A scoffing sound escaped before Jarlath could censor his response. “The House of Cawdor is quiet at present, and they wouldn’t dare try anything with me. Besides, wouldn’t you rather hang with your girl? Much better than guarding me.”
“There’s nothing to stop the Cawdor from hiring a sniper to take you out.”
“They could do that anyway,” Jarlath shot back. “I refuse to hide behind the castle walls for the rest of my life. Lynx tried to make a move on a Cawdor cutie and stepped on toes. Nothing like that will happen with me because I’m not my brother. Since Lynx’s public apology, things have become peaceful.”
Jarlath reached a hand behind his back to scratch at the base of his spine.
“I don’t care. Com me if you’re going out.”
After a long pause, Jarlath gave a curt nod. “Very well.”
Left alone, Jarlath strode to his sanitizer room, and stripped off his remaining clothes. A glance in his looking glass showed the bruising around his eye had faded dramatically and…was the green of his irises lighter? Because he’d shifted again? Delight had him whistling, then once again his thoughts drifted to Keira. She was from…no, he didn’t get the traitor vibe from her. She seemed upfront and honest, and grata, he wanted to see her again.
Damn, he would see her again.
Somehow.
He might not manage to socialize with her in public, but surely he could meet her privately? Surely they could be friends?
* * * * *
Keira stared into the pink-and-red flames of the fire she’d lit to ward off the wintery chill to the air. Faint curls of pink smoke drifted up the chimney. Outside an unexpected storm battered her home and set the forest trees rustling. Something about the savageness of the storm prickled her skin. She jumped to her feet, her jittery nerves urging her to action.
“Keira.”
Keira froze, her hand on the back of a chair as the voice from her nightmares whispered through her sitting room. She spun around, her gaze darting past gel-chairs and other furniture to search all four corners. There was no one present except her. This storm had set her on edge, fueling her imagination.
Razvan wasn’t here.
The tenseness seeped from her muscles and her shoulders slumped in relief. No one here.
“Keira.” The voice held amusement at her expense.
When she pivoted, her gaze went to the leaping flames of the fire, and she saw him. She froze, her attention riveted on Razvan’s gloating amber eyes and the blue flames licking across his high cheekbones, over his goatee beard.
Magic.
Somehow, he’d managed to send a message via his pet wizards.
She fought to control her shock and the shudders zapping her taut muscles. With her mother’s help, she’d escaped him once, but it seemed she hadn’t run far enough.
She schooled her face to impassive. “Razvan.”
“It’s been a long time, Keira.”
Not long enough as far as she was concerned.
“What do you want?”
“Invite me in, Keira.”
“No.” Grata! Did she look stupid? If she obeyed him, he’d step into her sitting room. “You are not welcome in my home. You are not welcome on this planet. You are not welcome in my life.”
His dark caramel-colored features tightened, his displeasure clear even with the flicker of the magical flames licking across his skin. “I will have you, Keira.”
“No! That’s sick. We share blood.”
“I never forget a slight, my lovely Keira. You will pay, and I will have you.”
In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of Hortese and gestured her to stay.
“Who’s there?” Razvan demanded.
“No one,” Keira said quickly. Too quickly.
“No matter. You won’t escape me a second time.”
Cristo, he meant that. Her heart ventricles thudded extra hard against the wall of her chest. Fear made her want to run to the kitchen for water to douse the flames and her half-brother’s mocking face.
Razvan Cronan was the oldest son of Xavier Cronan, the man who was head of the House of Cawdor and also her father. Not that she’d ever had much to do with either while growing up. When Xavier visited her mother, Keira had always been under the charge of her nurse and instructed to keep away.
She hadn’t even known she had half-brothers until she reached eighteen cycles and had attended a celebration ball in Cawdor Square. She gritted her teeth, thrust back in memories and none of them good.
“Our father is dead.”
“What?”
“I am in charge of the House now.” A mocking smile curled across his lips before his face blinked out and the flames reduced to their normal state of pink and purple. Outside, the storm ceased as rapidly as it had started.
It took long moments before she could force her legs to move. Her knees quivered so much they buckled, and she slumped onto the gel-couch.
“Who was that?” Hortese demanded.
“Razvan, my half-brother.”
Hortese hissed and her entire body vibrated. Her pink eyes glowed and her hair tendrils bristled. “Despoiler.”
He was all that and more and very, very dangerous.
“Yes. We must take care. Use every precaution. I will speak to Hilda and Melvyn. No matter what requests, what orders or pleas he uses we must refuse his requests to enter this house.”
“We’re lucky he didn’t appear while the prince was present,” Hortese said.
A chill sped over her skin, leaving a series of green bumps pebbled on her limbs. Fear left her lightheaded. The idea of Razvan learning of Jarlath’s visit and hurting the prince. If he’d witnessed their kiss…
“Can we purchase a spell to keep him away?” Hortese asked.
“Yes, we’ll need protection and repulsion spells. The strongest we can buy. I’m sure he’s spying on us.”
Something else to worry about. If Razvan was able to spy on her, she was in big trouble. Panic unfurled in her belly, spreading with each rapid beat of her heart ventricles. She could leave—no! He would not drive her from her home as he had done in the past.
Hortese touched Keira’s arm to gain her attention. “What do you want to do?”
“Now that the storm has passed, we could take the flymo and attend the night market. We might be able to find the spell or at least order the spell from one of the market stalls dealing with magical charms.”
“All right, and meantime, we should all wear a sprig of evil-eye herb on our person. Razvan’s magic is strong to travel between the planets,” Hortese said.
Keira sighed, Hortese’s unease a palpable thing, which ran parallel with her own fears. “It’s worth a try. Please com Melvyn and ask if he wants to accompany us. He might like to have a drink at the Cat’s Arms with his friends.”
“We should take Hilda too,” Hortese said. “She likes to visit her sister. We don’t know if the despot might try to return.”
Keira heaved a hard sigh. Razvan was a brute, and he’d never leave her alone.
She’d never be safe until he was dead.
* * * * *
Looking at the list made his head hurt and his heart ache. The women, or at least the names he recognized, were facsimiles of his mother. Jarlath stepped into the sanitizer and turned on a combination of water and steam. The warm mixture pummeled his body from three different directions and the irritating itchy sensation on his back faded.
Grata! He didn’t want any of the women, but if he didn’t make an attempt and meet or spend time courting them, his parents would become pushier. They might even decide to choose his bride for him, and that would be a disaster.
He switched the unit to dry mode and turned his body until the moisture on his skin evaporated.
Once dressed—this time in clothes suitable for a prince—he wandered out to his sitting room and stared at the crumpled list. The first name—Decima Nabil. A petite woman, he recalled. From a good family. Impeccable breeding. A little older than m
ost since she’d had two seasons already. Her dark green eyes hinted at a slumbering feline. He didn’t know for sure since this was a touchy subject and seldom discussed in public, but it was a decent indicator. If he chose her as his wife and they had children, there was a chance their offspring wouldn’t have the ability to shift. It mightn’t be fair, but he couldn’t marry her.
Ernestine Aniko—tall and slender but very shy. From memory, she had a stammer and she blushed each time anyone drew attention to her. No, he couldn’t marry a woman who tried to melt into the furniture.
“Grata,” he muttered and reached for his com. “Ellard, I’m going to the night market.”
“Wait. I’ll take Mareeka home and come with you. It’s safer.”
“No, stay with your girl. You deserve some down time. I’ll wear a disguise.”
It was an impulse but the decision felt right. Another departure from habit and one Ellard noted—if his silence was anything to go by.
“You weren’t happy with me this morn for going off without telling you. I’m correcting my error. I’ll have my weapon and my com unit with me. I can shift to feline. Combined with my disguise I’ll be safe enough. No one expects to see Prince Jarlath ambling around the market.”
“No, I’ll take Mareeka—”
“Stop treating me like an immature cub. Besides, I don’t want to take the blame for mucking up your love life. I’m grown and responsible.”
“Not recently,” Ellard retorted.
“It’s the square outside the castle. The castle guards are always alert. I’m going out and you’re remaining in and getting lucky. Maybe you can talk your Mareeka into staying the night.”
“Jarlath,” Ellard muttered in an undertone.
Jarlath grinned at the unspoken warning. “Give Mareeka a kiss for me.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Jarlath was still laughing as he clicked off and slapped the com on his bed. He opened his wardrobe and scowled at the rows of suits. Time to look like his brother again.
Five mins later, Jarlath strode from his suite of rooms, paused at the main staircase and backtracked to exit the castle via a lesser used doorway at the rear. He nodded to the guard and stalked outside.
Dusk had settled over the land and colored lights illuminated the castle square. Tables sat in haphazard rows and vendors bustled around, unpacking their wares ready for display. The aroma of cooking meat filled the air and the taverna on the corner was doing a brisk trade. He halted at the top of the steps leading to lower levels. The next level down, flymo pilots jostled for spaces to land and disgorge passengers. A spot opened up and a flymo pilot pounced on the opportunity. He zipped his compact gray craft into the space, a door flipped open and two adults and two children exited. The children ran past him, their bright green eyes alive with excitement. Their parents followed at a slower pace.
Jarlath pulled his hat lower on his face and ambled into the thick of the market, past vendors. On scanning the vicinity, he saw a few people of his acquaintance. Not one cried out in recognition. People saw what they expected to see.
A band set up and started playing instruments of the like he hadn’t seen before. The band members’ striped skin showed them as outsiders, but their music soon had his foot tapping. A huge group gathered and some of the youngsters started dancing, their arms and bodies jerking and waving to the melody.
Jarlath listened for a time before skirting the crowd. A young man, red-skinned and scrawny, his hair styled in dreads, bumped against him and attempted to pick his pocket. Jarlath might be a prince, but Ellard’s father, in his position of Head of Security, had taught him well. Jarlath seized the young man’s wrist and tightened his grip to the point of pain.
“Ow,” the youth howled. “I didn’t do nothink.”
“You were trying to pick my pocket.”
“No. No, wouldna do that.”
Jarlath made a scoffing sound and maintained his grip on the youth. “Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood. I have shopping to do and require someone to carry my purchases. If you’re willing, I’ll pay you two gold coins. I’ll give you one now and one when you help me carry my purchases home.”
“How far you live?” the youth demanded, his black gaze glinting with sharpness. Jarlath could practically see his brain ticking over, considering the angles and possibilities.
“I live five mins from here.”
“You be a toff.” The strident tone wasn’t complimentary. “What happened to your eye?”
Jarlath found himself grinning, the expression feeling more natural since he’d formed his lips that way many times during the day. “I fell off my beest. You should have seen it before. Do you want the job or not?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Cristop.”
“You may call me Lath. I find myself hungry,” Jarlath said. “Come, we will eat before we start our tasks.” He released Cristop, half expecting the youth to flee.
“You promise coin now.”
“Indeed.” Suppressing a burst of humor, Jarlath pulled a single coin from his pocket and tossed it to Cristop. He snatched it cleanly, surveyed it with close attention then shoved it into the depths of a pocket.
The youth gestured to the right. “The best food stall is this way.”
“Perfect,” Jarlath said.
The scent of roasting fowls grew stronger.
“I will wait here,” Cristop said.
“No, you will eat with me. I don’t wish to eat alone.” He located a table and sprawled in a seat.
Cristop perched on the other empty seat, prepared for flight.
“Ah there is a server.” Jarlath signaled for service and pretended to study the menu while he waited.
In reality, Cristop drew his attention—the hungry expression on the youth’s face.
Lynx had attempted to persuade his father to set up a program to help homeless youngsters, but the king had listened to his council and built a stadium in which to host cage fighting and arena sports. While it was true, the fights brought money to Viros, the currency flow lined the pockets of the rich instead of filtering down to aid those who needed help.
“You!” the chubby server snarled, his shout jerking Jarlath from his musing. “Get out before I summon the guard.”
Cristop jumped to his feet and edged back to dodge the man’s fist.
“Enough,” Jarlath snapped. “The boy is in my hire. We intend to order a meal before we go on our way.”
“Payment first.” The server planted beefy hands on his hips, his sneer displaying a golden tooth. “Show me your currency.”
Jarlath growled under his breath, channeling a grouchy Ellard. The server broke first, dipping his gaze. “We will have two roasted fowls.” Jarlath tapped his finger on the menu. “No, two of this set menu with the fowls, the savory and the sweet to finish. Two barley drinks.”
“That will be twenty-five dinars,” the server snapped.
Jarlath pulled change from his pocket—two gold coins plus several bronze ones and flung them into the server’s outstretched hand. “Bring my change. Cristop, sit.”
The man tugged his short, pointy beard and sniffed disdainfully but trotted off to deliver their order to the kitchen.
Jarlath focused on Cristop. “Are they all like this?”
The youth’s lips quirked. “Might have cause.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes I be hungry.”
“The soup kitchens?”
“They charge.”
They were meant to be free. Jarlath made a mental note to ask Ellard. No, rather than ask his friend he’d go in disguise and investigate himself. Perhaps it was possible to do good instead of blindly following the path his parents had set him.
The server returned with their order and thumped the serving platters on their table. He thrust Jarlath’s change at him, paused while waiting for a tip. Jarlath ignored him and the man stomped off to serve another table of diners.
/> “Is all this for me?” Cristop asked, his tone one of disbelief.
“Yes, eat up now. You’ll need your strength to carry my packages.”
Jarlath had no need to shop since he owned the latest gadgets and replicators, but shop he would to appease this young man’s pride. He picked up a roasted fowl leg and bit into the crispy skin. The meat tasted even more delicious than it smelled.
“Good choice,” Jarlath said and crammed more meat into his mouth. He studied the crowd and did a double take when he recognized Keira and her maid. He blinked, sure he’d imagined Keira’s pretty face, but no—it was her. A wide smile took possession of his mouth, so big his lips protested. His pulse jumped, a sensation he recognized as nerves taking grip.
Damn, he wanted her. One kiss hadn’t been nearly enough.
Chapter Five
“Wait here,” he said to Cristop. “I see someone I know.” Jarlath jumped to his feet and hoofed it to catch her. “Keira.”
Both Keira and her maid froze, and when Keira whirled fear shone in her green-flecked eyes.
“Keira, it’s me,” Jarlath said, wanting to allay her distress even as he wondered the cause of this reaction in both women.
“Jarlath, what are you doing here?” Keira whispered.
“I’m having dinner and shopping,” Jarlath said. “Would you and Hortese like to join me and my companion? I ordered a lot of food and fear I’ll never manage to eat half of it.”
“No,” Keira said.
“We’d like that,” Hortese said and pinched her mistress on the arm when it seemed she would argue.
“This way,” Jarlath said and guided the women to his table. “Cristop, this is Keira and Hortese. They are joining us for dinner. Can you manage to secure two more chairs?”
“Really that’s not necess—” Keira began then yelped when Hortese pinched her again. “Will you stop that?”
“Take these seats,” Jarlath said. “Ah, my helper is back already. Excellent.” If there was one thing Jarlath was good at it was social chitchat. Since birth, his parents and tutors had drilled him in the art of putting people at ease. Normally the duty irritated him and the giggly females gave him headaches. In this case, using his skill was a pleasure, but he could tell something was bothering Keira.
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