The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  Her hand flies unbidden to her throat as she lets out a strangled cry. Her blue eyes stare into the looking glass as she meets the dark gaze of none other than General James Byron. He stands at attention, his shoulders perfectly framed within the crumbling doorway. His jaw is locked as he watches her in silence, unblinking. His lips twist into a contemplative frown.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the reflection mouths. His voice, low and dangerous, emanates from over her shoulder. She turns slowly upon the heel of her boot, raising her chin in a mild show of defiance as she faces him. Her gaze finds his across the vague shadows of the room and her stomach twists itself into a knot. Unencumbered by the distorted reflection of the rusting mirror, his golden uniform appears ever more imposing against the curling white paint of the distressed doorway. His handsome face is bronzed from the sun, as though he has recently spent a great deal of time out of doors. He studies her in measured silence, taking care to keep his expression guarded.

  “This is my home,” she says, disappointed to hear her voice wavering. She had meant to sound confident—fearless. Instead, she watches as her words fall flat between them.

  The shake of his head is barely discernable in the dusky ambiguity of the afternoon. The muscles in his jaw tighten.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats.

  “Why not?” The insides of her palms are slick with sweat. She wipes them against the ivory of her petticoat and hopes he does not notice.

  “It’s not safe.”

  “As if you care for my safety.”

  The look upon his face causes her stomach to quaver. She tries not to think of their last encounter—tries not to remember the feel of his lips upon hers, of the hunger in his touch. She tries, but she fails. Her palm stings at the memory of how she had slapped him, the sound echoing through the empty street.

  She thinks again of Orianna’s warning—of her friend’s empty eyes and upturned palms, the ridges of her fingers still caked with flour.

  You’ll love him. It will drown you both.

  A wrinkle of embarrassment from crosses the bridge of her nose. The general notices, his expression softening. He takes a careful step into the room, his eyes never leaving her face. His gleaming leather boots creak against the floorboards underfoot. He moves gingerly, walking forward as though she is a frightened doe he is trying desperately not to startle.

  “You followed me here,” she accuses.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice is apologetic. His gaze is unreadable. “I had a fairly good idea you’d be headed here, and his Majesty has my men and I doing routine sweeps of the apartments. I didn’t want to take the chance of you running into another Guardian on your way in.”

  Nerani’s frown deepens. Her cautious gaze transforms into a glare. He stiffens beneath her steel blue eyes, his larynx pulling at his throat as he swallows.

  “Why are you talking as though you’re any different than them?”

  He is visibly affronted by her question. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

  “You didn’t want to take the chance that I would run into a Guardian?” The dust motes swirl about her head in a halo of silver as she takes several steps in his direction. “I have run into a Guardian. Perhaps the most dangerous man in all the King’s Golden Guard has followed me into my home.”

  He blinks twice—slowly—and says nothing.

  “You’re trespassing, by the way,” she snaps. “This is my home, and I haven’t invited you in.”

  The heat of her temper abates the flutter of nerves beneath her skin. She moves to push past him, her cheeks ablaze. He steps backward into the doorframe, throwing his arm up just before she can storm through the opening. His knuckles are white against the wood. Looking up, she finds herself staring directly into his face. His nose is inches from hers—his gaze earnest.

  “Wait.” He is so close to her that she can taste his breath upon her tongue.

  “Why?” She fights to keep her voice even. His deep, brown eyes flicker back and forth between hers in a way that makes her knees buckle.

  “It’s not safe out there,” he explains. “You shouldn’t have left your city.”

  She scowls. “It’s not quite safe in here, either.”

  His eyes widen at that. “Because of me?” For a moment, he makes a show of studying the splintering cracks in the waterlogged ceiling. When at last he speaks, his tone is plaintive—his words are clipped with frustration.

  “I’ve never given you any reason to fear me.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “You—I—” he stammers, his cheeks coloring with visible ire. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “Like you tried to keep Emerala safe?” Her words are biting. They have the desired effect. His hand falls away from the door as he regards her through a gaze gone cold. She is overcome by a sudden, violent surge of resentment. Resentment for him—resentment for everything he stands for, every facet of his so called justice.

  Was it justice, what happened to Emerala?

  Will it be justice what happens to her?

  He cannot keep me safe, she thinks bitterly. Not after all that has happened in the name of his damned self-righteousness—in the name of his false king.

  If he claims to want as much then he is nothing but a liar.

  “Arrest me,” she commands him, the words flying away from her with abandon. Unwanted tears spring to her eyes. He says nothing, only watches her with a trace of dismay knit into his brow. She takes another step towards him, drawing up on the toes of her boots so she is nearly at eye level with him.

  “Arrest me,” she snaps again, her voice fierce. “You’ve discovered me here. You know what I am. Take me into custody.”

  She is close enough to see flecks of gold circling his irises. His shoulders rise and fall beneath his cloak.

  “No,” he murmurs, frowning down at her. Fury splinters through her and she crooks her elbows, thrusting her wrists hard against his chest—holding them out to be bound. Her nerves are on fire beneath her flesh. Her instincts beg her to hold her tongue.

  “I’m no different than Emerala, my crime is the same. You have no reason to let me go,” she snaps through clenched teeth, feeling half mad as she glares up at him. His brows furrow still further, a brief flicker of anger passing across his stony gaze. He reaches up and grabs both of her wrists within his fist, drawing her roughly into him. They are nose to nose as they collide, his parted lips only inches from hers. His breathing has grown clipped and shallow—his cheeks are stained with pinpricks of blood.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he orders—his voice caught between a snarl and a whisper. “If they get ahold of you—if you let them take you—they’ll break you. Do you understand me?”

  “What do you care?”

  “How can you ask me that?” His voice is hoarse.

  She can hear her heart beating in her ears. Somewhere deep within her, she hears Orianna’s voice urging her to be careful—urging her to stay away from General James Byron and all that goes with him.

  General Byron’s grip on her wrists tightens. The white sunlight of the afternoon grazes the sweeping gold of his cloak. He is studying her through unguarded brown eyes and for a moment she can see stark, naked fear within his gaze.

  “They’ll kill you,” he says. “They’ll kill you, and I won’t be able to do a thing to stop them. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she whispers, the rage sapping out of her spirit. He nods, feeling her slacken beneath him, and releases her. He takes a slow step back, his footsteps measured and even upon the floor.

  “Go back to the Forbidden City,” he instructs her. His stilted words are that of a man unaccustomed to asking nicely. “Please.”

  She says nothing—does nothing—only watches as he backs out into the obscure shadows of the hallway beyond. The musky smell of dust and rot creeps in upon his wake. He is studying her still, his expression curious in the gloom.

  Something fore
ign and unwanted protests deep within her at the sight of his departure. She smothers the unwelcome sensation, batting it down, tucking it away.

  Run, Nerani, Orianna had said. Run as fast as you can. Before the red tide rises.

  She keeps her gaze locked upon his even as her legs threaten to give out beneath her gown. And then he is gone, leaving nothing but a flash of gold and a dull pulsing where his fingers pressed against her wrists.

  CHAPTER 23

  Chancey

  What are you doing?

  James Byron paces the length of the hallway, his hand pressing against his freshly shaven chin. His stomach does an uneasy somersault. The soles of his boots slap stridently against the polished marble floor underfoot. The dimly lit hall is empty, save for himself. Dust motes swirl in the air about his head as he walks, shivering out from between the rusted visors that dot the row of forgotten armor upon the wall to his right.

  What are you thinking?

  His father was a pragmatic man. A fisherman and a businessman, at that. He may have come from humble beginnings—beginnings which James had thought shameful in the impetuous days of his youth—but he afforded a respectable level of reason to everything he did. In the end, they may have had their differences, but James always looked up to his father’s levelheaded ability to rationalize.

  It is what he strives for—demands of himself, really—in his line of work. A Guardian does not deviate from reason. A Guardian is the embodiment of pragmatism—of sensibility. It is what allows him to uphold the law, to see that justice is swift and merciless where it need be. It is what allows him, in a manner of speaking, to snuff out his humanity and turn a blind eye to those that meet with Death at the end of Justice’s swift sword.

  He has always been a man that favored logic over instinct and impulsivity. Always, it would seem, until now.

  Where has that man gone?

  He was certainly not present in the slums only yesterday afternoon as James followed the blue-eyed gypsy to her dwelling. There had been exceedingly little reasoning that took place there as he pursued her silently up the creaking steps, his troubled gaze locked upon the sweeping ivory hem of her gown. He was the very definition of impulsivity then as he pulled her into him—felt her breath upon his tongue.

  Damn it, he growls internally, berating himself. What were you trying to prove?

  Nothing, he realizes with a start, coming to a sudden stop in the murky quiet of the hallway. He did it simply because he wanted to do it—because he needed to do it. Because, at that moment, fear unlike any he had ever known had grabbed hold of his spirit and refused to let go. Because her very presence before him had filled him with rage as she shouted for him to arrest her—to treat her as he was expected to treat her. She had pointed out the inconsistencies in his heart with flippant anger, her blue eyes blazing like steel. Words were not enough to express what he was feeling, standing uselessly before her and imploring her to understand what he was asking her—to understand what it was he needed from her.

  He cannot do his job with her so close. He cannot do what it is he needs to do. Her presence here in the city muddies his ability to think. He is not the type of man to plead, and yet he might as well have dropped his knees down into the rotting undergrowth and begged her to see reason.

  Reason.

  The word is laughable to him, now. He stares down at his fists, resting at his sides, and lets a derisive laugh escape from between his lips. He has made a terrible tactical error, and that practical voice within his head is quick to remind him just how foolishly he behaved.

  What is it to you whether she lives or dies? he thinks to himself. Let her be caught. She is nothing to you. You don’t even know her name, you fool.

  He grimaces and resumes his pacing, feeling utterly disgusted with himself. So consumed is he with his own thoughts that he scarcely notices the polite hem-hem of a throat clearing somewhere behind him. He brings himself about, drawing to a squeaking stop upon the marble. The force is so abrupt that his cloak continues on in his wake, momentarily enshrouding his figure in a swatch of gold.

  Prince Peterson lingers quietly in the expanse before him, hovering beneath a shaded alcove meant to house a bust or a suit of armor. The shadows that play across his face cause him to appear ashen and lifeless in the dusky hallway—himself emulating one of the countless nameless statues that line the walls of the palace. Two green eyes, as vivid as jewels, blink rapidly in the muted light. James regards the young prince. He thinks of the forgotten statues, all but obsolete, their names and their rich histories all but faded from memory and he notes that Peterson, too, has been forgotten. He is fading away before he has even had the chance to amount to the glory he was born to inherit.

  James pities Peterson.

  He always has.

  “Your Highness.” He drops into a respectful bow, keeping his eyes trained upon the shaded figure.

  “James.” He refers to James by his given name, as he always has. Peterson has known James his entire life. He spent the days of his childhood chasing after Frederick and James as they raced one another up and down the polished floors of the palace. “Get up. You don’t have to do that. There’s no one around.”

  James clears his throat, remaining positioned in a bow. “Last time I saw you, you made it quite clear that I was a soldier, and you my prince. I’m only following orders.”

  James can practically feel Peterson rolling his eyes.

  “I was upset. Are you going to hold it against me, or are you going to get up?”

  James obeys, straightening his shoulders and studying the boy before him. The perpetual glower on the prince’s face suggests that he had not anticipated running into anyone back here in the forlorn hallways of the unkempt western wing. He expects to be scolded—to be sent back to his nursery and his stringent tutors.

  “You’ve chosen a lonely part of the palace to spend your afternoon,” James observes.

  “As have you.”

  James adjusts his cloak, saying nothing to address the prince’s unasked question.

  “It’s a lovely day outside,” he comments, planting a polite smile upon his face. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Weather?” Peterson scoffs. “You’re really going to comment on the weather?”

  “What else would you have me comment on?”

  “Anything,” Peterson snaps. “Anything else.”

  “I’m only observing. You should be spending the afternoon out in the fresh air, not holed up in here.”

  “I would be in the labyrinth, but my father chose to wander it this afternoon. I, of course, am not invited.” Peterson’s tone is irate, as though Rowland selected his afternoon activity solely to spite his son. James knows that this could not be farther from the case. Rowland thinks as little as his youngest son as possible—a task that he seems to find surprisingly easy. He has never been fond of the boy, a fact which he made resolutely clear by his near decade long negligence.

  James thinks of the winding, marble labyrinth that tangles the remnants of Queen Victoria’s prized courtyard. In the years leading up to the death of the queen, Victoria had begged the king to allow her to hire a renowned architect to design and build an elaborate maze to showcase her garden. It was to be a gift to her children.

  It became a memorial.

  She died in childbirth before the maze could be completed—breathing her last, trembling breath as she studied her newborn son through eyes wet with tears. The labor had been long and painful. The entire city had waited with bated breath, whispering about the coming of the prince.

  No royal announcement came for the boy. No brass trumpets proclaimed the joyous news. Instead, the funeral bells tolled for days on end.

  There was a great scandal, then, in those early days before James took up the duties of his heavy golden cloak. Whispers tore through the streets of Chancey like the shrieking ghouls of the undead, crying aloud of that final, violent shouting match between the ill-fated engineer and the king. What
had been the architect’s name? Roberts, he thinks—or something to that affect.

  No one could quite agree on what was said in that marble court, shut up as it was like a tomb, but they knew it was bad. The architect was never seen again. The maze went unfinished. The child prince was forgotten. And the great bear king slowly began to unravel.

  Before James, the forgotten prince, a young man now on the cusp of adulthood, is quiet. Peterson peers into the visor of a skewed suit of armor with a practiced air of boredom.

  “So this is what you intend to do all day instead?” James asks. “Wander aimlessly through empty hallways and study the ghosts of your family crest?”

  Peterson runs a finger down the welded ridging of an iron chest plate with careful deliberation. “It’s better than listening to the constant, droll conversation of my tutors. A little silence every so often is enjoyable.”

  James mutters a quiet assent and prepares himself to go. He is capable of taking a hint—Peterson would prefer to be alone. He is met with a burning, green gaze. So unlike his father, he finds himself marveling, not for the first time.

  “Why is my father obsessed with finding the Cairans?” Peterson asks suddenly, his words abrupt. It is clear that he has been working up the nerve to ask.

  James opens his mouth to respond and falters. It dawns upon him that he is uncertain how to reply. The words that immediately trickle into the forefront of his mind are treacherous.

  His obsession is fueled by greed. He wants the Cairan fortune, if it turns out to be real. It is not his to take, but he will have it regardless.

  He clears his throat and pushes the thoughts away. “What do your tutors tell you?” he asks.

  “Spoken like a true Guardian,” Peterson says.

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ve gone and answered one question with another. It’s entirely unhelpful, and really quite annoying.”

  “I apologize.”

  Peterson shrugs, waving him off. “My tutors tell me the same as everyone else. The Cairans have been using old magic, which is forbidden in Chancey.”