Mona Lisa Craving m-3

by Sunny

  “Soon,” he promised, and left.

  NINE

  TO OCCUPY MYSELF, and because I had skirted my duties as Queen long enough, I spent the next five hours with Rosemary, trailing behind her, learning not just her routine but that of the other various staff she introduced me to. We went over the household accounts. Then, even more tediously, and therefore good penance serving, we went over her first love, the kitchen, an empire unto its own.

  Rosemary was delighted with my interest, the first time I had shown any, and enthusiastically flooded me with details. As big and as intimidating as her physical self was, inside she was a warm and caring person who ruled over her domain with a blunt tongue and a benevolent iron hand. Belle Vista sparkled under her care, from the spotless mantel in the dining room to the huge chandelier dominating the foyer, all two hundred dangling crystals gleaming with proud and pristine glitter.

  “You’ve done a wonderful job, Rosemary. Thank you for stepping in like you did. I wouldn’t have known what to do without you.”

  Rosemary waved her hands dismissively. “Mostly a matter of training good staff.”

  “And seeing to a thousand details, and making a million important decisions. You’ve made this a wonderful home for us all.”

  “Thank you, milady. But you are the heart of it, around which we all gather.”

  Her words panged me. Brought tears to my eyes. “Oh, Rosemary. I’ve been a lousy heart.” Sadness and guilt over Amber swamped me—how I kept him apart from me. More guilt over how I had neglected everything and everyone these past several weeks…with not one word of complaint uttered from my people.

  “You’ve a grand heart, milady. It is a privilege for me and my children to serve you.”

  At the mention of Jamie and Tersa, concern for them snaked into me. I gripped the hands of the woman who had spread her love so generously in a blanket that enveloped not just her own Mixed Blood children but the young Mixed Blood Queen she had taken under her wing as well. She’d been more of a mother to me in the short time I’d known her than my real one would ever be.

  “Things are changing, Rosemary. Beyond what I can control.”

  “That is the nature of life, ever changing,” Rosemary said with kindly wisdom.

  “Where are Jamie and Tersa?”

  “I sent Tersa with a couple of girls to help settle Healer Hannah and her family into the house down the road. Jamie is outside working on the lawn.”

  “I thought they were studying for their GED.”

  “They sat for it last month. The results should be in soon.”

  Life had continued on around me, it seemed. I was glad. “And college?”

  “They’ve applied to several local ones.”

  “What did they list as their previous education?” I asked, curious because there was no formal schooling among the Monère—not enough children for that. Jamie and Tersa had been tutored at High Court by a Learned One in reading, writing, and basic math.

  “Home study. ’Twas what your brother, Thaddeus, advised. He and Aquila procured all the records and recommendations needed. Very resourceful, the two of them are,” said the former cook with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Thaddeus and Aquila, my unofficial business managers. They were slotted next for a visit. But that was for another night. I’d tortured myself enough already tonight. On to another part of my Queenly duties. A much more fun part.

  “The guards will begin their training practice soon. I’d like you, Jamie, and Tersa to come watch it with me.”

  “Now why ever would you want us to be doing that?” Rosemary asked, resting her big hands on her ample hips.

  “Hannah’s husband is setting up a self-defense school in the local community.”

  “Among humans?” she asked, eyebrows rising high on her ruddy face.

  “Uh-huh. That’s how they made their living before. Once Nolan gets his school up and running, I’d like Jamie and Tersa to train there with him. You have to see how well Nolan and his sons fight. They’re incredible.”

  “Milady, Jamie and Tersa have already been taught some basic knife work by Chami, and a good teacher he’s been to them. But my children are Mixed Bloods. Their strength will never be more than human strong, and my Jamie is never going to be a guard. I do not see the use in more training.”

  “Nolan doesn’t just teach self-defense. He also instructs in weapons training. Guns,” I told her. “Guns are a good equalizer for those with lesser strength. I need to know that Jamie and Tersa can protect themselves.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that sooner,” Rosemary said. “Learning how to shoot a gun sounds like a grand idea, milady.”

  TEN

  EVEN WITH ROSEMARY, Jamie, and Tersa accompanying me, I felt awkward. Like a stranger intruding. It was a feeling that grew even heavier as we made our way onto the practice grounds, the same circle where, once a month when the moon rode full and high in the midnight sky, all my people gathered to Bask.

  Men were scattered around, stretching, conversing, sharpening their weapons. I glimpsed Nolan and his sons, and the familiar faces of Dontaine, Chami, Tomas, and Aquila. The rest of them, however, were strangers to me. Their easy chatter died away as the men became aware of us.

  What an odd lot we must have looked, a Mixed Blood Queen accompanied by her Mixed Blood waifs. Rosemary was the only Full Blood among us.

  “I hope you weren’t waiting for us,” I said as Dontaine came forward to greet us.

  “Not at all.” Catching my hand in a courtly gesture, he placed it upon his arm, and led me into the woodland clearing with as much pride and formality as if we were being presented at High Court.

  “The men are just warming up,” Dontaine said. “They’re excited, knowing that you would be here tonight, watching them.”

  If they were excited, they did not show it. A sea of male faces—there must have been over a hundred of them—turned to us. Hushed silence rang the air. It was as if the silent echoes of an unheard bell had tolled, calling them to attention. As if now that the Queen and her civilian entourage had arrived, all the guards had to watch what they said and did. Gone was the easy camaraderie with which they had spoken and interacted, vanished completely like smoke whisked away by a strong wind.

  I swallowed. Gestured toward them. “Continue on, please.”

  They simply stared back at me, unmoving. Making me wonder if I shouldn’t have said, “At ease, men,” instead. Maybe they would have understood that better.

  “This is Rufus, my drill master,” Dontaine said, stopping before a short, barrel-chested man with hair gone completely gray, denoting his advanced age, over two hundred years old—that was when our hair started to whiten. His was a face I remembered seeing the night they had come to my rescue after I had been captured by Mona Louisa, the former blond bitch ruler here. She hadn’t been too thrilled with me taking over her territory, and had tried to get it back by eliminating me.

  “I remember you.” With a pleased smile, I took the drill master’s hand, clasping it with gratitude. The gesture seemed to surprise him. “You and your men helped rescue Prince Halcyon and me. I never got the chance to thank you for it afterward.”

  Rufus blushed beet-red. Slipping his hand from mine, he mumbled, “’Twas my duty and honor, milady.”

  I smiled. “An awkward one, I imagine. Having to save your new Queen from your old Queen.”

  Someone snickered, and like that, the easiness of the night was restored. The men moved about, making quips and snide comments about those who had fought that night. And how well or how lousy each had fared.

  “Skewered like a kebab” was one comment that floated to my ear. I didn’t know if the man was referring to himself or to his opponent.

  Rufus nodded to me with an appreciative light in his eyes that seemed to say, Well done, milady.

  Turning to his men, he called out, “All right, you lazy louts. Fall into your drill groups. I want the new lads with the other boys. Nolan, I’m putting
you with the senior group.”

  The men fell into three formations shaped much like a whale—smaller at the head and tail. The end groups consisted of the young boys and senior warriors, respectively, with the bloated middle group being the largest: warriors older than the teenage boys in the first group, but younger and less seasoned than the senior group, which was comprised entirely of my contribution of men—Chami, Aquila, Tomas, and Nolan. The power emanating from the four of them was richer, stronger, like the heady scent of sweet wine squeezed from grapes fully ripened and matured. Without my additions, Dontaine and Rufus would have been the only two powerful warriors here. Two to my four. And that was without counting my two strongest, my Warrior Lords—Gryphon, who had become demon dead, and Amber, who ruled my Mississippi slice.

  No wonder some of the other Queens had feared me. I could almost see their reasoning. If I surrounded myself with such strong men, so many of them, what did that speak of my own power, my own abilities?

  Therein lay the key difference between me and other Queens. I did not fear my men being stronger than I. Did not see them as threats to watch out for, competitors to cut down. I saw them as friends, allies, lovers. Men who wanted to protect me, not hurt me.

  The men broke up into pairs, spreading out, and soon the clash of metal filled the air as they commenced sword practice. Rosemary, Tersa, and Jamie’s eyes were fixed on the senior group, watching Nolan. My own eyes drifted to the younger group, which had yet to begin their practice. They stood waiting for the crusty drill master to make his way down to them. There were eight of them, ranging from what looked to be as young as twelve to as old as seventeen, perhaps. The addition of Quentin and Dante was, in my opinion, like throwing in lions with the lambs. But I understood Rufus’s reasoning. They had to start from the bottom. It was responsible, wise even, I realized as Rufus passed out wooden swords to the boys. He wanted to see how Dante and Quentin fared with practice weapons before letting them drill with real swords as the other men did.

  Quentin was paired up with a younger boy who looked to be about sixteen. Dante was matched with the oldest lad, the boy whose age I had pegged around seventeen. He was as tall as Dante but far more slender, as if his body mass had yet to catch up with his height growth. Dante was built much more solidly. And aside from the physical difference, there was a confidence to the way Dante moved that set him apart even more markedly. As if he was older than them not only in age—a few scant years in difference—but in experience.

  As if Dante felt my eyes upon him, he turned. Our gazes met, and a shiver of apprehension skittered down my spine like the trailing footprints of a ghost. Without breaking eye contact, he stabbed the blunt tip of the wooden sword into the ground and took off his jacket. Metal bracelets hugged his forearms, different, darker than what his brother and father had worn, made from an unusual burgundy-colored alloy. They were as primitive an adornment on him as the gold bar piercing his ear. With the jacket stripped away, he took up his sword and turned back to his practice partner with a cool nod.

  A quick glance at the others showed that neither Quentin nor Nolan wore their wrist guards. Just Dante. Then all thoughts scattered as I watched Dante fight. He stood with relaxed poise, countering the other boy’s blows easily, blocking his strikes with minimal effort. One, two, three countering hits. Then, as he had with me, he took control. Two powerful forward lunges like a cobra suddenly striking, and the boy was on the ground, his weapon knocked from his hand, Dante’s wooden sword tip pointed at his heart. Quentin disarmed his opponent almost as quickly, though with less coiled violence.

  A quiet word from Rufus, and Quentin and Dante moved to the middle group. Wooden swords were traded for real swords, and a pair of young guards were broken apart, one paired with Quentin, the other with Dante.

  By outward appearance, they were more evenly matched. I knew better, though. I’d seen Quentin fight before, had caught a glimpse of Dante’s ability just now, and was both frightened and eager to see more.

  What else can you do? I wondered. How well do you fight with a real weapon? Show me.

  He did. Again, those few testing strikes and parries, feeling out his opponent. Then he took control, setting the pace, increasing the tempo and the force of the blows. Whereas Quentin fought with flowing grace, like a song, a dance, poetry in motion, Dante fought with brute cutting force. He fought as if the man before him was not a sparring partner but an enemy in truth. He moved with the same fluid grace as his twin, but whereas Quentin was like cool, clear water, Dante was like the raging rapids. Savage, lethal, deadly. As I watched him fight, something inside me whispered, I know you. I’ve met you before.

  In no time, Dante disarmed his opponent, his sword, this time, stopped a bare inch from his neck. My own neck tingled in a memory flash of pain, here and then gone, distracting me, pounding my heart, so that I hardly noticed when Quentin defeated his partner.

  Rufus grunted, narrowed his eyes, and walked Dante and Quentin down the line of sparring men to a pair all the way at the other end, men older in age, whose power thrummed greater than the Morell brothers. But it wasn’t power Rufus was trying to match up, so much as weapons’ skill.

  The two men broke apart, and eyed the brothers curiously.

  “Want us to have a go at these two young lads here, Rufus?” asked the bigger of the two guards, grinning. He had dark curly hair and was as tall as Dante but an entire width larger, outweighing the “young lads,” as he called them, by almost a hundred pounds. His arms were massive and his thighs were well on their way to becoming tree trunks. If one were to judge someone’s age by the feel of their power—not always an accurate gauge, granted—I’d have guessed him at close to seventy or eighty years old.

  “Aye, Marcus.” Rufus nodded. “And no holding back. I be wanting you and Jayden here to show me whether or not I should be moving these two young ’uns up to the next group.”

  It was a statement guaranteed to wipe the grin off of Marcus’s face, and Jayden’s as well. Jayden stood slightly shorter, just shy of six feet, and was built along less bulky lines than his bullish partner. But he, too, felt older in years.

  Rufus’s words snapped the two of them to full attention. Because what the drill master was really implying was that the two “young ’uns” were better than they were. Good enough, perhaps, to practice with the senior men.

  They paired off in grim silence, Dante with Marcus, Quentin with Jayden. Once their swords engaged, there was no holding back as per Rufus’s instructions. It was fighting that was almost frightening to behold. Whirling movements, dangerous flashing steel. Rufus came at Dante with full slashing force, and Dante smiled as if finally set free, his sword singing in turn, an eager, intent look in those pale eyes.

  Metal clashed against metal, the usual sounds. Then came the sound of something new, something that caught everyone’s attention. A lighter, higher resonance. Almost a clinking chime as Dante caught Marcus’s sword against his metal bracelet, deflecting the blow in a most unexpected manner. Dante’s sword darted forward and Marcus leaped back. The burly warrior gazed down at the neat cut that gaped open his shirt front, exposing the muscled slabs of his belly. The white skin itself was uncut.

  “Neat trick.” Marcus grinned, teeth bared, his dark eyes lighting up with the pleasure of a worthy challenge. “Let’s see you do that again, boy.” He lunged forward, a big bear of a man, his full power and weight behind the thrust. The high chiming clink sounded again as Dante deflected the blade past him with his right wrist guard. A quick turn and twist like the steps of a ballet, a lethal one, and Dante was suddenly behind Marcus, the edge of his own sword stopped a hair’s breadth away from the thick neck.

  Complete silence for one long moment, then big, bullish Marcus dropped his weapon. “And I’m dead.” He turned around slowly, unarmed. “Witch’s tit,” Marcus said, grinning. “That’s some real nice moves you’ve got there, Dante boy. Course, you’d be minus a hand now, if your aim with those fancy cuffs was off
by a tad.”

  “True,” said Dante, lowering his sword. “Lucky, I guess.”

  “Lucky, my balls,” muttered Jayden. He and Quentin had stopped their fighting to watch the other two. As had all the rest of the men the moment that first clinking chime had sounded in the air.

  “You fight like the Lacedaemons of old,” said Chami, my chameleon. He was tall and boyishly slender, but his voice held the chill of death, stilling everyone. “You are descended from that line?” He asked the question of Nolan, with whom he had been sparring.

  “Yes,” Nolan replied, eyeing the smaller man warily. “It is not common knowledge among the other Queens I served. But Queen Mona Lisa knows of my lineage.”

  He’d only told me in a bid for his sons, casting it out as enticement for me to take them into my bed. Or maybe Nolan hadn’t tried to hide it from me simply because I’d already seen the unusual, distinctive manner in which they fought.

  “Of all the Queens, she is one you should have kept this knowledge from,” Chami said. His words puzzled me as much as they did Nolan.

  “Why do you say this, Chameleo?” Nolan asked, calling Chami by his full name. A name that stated what Chami was, and what he did. Chameleon. Assassin.

  “You do not know, do you?” Chami asked.

  “Explain yourself, chameleon.”

  Chami turned his gaze back to me. “Mona Lisa. If you will please show him your hands.”

  Feeling something almost like dread well up in me, I lifted my hands and turned my palms out to him. When Nolan caught sight of the pearl-like moles nestled in my palms, his sun-darkened face whitened, became ash pale. He looked from me to his son. To Dante, who watched us with his pale blue eyes glittering and gleaming like shards of ice melting beneath the sun’s brilliant light.

  Chami quoted the following words in an almost singsong manner, reciting them like an old familiar song. “With pale eyes touched by the faint color of the sky, the fierce son of Barrabus slew our heart, our hope, our Warrior Queen.”