“There’s a first time for everything.”
What a ridiculous sight it must have been: Magnus Damora, son of the King of Blood, brushing a young woman’s hair at her request.
And yet . . .
Whenever Magnus took on a task, he preferred to do so thoroughly, to the fullest extent of his abilities. He applied himself in the same way now as he took up a lock of Cleo’s long, silky hair in his grip and slid the brush down the length of it. The warmth of her hair slid through his fingers, making a pleasant shiver course down his spine.
“You’re right,” he told her, his voice low. “Horribly tangled. Irreparably so, I think.”
He was only teasing her—her hair was perfect, just as it always was—but then he came to the first knot.
She winced. “Ouch.”
“Apologies.” He froze in place, but then frowned. “However, you did ask me to do this.”
“Yes, of course I know that!” She sighed. “Please continue. I’m used to being tortured by my attendants, and they’re used to ignoring my wails of pain. You can’t possibly hurt me any more than they have. Only Nerissa has the skill to do this without pain.”
“Yes, I’ve heard how very skilled Nerissa is,” Magnus said, unable to keep from grinning. Now, having a more complete picture of Cleo’s hair-brushing history, he tackled the task at hand with more determination. “So much hair, so many opportunities for tangles. Why do women bother?”
“Perhaps I should braid it like a Paelsian chieftain?”
“Yes, I imagine that would be a look befitting an Auranian princess, even one forced to wear an ugly cotton dress,” he said drily, not letting on how amused he was by the image. “Every girl in Mytica would want to copy it.” As gently as possible, he worked the brush through another section of hair that currently resembled a pale yellow bird’s nest. “You should know, I mean to claim the bloodstone for myself.”
“I assumed so,” she replied.
That surprised him. “You did?”
She nodded, and the hair slipped out of his hands, covering the tantalizingly bare nape of her neck. “I saw it in your eyes when Selia first mentioned it. It was the same look I saw in your father’s eyes.”
“And what look is that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Magnus put the brush down. Gently, he guided Cleo by the shoulders until she was mostly facing him, then took her chin gently in his hand. “Yes, it does. What look did my father and I share?”
She met his gaze with hers, her expression now wary. “A look of icy greed, like this stone is something you would kill for.”
“I see.”
She searched his face, as if seeking answers there. “In that moment, you looked so cold and so much like your father—I . . . didn’t like it.”
All his life, he’d been told how much he was like his father—in both looks and temperament. Eventually he’d learned to stop fighting those comparisons, though they never ceased to unsettle him.
“I must admit, lately I find I do need to be like my father. There are certain situations that practically require me to be as cold and ruthless as possible. If I were to have shed tears over every life I’ve taken over the last year, I’d have dried to a husk long ago. So, yes. I suppose I am quite like my father in many ways.”
“No.” Cleo shook her head. “That’s impossible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Honestly?” She drew closer to him, cupping his face in her hands. “Because I’ve never wanted to do this to your father.”
She brushed her lips softly against his. A small, tortured groan came from the back of his throat as he forced himself to make fists with his hands at his sides to stop himself from taking hold of her immediately.
“Princess . . .”
“Cleiona . . .” she corrected him, her lips still far too dangerously close to his. “Although, I must admit that I no longer fully appreciate having been given the full name of an immortal who stole and murdered for her power.”
“True leaders often must be ruthless enough to steal and murder. If they don’t, someone else will.”
“A charming philosophy, all too true, I’m afraid. But perhaps we can think of something else for you to call me when we’re alone together.”
He raised a brow. “I’ll consider it.”
“Good.” She bit her bottom lip, drawing his attention back to her mouth. “Now close the door. And lock it.”
“That is a very, very dangerous suggestion.”
“Or leave it open. Perhaps I don’t care.” Cleo kissed him again, parting her lips this time. He found his composure and restraint slipping away with breakneck speed as her tongue slid against his.
“I truly don’t wish to tell you no,” he whispered against her lips.
“Then don’t.”
Magnus groaned again as her hands slipped down his chest and beneath his tunic to slide over his abdomen and chest with no barrier between them. He gripped her waist and pressed her down upon the bed, covering her completely with his body. She was so small, yet so strong, so passionate.
How could this callous world create a creature so beautiful? If her beauty wasn’t a gift from the goddess, it surely had to be a gift from her mother . . .
Suddenly, Magnus jerked upward, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What?” Cleo gasped, her cheeks flushed.
He pushed up to his feet and gathered his cloak. “I need a drink. I’m going to investigate the tavern up the road.”
Cleo lay on his bed, watching him, her hair a half-mussed arrangement of golden curls cascading over her shoulders all the way to her waist.
Utterly, painfully, tempting.
“I understand,” she said quietly.
He was about to leave without another word, but he turned back to face her.
“Before I leave, know this. When the day comes that this curse is broken, I promise you that the door to whatever room we’re in will be locked, and I’ll allow nothing or no one to interrupt us.”
With that, he turned away and left her there, staring back at him.
Yes, he desperately needed a drink.
• • •
“Wine,” Magnus grunted at the barkeep as he entered the shabby but lively tavern known as the Purple Vine. He slid several coins across the bar. “Make sure you refill my glass whenever you see it empty,” he said. “And no conversation.”
The barkeep smirked, then greedily swept the coins off the counter and into a ratty old purse. “Very well.”
The barkeep did as Magnus requested and paid much attention to the level of liquid in his cup. As Magnus drank gulp after gulp of the sweet Paelsian wine, the night began to look much brighter. The last time he’d tasted wine, he’d returned to the Limerian palace to find his wife making a speech. She was soon interrupted by enemies who barely let him escape with his life. After that experience, he’d considered completely swearing off the drink.
Cleo’s visit to his room tonight had certainly made him revoke that vow.
“Our entertainment might put you in a better mood, friend,” the barkeep said, despite Magnus’s request for silence. Magnus was about to reproach him when the barkeep made a nodding gesture toward the middle of the tavern. “I promise you that the Goddess of Serpents is rather a spectacular sight to behold.”
Goddess of Serpents? Magnus rolled his eyes and pointed at his glass. “More.”
Someone on the other side of the huge tavern hushed the boisterous crowd as the barkeep poured more wine into Magnus’s cup.
“All will worship at the feet of our resident beauty!” the man across the room called out. “Bow before her incredible power. And welcome the Goddess of Serpents!”
The crowd responded with great hoots and hollers as a young, dark-haired woman, scarcely clothe
d, with a large white snake draped around her neck, appeared on a small stage. Next to the stage was a trio of musicians who began to play an exotic tune that sounded more savage than intoxicating to Magnus. As the music began its first crescendo, the young woman began to writhe about in what might be considered by some to be a dance, but to Magnus it looked more like the solicitations of a courtesan.
He drained his glass, uncertain how many times he’d done so since arriving. It didn’t matter. Not now, when things seemed so much better to him than they had earlier, when desire for Cleo had nearly blinded him to its dangers.
Perhaps they should share a room, he thought now as a he watched this strange woman twist her way across the stage. Perhaps seeking an elixir to prevent pregnancy would be sufficient protection.
Or perhaps he should focus on the fact that his kingdom had been stolen, his father was near death with his grandmother wishing to save him with a magic rock, his sister was aligned with a man focused on burning his way through Mytica, and Cleo had a deadly curse upon her. The fact that he was slowly going mad with desire for his wife truly was the least of his concerns.
Suddenly, something caught his eye: a flash of red hair. Now that shade of hair was possibly a rarer sight than Cleo’s in Paelsia. He couldn’t help but be reminded of Nicolo Cassian, the only person he’d ever met with hair that unfortunate color.
Magnus chuckled into his wine at the thought. No, Nic likely was still safely—or not so safely, Magnus really didn’t care either way—over in Kraeshia, the idiot having volunteered to join Jonas on his failed mission to kill the king.
He turned his attention again to the Goddess of Serpents. Just as he thought he was starting to understand the rhythm of her movements, she paused, waving at the musicians to stop playing.
“Is it you?” she asked, the room now silent. She was clearly addressing someone specific, but Magnus couldn’t see him from his seat at the bar. All he could see was the growing excitement on the dancer’s painted face as her expression grew more certain. “Jonas!” she called now with more confidence. “Jonas, is that really you? My darling, I thought you were dead!”
Jonas?
Another odd coincidence—must be.
The snake dancer stepped down from the stage and into the tavern crowd, from which she pulled a young, dark-haired man. Magnus froze. He craned his neck, trying to see around the heads of other patrons. The dancer threw her arms around the young man, twirling around in her visitor’s embrace until he faced in Magnus’s direction.
Shocked and open-mouthed, Magnus stared at the sight before him.
It was Jonas Agallon. Here, in the very same tavern as Magnus.
“What are the odds?” spoke a familiar voice next to him, articulating his very thoughts.
A wave of displeasure washed over Magnus even before he turned to discover what he already knew: that red-headed Nicolo Cassian now stood directly beside him. “You.”
Nic poked him in the shoulder, letting out a bark of a laugh as a splash of ale spilled over the edge of his large tankard. “It seems as though fate is finally kicking you in the arse, don’t you think, your highness? And I’m more than happy to bear witness to it.”
“Your visit to Kraeshia did nothing to diminish your charm, I see,” Magnus said, dismayed that he drunkenly slurred his words every bit as much as Nic did.
Nic smiled, but his unfocused eyes held no humor at all. “Prince Magnus Damora, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine.”
Annoyed at the use of his name in a public venue, Magnus turned, expecting to see some lowly rebel or another. But instead he was met with a face he saw only in his nightmares.
“Theon Ranus,” he managed. The pleasant, tingling warmth of the wine he’d consumed disappeared in an instant, leaving him utterly, devastatingly cold as he faced this apparition.
“You’re mistaken,” said the young man, a dead ringer for the first person Magnus ever killed. With cold eyes filled with nothing but single-minded hatred, he pulled out a knife and held it to Magnus’s throat. “I’m his brother, you son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER 13
CLEO
PAELSIA
“Where are you going, princess?”
The words halted her at the main door of the Hawk and Spear Inn. Cleo looked over her shoulder to see Enzo standing in the shadows behind her.
“I’m going to the tavern at the end of the road,” she said. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“It’s late.”
“And . . . ?”
Enzo straightened his shoulders. “I think it’s best that you stay here, where it’s safe, princess.”
“I appreciate your opinion, but I disagree. Magnus is there, and I’m surprised and rather dismayed that you didn’t go with him. What if he’s recognized?”
“The prince made it very clear to me that my sole duty is to ensure your safety, princess.”
She blinked rapidly, as if trying to wink away her surprise at this interesting revelation. “Really. Well, that makes things much simpler. You will come with me to fetch the prince and ensure that neither of us are put in harm’s way.”
She allowed him no time to argue as she turned and exited the inn, leaving the door open behind her for Enzo to follow and pulling up the hood of her cloak to cover her hair and shield her face.
Enzo trailed close behind her without further argument as she eyed the people on the street, the carriages moving past, the sound of horse hooves clopping against the gravel road. She followed the sound of drunken laughter and music toward the tavern that surely had to be Magnus’s destination. Above the large wooden doors was a bronze sculpture of a bunch of grapes on a vine.
She read the sign. “The Purple Vine. How appropriate a name for a tavern in Paelsia. And how deeply uninspired.”
The prince was so drawn to the taste of wine that he didn’t care what would happen if anyone recognized his royal face. He loved to drink so much that he was willing to risk getting killed in the midst of a stormy brew of Paelsians. And what a truly stupid way to die that would be, she thought.
“I’ve heard of this place,” Enzo said, looking up at the entrance. “Nerissa once worked here as a barmaid.”
She raised a brow at him. “Really?”
He nodded. “She said it was an interesting experience.”
“I had no idea she’d lived in Paelsia.”
“She’s lived everywhere, it seems. So unlike me, who has never ventured beyond Limeros until now. How boring she must find me.”
“I assure you she finds you anything but boring.” To hear Enzo speak of her friend made Cleo’s heart ache. She had no doubt Nerissa could look after herself, better than any other girl—and possibly boy—she’d ever known, but . . . Cleo couldn’t help but worry for her safety. She hated the thought that she might be in danger while being forced to work close to Amara.
Cleo took a deep breath as she and Enzo pushed through the front doors. Inside the tavern were at least two hundred smelly, dirty patrons.
She scanned the faces, searching for Magnus in the crowd.
This tavern was unlike anything she’d experienced during her two previous visits to Paelsia. Her knowledge of the area was limited to poor markets, decrepit villages, and wide expanses of wasteland.
And the locked sheds of angry, vengeful rebels, she reminded herself.
This place, despite its rather rough and shabby interior, looked like it could exist in Hawk’s Brow, the largest city in Auranos. Lighting the large room were dozens upon dozens of candles and lanterns set up along the bar and tables. Hanging on the high ceiling above were several large wooden wheels, each one set with candles on the spokes. The floors were nothing more than hard-packed earth; the tables and chairs were made of roughly chiseled wood.
To Cleo’s left was a small stage upon which a young woman with black
hair and golden streaks painted upon her tanned skin writhed around rather explicitly. Around her neck was a large white boa constrictor, the likes of which Cleo had only ever seen in illustrated books.
“Enzo, please, just help me look for Magnus. Start with the areas with the most wine.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Cleo drew the hood of her cloak closer to cover her hair and tried to ignore the leering glances of many of the brutish-looking men who passed her. When she felt someone cup her buttocks from behind, she spun around to punch the offender, but her swinging fist connected only with air.
Furious, she tried to spot whoever had touched her in the crowd, but she froze in place when she heard a familiar name shouted out.
“Jonas!” It was the painted snake-woman, pausing her performance to run to a young man in the audience. “Jonas, is that really you?”
Cleo, eyes wide, looked toward the stage.
Jonas had returned from Kraeshia. And of all the places in Mytica he could have turned up, he was here!
How could this be?
She turned to look at Enzo, but another face caught her attention instead. A young man strode through the crowd, moving in opposition to the sea of faces turned toward the stage
Bronze hair, tanned skin, tall, and leanly muscled . . .
All she could do was stare, certain that her eyes deceived her.
“Theon,” she whispered, the name catching in her throat.
The memory slammed into her then of a moment when everything seemed clear—she loved him, and nothing else mattered. Not his station, not the disapproval of her father, not the stern look that Theon had given her before he kissed her, tinged with fear at the thought that he’d lost her forever.
And then the sound of hoof beats when Magnus and his soldiers arrived.
The pride in her heart as Theon faced Magnus’s men and won.
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