by Shea Berkley
There was a lot of screaming and crying and bad feelings directed at me. I get she has to blame someone for her loss. First her husband and then her son. Grandma said the woman didn’t even bat an eye when Carl died. But Jason…his loss hurt her deep, even though he’d snapped in the end. She chose to remember the boy who made her laugh when she wanted to cry, and live when she wanted to die. Her words, not mine.
We held a town meeting and I tried to explain what was happening. Reece and Wyatt stood by me and confirmed everything I said. Leo introduced Lucinda. First as a woman and then as a cat. That part was a bit comical, seeing their jaws drop when she went all four-legged white and hissy. The pux fascinated them. Stories of the millispits terrified them. Faldon’s presence in Bodog’s staff had many of them making the sign of the cross. I wisely kept Bodog away. In the end, we got a team together, one that will patrol the wall and report any unusual happenings to Grandpa.
Kera is in Teag, organizing her own meetings and helping those who’ve been displaced by the recent upheaval. Kera and I have decided to split our time between the two realms, helping out where we can. Seeing us actively trying to improve their lives takes the edge off everyone’s nervousness when we’re around. In Teag, Baun supports me as his son and heir, and in the human realm Grandpa has my back. Not everyone is on my team, but for now, no one is trying to sideline me permanently.
When things settle down, I promised Kera we’d live our own life, away from the craziness of the conjoined realms. To be with Kera and lead a normal life is all I’ve ever wanted. I think the idea is starting to grow on her.
I hear Grandma cleaning up dinner, hear her sing in soft bluesy tones, and my conscious thoughts slowly fade to black. I haven’t dreamed in so long, I forgot how vibrant they can be. I find myself outside, standing on the dirt road behind the farmhouse. I can smell the rain on the trees, and feel a slight mist in the air. The Northwest’s muted light doesn’t cut deeply into the forest behind me, causing the shadows to appear heavy. I hear a cracking sound and see the treetops shake. That feeling I got when I saw the tri-top that kidnapped Kera settles in my gut.
I take a step back. Then another step and another as whatever is coming through the woods gets closer. A flock of pux bursts from the woods. They buzz past me, for once uninterested in mischief, only escape. The crack of wood being bent too far grows. The sound of leaves shaking from their limbs silences all other sounds.
Quiet.
It’s scarier than all the noise preceding it. The sound of nothing disorients me for a second, and then from out of the shadows steps Navar. He holds two leads attached to a pair of devil hounds that strain against their restraints.
I’m frozen to the spot. He’s taken on solid form. Like the man he was. He stops, still lingering within the trees, and tucks his free hand in his pants pocket. It’s such an ordinary thing to do. A human, alive thing to do.
“Interesting,” he says as he glances around the landscape and my grandparents’ backyard. “I’ve never been to the human realm before. It’s very…ordinary.”
“Go back to Teag.” It’s a command that is low and threatening. Even so, I’m not sure I can make him obey.
“I would, really, but you see, I quite like exploration. Discovering new lands. I have plans. Big plans.”
The devil hounds snip and yip at oen another, all four heads a mass of viciousness. Figures Navar would adopt a few. Seeing them makes me wonder if he’s alone. “Where’s your little pet, Granel?”
“Kenneled. For now.”
I’m pretty sure that means he’s still in the Unknown. That should make me relax, but it doesn’t. “What do you want here?”
“Oh, it’s not just me. I have friends who have the same interests.”
I don’t really want to know, but he’s come such a long way to scare the shit out of me, I feel the need to accommodate him. “And those would be?”
“Death.”
One moment he’s smiling his pretty-boy smile, and the next he’s an inky slash charging straight for me. Behind him, the darkness I took for shadows expands and dozens of dark souls swoop down. They burn the farm, the livestock, the very air I’m breathing. They sweep over everything, charring the earth, sucking all the life out of it until I’m standing on a lone patch of green.
Navar’s dark face appears in an inky streak and he hisses, “Something is missing.” His streak darts high into the sky, hovers for a moment, then peers down at me. “It’s you.”
His mouth opens wide as he dives straight for me, and I’m swallowed into a nightmarish abyss.
My eyes pop open. Sweat clings to my skin. I cover my face and rub the dream from my eyes as I let a ragged, tension-filled sigh escape.
“Nightmares?”
That raspy, wooden voice sounds familiar. I drop my hands, prop myself up on my shoulders, and see a small body squatting behind a stick. Bodog slowly rises and brings Faldon closer.
I don’t question why they’re here. Bodog has set himself up as my guardian, and Faldon is dependent on the little man to take him where he wants to go, which coincidentally is usually somewhere close to me.
I have no doubt they can hear the thudding of my heart. I would explain my dream, but somehow, I think he already knows. “I thought my fight with Navar was over.”
Eyes blink under his heavy bark eyebrows. His lips crack open. “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s just begun.”
Acknowledgments
I had the greatest time writing this part of Dylan’s and Kera’s story. There are quite a few people who I need to thank for getting me through the process of putting this book into a readable story. So hang on. The list isn’t short.
My family. They put up with my craziness and understand when I have to sequester myself from them for long periods of time in order to write. They are amazing and I love them dearly.
My editors. Stacy Cantor Abrams and Kaleen Harding. Yes, that is not a misprint. I require two. Apparently I’m so amazing it takes more than one to deal with me (sigh). But they are amazing and supportive and everything I’ve ever wanted in editors. Thank you, ladies, for helping me make The Fallen Prince into a better story.
My critique group, Tammy Bauman, Louise Bergin, and Robin Perini. They are the toughest, pickiest readers I’ve ever met, and I’m so thankful they are. They make me look good for my editors. Not an easy job, because I bite back.
My boys, in alphabetical order so as to hide which ones are my favorite (grin), Leroy Bazan, Mike Connally, Chris Garcia, Ryan Gomez, Reece Killebrew, Ji Kim, Julio Martinez, Bubba McDaniel, and Mark Morgenstern. These are the talented kickboxers, boxers, and MMA fighters who keep me from shriveling up into a ball of mush. I allow them to kick my butt…most of the time. Again, I’ve been known to bite back.
Martin Manrique. Thanks for being so patient, lending me books (which I still need to give back to you), and demonstrating certain wrestling moves. One of these days I’ll figure out exactly what you’re saying without going, “Could you show me what you mean one more time?”
Logan Sims. Ditto with what I said about Martin except you never lent me any books (grin). Thank you for putting up with me and my endless questions about the Army as well as kickboxing and self-defense. I know I became a huge pain and many times you wished I’d just go away. Wishing is too subtle, dude. You’re going to have to use your words.
As a sub-note: Any errors in regard to the military and MMA aspects of this story are solely my fault. It has been pointed out to me more than once by a certain person (Logan) that I’m not the best listener, I talk too much, and I have no patience (frown). I’m not sure what he’s trying to say, but I felt the need to include that information here.
And finally, I’d like to thank my publisher, the awesome Liz Pelletier, for being so supportive and giving Dylan and Kera a place to tell their story (yes, I know they aren’t real, but it’s fun to pretend, okay?), and my agent, Laurie McLean, who gives me awesome advice and takes care of my fragile ego
by telling me to suck it up and get creative. Love ya, too.
Don’t miss My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century
by Rachel Harris
Available online and in stores now!
On the precipice of her sixteenth birthday, the last thing lone wolf Cat Crawford wants is an extravagant gala thrown by her bubbly stepmother and well-meaning father. So even though Cat knows the family’s trip to Florence, Italy, is a peace offering, she embraces the magical city and all it offers. But when her curiosity leads her to an unusual gypsy tent, she exits . . . right into Renaissance Firenze.
Thrust into the sixteenth century armed with only a backpack full of contraband future items, Cat joins up with her ancestors, the sweet Alessandra and protective Cipriano, and soon falls for the gorgeous aspiring artist Lorenzo. But when the much-older Niccolo starts sniffing around, Cat realizes that an unwanted birthday party is nothing compared to an unwanted suitor full of creeptastic amore. Can she find her way back to modern times before her Italian adventure turns into an Italian forever?
Keep reading for a teaser chapter…
ChapterOne
I’m trapped.
I concentrate on the monitor in front of me and scan through the in-flight entertainment, attempting to tune out Jenna. Like that’s even possible. When my dad’s bubbly fiancée gets this excited, I swear sometimes only dogs can hear her.
We’ve been on this plane for over six hours. I woke up less than an hour ago, cramped, cranky, and carb-deprived, and yet the woman insists on being perky. It’s as if she were born with caffeine in her veins.
“Cat, do you know what this means?!?”
I quirk an eyebrow at Dad, but judging by his all-consuming interest in the newspaper, his stance of neutrality is in full effect. To tell you the truth, it’s not his impartiality that hurts. It’s knowing that by staying out of it, what he’s really doing is taking her side.
And moving further away from mine.
I settle for a crappy rerun and decide to throw the evil step-witch-in-training a bone. I lean forward and look across the aisle, catching a glimpse of her flying fingers on her BlackBerry—thank goodness they have in-flight Wi-Fi, or she might’ve actually wanted to bond. “No, tell me, Jenna. What does it mean?”
“It means your party is practically a shoo-in for the show!”
My party. Right. As if anything about this is for me. If Jenna really cared about me, you’d think she’d have clued in to the fact that anything involving crowds, paparazzi, and scrutiny isn’t exactly my thing. She refuses to grasp that while I might be a daughter of Hollywood, it doesn’t mean I’m a product of it. If anything, this party is for her.
Jenna’s too excited by her coup to notice my lack of reaction. She leans over Dad and gushes, “The buzz on this is absolutely unreal. Your party is going to be the biggest, flashiest event I’ve ever put together!”
Yay, me.
I turn back to the television and pick up my headphones.
Unfortunately, that does nothing to deter her. “You can even sketch caricatures of the guests as they come in the door if you want.” She flashes a brilliant smile, like she’s doing me a huge favor. “Adds a fun, kitschy element to the whole thing, don’t ya think?”
No, I don’t think. I’m an artist, not a street performer.
She kisses Dad on the cheek, then rubs her thumb over the coral lipstick stain, and I watch him turn to mush. He’s so whipped. “Order me a Diet Coke if the cart thingy comes by, ’kay?” Jenna says. “I’m off to brave the bathroom line!”
I shake my head as she haltingly maneuvers down the aisle and stumbles into a woman’s lap. Jenna turns on her hundred-watt grin, tosses her poufy blond hair, and apologizes profusely. Then she plops herself on the woman’s armrest, abandoning all thought of bathroom trips in lieu of getting better acquainted with her new bestie.
Whatever. At least her ADD works for me, I think as I slide into her vacated seat, lay my head against Dad’s shoulder, and inhale the familiar scent of his spicy aftershave and Armani cologne. He wraps an arm around me, and I snuggle closer. It’s quiet moments like this when I can imagine things are back to normal. Before he fell in love with someone completely wrong for him.
Dad kisses the top of my head. “Thank you.”
I lift my head slightly, not willing to move out of his embrace just yet, and shoot him a puzzled look. “For?”
“For letting Jenna throw you a Sweet Sixteen. You may not believe it, but she has the best of intentions.”
Sure she does. I glance forward to see her slap the armrest and let out a high-pitched squeal. The only intention Jenna has is having her event-planning business showcased on MTV. Date someone famous, get his daughter on television, and generate mad buzz for your business—not bad for nine months of work.
I glance back at Dad. Why can’t he see how fake she is? It’s like ever since she came into the picture, he’s had blinders on, only seeing this giggly blond happy person—who is nothing like me.
“Jenna had one when she turned sixteen,” he continues. “She said it was, and I quote, ‘the highlight of her adolescent experience.’”
He rolls his eyes and grins, and the pressure in my chest lessens. He hasn’t changed. We’re still us, even with her around. Then his forehead wrinkles and he shifts uncomfortably, and that guilty look creeps back into his eyes.
Crap. Here it comes.
“Peanut, I know you’re always trying to take care of me, but I’m the grown-up. And it’s my job to look out for you. I want you to have at least one normal childhood experience.”
I snort. “Normal. Right.” With a teasing grin, I lean back a little and lift my eyebrows in disbelief. “Dad, I hate to break it to you, but we live in Beverly Hills. And while having your birthday party and private life broadcast around the world for entertainment purposes may be an unfortunate reality for media-obsessed brats, I don’t think anyone would call that behavior normal.”
Dad chuckles, and I gift him with a confident smirk. “Besides, when have we ever done anything like the rest of Hollywood?”
And the defense rests, I think, sitting back with a nod. Dad can’t argue with that logic. If it weren’t for our zip code and my fancy, overpriced education, you’d never know we had money. Although he’s a well-known film director and has a handful of Golden Globes, Dad has this thing about “normalcy.” I’ve never missed a day of school in my life, and he rarely takes on projects during the summer. That’s time for family and vacations, but none of that “private jet to remote locations” stuff for the Crawfords. Nope, we go to good old Disney World and the beach, with the occasional stop at a film set in Canada to spice things up. We don’t even have a maid or a cook.
Dad squeezes me tighter. “You’re right, we’re abnormal. But I still think it’s a good idea.” My head lolls against my seat, and he smiles. “It’s a party; it’ll be fun. Plus, I’m already doing a major suck-up job bringing you to Italy. Doesn’t that earn me any negotiating cred?”
I have to admit, if everyone has a price, a trip to Florence would be mine. I’ve been obsessed with my Italian heritage—the only thing I accept from Mommy Dearest—and the Renaissance ever since I saw Bernard van Orley’s Madonna and Child with Apples and Pears painting in fourth grade. Since then, I’ve inhaled every art book and novel on the time period or on Italy that I can find.
As bribes go, the trip is a good one.
Still, there’s no way I can let Dad off the hook that easily. What he’s asking of me is huge. Maybe things would be different if I were just a normal girl from the Mississippi countryside or the Cape Cod beachfront, or if people didn’t take one look at me and assume they knew my whole life story. If I could just be me, Cat Crawford, without any expectations or preconceived notions, then maybe I’d be bonding with Jenna over napkin samples and color swatches right now. But that’s not reality. So I shrug, affecting the confident, blasé image I’ve perfected for school and the media, and move back to my own seat.
By the time this trip is over, I’ll be a freaking Victor Hugo expert.
I pull out the book and zip my bag before leaning down to slide it back under the seat. As I sit up, I spot a familiar woman’s face out of the corner of my eye and freeze. My hands slick with sweat. My heart pounds, and the roar of the jet engine beneath me intensifies.
It’s just a picture, Cat, I tell myself. But it doesn’t help.
Splashed across my seatmate’s tabloid is a beautiful, smiling face and yet another jilted lover with the headline, Caterina Angeli Does It Again.
“Another one bites the dust.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The owner of the tabloid takes a break from her engrossed reading to sneer at me, but then a hint of recognition dawns on her face. She quickly turns to compare the picture of my mother on her cover to the downgraded, non-airbrushed, soon-to-be-sixteen-year-old version next to her.
I want to sink into my seat and look away, pretend I have no clue why she’s staring, but I can’t. So I force myself to meet her gaze head-on with a confident smile. Casually, I turn back to my book, open it to the dog-eared page, and pretend to read. I feel the woman’s eyes on me—watching, waiting for me to do something scandalous—and fight the urge to fluff my coffee-colored hair or gnaw off a nail.
Soon enough she’ll stop looking at me, expecting to see my mother. She’ll grow bored, go back to her gossipmonger ways, and forget all about me.
