celebration. He had been found in a pool of his own blood, scissors cleaved through his middle. The body of the American professor lying in Dejeune’s blood, unconscious, her own blood dried in her hair from where she had been hit over the head. Weapon unknown.

  He picked up the next open folder on his desk and scanned over the biography of King James of Amor, a sickly old man who had been killed by an injection of potassium chloride, a silent, deadly killer, that induced cardiac arrest in a man already dying. The syringe had never been discovered, but the vial that had held the liquid death had been turned over. King James’s tissue was tested. He hadn’t died a peaceful death in his sleep. He had been tortured by the poison coursing through his system, a slow death brought on by someone close enough to be in his bed chamber alone with him. Someone trusted enough that King James himself wouldn’t have questioned the presence or the mode of murder.

  Harrison tapped his pen against the file and then picked up the last file. Antonio Kankaredes, Royal Minister of State. A trusted advisor and friend to the king. A member of the royal household. Plunged headfirst into the rocks at the base of the Secluded City. His neck broken. Suicide. A painful way to end a life that had been filled with power and prestige. The coward’s way of ending a career that could have taken him anywhere. Why?

  Harrison tapped his pen against his teeth and sat forward in his chair. He spread the folders out on the desk and looked at each one individually and as part of a whole picture. Then, he pulled the folder of information collected on Dr. Mikayla Knight from his desk drawer. Her college transcripts from Boston College and the University of Michigan spread out. Straight A student with a good home life in Michigan. Her employment record from Georgetown spotless. A regular goody-two-shoes. Not a murderer, unless she had suddenly flipped out. Not likely.

  He removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The night was in full swing and yet here he sat, still thinking, still trying to figure out what was happening on his island, in his paradise. He waved in the night officer when the knock came at the door. He looked up as the officer laid a thick package on his desk with a message taped to the manila envelope.

  “’You’re looking at the wrong person. She’s innocent. Look to your dead bodies for your killer. W.’” Harrison held the note up to the light, looking for evidence of the author or where at least the paper had come from. There was nothing to signify just who W was.

  Harrison set the note aside and tore open the envelope. He dumped the papers on his desk and began sorting through the information, his eyes widening with surprise and then resignation as the facts of his case came to light.

  The doors swung closed. Brilliant sunlight streamed through black clouds, casting an eerie, heavenly glow to the island. Mikayla threw back her head and laughed, a lusty laugh that had been hidden deep inside her for weeks. It was a laugh that needed to escape her lungs and dance in the breezes as freedom filled her.

  Freedom.

  She was an American, born into freedom, but never had it seemed so precious than it did right then. She was free.

  Will jumped down the steps and scooped her into his arms. He twirled around in the circle. His laughter, deep and rich, mixing with hers. He stopped twirling only when she complained of feeling sick, as if she had ridden the Tilt-a-Whirl on a full stomach. He crushed her to him, bruising her li
ps in the ferocity of his kiss, the heat driving them both mad. Her arms slithered around him, gripping his shoulders, holding on for dear life. She poured herself into the kiss, feeling for the first time in a long time, full of life, able to give all of herself to him.

  He clung to her, breathless from the sudden response, the sudden movement of her hands over his body. Gripping his head and pulling him in deeper. He felt lost only then to be found when she delved deeper into the kiss. Amazed, he pulled her away and stupidly grinned down at her.

  Mikayla danced away from him, pulling him along with her, as she moved down the sun-washed street to the Jeep, its top down, ready for an afternoon excursion, anywhere. “Will, take me somewhere. Celebrate with me!”

  He hopped into the Jeep and buckled himself in as she stretched her arms and twirled once, alone. “If I had known getting you off the legal hook would make you feel this alive, I would have taken care of that a long time ago.”

  “Ha, ha!” Mikayla climbed in beside him and buckled herself in. She couldn’t help but flash him a brilliant grin stopping his heart. “I can’t believe Kankaredes killed your grandfather and Dejeune simply because their plan for him to be king was back-firing.”

  Will frowned as he twisted the ignition and the Jeep roared to life. He said nothing, merely backed from the parking spot and moved slowly down the street. As the business district disappeared behind them and trees bursting in full color shadowed the road, he navigated around the bicyclists and walkers exploring the island. He was silent; his eyes on the road, but his mind was elsewhere. He mulled over the information provided by Inspector Harrison: the surprising arrival of evidence that pointed all fingers to Kankaredes and the coincidental suicide of that same person. It was too neat, too orderly. It didn’t set well in his mind, but he knew what had happened was beyond his control. The only thing within his control was finding the sapphire. He had to find the sapphire.

  Mikayla was oblivious to his silence. She chattered on excitedly about the change in the case. The case was now closed. She was free. Antonio Kankaredes had killed both King James and Rene Dejeune, plus assaulted her all as part of a plan to stage a coup against the current royal government. She was free. Someone had granted her her freedom by providing evidence that pointed away from her and towards the real perpetrator. She was free, and it was a beautiful day.

  Will navigated over the rough roads that climbed the mountain at the center of Amor. Potholes jostled the Jeep as he gunned up the hill. He heard her words, but he didn’t believe them. He didn’t believe that Kankaredes had killed both Dejeune and his grandfather and then committed suicide. In his mind, it didn’t add up, regardless of the evidence. He glanced at Mikayla, her hair tumbling free in the wind. Her smile was infectious and soon he felt himself relaxing, laughing even as they pulled into the clearing near the stones. He had to stop thinking about the deaths and the mystery. He had to stop obsessing about that stupid stone. He had to enjoy the gift that was his for that moment because he didn’t know how long it would last, how long she would remain at his side.

  Mikayla bounded from the Jeep and skipped to the cliff’s edge. She threw her arms wide. She thought briefly of imitating Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic but felt that would be too cliché. She sighed deeply when Will wrapped his arms around her from behind and pressed a kiss to her temple. She entwined her fingers with his and swayed to the music that played from the Jeep. It was a moment that paradise was made for. It was a moment that would live forever in her memory, even after she was gone.

  “Mikayla,” Will sighed in her ear, “will you attend the royal ball with me on Saturday?”

  Mikayla smiled to herself and whispered a reply. Pleasure coursed through her system. She felt, at that moment, that she was the luckiest woman in the world. The man she loved had stood by her side as she faced a murder investigation. He had never wavered, simply stood tall in the face of the press that had caught wind of the scandal, held her hand when it was necessary and fought for her when it wasn’t even asked for. Now, the terror had passed, peace had returned, and he wanted her at his side when the whole world would be watching. Her heart practically leaped with joy, even though, deep inside, she knew the day after the ball, she would be leaving and never returning. At least, she knew she could take the memory of him and that last moment with her.

  A horrible thought singed her mind. She whirled around, her eyes wide but there was a mischievous sparkle. “Will, what will I wear?”

  He grinned and kissed her hard. “Don’t worry, Luv, leave that to me. You would be amazed what a prince can do.” He cupped her neck and drew her towards him until their bodies pressed. He reveled at how her body seemed to fit so perfectly with his, how they meshed together into one. He drew her closer, feeling her arms wrap around his neck, her lips soft and supple beneath his. The soft sigh that escaped her lips slid through him like molten lava, heating him from head to toe. He smiled as he nibbled along her jaw line, enjoying the feel of her skin, the whip of her hair caught in the wind. And he whimpered when she scampered away with an exclamation of remembrance.

  He turned slowly to find her kneeling beside the stone with the engraving, her fingers slowly tracing the letters. Her lips were working but he couldn’t hear her. The wind captured the words and threw them away before he could catch them. With a heavy sigh, he strolled over to where she knelt and stared down at her. “Mikayla,” his tone expressed his exasperation, “what are you doing?” He gestured over to the spot on the cliff where they had stood only moments before, locked in one of the most passionate embraces he had ever experienced in his life. “I thought we had something going on over there. A celebration or something.”

  Mikayla waved him away with a hand and a laugh. “Oh, that,…that can wait.”

  Will rolled his eyes as she continued to run her hands over the stone, caressing it in the way he had hoped she would caress him just moments before, those long, tapered fingers… He groaned. Those thoughts would obviously have to be put on hold. He collapsed into the grass and reclined against another stone. “Okay, Luv, tell me, what are you doing?”

  Mikayla smiled. It was sly, cunning and full of knowledge that she hadn’t shared. She still didn’t trust him fully, but she needed his help. She needed his brain to help her understand the clues. She leaned back against the stone. “Okay, remember how we decided that Victoria took the diary the other day when she visited while you were at the police station.” Will nodded and waited. “Well, I don’t think we need it anymore. We have all the clues. We just have to put it together.”

  Will screwed up his forehead. “Mikayla, we don’t know what the engravings mean. We still need the diary.”

  Mikayla shook her head and reached into a pocket. She pulled the yellow Post-It-Note out and handed it over. “I’ve had that for a few weeks, Will. A friend of mine in New York translated the engravings for me.”

  He stared hard at the words, no comprehension of the phrase, simply that she hadn’t trusted him with it. She had trusted him with everything else, including her life and freedom, but she hadn’t trusted him with the final clue to the whereabouts of the Eye of the Wolf. He refused to look at her. He didn’t want her to see the frustration and hurt reflected in his eyes. He kept his voice cool. “Why are you trusting me with this now, Mikayla?” He stood from his seat and walked back to the cliffs. Wind whipped his shirt around his body. “I could very easily toss you over the cliffs now, just as I could very easily have knocked you over the head, strangled you in your sleep, or killed you through any other number of monstrous ways. Why trust me now?” His voice was harsh filled with emotions that he hadn’t known he would feel. He felt betrayed even when he knew deep inside he had betrayed her too.

  Mikayla swallowed the lump that had built in her throat. This wasn’t the reaction she had expected. She had expected him to be happy, excited, thrilled, not furious. His anger incensed her own and she stood from her seat, her spine straight, flames in her eyes. “I don’t know, Will. May
be because I feel as if you might have earned it. Maybe I am testing you, seeing if you’re the killer. I don’t know, maybe my heart is telling me that giving you your heritage, whether you kill me for it or not, is the best idea. I don’t know!” She screamed the last, taking both of them surprise.

  The anger melted slowly from his face leaving him pale and defeated. He hung his head and crossed the grass, pulling her into his arms, bruising her in his apology. When he pulled away, his face was still pale but the emotions were now the intense desire he felt whenever he was with her and the wish to find his heritage. “I’m sorry. I had no right to be angry with you. I’m sorry.”

  Mikayla mumbled a reply, taken aback by the sudden mood changes that flashed through this man. Sometimes she could still see the light-hearted photographer who had volunteered to be her research assistant, but now, most often, he was hidden inside a somber prince who was desperate to perform the duty he had been born into. A modern day Hamlet. She laid a hand gently against his cheek, a comforting gesture and then pulled him down onto the grass with her. “I think I’ve figured out what the phrase means.”

  Will nodded. He trusted her to tell him the truth. She wouldn’t lead him astray, and if she did, he would forgive her and move on. It was the way this would work.

  Mikayla gestured to the paper. “It tells us to ‘Look to your mother’s hand.’” Will frowned, not following her train of thought. Mikayla continued, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. “The stone is a curse upon the royal family. Someone about the time of Malachi’s ascension steals it and hides it away. That someone is probably Malachi or someone very close to Malachi. It needs to be hidden somewhere where no one will look. Where does someone hide a fist-sized sapphire so that it will remain hidden for eight hundred years?” Long fingers tapped against her lips as eyes remained fixed on the stone carving.