Dirty Halo
The Forbidden Royals Trilogy
Julie Johnson
Copyright © 2019 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
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Cover design by: ONE CLICK COVERS
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Contents
The Forbidden Royals Trilogy
Foreword
Preface
Prologue
One Month Earlier…
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Afterword
Playlist
About the Author
Also by Julie Johnson
The Forbidden Royals Trilogy
DIRTY HALO
Book One
TORRID THRONE
Book Two
SORDID EMPIRE
Book Three
For T.S.
“My castle crumbled overnight
I brought a knife to a gunfight
They took the crown, but it's alright…”
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Call It What You Want, Taylor Swift
My dear reader,
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DIRTY HALO is a dark fairy tale intended only for adults. If you prefer your fairy tales without prolific swearing, intense royal scheming, and scorching hot sex, I suggest you turn back now. Stick to the animated cartoon versions on your TV screen.
* * *
As for the rest of you depraved souls…
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I hope you enjoy Emilia’s journey from ordinary girl to unwilling princess. Many aspects of this tale, from settings to character profiles, are based loosely on both historical account and folklore. However, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the kingdom of Germania — a small yet prosperous country wedged on the border between Germany, Austria, and Switzerland — is not, in fact, a real place. (You know, just so you don’t book a plane ticket there, intent on tracking down a certain smirking, smoldering Lord we all love to hate…)
* * *
And now, without further ado…
WAIT!
I’m forgetting something.
How do these stories always start, again?
Oh! Right.
I remember now.
* * *
Once upon a time…
Prologue
I stare at the stranger in the mirror.
Her wild hair, uncharacteristically coiled.
Her lush mouth, unusually solemn.
Cloaked in sadness the royal jewels cannot disguise.
Wreathed in a destiny she is unequipped to embrace.
She holds a nation’s fate within her shaking hands.
She wears a crown that never should’ve been hers.
A golden lie.
A dirty halo.
You know the funny thing about fairy tales? You never see what happens to the pretty scullery maid after she rides off into the sunset with a dashing prince in a gold-plated carriage and shacks up in his castle.
Fade to black. Roll credits.
And they lived happily ever after.
Or… did they?
How are we so damn certain the minute the maid steps foot in that unfamiliar fortress, she doesn’t realize what a monumental mistake she’s made? Why are we so sure the prince doesn’t reveal himself to be a total prick once the haze of lust has cleared from her head? What if instead of a happy ending, the pretty maid spends the next thirty-odd years wishing she’d never met her goddamned fairy godmother in the first place?
I know what you’re going to say.
But the jewelry!
The clothes!
The handsome prince with his handsome steed!
Spare me.
I, for one, would rather spend the rest of my days scrubbing floors than find myself stuck in some stuffy castle surrounded by stodgy rich people, forcing a fake smile for six long, flavorless courses.
But nobody asked what I wanted.
Nobody gave me a choice in the matter when they pulled me from my life and dragged my size six, donut-loving ass through the castle gates, into a destiny I thought I’d successfully dodged.
That fairy tale ending?
I’m living it.
And I’m here to tell you…
It fucking sucks.
one month earlier
Chapter One
“The king is dead.”
The news breaks across the country like an unexpected summer storm — all at once, in a downpour that mutes the whole world with sudden ferocity. It’s one of those moments people will recall with perfect clarity for the rest of their lives, even looking back a half-century later. The millennial generation’s very own Challenger explosion or JFK assassination, crystalized forever in a flashbulb memory.
Where were you when you found out about the Lancasters?
The details are so sharp, their edges cut me when I turn them over in my mind. The stale taste of beer on my tongue. The smell of cracked peanut shells, littered across the scratched bar in front of me. The screech of static from the overhead speakers as the recycled playlist of one-hit-wonders cuts off with a violent switch-flip.
Owen presses closer at my side, his broad shoulder warm even through the fabric of his fitted black T-shirt. Voices in the crowd around us grow from a dull murmur to a horrified roar as a sea of liquored eyes turns as one toward the televisions mounted against the cramped pub’s wood-paneled walls. I crane my neck to see what all the fuss is about and, with an abruptness that steals the wind from my lungs, find myself with a front-row seat to the moment my entire future fragments into pieces.
DEADLY FIRE AT WATERFORD PALACE
Shouts of “Turn up the volume!” are swiftly traded for gasps and sobs as the images play out onscreen.
Flames and death.
A fairy tale crumbling right before our eyes.
Owen swears under his breath, but I can barely make out the sound. My brainwaves have turned static. My fingers tremble as I set down my beer, feeling dizzy from more than just the alcohol in my veins as I watch the news anchor’s lips spout truths I’m unequipped to process.
“The fire caught sometime after ten o’clock this evening in the East Wing of Waterford Palace. An inside source informed us that the blaze most likely originated in the Crown Prince’s private suite.” Her tone is suffused with shock and grief — she’s practically choking out the words. “At this time, we can confirm that both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail—”
The words cut off, too horrible to make it past her lips. We wait in tense silence. I’ve n
ever heard a college bar so quiet, even during finals week. No one is laughing or flirting or throwing darts. No one’s even breathing, as far as I can tell. Our attention is riveted on the screens.
The anchorwoman swallows sharply, then expels a shaky breath with great care. Her hands knit together on her sleek glass desk, a ball of tight-clenched knuckle bones and taut skin.
Just spit it out already, I think, wanting to shake the truth out of her. This waiting is worse than whatever you’re going to tell us.
But, when she finally complies, I’m instantly proven wrong. The waiting isn’t worse; I’d wait an eternity if it meant avoiding this particular news.
“Tonight, it is my grave task to inform you of an unfathomable tragedy. Both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail have perished in the flames at Waterford Palace.”
A collective cry splits the air — a lighting strike in a gathering storm of disbelief. The bartender drops a glass with a clatter. Owen lets out another low expletive. The two girls to my left begin to weep. Their horror is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue with each breath.
No. I recoil, rejection surging through me. Surely, there’s been some sort of mistake. Any minute, the news anchor will break out in a chagrined smile and apologize for giving the entire nation such a scare with this nonsense.
Except…
She doesn’t.
“Despite the valiant rescue efforts of the firefighters, several palace staff members are also unaccounted for. They are presumed dead,” the anchor informs us bleakly. “We do not currently know the status of Crown Prince Henry. We will update you as soon as we hear whether he is among the deceased.”
Another wail reverberates through the crowd, shattering the air to shards of sorrow and shock.
Not Henry, too.
Not our heir.
Not our prince.
This news is incomprehensible. Incalculable. We are unequipped to process it with any elegance or composure. Unable to do anything except stand around stupefied as the sky collapses around our ears.
The teary girl beside me — who five minutes ago was downing gin cocktails with a fortitude that would impress Jay Gatsby himself — hiccups rather violently. Feeling strangely removed from my own body, I watch my hand like it belongs to someone else as it reaches out to pass her a square bar napkin. She accepts it with a morose sniffle, her eyes never shifting from the television screens. Looking around, I see her horrified expression mirrored on every other face in the crowd.
Unadulterated anguish en masse.
I watch them breaking apart like waves against the sharpest rocks, fragmenting into grief-stricken shells that bear no resemblance to the rowdy university students they were mere minutes ago. It doesn’t matter that they’ve never shaken their king’s hand, that they’ve never seen their prince in person except perhaps from the safety of a sidewalk barricade as his carriage rolled past during a royal parade. This news is a blade plunged into the very fabric of our existence. Even the newscaster is wiping away tears as the grim tale unfolds.
“Whether this was an accident or something more sinister remains unclear,” she reads from her teleprompter, looking contradictorily grim in her cheerful yellow blazer. “Authorities are preliminarily treating it as a terror attack. Emergency protocols are now in effect. All remaining members of the royal family have been placed under the protection of the King’s Guard and will remain so until the full threat has been assessed — that includes the king’s younger brother Prince Linus, the Duke of Hightower, along with his wife and step-children.”
At the mention of the Duke, Owen’s eyes find mine in the dimness, an unfamiliar streak of worry in their depths. He’s one of the only people on the planet who knows about my connection to the Lancasters. About the paternal name printed on my birth certificate in bold, undeniable letters.
“Emilia…”
“Don’t.” I pick up my beer glass so I have something to do with my hands as the painful broadcast plays on. I squeeze so tight, I’m half-surprised it doesn’t shatter to pieces against my palm.
“In this darkest hour…” The anchorwoman’s voice cracks along with her composure. “I believe I speak for all of us here at GBTV — and every Germanian citizen listening out there — when I say our thoughts and prayers are with every member the Lancaster family as we attempt to navigate this tremendous loss… and work out exactly what it will mean for the leadership of our nation…”
“Sweet fuck,” Owen murmurs as the screen cuts to more images of the burning inferno. His voice sounds a million miles away — along with the rest of the world. In this moment, surrounded on all sides, I feel even more alone than I did as a little girl, the day my mother finally told me the truth about my biological father. About the man who was almost hers. About the destiny that was almost mine.
He didn’t want us, Emilia.
He didn’t want you.
Head spinning, I sway into my best friend’s chest. He steadies me instantly, his broad hands locking around my bare biceps with reassuring weight. It’s warm within the crush of the crowd, but I’m suddenly freezing in my black crop top and fitted skirt. Goosebumps cover every inch of exposed skin.
“Ems?” His brow furrows with concern. A lock of wavy blond hair falls into his worried brown gaze. “You okay?”
I manage to nod. At least, I think I do.
Onscreen, the anchor’s hand flies to her ear as she listens to some unheard transmission. “We will bring you now to Gerald Simms, the Palace Press Secretary, for an official update.”
The broadcast turns to a split-screen. The man who appears on the right side of the television has the sourest expression I’ve ever seen, as though he’s just stuck his nose into a carton of curdled milk. His thinning hair and expanding waistline are not aided by the unflattering pinstripe suit he’s chosen to wear for this occasion.
“Mr. Simms, welcome,” the news anchor says. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us tonight.”
“Yes, yes.” The man’s double chin wobbles like a turkey’s gobbler. “My pleasure.”
“Mr. Simms, can you weigh in on the implications for the crown in the face of this catastrophic loss? Can you give us any insight whatsoever into how this fire started? Was this a planned attack?”
“I cannot comment on specifics pertinent to the investigation. All I can reveal is that the King’s Guard is actively pursuing every potential lead,” Simms says, chest puffing up like a helium balloon. He’s so full of self-importance, you could pop him with a pin.
“And Crown Prince Henry?”
“I am unable to reveal the status of Prince Henry at this time. However, I have been briefed that King Leopold’s younger brother Linus, the Duke of Hightower, is safe and secure at an off-site location.”
“That is comforting news. The Duke is next in line for the throne after the Crown Prince — is that correct, Secretary?”
“Indeed.”
“So… if Prince Henry… if the prince…” She trails off. A bolt of unease shoots through the crowd around me at the unspeakable implication in her words.
Dies.
If the prince dies.
Simms’ mouth purses like a drawstring bag, containing all his emotions tightly below the surface. “Rest assured — Germania will not be without a ruler. The Duke is fully prepared to take up his mantle as King Regent if the Crown Prince is unable to fulfill his role for any reason.”
The newscaster nods, looking paler than ever. “Please correct me if I am wrong, Secretary Simms, but the Duke has no children of his own…”
“The Duke has two step-children from his marriage to Lady Octavia Thorne,” he retorts. “But you are correct. He has no legitimate heirs of his own.”
Legitimate.
The word makes my blood run cold. My hands clench tighter around my glass. Owen shifts closer, sensing my unease. I can practically feel waves of worry radiating off him.
“Hypothetically… that could present quite a proble
m when it comes to the line of succession, could it not, Secretary?”
“Mmm.” Gerald Simms blinks his beady eyes. “At times like this, we are unfortunately reminded why the royal family practiced the heir-and-a-spare policy for so many generations.” He shakes his head and the extra flesh beneath his chin wags. “If the Duke cannot produce an heir, for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders for the throne.”
I glance away from the screens, jaw clenched tight. I can’t listen anymore.
“Un-fucking-believable.” Owen scoffs. His handsome features are twisted into a scowl. “The crown’s not even cold and they’re putting contingencies into place. Vultures, the lot of them.”
My brows lift so high, they nearly disappear into my hairline. “Says the boy who spent his spring semester marching in anti-monarchy protests. I wasn’t aware you gave a shit about who wears the crown.”
His eyes flicker to mine and hold for a long moment. There’s something indecipherable in their depths. Something that makes my heart flutter uncomfortably inside my chest as he leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, angry whisper.
“I give a shit about what might happen if that crown changes hands to the king’s younger brother, Duke of HighAssholery. For fuck’s sake, I give a shit about what that might—” His teeth sink into his bottom lip. He doesn’t say the rest, but it’s written all over his face.
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