Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series)

by Sophia Alessandrini

  Crap. I had to figure a way out of the handcuffs first. I sighed.

  Chapter 29

  Our trip to the palace did not start on the right foot—literally. I stepped over a puddle left from the underground water breakage. Three fancy SUV’s drove through the crowd to meet us. I recognized the type of car and the azure coat of arms with two gold dragons on the doors. Very quickly, Reginald and the men in yellow hoses separated us into two groups. Francis and I traveled in the back seat of the first SUV while Gavril and Émil sat in the second one. Sadly, Gavril still wore his black eye. A third SUV followed us down the road.

  I sat inside the fancy SUV with tinted windows next to Reginald, looking at his ridiculous costume. However, he intently stared at me, making sure I understood that the element of surprise was not going to be an issue anymore between us. His glance strayed over my smutty wet white tank. Eew. I turned to Francis’s grime-smeared face that was looking forward toward the road in the passenger-front seat. I wiggled my toes inside my muddy socks. It was a miracle I hadn’t lost them.

  Suffering succotash. I always wanted to say that. In truth, we looked like grungy homeless people. I would give anything for a piece of Sister Joana’s buttery bread, a toilet, a nice shower, and fresh, clean clothes. Even if they were the ugly sweatpants Francis had given me.

  We rode in silence, feeling temporarily my exhaustion abate my prior need to pee. Unfortunately, this was not the right time to distract myself. Anything could happen. Anything. Instead I observed the charming landscape of endless vineyards once more.

  However, ever since the arrow broached my chest weeks ago, something else was magnifying inside me from zero to three thousand flutters per minute as we got closer to the palace. I felt off balance, and the familiar humming became overwhelming. My core of gravity was closing the gap between two opposite poles. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  My blood felt slightly feverish. Just fantastic.

  Was I catching some sickness? Not that I’d ever been sick, except when I fell weak after healing Gavril’s leg. Nuh—it didn’t feel like that. My rapid healing wouldn’t allow that—not anymore. I didn’t think it could. My sole explanation went back to the golden arrow. I just couldn’t risk telling anything to Francis, at least not that minute. I didn’t want Reginald or the driver to know about the golden arrow.

  I listened to Reginald’s mind. He hated the fact that a girl had taken him by surprise. Crap. That in itself had bruised his ego, but there was some higher respect for Francis’s history. In his eyes, Francis was a legend in his own right. I smiled at the unexpected insight.

  Our vehicle made a sharp turn and stopped in front of an old arched limestone gate that looked more like a fortress, surrounded by sweeping tall stone walls and a thick wooded acreage of an old pine forest. My chest fluttered heavily. I blamed it on the adrenaline.

  Four guards in circus outfits scrambled in and out from the security house, taking account of the three SUVs. The three vehicles crossed the impressive iron gate that opened once the guards had verified Reginald’s credentials. The private paved drive was shaded with a thick canopy of maritime very old pine trees on both sides of the road, until we reached a knoll overlooking a river.

  The three vehicles crossed over an ancient stone bridge. My jaw dropped as we went down a small road framed by rows and rows and more rows of carefully trimmed grapevines. At the end of each row, a display of roses peeked near the long and winding driveway.

  A picturesque pond with a stone pavilion, boat house, and a boat dock set amongst perennial gardens and natural landscaping dominated the view from the car windows. Ducks and geese floated peacefully as the sun was setting.

  “So how large is this property?” I asked Francis. He snorted, as if I had asked the funniest thing.

  “Roughly six hundred acres. That pond alone is over five acres and is very popular certain times of the year among the royals. It used to be a shrine to a Druid deity.”

  I turned my sight to both sides of the road. Reginald made a warning grunt because I couldn’t sit still. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Last time I checked, it was free to see,” I said to him. Then I stopped, and I couldn’t stop gaping and gasping.

  Suddenly, the palace rose gaunt and gray at close distance, surrounded by acres of vineyards, very old oak trees, a large pond, and the most exquisitely manicured gardens and design-landscaped lawns I had ever seen.

  “The gardens were designed by one of Louis XIV’s most famous gardeners and landscape architects, Andre Le Nôtre, the man behind the Park at the Palace de Versailles. The palace was also the site of the love affair between Princess Pauline Borghese and Auguste de Forbin. It is said that the princess used to bathe in the ornamental pond of the gardens.” Francis enjoyed telling me about this piece of gossip. I understood he had seen or been part of this story. It gave another layer to what immortality was.

  I wasn’t prepared for the old-world grandeur of the palace that at one point in history had been a fortress and a castle. The façade with many stone baluster balconies framed with flowers and vines, growing capriciously over the lime stonewalls, glistened with the last rays of the sun. Rows of windows reflected the caramel color of the leftover sunset like spectral eyes with elaborated byzantine moldings, and every corner had towers with pointy Gothic spires guarded by sitting gargoyles, commonly seen all over Paris. Here, it made the palace a brooding, dark, and secretive place. Although St. Mary’s was an old convent, it didn’t have the imposing architecture of this pre-middle-age palace. I swallowed hard. The palace was not only spooky but also intimidating in size.

  “So how many rooms?” I asked Francis.

  “Sixty estate rooms, seven private suites, plus the crown’s private quarters, a royal pavilion, elegant ballrooms that yield access to an expansive entertaining patio, an inviting azure outdoor pool and indoor pool, tennis, bacci, croquet, and badminton courts, and a fifty-stall horse barn with acres of fenced pastures, a guest house, three caretaker’s houses, dog kennels, and—”

  “And a dungeon,” Reginald’s foghorn-sounding voice interrupted Francis.

  I frowned back at him. I knew then we were reaching our unplanned destination—the palace—and that the course of things was set. There was no way to walk away from this.

  A grandiose circular cobblestone courtyard led our vehicles to the main entrance. I swallowed hard at the expansive building in front of me. We climbed out of the vehicle. The sound of crickets brought a provincial feeling to the area, which in a big sense opposed the sophistication of the palace.

  I stood there, overwhelmed, overlooking the manicured gardens, the pond, and a large, monumental water fountain at the end of the circular driveway. The centerpiece was that of a winged man with a sword fighting a winged dragon that gurgled water through its mouth into a rippling hubbub of water sounds.

  Everything seemed so familiar…

  The crazy nightmares. I had seen this fountain before, except the water was red blood. The scene had been that of a gruesome battle between demons that resembled the furies I had read about from mythology, ones that turned out to be nothing else but Draugr and Strzyga.

  Gas lamps illuminated the entrance steps. Two other Strzyga guards in royal uniforms stood on either side of the main entrance’s carved oak doors. They were armed with corseque spears, a type whose blade splits in three parts, creating a rather impressive weapon. From what Francis had taught me, spears had undergone a variety of changes during the medieval era, often shifting as needs in battle changed.

  Reginald made a point of not shoveling me up the steps, as I coldly raised my gaze and dared him. We all stepped inside a sweeping entryway with a sixty-foot-high cathedral ceiling, a double staircase, beveled-glass windows, and finely detailed limestone moldings. I watched with morbid fascination, several porcelain gold and blue vases—with blooming blue hydrangeas, white lilies, and spectacular philodendron leaves—floated onto different tables and rooms. At the same time, a long-rolled ca
rpet moved from the staircase to the far side of the palace entrance foyer by itself. Evidently, the Draugr in the palace took care of minor tasks. However, the words and sounds failed to come out of my mouth as I continued to gape.

  “Close your mouth. These are our deprived.” Francis lowered his voice for me to hear.

  “Deprived?” I whispered back. No matter how much Enit and Francis had prepared me to accept the exitance of Draugr, the sight was creepy.

  “Draugr who lost their Strzyga and have chosen to serve the crown,” he said. Instantly, I felt emotionally acquainted with them. They were orphans like I had been… They had no home but the kingdom. Crap.

  The metal handcuff was carving into my wrists, so I massaged each behind my back, wondering when we would be set free. We barely took a couple steps when we were granted the view of the backside of a man in ridiculous outdated attire, flamboyant laced cuffs that reached out from under a red velvet, embroidered long jacket, tan breeches, and red buckled shoes that screamed psychiatric-ward runaway or Shakespeare performer.

  He probably stole the palace’s drapery. Gavril was incorrigible.

  He turned around to greet us with a sneering smirk. His unruly, dirty-blond, medium-length ponytail had an impressive piece of bling-bling. I was almost certain it was real—as real as his impressive ruby necklace or the obnoxious-size diamond ring gleaming with the chandelier light.

  Now he must officially be the mayor of Crazy Town, Gavril said, mocking Goldilocks. Goldilocks was in the same age bracket, mid-twenties maybe thirty years old, as the guards at the door entrance, Francis, and Reginald, and like most Strzyga, I supposed. Well, most. The exception was Émil, who from of my understanding seemed not much older than Gavril. I realized then I had to look for a better endearment for respect for the real Goldilocks.

  He had an old scar that ran from the side of his ear to his mouth that I recognized immediately. Although I had never seen him before in person, I felt like I knew him from my dreams. He was the one Demyan had given that permanent scar to. Unluckily, for the king, Scarface became the queen’s lover, and after the king’s murder, he had that mocking smirk for Demyan—the type that said, “Na-nah-na-nah-naa.”

  Suddenly, I compared him to Claudius in Hamlet. Like all Shakespeare’s complex villains, I had the feeling this neener was a really bad apple. The realization that I was actually standing exactly there—where the king had been murdered—made me nauseated. I didn’t think Francis would have liked my literary comparison anyway.

  I am actually excited to be here. Gavril stood next to me. Right. I wondered if Gavril was any different from Francis. They both seem to lack congruity at times. Scarface was pompously sneering at us, particularly at my filthy socks messing the shiny marble floors.

  Really? Because I have the strong feeling that we aren’t exactly welcomed guests. I shook my head. This was not a welcoming greeting for his future queen. I wasn’t saying I was agreeing to marriage. Not at all. That was my story, and I was sticking to it. Nor was it a proper greeting for Francis, who was a real aristocrat.

  Unable to hold it any longer, I snorted into a short accidental snicker after seeing Scarface’s powdered face and faux beauty mark over the side of his eye. Which was worse than looking at Sister Magdalene’s birthmark. This was a grown-up man wearing a girly thingy—hello-oooo. I knew I shouldn’t have. It was rude, and my timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Scary-face turned his attention to me. I could feel radiating heat waves of dislike from him. I stepped back, feeling the back of my neck prickle. This was the second time ever in my life I had ever, ever experienced this. My first was in the forest, when Ash had radiated those heat waves to a higher degree. Although, I had felt disliked—even hated by some of the girls or Sister Agatha and Sister Magdalene at St. Mary’s—I had never experienced this before. I was almost certain it had something to do yet again with the golden arrow. It amplified anything that wasn’t good as a sort of warning mechanism against negative influences. At least, that’s what I gathered.

  “Count Kostas Rurikovich, meet my protégé, Mademoiselle Pearson.” Francis introduced us ignoring my lack of manners and our handcuffs. Francis pronounced the Count’s name with a French inflection rather than a Baltic one. The result was a phonetic suffix -ish instead of –ich. It was a long name. Not too many nice words ended with –ish. Unstylish, garish, selfish, foolish—

  Count? Wow, yet another useless aristocrat. Gavril mocked the Strzyga aristocrat like he did Francis.

  Right. I wouldn’t advise mocking the day-lighters just yet. I wondered if I could give the Count a deserving nickname instead.

  “Well, well, Lord Tarbelli. Must have been a dreadful day at church.” He was mocking our disheveled appearance.

  Francis shook his head, still not losing his cool. I wondered if he ever did.

  The Count examined the four of us but intensely focused on Émil. It was then when I noticed that Émil was not right. He was pale and sweating profusely. It looked like he was having an anxiety attack, verging on a panic attack. I had seen them happen before to Claudia, Tiffany’s sidekick, when she couldn’t handle the pressure her parents put on her. I wondered what his trigger was. The Count or the palace?

  “Émil the Crazy. Are you still listening to those daft voices?” He gestured, circling his hand into the air to mock him.

  Suddenly, Émil fell onto his knees with closed eyes and rocked back and forth with his mouth moving. All I could hear was a murmuring. He was reciting or saying something I wasn’t quite able to distinguish. His voice rose slowly as we all pitied him.

  “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Émil repeated over and over as in a terrible daze. My glance sought for Francis to do or say something, but he just stood there.

  “Well, and there you have it. Not every Royal bloodline is pure nor capable of holding a crown.” Count Creepy-Something paused. “Pity. Not only did you lose your Draugr, but your mind and your crown.” He was a cruel, cruel gleeful Strzyga that pointed his hand at Gavril. “So what is this monk doing among the two of you?”

  “The monk has taken a monastic vow of silence. He is in charge of teaching Miss Pearson the ancient arts and history,” Francis answered, for all of us. Of course, that was a lie. Because by “ancient arts” he meant calligraphy, sculpture, and painting, usually taught to lame and delicate princesses according to Francis, and not explosives, guns, poisons, and self-defense he personally instructed me.

  What! Gavril complained inside my head, turning his silent and black-eyed glare to Francis, who had rendered him unable to speak to anyone. By the same token, he exchanged a silent and squeamish gaze with me.

  “A Pearson?” Count Elizabethan-Highbrow-Ruffs gave me a once-over.

  “Yes,” Francis reiterated.

  “Uncuff them,” the Count ordered Reginald.

  We were surrounded by invisible armed Draugr and royal guards. The four of us were in an encircled blockade. This wasn’t the best moment to escape.

  Reginald protested. He knew we were dangerous with the cuffs on. “But, your eminence—”

  “WHAT!” The Count’s patience was short fused.

  “They resisted arrest,” Reginald explained.

  The Count smirked, rewarded at this piece of information.

  “No, we didn’t. He is lying,” I protested. The Count turned his faultfinding glance at me, then at Gavril, and then back to me once again. He avoided Francis’s cold and very dangerous glare.

  “I apologize, my dear, but I believe Reginald. He is, after all, my trusted right hand, and here you are, without a Royal registrar.”

  My gaze turned to Reginald who was smirking back at me.

  “Not very proper of you, but who could blame someone like you who wasn’t born a Lady or a Royal, or not even a commoner. Which brings me to the next thing, who are you?”

  Crap not that question… fine, if he thought I wasn’t a Lady.

  I blame that on Francis. Gavril was throwing e
ye daggers in Francis’s direction.

  “I am…” I looked at Francis for support, holding my breath. It was still difficult to accept I had a last name. He nodded back at me, and I exhaled, feeling assured. I was a Pearson. “I am Ailie Pearson,”

  He snorted amusedly. “You see… nine years ago, Helen Pearson stated in court she didn’t want to be with child, whether with her husband Gregory Pearson or with whoever the crown would legally assign her as her husband after Lord Pearson’s disappearance. Our laws state this is a punishable crime comparable to treason. Therefore, the king ordained the destitution of all her titles and assets. She, or in this case her progeny, will never be granted the privilege of our immortality ritual.” He stepped closer to me. “Furthermore, she is a fugitive with a pending death sentence.”

  What! My mother was a criminal? I held Scary-face’s gaze. It made me angry that my mother had publicly denounced she didn’t love my father—was it because of me? Then it made me even madder that she had been hiding in exile for not wanting to partake in their absurd scheme to marry her off. Sadly, I realized she was the second female left. I wished I hadn’t avoided talking about my parents with Francis. It had upset me then, and it still did.

  I have a very bad feeling about this, Gavril said. No kidding.

  “I am Ailie Pearson whether you like it or not.” I repeated my name just in case the many lace ruffles were muffling his hearing.

  “Sadly, there is no existent registration of a Pearson child. I would know. I am the one who has the duty to inscribe. So I believe firmly that you must be an impostor, seeking the riches of the crown, and I simply cannot allow that.” He shook his head as if disappointed, contradicting his wide grin.

  I was speechless and not just at the insult. Jerk.

  “Let His Royal Highness decide that. After all, the future of the crown rests on Miss Pearson,” Francis said.

  What? Was he out of his mind? I glared back at him. I was not going to marry the prince. Not ever. Period.