unForgiven (The Birthright Series Book 2)

by Bridget E. Baker

  Edam’s moving from the edge of the group. Oh, no. Am I too late? He’s sliding between dancers like a panther tracking his prey, moving toward Chancery like a spear driving toward the heart of a warthog. Purposeful, calm, intense.

  I want to melt away and find Fiorem or Charles, or anyone else, but they were second best. Mother’s top pick is right in front of me, and clearly he finds my face attractive. He’s heading for the one person on the island who looks just like me. Besides, it has been his sole purpose since birth to become my Consort. It’s the reason Mother bought all of them, trained all of them. It’s their highest goal.

  Which is probably the only reason Roman was dancing with me at all.

  I’ve shown zero interest in Edam up until this point, which is probably why he’s aiming for second best. It makes sense. All he needs is a redirect, a bump toward the greater prize.

  Chancery has been drawing his attention slowly for weeks, like a lodestone pulls iron ore. Watching it has been irritating in the extreme. But that tactic won’t work, not for me. I’m not magnetic, I’m not alluring, and I’m not fun-loving. I’m too direct for any of that, so I’ll need a simpler plan. I walk toward the punch bowl, which happens to put me on a collision course with Mr. Panther himself.

  He nearly bowls me over and pulls up short, a dismayed look on his face. “Excuse me, Your Highness. I didn’t see you.”

  “No, you really didn’t,” I say. “You nearly ran me over.”

  He bows stiffly. “My sincere apologies.”

  “Actually, there’s something you could do to make things right.”

  Edam’s mouth parts slightly. I analyze him for possibly the very first time. He’s exceptionally tall with broad shoulders, and he has deep blue eyes with dark blond fringed lashes. His features are severe, but perfect, like an ice sculpture of the famed Greek Adonis. “What can I do to serve, Your Highness?”

  Right. I told him he could help me. “Well.” I look down at my feet, encased in strappy silver sandals. “You may not have been paying attention, but it’s nearly midnight. And my mother gave me very specific instructions.” He has no idea quite how specific. I inwardly groan.

  “Oh.” Edam’s mouth opens and closes like a fish flopping around on the sand. I want to throw him back, but I can’t. He’s too perfect for that, and I always do exactly what I should. Always.

  I lift one eyebrow in a way I hope is coquettish. “Surely you would do me a favor.”

  He bobs his head stiffly. “Of course. Yes.”

  Great, I’ve effectively told him he has to kiss me. I want to sink down beneath the sand and never come back out. What’s my plan? Will I order him to marry me next, and then smile simperingly while he stiffly stands beside me, wishing for my sister?

  But then the DJ is counting down from thirty and it’s too late to take it back. Edam wraps an arm around my shoulder, a heavily muscled arm, and my heart races again, for the second time in the same night.

  Maybe this can work. I certainly find him attractive. When the DJ says ten, somehow everyone around us knows to count with him, chanting the numbers. Ten, nine, eight, seven. I look up at Edam, his eyes meeting mine. He looks away quickly, his teeth biting his full bottom lip. Four, three, two, one. His head dips toward mine, his teeth releasing his lips so they can descend over mine.

  His mouth is warm, and I don’t want this kiss to end, but it does, too soon. Edam lifts his head and bows slightly before slipping away from me. I want to cry, because it’s not supposed to be like this, is it?

  But then I catch Chancery’s eyes. I’ve been the Heir for nearly seventeen years. She’s known that Mother chose me, that she will never rule, because I was chosen. She’s trailed behind me for almost two decades, acknowledged to everyone that I’m the better choice. And yet, I’ve never seen this expression on her face before. Never.

  She’s terribly, consumingly, furiously jealous.

  It almost makes up for the uneasy feeling that I did something wrong tonight. After all, if Mother thinks it’s the right thing, and if Chancery wants to be me for once, I’m on the right path. That must be true. So the next time Edam glances this way, I beam at him and wonder whether my twin notices.

  7

  The Present

  Egan and Melina are gone when I wake up. Or at least, I assume Melina is gone. The glass has shifted back into a mirror, and I don’t hear any heartbeat other than my own.

  I also really, really need to pee, which reminds me. I can’t recall the last time I had anything to drink. My throat is dry, my lips are peeling, and my throat is scratchier than parchment paper.

  It absolutely kills me to remain prone on the ground, my face pressed against the stone floor, my shoulder bent at an awkward angle, and my neck torqued. But if I move, they’ll realize I’m waking from their tranqs sooner than I should. They’ll up the dose or the frequency or both, and my odds of escape will drop to zero.

  While I was out this time, they restrained me. My hands are shackled in front of me, titanium cuffs connected by almost delicate chain links. If I had to guess, I’d say Egan pressed for the additional precaution. I might do the same if someone collapsed my windpipe. I shouldn’t have let anger supersede strategy. Idiots do that, and I am not an idiot.

  I lie entirely still and assess my surroundings. Stone walls, floor, and ceiling. Roughly an eight-by-eight foot cell. Large enough I can move around, but not big enough that they can’t see nearly the entire space with a single camera. Luckily, the camera in the upper corner faces the mirrored wall and I’m far enough forward toward the back wall that it shouldn’t catch my face. I’m not facing the mirror, so I can open my eyes and they still won’t have any idea I’m awake as long as my breathing doesn’t change and my heart rate doesn’t accelerate.

  I’ve got plenty of practice regulating those.

  Escape is my top priority, preferably before Melina kills me. She could have done it earlier, but she didn’t. That means she wants something from me. At a base line, she wants to know what prompted Mother to change the heirship paperwork. She may want more, but as long as I don’t provide that information, she will be forced to wait for evidence of it through another channel. That buys me time.

  An alternative is that she’s waiting for someone to arrive who needs to witness the execution. I really ought to find out which so I know how much time I’ve got. If I have more time, I can formulate a better plan. Less time, I’ll have to wing it.

  From what I can see, my options aren’t plentiful. One. Overpower a guard in order to break out while I’m being fed, moved, or interrogated. High interest times. Two. Tunnel out. Unlikely, given the cameras and complete stone surroundings. On top of that, I’m not sure what’s on either side of me, so I could be tunneling into another cell. That would really suck. Three. Smash the glass of the mirror wall and escape through the interrogation room. Bonus points if I can strangle or impale my zealot sister in the process. The restraints might help with that, but if it’s leaded glass, it’s unlikely to work no matter what tools I bring to bear. Obviously this cell was created with evians in mind. It ought to use the highest resiliency materials available.

  No matter which way I choose to go about this, I need more information.

  What do I know about this entire set up? Melina lives near Austin, Texas, unless she relocated without Mother knowing. Mother kept a rigorous presence around her to prevent that sort of thing, so for now I’ll assume I’m in Texas. That means it’s relatively temperate weather, but no one has basements because of the water level. Which means I’m unlikely to be underground. That makes things easier. Without windows in here, it’s likely I’m in an interior room of some kind of home or compound. If I’m surrounded by cells, or if there’s an iron shell around the stone, my entire escape attempt may be DOA. In any case, I’ll have to overcome the camera situation. Blacking it out would immediately be noticed, and I have no electronics on my person, so there’s no chance of creating a loop in the feed. I have to assume it’s
monitored, whether on site or remotely, and any disruption or strange behavior will immediately be noticed and addressed.

  My hands are bound, but I’ve got these helpful, almost beautiful shackles. In spite of Melina’s previous assurances, I’m still in my underwear. A glint of something draws my attention downward. I can’t see much without shifting, but I can see my own clavicle, which is where the glint originates. The figure eight necklace Chancery gave me so many years ago rests against my chest. It passed Melina’s rigorous search, apparently deemed unimportant.

  Mother’s gone, and now Chancery thinks I’ve fled. She probably assumes I’m plotting against her. A tear leaks from one eye and drops to the dusty yellowish stone underneath me. I hold my heart rate steady somehow, but barely. It feels like it’s breaking right here, in this empty, depressing cell. My sister trusted me, loved me, in spite of all that I’ve done. She forgave me, even though I never apologized. She brought me a gift pledging we’d be together forever, friends and allies, and I poisoned her for it. Over and over again I spurned her attempts to make peace with me. There’s no search party coming, and I have only myself to blame.

  Maybe I deserve to die here. If Melina’s right that my death would bring Chancery and Alamecha the best chance at peace, I should lay down and let her kill me. I could even confirm her suspicions and set her mind at ease. But I’m too selfish to roll over and give up. I like living too much.

  An image springs to my mind of the air vent and the speaker. The ceiling was stone as well, but those two things require incursions in the stone. Maybe there’s something I can do with that. . .

  My stomach growls and I think about how long it’s been since I last ate. Evian bodies can heal most anything, but they need nourishment to do it. I need to replenish, or before long I’ll be healing as slowly as a human. Well, not that pathetic, but closer than I care to admit.

  A sliding sound behind me startles me and I flinch. A scraping sound follows. I sit up slowly, pretending the noise woke me. Another sliding sound before I can even spin all the way around. A silver tray rests on the floor with four bowls and a liter of water in a plastic container on top of it. The smell of some kind of beef stew, bread, chunks of cheese, and grilled vegetables fills my scent receptors and I practically moan.

  Get it together Judica. I scrabble toward it pathetically, my shackled hands reaching for the bowl instinctively. No utensils on the tray, but I can drink stew. I bring the bowl to my mouth, but something hits me oddly. I look at the stew and sniff deeply. Beef chunks, gravy, potatoes, carrots, rice, celery, onions, and something else I can’t pinpoint. What is it? A slight tang of solvent. Think, Judica, think. What smells like solvent? It’s faint, so faint, but it’s there.

  Gamma-Hydroxybutyrate.

  I swear under my breath. I’m starving. I need food. But if I eat this, I’ll pass out again. They’re counting on me needing the food badly enough to accept it, or they’re hoping I’m not well-trained enough to spot their crap. But Mother prepared me too well to be fooled by this.

  And if I delay my escape much longer, I’ll grow weak enough that I can’t succeed. I need to act now.

  The weight in my hand tells me something I wouldn’t have otherwise believed. The idiots sent me metal bowls. I dump the cheese out of the smallest bowl and into the stew bowl where it will melt. Then I carry the empty bowl to the very front of the room, mostly out of sight of the camera. I glance at the ceiling from my periphery. I’ll only have one shot at this. I smash the bowl against the stone floor under my cuffs repeatedly until it’s flattened and then I use the now flat metal to pry out a stone. Then another. I continue to pry frantically for a few minutes. I have a nice pile of rocks and a small hole dug when I hear a scuffle outside my door. I fly across the room and grab my stew, hurling the melted cheese blob at the camera. It hooks over the top, covering it entirely. So far, so good.

  Now or never. I leap at the ceiling, hands extended, fingers scrabbling at the air vent and the speaker circle. I don’t get a good enough grip to support myself, but I shift the metal cover on the air vent and dent the speaker box before I slam back to the ground, twisting my ankle badly when I land. I focus all my energy on my ankle, healing it as much as I can, but I don’t repair all the damage. No time, not with me half-starved. The door latch grinds and I fling myself back into the air, my fingers slamming with every ounce of force I can muster into the vent and the speaker cover.

  My nails shatter, my skin tears, and two fingers break, but I dig my broken hands around the edges of the speaker hole, twisting into the tangle of wires inside. My hands and arms shake with the strain of holding the rest of my body against the ceiling with so little tension. My core muscles shake, my legs wobble, and my thighs cramp, but it works. I’m suspended from the ceiling, outside of their range of view.

  The door slides open and two men walk inside, both holding guns. They aren’t tranq guns, not this time. They walk straight toward my pathetic twelve-inch hole, just like I hoped they would. It’s directly beneath me.

  This part I can do, this I was made for.

  I drop down on them, landing directly on top of one and startling the other. I fracture my arm in the process, but luckily it’s just my left. The guard who breaks my fall has a knife in his leg sheath. Idiot. I wrap the chain connecting my wrists around his throat and use my toes to relieve him of his conveniently accessible knife. I toss it in the air and snag it with my unbroken right hand. Then I whip it around and slice his throat. He flops around on the ground melodramatically, hands flailing. He’d do better focusing his energy on healing the damage instead of trying to attract attention. If he thrashes too much, he might actually lose too much blood and die.

  Unfortunately, this idiot wasn’t the only one who entered my cell. The other guard lifts his gun and fires, punching me in the shoulder with a hollow tip round at point blank range. I grit my teeth and breathe through the pain, not diverting resources to try and heal it, not yet. Shoulder wounds aren’t deadly. I throw the knife at his throat, punching through into his spine. He stumbles back, and I rush him, yanking it out and slashing both eyes.

  I probably should have severed his spine or removed his head, but that’s messy and time consuming with a six-inch knife. Besides, healing eyeballs, from what I hear, is one of the most painful and time consuming processes our body can complete. He’ll be occupied with that for at least an hour. I try not to relish the sound of the guard’s screams. I shouldn’t revel in defeating my enemies, but we all have our flaws. I take the gun from his weak fingers and tuck it into the waistband of my underwear. I really need some clothing, but I don’t dare slow down to try and take any blood-stained shirts or pants from the guards.

  Besides, I couldn’t get anything over my handcuffs even if I did.

  I snag the keycard from the blind guard and tuck it under the shoulder strap of my bra. Then I set the knife on the ground so I can pat down the other guard until I find his card too. Can’t have them healing quick and following me out the door. I hold the knife in my teeth and I limp toward the door, ignoring the jabs from my sprained ankle. I don’t even bother using my left arm, knowing the hole that hollow point punched through my shoulder will take forever to heal in my current state. My fractured arm shoots bolts of pain up into my shoulder, and my broken fingers complain, but it’s minor compared to the pulsing pain of an open gunshot wound.

  Healing slowly blows.

  I scan the plate on the wall with one of the keycards. The door slides open with a chime just as the cheese falls off the camera and schlops to the floor. I blow Melina a kiss and step outside of my cell, tucking the keycard back into my bra strap and tossing the knife back into my right hand.

  I expect a beehive of activity. I expect guns pointed at my head, or poison gas grenades.

  I do not expect to be standing in a relatively dilapidated shed. Good grief. The light is so low that I blink repeatedly to help my eyes adjust, and then marvel at the lack of security outside of my stone r
oom. A small door leads to the sterile gray room where I assume Melina stood earlier. A variety of gardening tools clutter up the space around me. I look around frantically for something to get me out of these cuffs, and notice rat droppings in the corner.

  I’m embarrassed for my sister, and I like my chances at escape if this is her holding facility.

  I don’t see anything likely to remove these cuffs, but at least there’s a black shirt hanging on a hook. The name on the label on the front reads Diana, and it smells like turpentine and mold, but it’s better than naked. I think. I tug it on over my head with thick, slow fingers, and then tear the sides of the shirt so they can drape down over my arms around the stupid cuffs. I try half-heartedly to knot the sides, but it’s too hard. Tattered rags to cover my underwear? Better than nothing.

  I focus on healing the bloody mess of my shoulder next, working on the musculature one section at a time. The harder I push, the dizzier I become, but the skin finally closes over the hole, and I rotate my shoulder up and down in small circles. Gah, that was the slowest I’ve ever healed in my life. I grit my teeth and flex my hand. Yep, forearm’s still fractured. I close my eyes and shove at my cells, flogging them into doing their job, one tiny cellular regeneration at a time.

  When I put weight on my right ankle, wonder of wonders, it has actually already healed on its own. My fingers are swollen, but clearly improving as well. Next up on my list of short term wants: pants. With the luck I’ve had today, when I find some, they’ll probably be covered in maggots.

  When I duck outside of the shed, I look around slowly, cool air pebbling the skin on my legs. It’s dark outside, and stars wink at me from the sky above. The shed is set in the back corner of a large yard, probably at least two full acres. A white limestone wall six feet tall circles the outer perimeter, but the main house is a sprawling stucco mansion that rises three floors high. Light spills over the manicured back lawn from a row of seven or eight foot tall picture windows across the back on the first floor. I duck behind a plumbago bush and listen for anyone near me. I can’t hear anyone else.