SPURNED: Elkridge Series, Book 2, A novella

by Lyz Kelley

  Seven riders now in the breakaway group. As we soared past the podium, the crowd cheered and clapped, giving me an extra boost of energy. Piran’s voice carried above the others, his words of encouragement grabbing my soul as if he’d reached his hands directly inside me. But I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t acknowledge what his presence did to me.

  More importantly, if I didn’t pay attention to the riders around me, I could end up face first in the gravel on the side of the road.

  During the next lap, our breakaway group lost ground, and the chasing field caught us. On the backside of the course, new riders took the lead. The crowds had nearly doubled with spectators running alongside us on the road. My hands damp with sweat, I flexed my cramping fingers, constantly scouting for possible escape paths.

  Near the front of the now bunched-up field, the handlebars of two riders became entangled. I immediately slowed, praying they’d untangle without crashing. Come on …

  Shit!

  Bikes flew across the road, and I squeezed hard on my brakes. I slid one way then the other, my heart thumping so hard I thought it would explode right out of my chest. Unable to swerve out of the way, my front wheel crunched right over a downed bike.

  I cringed. That could have been a rider’s leg.

  Other riders jumped on the opportunity to take the lead. With barely time to savor the relief I hadn’t crashed, I struggled to find a way out of the mess. Finally, I maneuvered into the clear, but by the time I completed the lap, I was stuck in mid-field.

  Near the start-finish line, Piran’s mother paced the roadside in her long, iridescent gown, wringing her hands. As we passed the podium, she grabbed Piran and pointed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them both jumping up and down, and I couldn’t help but grin.

  Suddenly, we all slowed. The course, narrowed by spectators lining the roadsides, now only allowed a few riders passage through at a time. I’d never seen crowds like this at an American women’s race. Hell, I’d never seen crowds like this at a men’s race in the states.

  An ambulance on the backside of the course further hindered our pace as volunteers tended to the injured from the crash on the last lap. When workers hoisted a rescue basket over the guardrail, a chill ran through me.

  Shit just got real, and all I could do was send a silent prayer the injured rider would be okay.

  A media helicopter whirred overhead, sending a gust of wind across the course. Squinting from the dirt swirling in the air, I zigzagged my bike to dodge debris churning across the road.

  My rear tire erupted with a loud pop.

  Jesus! Really? I skidded to a stop, pulled over, and quickly dismounted. After unclipping my rear wheel, I thrust it over my head as a distress signal.

  “I need a new wheel,” I yelled, unsure if anyone could hear me over the helicopter drone. Frantically, I searched for the team van. Damn. Blocked by the crowds and halted a good fifty meters back.

  “Please make room,” I shouted, waving my wheel. “My team van needs to get through.”

  Either the onlookers didn’t understand my crazy gesturing or they didn’t care.

  The field of riders passed me by on their way to the final lap. My chest felt hollow. A top finish would be impossible now. Gripping my bike handlebars, I wiped my mouth on my upper arm, sweat mingling with the dirt coating my face. I tasted grit in my teeth. And desperation.

  “Please, does anybody have a rear wheel?” I asked nearby spectators. They looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had. Tossing my busted wheel aside, I let loose a string of swear words that would have made Nick proud and my mom faint.

  My first pro race—a total failure.

  Again I peered over the heads of the spectators who were blocking the road. The team van was even further behind now. With a dejected groan, I sank back against the guardrail.

  Until a familiar face bobbed above the other spectators. Spare wheel in hand, Piran butted his way through the crowds. I jumped up, screaming at the top of my lungs, and grabbed the nearest spectator and hugged him. The guy didn’t seem to mind.

  The crowd parted, and Piran ran the rest of the way to me. I planted a quick thank-you kiss on his lips. His warm smile nearly caused me to melt right there. As much as I wished for more, the race clock was ticking. I slipped the new wheel into the quick release hub of my bike, hopped on my saddle, and clipped my shoes into the pedals.

  Only problem was now I had an uphill start with no momentum.

  But Piran palmed my lower back and hip, and my bike jutted forward. Catching on, I pedaled to build up speed as he ran beside me, holding the back of my saddle.

  “Go!” he yelled, giving me one final push.

  And I did. I gave it everything I had, my legs churning like pistons to recover lost ground. I dug deep inside myself to find strength and focus. And meter by meter, I climbed that hill. When I crested the peak, the tail end of the field of riders was just disappearing around a curve. I leaned down, flattened my back to reduce wind resistance, and began my descent.

  Except something happened that had never happened before. Fear penetrated the fringes of my concentration. Fear of crashing. My knees stiffened. Cold sweat dampened my jersey. I couldn’t stop envisioning that rescue basket being lowered over the guardrail.

  My life was not worth risking just for a race, not even my first pro race.

  I eased back to slow my speed. Several minutes passed before I caught sight once more of the field. With the riders strung out over half the course, I didn’t have a prayer of placing in the top ten.

  Yet this wasn’t the end of my life. I didn’t get dropped and I didn’t get lapped. Finishing mid-field in my first professional race felt pretty damn good.

  Riding past the podium, I waved to Piran and his mom.

  Slowing down gradually to avoid cramping, I waited until I had feeling in my legs again before I turned around and pedaled back to the podium, where the King of Silesia stood next to Piran’s father. Phone glued to her ear, Princess Chanel walked a short distance on the roadside behind Piran and his mother.

  I veered onto the gravel and the moment I dismounted, Piran was beside me. He threw his arms around my shoulders, and I pressed my face into his chest, not daring to believe he was holding me again and not caring I was covered in grime and sweat.

  His mother cleared her throat. “Perhaps not in front of your betrothed, dear?”

  Piran stiffened against me. “Enough of this charade, Mother. I will not marry Chanel von Casimir.”

  “Of course you will,” his mother murmured, casting a glance over her shoulder.

  “No, I am done.” Piran raised his hands.

  “Done?” his mother repeated. Her forehead creased.

  “I renounce the crown,” he said, anger deepening his voice. “I am no longer Prince Piran of Sava. I am now simply Piran Sava, artist and student. Find another heir to the throne. Tell Father he can find another puppet to advance his cause.”

  “Piran,” his mother warned. She clutched her gown, her face ashen.

  “No. I love Bailey. And loving her means more to me than appeasing the royalists and their archaic traditions.”

  “Those royalists ensure the life to which you are accustomed.”

  “Mother,” Piran snapped. “Do you even listen to what you say?”

  She jerked back, blinking. “I … I do not understand—”

  “No, you do not. And that is the problem.” He crossed his arms. “I am not interested in swimming in riches. I am not interested in lording over others. How can this be news to you?”

  She took a deep breath, and the color finally returned to her face. Smoothing her glittering dress, she arched an eyebrow at him. “You have always been set in your ways, my son.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps I take after my parents.”

  She gave a soft but bitter laugh. “Ah, yes.”

  Saying nothing further, mother and son both turned to gaze at the race winners now standing on th
e podium.

  I tried not to fidget and draw attention to myself, or worse, think about my full bladder.

  Princess Chanel posed for a photographer, and Piran’s mother heaved an irritated sigh. “I cannot deny your misery, my son.” She tapped a slender finger against her lips. A deep crease formed between her eyebrows. “I suppose it is time I discuss this arrangement with your father.”

  The corner of Piran’s mouth twitched. “Allow me, Mother.”

  “Oh no,” she replied, her irises flashing dark blue. “Last time you and your father argued, I swore the Sava River would engulf all of Silesia!” She patted his arm. “Go on. Be with the girl you love. Let me handle the consequences.”

  It was Piran’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “Where do you think your courage comes from?” she replied with a wry smile that reminded me so much of his. She said something in Fae, and Piran laughed.

  Then she turned and studied me with a shrewd gaze.

  “I look better clean,” I offered, biting my lip nervously.

  Her burst of laughter was like a tinkling charm. “What is this magic you possess to capture my son’s heart with the skill of a siren?”

  My eyes widened. “I don’t possess any magic, ma’am, er, Mrs. Sava, your highness.”

  Oh God. Facepalm.

  Laughing, Piran wrapped an arm around me.

  Chanel stumbled across the grass in her high heels. “Can we leave now?” she whined, apparently not even noticing me. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. A horrified look suddenly crossed her face, and she fanned a hand in front of her nose. “It stinks around here. Don’t these humans bathe? Get me a martini.”

  “Somebody please muzzle that girl,” Piran’s mother muttered under her breath.

  His father strode toward us. I licked my dry lips and readied a curtsy, but the King waved me off with a dismissive flick of his hand. His hardened gaze slid from me to his wife, and then to Piran.

  A burst of Fae language swirled between the three.

  Finally, Piran’s father stepped back and exhaled heavily. He bowed slightly to Chanel. “Your highness? There appears to be a change of plans.”

  Chapter 24

  My mouth dropped open. Piran was free from Chanel’s clutches?

  I barely had time to register glee when Piran suddenly vanished. It took me a moment to realize Chanel was gone as well.

  A white card fluttered down from the sky, plucked out of the air by Piran’s mother. She read the card and let out a gasp, her hand shaking.

  “No, please,” she whispered. Tears dampened her lashes.

  Piran’s father tore the card from her grasp and threw it to the ground. He stared in the direction of where the King and Queen of Silesia had formerly stood and clenched his fists. “We should never have trusted them.”

  I took a step back, my throat tightening. “Where … where is Piran?”

  His mother collapsed to her knees. “She took him! That Silesian witch took my son!”

  “Took him where?” I asked, my voice wavering.

  His mother lifted her gaze to mine. Her eyes were black. “The Silesian Fae realm.”

  “I don’t understand. Can’t you just storm in and—”

  “No,” his father interrupted, scowling. “We cannot enter their kingdom uninvited. Their magic is as strong as ours.”

  “Then what can we do?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice, but I felt helpless. Piran’s own parents couldn’t save him? I trembled, unable to process what this meant.

  His mother retrieved the mysterious white card and handed it to me. “You are our only hope, Bailey, although I cannot in good conscience ask you to do this for us.”

  I flipped the card over in my hand. The strange letters morphed into English.

  Piran is mine! Now and forever. If you wish to see him again, his human ape is more than welcome to come for him.

  “Of course,” I said without hesitation. I’d kick that bitch’s ass from one end of the Fae realm to the other. “Just tell me where to go.”

  Piran’s mother sobbed. The King wrapped an arm around her, his face taut with worry.

  Okay, not exactly a good sign. “Um…is there something you’re not telling me?”

  The Queen glanced at her husband, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth. Finally, he faced me. “Unfortunately, humans become quite ill in the Fae realm.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. Oh shit. No wonder the Fae realm was off-limits. “And if I don’t go? What will happen to Piran?”

  His mother shook her head, tears in her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. “We have no idea. The Silesian kingdom is rather … isolationist.”

  “Hence the marriage treaty,” the King said.

  “Piran is not a treaty,” I snapped, unable to hold back my indignation.

  “Well, no,” his father replied, eyes widening. “Certainly not. Nevertheless …” The man huffed, crossing his arms. “I need not explain my decisions to you.”

  “Maribor,” his wife chided in her soft lilt. “This was our mistake. A mistake we are now asking young Bailey Meyers to redress.”

  The King bowed his head. “Forgive me, Miss Meyers. I can see how much you care for my son. And for that, I am most grateful.”

  “We can send you into the Fae realm,” his mother said, “but we cannot accompany you into the Silesian kingdom. Once Piran is safe, we will seek guidance from the Fae High Council regarding Chanel von Casimir.”

  She grasped my hands in hers, and her gaze met mine. Pleading. The anguish palpable.

  “Yes,” I replied before I lost my courage. “I will rescue Piran.”

  “Come.” She gripped my hands more tightly. “You should hurry.”

  “What do I—”

  Whoa! Slammed into the ground as if tackled by a linebacker, I wheezed and gasped for air, the wind knocked from my lungs.

  What the hell? Talk about tuck and roll.

  Birds twittered. I thought nothing of it until the twitters turned into words. “Can she fly?”

  I opened my eyes. Not birds. Two sprites the size of dolls. Never seen them that small. One jumped on my stomach and peered at me, a confused expression on her heart-shaped face.

  “No, I can’t fly,” I said with a groan, forcing myself to sit up. The sprite clung to my jersey.

  Rolling hills of tall grasses and yellow flowers as far as the eye could see. Not a house in sight, much less bike racers. Mountains loomed in the distance and fluffy white clouds dotted the pristine blue sky.

  I absently scratched an itch on my thigh.

  “I am Pit,” the sprite on my jersey said, toying with my zipper. The other sprite scrambled up my leg, her webbed hands and feet oddly sticky. “My sister Pat.”

  “Hello. My name is Bailey. I’m here to find Prince Piran of Sava. He was taken by Princess Chanel.”

  The sprites hissed.

  “Not a fan of her either, huh? Any idea where I can find her?”

  Pit perched on my shoulder. “The von Casimir castle is between the Shire and Bryn.”

  “Okay, but I have no idea where that is.” I scratched my thigh again and glanced down to notice a whopper of a bug bite. Sheesh. Shouldn’t the Fae realm be free of such nasties?

  Pat crawled onto my other shoulder, an energy bar from my jersey pocket in her hands. “Follow the stream.”

  I glanced around. “What stream?”

  The sprites giggled.

  “That stream,” Pat said, tapping my shoulder. “You silly ninny.”

  On my right, clear water burbled over smooth rocks along a meandering bank. I rubbed my forehead. That stream was seriously not there before. Damn sprites and their games. I scratched another bug bite on the back of my knee. No, not one, but three. Who would have thought I needed bug spray in the Fae realm?

  “Join me?” I asked the sprites. For some reason, traveling alone seemed like asking for trouble. And while sprites were mischievous pranksters, they weren’t known fo
r being dangerous.

  Pit rocked back and forth. “The princess is mean.”

  “And her castle is gloomy,” Pat squeaked. “No joy or lightness.”

  Why wasn’t I surprised? I shrugged off the stab of disappointment, feeling guilty for even asking them. They were just little sprites after all.

  “But you cannot go alone,” Pit said.

  “No?”

  “We will help you rescue your prince.”

  Pat nodded at her sister. “We are not afraid.”

  Well, that made two of us then.

  “Okay, hold on tight,” I said to the sprites before taking off in a run. No time to waste. I didn’t want to think about what horrible things Chanel might be doing to Piran.

  Before long, a tall spire appeared in the distance. I stopped to catch my breath and scratch my legs. The bites were like a rash now, angry red welts up and down my calves and thighs.

  “How much farther?”

  “We are here,” Pit said, scooting off my shoulder and clinging to my neck. Her little body shivered.

  All I saw were trees, but the wind had picked up and the air definitely had a cold bite. We crested a hill, and I understood the sprites’ reservations. We faced an entirely different world. Dark and foreboding. Colorless. The overcast sky shrouded a castle in shadows.

  A path suddenly opened between gnarled trees gray and bare as in winter. With a deep breath, I headed toward my unknown trip into hell. A woman’s haughty laugh startled me, and I halted. Both sprites dived into the back pocket of my jersey.

  I whirled around, smacking my face into a tree branch. Ouch.

  “Bailey,” a voice whispered. “Do not stop. You have come this far.”

  “Piran?” I shouted. “Is that you? Can you hear me?”

  Desperate for a sign from him, I waited, heart pounding. But I heard nothing more than the howling wind and the barren trees creaking.

  Scratching my arm, I glanced down and gasped. The rash had spread, and streaks of blood radiated from the welts.

  Damn. This was one hell of an allergy.

  Ignoring the cold wind and freaky trees that seemed to be closing in on me, I hurried along the path. Finally, the trees opened into a clearing, and I burst through. Oh, thank you, thank you. Not exactly sunshine, but better than the claustrophobic feeling of being eaten alive by dead trees.