It’s the big one that catches my interest, though.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s the only one left,” the prince says, staring up at it. “This was my great grandfather’s. He built the first six suits when Hitler took power in Germany and refined them until they were needed. It’s diesel powered, a feat of miniaturization. The diesel engine actually drives a tiny dynamo that supplies electrical power to the limbs and body, allowing it to move.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. I start to reach out to touch it, but stop myself.
“Go ahead.”
I rest my hand on the steel. It’s chipped and dented, markings from old bullet impacts. It’s cold, though. Unliving.
“The whole of our country was turned into a fortress in preparation, and even then it was a close thing. We threw back the Nazis, then the Soviets. We could defend ourselves, but held no hope of retaliating. My grandfather told me when I was a child that he dreamed of liberating Solkovia.”
“Liberating,” I say wryly.
“Please,” he sighs, “not here.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“This one is was the first. My father and grandfather refined the design, converting from the diesel generator to increasingly compact and efficient batteries. My suits can run for three days on a single charge.”
“This is incredible,” I sigh, staring at one of the newer ones. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You and your family made these things. They’re amazing. No one in the world can do this. What do you do with this? Use it to kill people.”
“We should have let the Nazis win? There is a sizable Jewish minority in this country, Persephone.”
“I hate that name.”
“Would you have had them feed the ovens, too? You have a strange sense of morality.”
“Okay, fine, you needed the weapons, but the batteries in these things belong in cars.”
“They are in cars. The ones you attacked me for forcing on my people, remember?”
“You can’t just make people do the right thing, my prince. They have to choose it.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters. I don’t know why it matters, but it matters. Look at me.”
I’m caught off guard when he does actually look at me. God his eyes are beautiful.
I was going to say something but I forgot what it was.
“I am looking at you.”
“I…” I look away. “I’m trying to make a point and I’m not doing a very good job, I admit it, but you’re wrong about people. They have to be able to choose. The have to be able to be the people they want to be, even if there’s a chance they’ll fail, even if there’s a chance they’ll hurt themselves.”
“Why?”
I look at the floor. “I don’t know. I’m not that smart. I’m not going to convince you. I should just give up.”
“You’re doing better than you seem to think.”
I look up, confused.
The prince steps close to me, quick and light on his feet, cups my chin in his hand, and kisses me.
I pull back, shocked, and his fingers grip my chin harder. They don’t have to.
I kiss him back.
His lips are warm. He tastes like juniper berries, and his hand is rough and callous, not soft like you would think a prince’s hand would be. He kisses me like he doesn’t know how, with an earnest intensity that makes my knees shake. He’s so much taller than I am that he has to step close and I have to tilt my chin up. His hand falls away, and the backs of his knuckles brush my chest, his palm coming to rest on my hip.
I step away from him quickly.
“What is this? What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that what this is about? Are you trying to make me a replacement for your dead girlfriend?”
“I—”
“I’m not going to let you play dress up with me and make me some kind of a doll. You’re not going to mold me into somebody else. I’m not one of your subjects, my prince.”
I turn and bolt, running through the armory. I can find my way back, I have to.
“Penny, wait,” he says, but I don’t.
6
I slam the heavy oak door closed, and scowl because I can’t lock it. It doesn’t even have a proper doorknob. It relies on its own weight to stay closed. I thump it against the frame in frustration and yank at my dress, popping buttons and tearing seams as I harshly reject it from covering my body. Like an angry teenager, I grab a nightgown from the wardrobe and crawl into the bed, yanking the covers up to my chin as if the blankets will keep the harsh reality around me at bay, like warding off a monster from the closet.
It’s a dumb, silly, immature little gesture but it gives me some comfort, comfort I quickly begin to hate as I realize how helpless I am. I’m completely at this man’s mercy. I don’t even have clothes to wear, other than what he provides. This bed is his, the roof over my head is his. The air is his. He could probably order one of his minions not to breathe, and they’d suffocate themselves through sheer willpower.
What the hell am I going to do?
When I close my eyes all I can see is myself, standing in the armory with him as he touches me. His bare hand was different from being carried as he wore that suit of armor. He has hard, rough hands, the hands of someone who does work, not soft and perfumed like I would expect. I don’t know why I keep thinking about that, but I can’t stop myself.
I snort. How silly. I’m a modern, liberated American woman and here I am with my head spinning because a man touched me with his hand, over my clothes. Maybe it’s the dry spell.
Or maybe it was the kiss, the way he tasted and smelled, the way I fear him and feel safe in his presence at the same time. Thoughts that aren’t mine creep into my head, like the nonsensical urge to jump when looking down from a great height, and the harder I push them away, the harder they push back until they throb in my head.
It’s the little things. The way I had to tilt my head back when he kissed me and he bent over me, overwhelming me with his height. The electric sensation I felt when his hands brushed my shoulder, the way he kept staring at my neck and collarbone all night. The pangs of sympathy I felt when he pried himself out of that damaged armor beat at my head like drums, jabbing me in time with the beating of my heart.
A breeze blows in from the balcony. How does it get so cold here when it’s hot down below the slopes of the mountain? I could get up and close the glass doors but I pull the blankets tighter instead, shivering to banish the cold.
I keep looking back at the door, expecting him to barge through any moment. I keep swinging back and forth, thinking about his lips and touch and his accent and the things he does. I can’t separate the handsome man who gave me sweet wine from the iron giant who struck off a man’s head in front of me…and Melissa.
Oh God, what are they doing to her?
I haven’t even been here a full day and my phone call isn’t for another week. After that, people back home will realize I’m gone and start asking after me. I have this sinking feeling, almost a certainty, that the church hasn’t reported my absence, or they’ve made up some excuse to keep everyone quiet.
Brad pops back into my head and I wonder how tied up the church was with whatever he’s doing, whether it’s all just a sham or he just uses it as a cover and they’re genuine. To me they all seemed fake-y and saccharine, but there’s an obvious reason for that.
I know why I came here. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. I see myself sitting on the couch in my home, holding a telephone in my hands, sobbing and staring, wondering why neither my brother nor my lover will answer me. I scrolled through the list of calls to make sure I wasn’t dreaming it. I called them both over thirty times.
When the knock came from the door at 5:46 in the morning, I knew. By then my parents were sitting in the room, waiting wit
h me. They both reacted differently. Mom was staring and shaking, Dad sitting there like a statue, eyes fixed on nothing, like if he remained just still enough, it would all slide past him and go away.
It was he who did the talking when the police came. He opened the door and walked out onto the porch with them and talked, and after ten minutes he came in and they didn’t.
“Honey,” he said.
“They’re dead,” I said softly.
I don’t remember much more than that. He never said it out loud, he never said his son is dead. He just left it hanging in the air, confirmation by omission.
I felt so cold, like I’d been thrown into a pool of water on a hot day, but the water was oily, black, and thick and pulled me under with a savage icy grip, and invaded my lungs. I drowned in my own sobs. Somehow I ended up on the floor. I wept into my mother’s lap for hours, maybe days.
The funerals came two days later for David, my fiancé, and Perry, my brother.
My parents named him Perseus.
I was the only member of my family to attend David’s funeral. It was horrible. I was an outsider, like I wandered up to the wrong funeral and was too uncouth to leave. Everyone glared at me, his mother most of all. I’ve never seen someone look so devastated, and the hate that burned in her eyes seared my skin like a hot poker. I wanted to talk to her, to say something, but I couldn’t. I ran away before they finished, and cursed myself for making a spectacle. I couldn’t watch them put the casket in the ground, I couldn’t.
I never really stopped running. I googled ways to get out of the country on my phone, steeled myself, and talked to a representative from the church in a cold, flat voice. My mother begged me not to go, and my father said nothing but that it was my choice and to make sure I call them. I left the following week.
Laughter bubbles out of my throat as I suddenly realize that this is exactly what I was looking for.
I’m too cowardly to do the job myself, so I’ve been looking for someone to do it for me. Fleeing to a war-torn country, following Melissa out of the tent, it was all for one purpose. I was looking for an end I’m too weak to give myself.
The knock I’ve been waiting for finally comes.
“Go away,” I croak out, clutching my blankets.
When the door opens and he walks in, I can’t say I’m surprised.
He’s dressed in pajamas, I think. Loose black silk and a robe, and slippers.
Fuzzy slippers. Very worn.
“What do you want?”
“I could not sleep.”
“Why?”
“I should apologize for startling and upsetting you. I…acted out of turn. A strange fancy gripped me.”
I snort. “So you’re here to say sorry.”
“No.”
“You just said you came to apologize.”
He sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed. I scoot away from him, drawing my legs up as I curl into a ball.
“I did, and I offer my apology, but, ‘I am sorry I kissed you,’ is not a thing I can say. It would be a lie. I am not sorry. I liked it. I would do it again if you let me.”
“And if I don’t?”
He glances at me but doesn’t answer.
“Your accusation has some weight,” he sighs, scrubbing his fingers through his dark hair, all shaggy now. “I took an interest in you when we first met.”
“You mean at that camp?”
“Yes. I saw you naked and filthy and hurt, clutching thin blankets to cover your shame…”
“I’m not ashamed of my body.”
“Or of interrupting me. It’s a figure of speech, woman. You remained defiant where others would break. You kept your head where others would not. You cared for others weaker than yourself. You acted a princess…or a queen.”
I snort. “Get to the point.”
“I run a perfect country.”
“Debatable, but go on.”
“This is all on my shoulders.” He rolls them and stretches his neck, as if to ease the invisible burden. “When I am gone all of this goes with me, unless I provide an heir to rule after me.”
I blink a few times.
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
He turns to me. “No. Marry me.”
My jaw drops. “You are joking. That’s absurd. We just met, and I don’t like you. In fact, I think I hate you.”
“Why?”
“Should I make a list? Okay, let’s start with the head chopping, and then taking me and my friend prisoner, that’s two items, then there’s all the oppression and violence of your totalitarian regime, that’ll be three. Oh, and you feed defenseless bunny rabbits to a trained mutilation bird. You’re a creep. Is that good enough?”
“You’re not a prisoner here.”
“Oh? So I can go back to America and return to my family now?”
“No, but not because of me. If I let you go, it will be a death sentence.”
I blink a few times.
“What?”
He looks away from me and squeezes his fists together. “The CIA man. His backers will allow no loose ends. You heard too much, saw too much. You will not be allowed to live. Something would happen. A car accident. Your plane would go down over the ocean. You would fall strangely ill and doctors would be helpless to save your life.”
“That…”
That makes a lot of sense, actually.
“What if no one knows about me?”
“It is too late. I spoke to ‘Brad,’” his mouth twists in disgust, “at length on this matter. He explained to me in detail how he told his superiors about you. He had you marked out to lead into my territory even before you followed your tent mate to rendezvous with the truck. After she disappeared he would have found you and asked you to go looking for her, with him.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I started with his feet.”
A choked sound squeezes out of my throat.
“I’m going to be sick. You tortured him?”
“I questioned him. Sharply. He’s alive. Though not well.”
I swallow. It feels like my throat is packed with wet dirt.
“I had hoped you would see things my way.”
“Oh?”
“Your courage drew my attention, and you are quite lovely. Even then, more so now.”
I feel myself start to blush. Damn it.
“If you tell me I have birthing hips, I will kick you in the face.”
“What do I have to do before you speak to me with respect?”
“Earn it,” I say sharply.
He leans toward me, resting his hand on the bed next to my hip. “There it is. That is why. You are not afraid, are you?”
I swallow. “Yes. I am. You scare the hell out of me. You could kill me at any moment and no one will stop you. Nobody will even know I’m gone.”
“Even more, then. Fear is not the end of bravery, it is the beginning. It is easy to be defiant against the powerless. You’re right. I have total sovereignty over my lands. I’m the last absolute monarch in the world. I can do whatever I want. Have whatever I want.”
“You can’t have me,” I say firmly. “You can drag me to the altar, put a ring on my finger, hold me down and use me, but you’ll never have me. I’ll never love you.”
“Persephone…”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You who have so much concern for my people. Think of what will happen if I am gone with no one to take my place. Anarchy. All of this will fall apart and the technology I’ve shown you will spread beyond my borders, to men who will use it not as I have, but to do the very things you accuse me of doing.”
“Very eloquent, but I’m not going to be a monster’s little pet.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to go home.”
“You’d be executed by your own government. I will not allow that. You are too precious.”
“Then let me see my friend.”
“I can do that.”
“Let me see some people. I don’t care about your fancy robotic garbage trucks, I want to see some other human beings besides the ones who bring you your shoes in the morning. I want to go out there. You keep telling me how beautiful your country is, so show me.”
“Very well. Sleep now. Pull on that rope when you wake, and I will come for you and give you what you want.”
“You can’t buy my affection with kindness.”
“I know. That is why I want it.”
“This is dumb. There’s no such thing as love at first sight. You might be a prince, but I’m no princess and this is no fairy tale.”
“It could be, if you want. Anything you want, I can give you.”
“I want a choice,” I say, sitting up.
I realize the blankets fell away from my chest and snatch them back up, my blush deepening.
“You could almost fool me,” I tell him. “You’re beautiful on the outside but there’s a cold, twisted thing in there.” I point at his chest. “Without an ounce of feeling or compassion.”
“You don’t know me.”
“You don’t know me, so asking me to marry you is just a touch presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“Yes. That is what princes do, they presume.”
I snort and fall back into the pillows.
“I want to go home. Please.”
“After doing anything you could to get away from it?”
I roll my eyes. “What are you, my therapist now?”
He shrugs. “It strikes me that wherever you are, you seek an escape from it.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He’s cutting a little too close. I feel my lip tremble.
That balcony is out there and it’s quite a drop. All I’d have to do is sit on that ledge, swing my legs over, and…
I pinch my eyes shut.
“I know what it’s like for the whole world to feel like a prison. For every wall to lock you out.”
“You told me you’d tell me what happened to the girl you were supposed to marry.”
He flinches, as if something about the way I said it sets him off.
“My brother killed her. Then I killed him. He was insane.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m sorry.”
Count On Me Page 33
