SERPENTI (The Royals Book 2)

by Brooke Sivendra

  “Your Majesty,” one said with a nod.

  Asher nodded in return, but he didn’t care for pleasantries right now. He wanted to see his mother.

  Her eyes landed on him as soon as he stepped inside.

  Asher rushed toward her and kissed her forehead. “I’m so glad you’re awake,” he said.

  She balled his T-shirt in her fist as her body began to shake. “They said . . . they said he didn’t . . . make . . . it.”

  Asher drew her in, providing the only comfort he could. She’d fought to wake up, and she’d woken up in hell. He wrapped his arms around her. “He didn’t, but we have each other. We’ll get through this together,” he said, remembering the words they’d spoken before Noah’s funeral. Now, his words felt empty.

  Her sobs shook her body, and tears slid down his cheeks.

  Asher didn’t know how long they sat like that, but they both needed it.

  Her voice was a wheeze when she spoke. “Are you okay?” she asked, lifting her head to look over him.

  “No,” Asher said. “But I’m alive, and Santina hasn’t fallen in the past few days.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her gaze drifted off to the right, like she was trying to recall something. “I think you need to call Colonel Stevens.”

  Asher paused. “What?”

  “I don’t know . . . I woke up thinking of him, and I feel like he’s important, but I don’t know why,” she said, sounding tired.

  Asher turned his mother’s face back to him. “Did Father say something in the car that day?”

  She paused, seeming to think it through. “I don’t know. But I think you should call him.”

  Asher didn’t know if now was the time to tell her, but when would be a good time to tell her?

  “Mom, we think he was murdered last night,” Asher said gently.

  Her eyes doubled in size, and she reached for her throat. “I’m supposed to remember something, Asher, but I can’t. It’s right there, but I can’t grab it.”

  He squeezed her hands. “It’s okay, it’ll come to you. You just woke up. You need to rest,” he said, but really he needed her to remember.

  She suddenly looked back to him. “Where is Alistair?”

  “Home,” Asher said. Detained—but he didn’t tell her that.

  “Don’t let him in here,” she said with glistening eyes. “I don’t want him here.”

  “Why?” Asher asked. What did his mother know about Alistair that he didn’t?

  She looked straight at him. “He killed him.”

  Asher sat back. He knew Alistair hadn’t pulled the trigger because he’d been with Asher when the attack had taken place.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They said . . .” Her eyes filled with pain and she closed them. “It’s the last thing I remember . . .” She opened her eyes slowly, anger filling them before she took a deep breath. “One of them said, ‘Alistair said to tell you he’s sorry.’”

  Asher pulled his mother into his chest as he fought to breathe. He’d known Alistair wasn’t clean, but he’d always hoped it was a drug deal gone bad or something else that had forced his involvement. What kind of person organizes the murder of their own parents?

  “I’ll take care of this,” Asher said, his voice low and guttural. “I’m going to make this right.”

  His mother sobbed in his arms. “It was the first time I’d ever seen your father truly scared . . .” Her voice trailed off, muffled by Asher’s chest.

  Asher shook his head furiously as tears ran down his cheeks. “You did nothing to deserve this. You were better parents than we could’ve asked for. Something is very wrong with Alistair.”

  An image of Alistair as a child flashed in his mind. Where had things gone so wrong?

  She inhaled a shaky breath and straightened, wiping away her tears. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have . . .”

  Her mask was back on, but Asher didn’t want to see a composed queen—he wanted to see his mother.

  “Mom,” he said, taking her hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t push me out. We’ll get through this together. We stick together,” Asher said. Because we’re all that’s left.

  She gave a small nod.

  “Emma Bennett has been here,” Asher said, hoping the news would give his mother some comfort. “She’s been taking turns sitting with you. She’ll be very happy to see you awake.”

  Emilia’s voice was a whisper. “I thought I’d dreamt that.”

  “No, she’s been right by your side,” Asher said, and his mother began to sob again. This time they were tears of joy, or at least relief, he assumed.

  “It’s the saddest thing about our world . . . It takes a tragedy for us humans to remember what’s important,” she said, sounding far away as she looked to the small window. “And we usually remember too late. One of your father’s best qualities was his ability to live in the present. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t worry about the future. He focused on the present and the people he loved.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Asher turned and called out, “Come in.”

  A door opened to reveal Emma Bennett standing beside Jesse. She took one look at them and shook her head. “I’m sorry—I’ll come back.”

  Asher shook his head. “No, please come in. I need to attend to a few things,” he said, standing. He kissed his mother’s forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”

  A security guard stepped inside with Emma Bennett and Asher stole a look over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. He saw his mother and her best friend embrace with tears streaming down their cheeks.

  “I want to see Alistair,” Asher said.

  Alistair

  Alistair turned on the faucet and let the water run. His gaze lifted to the ceiling, looking for cameras. He couldn’t lose his security team no matter how hard he tried—and he had. They were like shadows, and they weren’t the only shadows Alistair had.

  He kneeled on the tiled floor and slowly opened the vanity doors. If they’d found this phone, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He examined the contents of the cabinet, but everything looked to be in order. He’d strategically placed several items on angles, and he knew looking at them now that they hadn’t been moved. He pushed them aside quickly and unscrewed the plastic ring that connected two pieces of piping for the second basin. Alistair grunted under his breath. Why was it so tight? He needed a tool, but he could hardly get his hands on one without security noticing. He wiped the sweat off his brow. He was on the edge and he needed another hit. He needed it soon, or all pretenses that he’d stopped using would be over.

  He pulled his sleeve over his hand and tried again. It moved a fraction. Alistair gave it one last turn and, finally, it opened. He spun the ring loose and it dropped down, opening up the pipes. He contorted his fingers, reaching until he felt the thin plastic bag. He yanked it loose with another grunt. His eyes darted to the door—it was locked and it couldn’t be opened from the outside, but he didn’t think security would hesitate to kick it in if they thought he was up to something.

  He moved fast, opening the ziplock bag full of powder and a burner phone. He grabbed the small spoon from the bag and took a hit. The hot burn through his nostrils and the acrid residue in his throat made him feel better instantly. He took a small dose, enough but not too much that someone would notice he was high. He’d been a functioning addict for years—much longer than anyone realized.

  He could think again.

  He grabbed the phone and checked his messages. There were seventeen of them, and they were all from the same sender.

  A bang on the door made him jump and he almost threw the phone.

  “Alistair, come on!”

  Alistair’s heart was in his throat. With shaky hands, he opened the last message.

  Keep your mouth shut, or he dies.

  Alistair’s mouth went dry. It wasn’t a false threat. Last time he’d ignored it, his parents had been targeted.

  He typed a quick respo
nse:

  My lips are sealed. Fuck off.

  He turned off the phone and put it back in the bag with his remaining supply. He only had a month at best, so that gave him a few weeks to figure out how to get another bag without Jesse finding out.

  He grabbed the soap box which concealed a roll of tape. His eyes darted between the door and the bag in his hands. He taped the bag to the pipe, put the soap box back on a strategic angle he’d remember, and then closed it as a loud bang came from the door.

  Alistair opened it to see Jesse standing there, his fist ready to break down the door. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said everything. Jesse knew Alistair was up to something.

  “Everything all right?” Jesse asked, his gaze boring into Alistair.

  It took everything not to flinch. He’d never been more thankful for the hit he’d taken a few seconds ago—it was keeping him calm.

  “Fine,” Alistair responded. “I felt sick. I needed to splash some water on my face.”

  Jesse nodded and stepped aside, motioning for Alistair to leave the bathroom.

  Alistair couldn’t take a piss without permission.

  He rolled his eyes at Jesse but moved along. He’d done what he’d needed to and bought himself another few days.

  He went outside, needing some fresh air. The Santinian sun beamed down, warming his cold soul. He felt cold all the time now. At first he’d thought it was just a withdrawal symptom, and it likely was in part; he wasn’t clean, but he’d significantly reduced how much he’d been using, though not by choice. He knew it was also more than that, though—his soul was cold to the core. He was dead inside, and he was nothing more than a functioning corpse.

  He heard someone talking and knew it was Asher. Alistair turned and walked in the opposite direction. He had no desire to see his brother, or Abigail Bennett.

  He looked over his shoulder to see a full security team behind him. There were a few new faces, but Alistair didn’t give that much more thought. Jesse was pulling out all the stops to keep King Asher alive so Alistair had expected security to tighten. He was glad it had. If they were watching Alistair, it would also keep him safe. He’d been looking over his shoulder for the past twelve months and that fear had taken its toll. Everyone wondered why he’d spiraled out of control, but the answer was simple: fear.

  He still remembered the night he’d racked up enough lines to overdose. He’d thought that a better alternative than living in constant fear. If he’d known how the following six months would turn out, he would’ve done it. Of course, the drugs only made him more paranoid, but Alistair had every reason to be paranoid in the first place.

  “Alistair! Alistair!”

  Alistair stopped, slowly turning to face his brother. The King. His face remained impassive, but his blood boiled. Asher was a mirror of everything Alistair should’ve been.

  “Your Majesty,” Alistair said, his words drowning in contempt.

  To Asher’s credit, he ignored it.

  “Mother is awake,” Asher said.

  “When?” Alistair asked quickly.

  “This morning. I just got home from the hospital,” Asher said.

  So his brother had been and gone, and only now he thought to tell Alistair their mother was awake. Alistair didn’t know why he was surprised.

  “How is she?” he asked, uneasy. He felt itchy and nauseous.

  Asher’s eyes hardened. “She has some memory loss, but otherwise she’s doing as well as can be expected.”

  “Good,” Alistair said. “That’s good.”

  Asher scrutinized him, like he was searching for the secrets he knew Alistair was hiding. But Asher had no idea. None at all.

  A long pause followed.

  Eventually, Asher said, “She asked not to see you. She said you killed her husband, our father.”

  Alistair’s eyes widened and a wave of nausea rolled through him. “What?” he asked, his voice a gasp. His hand went to his mouth as if he was ready to catch his own vomit, or try to hold it in. That thought incited another wave of nausea.

  Asher’s voice was chilling when he spoke next.

  “Take him,” Asher instructed, and the security team moved in.

  Asher

  “I’m the only brother you have left,” Alistair hissed.

  Those seven words lit a fire of fury in Asher’s chest. He lunged, grabbed an unprepared Alistair by the collar, and smashed his fist into his brother’s nose.

  Pain shot through Asher’s hand and blood sprayed across Alistair’s T-shirt. It took a moment for his brother to recover from the shock—Asher wasn’t normally one to throw punches. He raised his fist for another strike, but Jesse stepped in as two hands grabbed Asher by the waist, pulling him back.

  “Enough!” Jesse warned, with one hand pressed against Alistair’s chest. “Enough,” he repeated.

  Alistair’s eyes blazed and Asher wondered if his brother was as furious as he was, or if it was Asher’s own reflection in his brother’s eyes.

  “What the fuck?!” Alistair swore as he brushed a hand across his cheek, smearing the blood.

  “And whose fault is it that Noah is dead?” Asher asked, his voice scathing. “Lock him up!” Asher demanded as he stormed away, noting his own T-shirt had been sprayed with blood.

  Jesse was right beside him like a shadow he couldn’t lose as Asher went to his living quarters and found another shirt.

  “You need to cool off,” Jesse said calmly.

  “He deserved it,” Asher said, aware he sounded like a petulant child.

  “Agreed, which is why I didn’t stop you. But now that’s out of your system, we need to talk about what happens next,” Jesse said.

  “Put him in prison where he belongs. Death is too good for him,” Asher said, his anger like a hot iron rod searing his throat.

  “Or, perhaps we should convince him to talk so we can actually find out what happened. Alistair didn’t do this alone,” Jesse said, obviously thinking much more clearly than Asher.

  Asher sighed as he balled up his ruined shirt and threw it in the laundry hamper. “What do you suggest?”

  “Interrogation. He needs to be motivated to talk, because he’s not going to incriminate himself willingly,” Jesse said.

  “Do it. I want it done today. Now,” Asher said. He couldn’t live like this—in constant fear, always looking over his shoulder.

  Jesse nodded. “I’ll do it myself.”

  Asher pressed his palms against the wall. He needed to think straight, needed to think like a king, but all he could see was red.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back to the ceiling. He’d broken Alistair’s nose for sure—he’d heard the bone crunching as his fist connected with it.

  He looked over his stained knuckles and went to the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands. The basin turned red.

  Asher sighed as he looked in the mirror. Shadows lined his eyes and he was surprised his hair hadn’t turned gray.

  Asher changed into a fresh shirt and nodded to Jesse’s replacement. “I want to watch,” Asher said.

  Asher stared at the television screen on the wall in his office. Alistair was seated in a chair with his limbs bound, dried blood trailing from his nose to his lip.

  Even from where Asher sat, the look Alistair gave Jesse was chilling.

  “You’ve been implicated in the murder of Noah and your father, the attempted murder of your mother, and aiding in the abduction of Abigail Bennett. If you want to live to see tomorrow, make this easy for yourself.”

  Alistair scoffed.

  “The problem is, you see me as Jesse,” Jesse said, his voice low. “And that’s a mistake. Right now, I’m not the man you know. I’m a man who’s angry and grieving—a man who’s prepared to do whatever needs to be done to bring the King’s killer to justice.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Alistair said with hard eyes.

  Jesse paused, and then slammed a knife into Alistair’s hand. He bucked, throwing
his head back and howling.

  Asher grimaced but didn’t look away.

  “I don’t think I am,” Jesse said, turning the knife.

  Alistair ground his teeth together, sucking in a violent breath. “Fuck you!”

  Asher couldn’t see Jesse’s face but he saw the tightening of his shoulders.

  A moment passed, and then Jesse moved so fast Asher almost missed it—but the damage he did was unmistakable.

  A red line parted the flesh of Alistair’s cheek and blood fell from the wound like a red waterfall. It dripped onto the floor.

  “Whatever you think you know,” Alistair said, breathless, “you don’t. I didn’t kill my father, and I didn’t kill Noah.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Jesse said without hesitation. “Make me. Tell me what you know, because there’s a lot more to you than the reckless, party-animal version of Alistair you’ve been putting on display.”

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Really? My father thought otherwise.”

  “You gave your father no choice,” Jesse said matter-of-factly. His voice was unusually cold. Emotionless. It gave Asher the chills, and he hoped it was beginning to break down Alistair’s walls.

  “He saw what he wanted to see. Everyone did—King Asher included,” Alistair said bitterly.

  “What did you want them to see?” Jesse asked, his voice a little warmer.

  “That I needed help. But what did I get instead? Criticism,” Alistair said, his eyes blazing.

  “Help from the drugs?” Jesse asked.

  Asher shifted restlessly. He didn’t care about Alistair and his drug problem—they knew all about that.

  Asher swallowed his frustration like a bitter pill. Interrogation was not his specialty, and he knew better than to step in. He folded his arms over his chest and watched on impatiently.

  “Of course from the drugs,” Alistair said, impatiently. “I’ve been clean for weeks now, and no one has even noticed.”

  “Actually, everyone noticed,” Jesse said. “The problem is your timing. You’ve had a very unusual response to your father’s death. Most people with a drug addiction would spiral further into despair, but you chose this time to pull yourself out of a hole. You’ve shown no signs of grief, or anything else.”