by T. A. Grey
Eyes glossed over with death as the messenger’s body slumped to the ground. Gun forgotten in a hand that could no longer lift to squeeze the trigger.
Ryon stood, lifted his shirt and peeled open his overcoat to see the damage done. The bullet hole looked nasty; it’d ripped apart his skin. The jagged hole was already swelling and beet red from inflammation.
Lord have mercy, it hurt. Grimacing, sweat beginning to trickle down his temples, he knelt at the messenger. His eyes were still open but now they didn’t blink as the life had passed from him.
A cold sensation settled over Ryon. It didn’t feel good to do what he just did. He’d killed before; of course he had. He’d fought the Avagarians in war for years. But he’d never had to kill one of his own before, nor someone so young. The messenger had to be in his early twenties.
Shame and guilt and worse feelings filled him. But he knelt by the messenger and checked to ensure his pulse was no more.
It was.
Ryon grabbed the boy’s pistol and pocketed it, then he left to see the king.
Someone had some serious explaining to do.
Chapter 10
The king’s mistress was there to open the door for Ryon at the king’s chamber. Lysse only arched a curious eyebrow at the blood soaking his shirt where the bullet was festering.
“Oh my, don’t you look worse for the wear. If you have need, I am pretty good with a stitch. ”
“Let him in, Lysse.”
The beautiful, cold woman whose motives Ryon did not trust for a second, stepped aside so he could enter. Lyle sat at his desk scribbling furiously in a notebook. A smoking cigarette dangled from his pinched lips and his hair was ruffled and unkempt. He wore only underwear and his royal cape from earlier in the evening. Judging from the looks of things, Lyle had had a taste of Lysse after the celebration tonight then had gotten to work.
Lyle took several minutes before he sighed in resignation and finally looked up at Ryon. Ryon had been waiting patiently for his “friend” to notice him.
Lyle blinked, taking in the blood. “What happened?”
Ryon dropped the royal missive on the desk. “Did you send this to me?”
Lyle didn’t even reach to pick it up, didn’t spare it a glance at all. “Seeing as I didn’t send you any missives today, my answer is no. Still, let me read it.” He opened the scroll.
Ryon was acutely aware of Lysse listening with interest. “Send your hag away.” His patience was gone. His shirt was soaked with blood. He’d been fucking shot and dangers were more abundant than ever. Not just for him, but for Penelope too.
Lysse sucked in a hostile breath. “Excuse me?”
Ryon didn’t deign to answer. That really made her angry. He thought she might fly at him in a fit of rage, but instead she lifted her chin and grinned. Next, she did the unthinkable, and pulled at the stays at the back of her gown. The dress sagged around her bosom. If she let her arms drop to her sides the dress would fall. Did she really think that her feminine “charms” would sway his disgust for her? She moved to disrobe when Lyle held up his hand.
“That’ll be all, Lysse. I’ll call you later.”
Her mouth formed a petulant pout, irritation flaring in her cold eyes. “But, milord, I wanted to stay with you tonight.” So many promises hung in her words.
Ryon wanted to puke.
“Tomorrow,” Lyle said, finality in his voice.
Fighting a sneer, Lysse huffed out of his apartment, slamming the door as she went.
“Not very calm, but her wits are impressive.”
“By wits, I assume you mean tits,” Ryon replied dryly.
Lyle shrugged. “Wits, tits—either are impressive really. Especially in combination.” He tossed the scroll back on the desk. “I didn’t send that nor did I write it. Though someone’s been studying my handwriting because it’s awfully similar.” He walked to the door and called forth a guard to fetch a doctor.
“I didn’t think you did write it. Of course, I didn’t discover that until after I’d been shot.” Ryon was no threat to Lyle and they both knew it. Besides, if the king wanted him dead, he wouldn’t hire some young punk to do it. He’d have a trained assassin from his own personal guard do it quietly in his sleep, probably with a deep gash across the throat leaving him to choke on his own blood.
Morbid thoughts tonight.
I have been shot.
It was a mood killer. Especially coming down from the high he’d felt from being with Penelope today.
“Welcome to the party, my friend. Someone wants you dead,” Lyle said, almost sounding happy at the news. He even dared to laugh at the situation.
Ryon growled, then stumbled into a chair before he collapsed. “You make jokes about me being shot.” Honestly, he wasn’t really mad at his friend; it felt good being ribbed by him. Better than being dead anyway.
“They must not have been very good at their job. I take it he’s no longer living then?”
A nod. “You’ll find him in Karl Christenson’s old cabin.”
“I’ll have that taken care of straight away. I suppose the next question is, who wants you dead?”
Ryon didn’t hesitate. He already knew who was behind this. No one else would dare or be so cowardly as to hire someone to kill him.
“Patrick Gaines. The duke.”
Lyle chuckled as he tossed back a gulp of wine. “Eh, he wants my job. I’d sign it over to him if I didn’t think he’d ruin the kingdom. And perhaps if I didn’t hate him. He wants the pomp, but not all the work involved. Besides, he’s not king. I am.”
Ryon sensed there was more to the story than that. But he wouldn’t press his friend.
“I’m happy you’re enjoying this so much, however, I’ve been shot and am currently bleeding to death.”
“Ah, speaking off.” A rapt knock at the door and Lyle called out for the person to enter. A medic stepped forward and started with ordering Ryon to lie on the ground.
“Pull up your shirt,” the medic ordered, her eyes busy and professional. She was older with a head full of graying hair and sharp eyes and steady hands. She got to work on the wound. “I’ll have to pull the bullet out. It’s stuck near the back.”
So that’s what I’ve been feeling.
“Of course you do,” he said instead. He grimaced, the pain boiling in his gut like acid. Damn.
Lyle stood over him smoking another cigarette, a goblet of wine in his other hand. He looked like a regular debaucher. Bastard.
“Want me to bring ole’ Patrick in for questioning?” Lyle asked casually.
Questioning probably meant something closer to interrogation to Lyle. “No.”
“And why not? You think he’s conspiring to kill you, right?”
The medic kept her expression neutral as they debated.
“If I’m correct, then he’ll be at the Claiming tomorrow. I’ll defeat him in the ring.”
Lyle looked skeptical. “Even after getting shot?”
Ryon steeled his face, hardened inside. “Especially after getting shot.” That bastard was his.
Chapter 11
The day of Penelope’s Claiming was finally here.
If all went according to plan, she and Ryon would be embracing by nightfall, as intimate as a man and woman could be. They stood to pass far more than a physical barrier that lie between them. The Claiming would further establish the bond that had been growing between. No matter how fervently she’d tried to deny it.
She thought she’d feel excitement, refreshed and ready to watch Ryon challenge others for her hand in marriage. If there were any others. The Duke of Gaines had made his intentions more than clear on one occasion, but still, the duke seemed fickle. Who knew what was on his mind. Ryon, on the other hand, loved her. There was little doubt in Penelope’s mind that before the night was over, she would be claimed by Ryon, and fall asleep in his wonderful arms.
Sleeping in his arms? She could roll her eyes at her wistfulness. Already she was romanticiz
ing the event. She couldn’t help it. She felt love-sick. Drunk on passion and thoughts of Ryon, and of their future. For the first time, she was beginning to see more to Ryon than she had thought, which made her respect and admiration for him and what he did for their people, expand by the minute. Like a sprouting weed that refused to die.
The time was here for her to go to the arena where the Claiming ceremony would take place. She would stand at a podium near the king as the contest began. Any contestants wishing to fight for the right to claim her as wife would come forth.
Ryon would be one of those stepping forward. For her. The anxious nerves that fretted around in her belly did nothing to ease her anxiety. What if he lost? What if other spectators tried to fight for her? There was so much that could happen, so much out of her control. She could do nothing but play her part today. Like a role that must be filled.
One thing she knew perfectly. Ryon would fight for her, and Ryon would not lose. Tonight she would be his and he would be hers. Tonight they became one. Years of passion and quarreling combusting during one magnificent event.
Penelope followed the written instructions given to her by the king’s steward, searching for her room at the arena. The whole kingdom seemed to be in attendance, their cheers and shouts of celebration rang through the hallways.
Her sisters, Priscilla and Phoebe, were of great help that morning, dressing her in the ceremonial snowy, linen gown. She looked beautiful in it. Along with that she wore a braid of baby’s breath flowers around the crown of her head, and, strapped to her thigh was the ceremonial, silver dagger that had been her mothers. The woman always wore it during the Claiming, in an act of submission, after the male fought for her, she would hand him her blade. An act of trust.
“You’ll be turning heads in this!” Phoebe gushed.
Priscilla, watching from nearby, nodded hauntingly. “You look like mom.”
Their parents had perished in an Avagarian attack years ago. The pain still lingered in her heart thinking about her mother and father.
“You should smile,” Phoebe was saying. “You’re going to be the first of the Farris sisters to settle down and marry.”
“Yes, well excuse me for not leaping for joy. I didn’t think I’d be the first,” Penelope admitted, fiddling with the soft material of her gown.
No, she wasn’t leaping for joy, but she was looking forward to the Claiming far more than she’d expected.
But something bigger had been nagging her.
She had yet to see or hear from Ryon.
Why’d he have to leave in such a rush last night? Something had to be wrong. In fact, something was wrong. She could feel it in her gut as certain as she knew she loved Ryon Ward.
She slept fretfully last night after Ryon left with that messenger in such a rush. She’d flopped side to side for most of the night, drifting in and out of dreams of her running from a beastly creature she couldn’t see. It’d shaken her up. In fact, she still didn’t feel fully back to her senses. Some niggling warning lingered in the back of her mind like poison.
She didn’t know what it was, but she knew one thing for certain.
Something was wrong and it had to do with Ryon.
* * *
The Duke of Gaines marched down the stone corridor of the arena with determined strides. Peasants and the like rushed to move out of his way, lest he shove them aside with his hurried pace.
No one was stopping him today. He was going to get what he wanted. And what was that?
First, and foremost, he wanted Penelope Farris. She was a beauty; she could make him laugh, which few people could do. She was talented and had a kind-hearted soul. She would serve well to bear heirs and offer him some modicum of satisfaction in life. He deserved as much. Didn’t he?
A flashback came back, struck him still, his feet rooting to the ground. The mob around him gawked at him, walking carefully around him trying not to touch him. It didn’t matter if they had bumped into him. He wouldn’t have noticed. He was gone. Lost in a time long ago. Locked in the memories.
The memory flooded him, taking him right back to his family home. He hadn’t been back to that miserable house, save for mandatory business calls, in seventeen years.
He stood in his family’s parlor with his father—who was deep into his cups, deeper than usual. Richard Gaines had a terrible temper when he drank. Everyone hated it when he took to the glass, no one more so than Patrick. His father wore a permanent sneer on his hollowed-cheeked, pale face. You could see the blue veins in his temple peeking out from his whitewashed skin. Quite tall, his father’s thinness displayed his stark collarbone, bony wrists, and sickly shallow veins.
His seventeenth birthday garnered him no special gifts. No wrapped presents sat at the foot of his bed come morning. All he received came from his mother. Or, rather, the cook who she’d had bake it. It had been a small cake, the kind that could fit in your palm. When he bit into it, cream gushed into his mouth like sweet custard.
His father had made no mention to him at the supper table about his birthday. No acknowledgement.
But, he didn’t care. Or so he’d told himself. He was far above letting his father hurt him anymore.
“Your mother said you want to learn to run the family business, to run the mine.”
Patrick squared his shoulders to face his father. He’d expected his father’s doubt. “Yes, sir. My governess says I have a talent for mathematics, sums especially. I can do them in my head. I’d like to know more about our silver mine. I think I could help.”
His father laughed ruthlessly. The kind of laughter saved for something truly humorous. It was callous and cold with sarcasm. Patrick held in his emotions, as usual. His father’s laughter was the kind that could only hurt.
“You don’t deserve to work for my business.”
His business. Even with the Gaines family name on it.
Patrick remembered what happened next as clearly as if it happened that morning.
“Come here,” his father had said.
Patrick’s feet didn’t move.
“I said, come here, lad!” his father shouted, pale face reddening. His drink sloshed over the rim of his glass. His father cursed, shaking the liquid from his hand. Patrick shuffled forward, eyes staring down at the rug his mother had helped to weave.
His father grabbed him by his arm, pulling him closer Drunken, angry eyes shoved right into Patrick’s face.
“You don’t deserve a fecking thing, lad. You deserve only what I give you and what I tell you to have. Don’t you ever ask me for a thing if you want me to spare your life!” He raised his hand for a swing---
“GENERAL! GENERAL!”
The boisterous chant rattled Patrick’s eardrums making him wince—and shoved him back into reality.
Sweat dripped in beads down his back, sliding like worms. Patrick grimaced and palmed his cane in a tight grip before continuing on down the hall. Focused on the present once more, his father shoved back into the tiny memory compartment he kept him in, Patrick finally found the secluded men’s dressing room where Ryon was to be waiting before the ceremony.
It was located at the far eastern corner of the arena. It looked like Lysse had given him good information after all. He’d had doubts…you couldn’t trust a con artist, after all. And Lysse was one of the best. It looks like his threat had worked.
The guards outside the dressing room merely spotted Patrick’s fine clothes, and let him pass. Probably thinking he was with the king or here to claim Penelope for himself. Which he was, just under his own terms.
Patrick grinned slyly as made his way to the room. He had plans for Ryon and that included using his sword point. At most, he planned to injure the general before the official proceedings began upstairs. From there, he had other plans. If he couldn’t beat the general in fisticuffs, then he had to find a way to win. Hence, his business here.
Outside the door to the general’s room, all was calm. The guards waited at the end of the hall to keep
any from entering. There was no other entrance or exit in the hall, save for Ryon’s room.
Patrick pressed his ear to the door. After a moment, he heard a rustling noise confirming someone in the room. Tightening his grip on his cane, Patrick turned the handle, stepped inside the room, and closed the door in one smooth move.
It took only a moment to tell something was wrong.
The lights were off, encasing the room in complete darkness. Patrick squinted into the black shadows. He heard a noise. Ryon must be in here.
“General?” He silently unsheathed his sword. The leather interior lining had been designed to give him silence as he withdrew his blade. He’d learned long ago that the element of surprise could save your life.
Patrick moved along the wall, keeping a bookcase to his back as he came upon it, barely. In here he could just make out the crying cheers of the audience waiting for the brawl upstairs.
The smell struck him first. It was pungent with a hint of rotten eggs. Frowning, his brow furrowed, Patrick struggled to decipher what that smell was.
A floorboard creaked. Patrick nearly jumped out of his skin. It was only feet away. Close. He thrust his blade in the direction of the noise, feeling suddenly…frightened.
That smell…the dark…what was going on here?
A crackling, animal snarl. Almost too soft to catch. It came from his left, not in front of him this time. He swung his blade left in a sweeping arc.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” If this was Ryon playing with him, Patrick didn’t know if he could stop himself from killing him at this point. His heart was pounding, every fearful beat accompanied by a bead of sweat down his back.
That crackling, like a…
Patrick stiffened as the scent, or, rather, scents, hit him. It wasn’t a just a pungent, sulpher odor he smelled. The odor was, in fact, two scents, he realized. With the scents categorized in his mind, Patrick felt a deadly awareness overcome him.
What he smelled was blood and animal.
“Kekekekekekekekek.”