by Lizzy Ford
I start to laugh at the image in my head and stop abruptly … What if that’s what happened? This curse is nothing if not unpredictable.
Now that is the freakiest thought I’ve had to date.
The vision of the mystery wolf with the dead eyes that killed Jenny Lake is in my head, along with the memory of the conversation I had with someone who doesn’t exist while I was buried alive by the vampires.
Myca had linked the two and tried to lead me to some sort of answer. I didn’t know what it was yesterday, but looking at my father’s handwriting, with the splotches and weird angles, I start to form a new thought.
What if … what if the curse isn’t just magic? What if it can take form? Kingmaker’s might have started out as angels, but we’re now, after all, shape shifters. What if the curse is more than magic? Could it be … a cursed person? An ancestral spirit haunting the family?
“That’s the stupidest thing ever,” I tell myself. If it were true, where does this person or ghost live? Not in my house! And I never saw my father with any strangers who weren’t members of the Community or who bore the shadow wolf’s lifeless gaze.
I sit up on the bed and pull my feet onto it, reminded of a movie I saw as a little girl about a boogeyman that lived under the bed.
I hold my breath, unable to imagine what it means that the curse might’ve taken form of some kind to calm me underground or defend me.
None of this is making sense – but it’s terrifying.
The house is too quiet.
Realizing I didn’t respond to Ben about my intention, I type him a note. Okay. I’ll do what you asked. “Are you going to kill me if I disobey?” I ask aloud.
I can’t take this. I can’t take sitting around wondering what I’m supposed to do and who’s going to kill me I if screw up. I can’t handle the smell from the kitchen either.
Shoving my father’s note in my pocket, along with my phone, I return to the kitchen.
Half an hour later, armed with rags, towels, a soapy bucket of water and gloves, I begin the disgusting task of trying to clean up the kitchen floor. My Buffy marathon is back on the television to keep me from thinking about some sort of poltergeist haunting my family, and the physical activity helps distract my racing thoughts.
Nothing is going to stop my mind from the circles it’s running in, and I think furiously about all I’ve learned, about my father’s final letters and the struggle it was for him to write them. I think of the freaky shadow wolf, the nonexistent companion from my underground adventure, the answers Myca’s either given me or led me towards.
I’m starting to understand the bigger picture, but it also remains fractured, unclear.
The candidates are working together, as Myca said, to save me, and my father seems to have thought me both in danger from the curse and the key to breaking it.
I’m not sure how the candidates can be concerned about me, if they walked into this deal knowing I’m supposed to murder one of them. I can’t determine if they suspect or flat out know about the Final Trials requirement for slaughtering an entire clan.
I pause in my scrubbing, another thought making a heavy lump form in my stomach.
The candidates agreed to these terms, to helping me, before any of them met me.
Maybe none of them really do care about me. Maybe they’re playing their part, following the rules and guidance my father set out for them. Maybe I’ve let down my guard with three men who can’t ever love me – and wouldn’t want to if they could. I’m a means to an end for them and everyone else in the Community.
Does that matter, either? Why should the emotions – and life – of one Kingmaker matter in the bigger scheme of things?
I ache at the thought.
“I hate you right now,” I tell my brain and grit my teeth. “Shut up and scrub!”
Chapter Thirteen
Several hours later, the doorbell rings, and I freeze, gaze on the bloody floors. I’ve only managed to clean a four by four spot in the kitchen. At this rate, it’ll take me weeks to finish. With some reluctance, I cross to the door and peer through the peephole.
Tristan’s standing out front.
When I saw Ben for the first time after a week, my world hiccupped. Tristan, however, fills me with relief. I don’t understand why, except he was always so good at helping me cope with my emotions.
I open the door and step aside.
Tristan’s dazzling gaze falls to my face, and he smiles. “Hey there, stranger.” His voice is soft, and at once, I can feel him smoothing out the jagged edges of my emotions.
I hug him and breathe in his minty scent. Tristan is like those comfy sweatpants I turn to on a rainy, cold day. He’ll never let me down. I know it’s his magic that soothes the tension of my body and gently pries my mind from the deep end where I’m about to dive, but I don’t care. I need the relief from myself.
He chuckles and squeezes me. “You need a hand?”
“You didn’t come here to help me scrub my floors,” I retort.
“I came to see how you’re doing and help out any way you need me to.”
Tristan is sweet. I know he’s visiting partially for the sake of explaining what’s supposed to happen over the course of the next week. I want to think that, like Ben, he’s also here because he wants to be.
“If you insist,” I reply. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course.” He releases me, and I check out his clothing, and lean body, quickly. He’s dressed more casually than I ever saw him during our week in jeans and a light sweater. “Is there a story behind why your floor is coated in blood?”
His attention is on the kitchen.
“Yeah. Come on.” We go to the kitchen, and I fetch him a set of scrubbing gear and his own bucket of soapy water. The idea of Tristan on his hand and knees, scrubbing the floor, tickles me. Of the three, he’s the prince among mortals, whose manners are as perfect as his body.
But he doesn’t bat an eye as he kneels and begins to scrub.
Grateful for his calmness, I tell him the story of my week with Myca while we clean.
“You all helped rescue me, didn’t you?” I ask when I’m done.
“We did.” He glances at me with a faint smile.
I feel like I should ask him more about what happened, or maybe thank him, but I’m not sure what’s an appropriate response. And … it’s hard for me to think, let alone talk, about the incident without being scared by the idea of talking to a nonexistent stranger.
“How ‘bout we take a break, and I’ll tell you what’s next?” Tristan asks.
“Yeah. Sure.” Grateful for the distraction from my mind and bloody floors, we both stand and wash up before walking over the bridge I created out of flattened cardboard boxes between the kitchen and soaked parts of the living room. “This is so disgusting.” I frown in dismay at the red tinge to the carpet. I’ll never be able to afford to replace it. Maybe I can just rip up everything and throw it away.
If I survive the trials. My flooring is probably the least of my concerns right now.
Tristan sits down on the couch, and I settle close to him, facing him full on with my legs crossed beneath me.
“Okay. I’m ready to hear it,” I say, bracing myself for the worst.
“It’s not so bad.” He touches my face lightly with his palm. I nuzzle him, recalling how good he is with hands. “You’ve been through a lot. I think the next week will pull everything together.”
“Sometimes I think that’s worse than not knowing,” I reply. “Did you know I’m a demon?”
“An angel with clipped wings.”
“Did you guys rehearse that line?”
He laughs. “No. We know the difference.”
“Whatever.” I make a face at him. “Talk to me.”
“The week is generally yours, except for Wednesday night, when we’ll all gather here to hear your decisions.”
“You make it sound easy,” I respond in a hushed tone.
“It’s n
ot. I know it’s not,” he says. I see the truth in his eyes, that he feels my pain.
Ducking my gaze, my cheeks grow warm. I don’t want him to hurt more than he already does.
“During the week, at any time you decide, you can see each of us once and ask any remaining questions you have. Some questions we can’t answer until Wednesday, but a lot of what you want to know, we can discuss. So, make us a schedule and let us know.”
I nod. “What else happens this week? I sit around and think and drive myself crazy all day?”
“There’s always more,” he says softly. “The curse will reveal itself to you in a way you’ll understand.”
My brow furrows. “I’m guessing you can’t tell me what that means.”
“No. But you’ll learn soon enough. You can call or text any of us whenever you need to, even if you can only see us once.”
I don’t like the idea he seems to believe it necessary for me to reach out to them because they’re all preparing for something bad to happen. Why can’t they warn me? Or, like my father, do they fear the curse finding out? It makes little sense to me that a curse can be sentient, but what do I know? Anything is possible.
I guess I’ll find out next week. My chest feels tight, and my stomach is twisting. Whatever is supposed to happen, I have a feeling it’s going to be bad. Daddy said to keep the amulet on, and so did Myca. They have a reason for their insistence. When it’s off, bad things happen. Maybe by keeping it on, I can keep the worst at bay, whatever the worst may be.
I am happy to hear I can see each of the candidates again and have them answer some of my questions. I’ll start a list today of what I need to ask whom. Whoever is supposed to kill me, it’s not going to happen before Wednesday. I have time to figure this out, to uncover a way to avoid hurting anyone and to decipher what my father wants me to do. All I need is time and …
Shit. I promised Ben I wouldn’t read any of the books. I really am going to sit and spin my mental wheels and hope I don’t go crazy. I’ve wronged him too much for me to go back on my word.
I also don’t really want to die because I open the Book of Secrets, and doing so spooks whichever candidate my father told to murder me if I don’t get this right. In fact, with my history of wildness, I’m surprised I’m still alive. How can any of them have faith in a crazy, broken angel?
Studying Tristan, I can’t help wondering if he’s the one who will kill me. I wouldn’t blame him, not since the curse keeps killing the newborns in his clan.
“When the curse is broken, does that mean all the horrible consequences you all have suffered will be gone? No more dead fae-bies or infertility or declining population numbers?” I ask.
“We believe so, yes.”
He’s definitely in the running to murder me. They all are.
I’ve been avoiding thinking about the decisions I have to make, concerned more with surviving the trials than which candidate should lead the Community. I’m not about to choose a mate, not when there’s so much at stake, and I’ll never condemn any of them to die.
There’s no way for me to know which one is supposed to kill me, either, if I make the wrong choices or fail to break the curse.
I toy with the amulet around my neck, suspecting it’s done something to me, or maybe for me, provided a benefit or advantage, that the other Kingmaker’s going through the trials didn’t have.
Myca claimed it’s a good luck charm. God help me, I trust him. If he’s the one chosen to kill me, I’ll hand over the Exile knife and die knowing he’s going to save the world.
According to the Final Trials, I have to wipe out a clan. According to my father, I have to do something – I think destroy – anything the curse has touched.
I’m starting to see a different outcome than the one I originally envisioned. Likewise, I feel like what I need to know about the curse is going to reveal itself this week, whether or not I’m prepared for it.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan murmurs, studying me.
“Don’t be,” I reply. “You all have shown me what it means to live for someone else, to lead selflessly, to make the hard decisions. You’re good mentors. I hope I can live up to the examples you all set.”
“You will.” He smiles warmly. “We all believe in you.”
“Then you’re all crazy!” I retort.
“I’ve seen your soul, remember?” He leans forward and hugs me. “I already know what you’re made of.”
I melt into his arms. His gentle confidence buffers the side of me that’s about to cry in front of him. I want to be strong, to do the right thing, to make the best decisions I can, because the Community, and these three candidates, deserves nothing less. The Book of Secrets is right about one thing. During the first trial, the Book of Secrets said I need intuition, courage, and conviction. It’s going to take all of that for me to be the best Kingmaker that’s ever existed, the one strong enough to break the curse.
I can do this. I must do this!
Inside, I’m shaking and scared, and Tristan can feel that, too.
“We all believe in you,” he repeats. “Your father did, too.”
Except for his insurance policy, I reply silently.
The curse will break, whether or not I survive. But … I kind of want to survive. I want to see the look on the faces of Ben, Tristan and Myca when they learn their clans aren’t going to die out, and no one else ever has to die because of the Kingmaker curse.
They deserve this and to be happy.
I hug Tristan hard and rest my head on his shoulder.
That’s when I see it. That’s when the second shadow, the one I shouldn’t have, stands up from its position on the floor at my feet and walks away, into the kitchen, down the hall, towards the study. It pauses in front of the doorway, turns and faces me.
Those eyes. I know those eyes.
The last time I saw them, the shadow creature killed someone.
“Tristan, you need to go,” I whisper, releasing the fae prince. “Out the back. And fast.”
Hearing the urgency in my tone, he stands. “Leslie, I –” he starts.
“Please!” I beg him. “I’ll explain later. I promise!”
“Whatever you do, keep the amulet on.”
I nod.
He studies me briefly then nods with reluctance. I point towards the rear exit, unable to look away from the shadow staring back at me.
Tristan leaves silently.
The shadow doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
What the fuck is it?
This is bad. Really, really bad.
Why do I have the sudden feeling the final week of trials is going to be the worst yet?
Trial Series
Trial by Moon
Trial by Thrall
Trial by Blood
Trial by Heart
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Continue reading for a sneak peek at the 101 Nights contemporary erotic romance series about an American Cinderella and her Arab prince! The 101 Nights complete box set is available from:
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(Sneak peek: “Claimed”) Chapter One: Elijah
“Billionaire Prince Elijah Shamali Tarwinian Micah, son of the Sultan of Nijala, a tiny but extremely wealthy island kingdom in the Middle East, has been issued an ultimatum by his father: leave the playboy life or kiss the throne good-bye.”
At the mention of my name, I look up from my iPad at the news flashing across the screen of the wall-sized television in the penthouse suite of the Waldorf Astoria in New York City. Surrounded by a sea of plush white furniture and flooring with dark wood lowlights, I haven’t been able to enter the place without thinking of snow, something my tropical island home doesn’t have. The last rays of the sun pour in from the westward facing, floor to ceiling windows on one side of the penthouse. The light turns the snowy world pale orange-yellow.
I like the color. It’s more like home, and orange is my favorite color.
“S
hall I turn it off, Your Highness?” Jamil, my longest serving and most trusted servant, asks from behind the couch on which I sit.
“Don’t call me that here,” I remind him. “Americans don’t take well to royal titles.”
“As you wish. Shall I turn off the television, Mr. Micah?”
I cast an amused smile at the old man with grey hair and charcoal skin. “Don’t you think I need the constant reminder that I’m now next in line and need to clean up my act?”
“I think you will do what you please, like you have since you were four.” Jamil turns off the television.
I’m a little relieved. My father’s public proclamation is counter to how he normally handles our personal business. Not that I care what people think, but I’m pissed he didn’t contact me directly first before blasting me publicly. It reeks of what he’s really mad about.
He thinks I should’ve died in that wreck last month, instead of my perfect, responsible, non-playboy brother, who left a grieving widow and no heir. Which means there’s only me to take over one of the three most ludicrous economies in the world, once my father passes on. He’s too old to produce another heir, leaving his choice between me and a cousin living in England, one who’s never set foot in our kingdom.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, father, but I’m all you got,” I say out loud, not caring what Jamil thinks. He knows his place, like everyone else in my inner circle.
“Look what you’ve done with the money he entrusted you with,” Jamil says. “You turned a few million into a few billion.”
“I think that’s what he fears. He knows my methods. He knows I have no heart or soul.”
Jamil doesn’t disagree, and I return to my iPad. I’d been in the middle of organizing a few nights to take the stress out of my days – ones filled with expensive women and booze – when I got the call yesterday about my father’s decision.
