Twiceborn Endgame (The Proving Book 3)

by Finlayson, Marina

  “He could make us a seeming.” Garth’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Maybe of that idiot Bear. Thorne trusts him, he might let his guard down—”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Ben snapped. “This is a really stupid idea. We’d be outnumbered and surrounded. It’s suicide.”

  “Someone’s got to encourage her.” Garth folded his arms, making his muscles bulge, and gave Ben a disdainful look. “Because she’s right. She’s not going to win this war by hiding away. She’s got to get out there and grab that bastard Thorne by the balls before he has the chance to screw us over.”

  Well, this was a turn-up for the books. Garth was usually the first one to argue when my safety was concerned. I shot him a grateful look and saw a glimmer of yellow in his eyes as he glared at Ben. His wolf wanted out.

  Ben got to his feet and returned the glare with interest. “There’s got to be a better way of doing that than turning up on his doorstep practically gift-wrapped. How’s a damned goblin seeming going to protect her?”

  “I’ll protect her,” Garth growled.

  “I don’t need anyone’s protection. I’m a dragon, not a bloody fairy princess. And I’m going to this ball.” Enough with the male posturing! They were acting like a couple of teenagers.

  “Don’t worry, Kate, no one’s going to forget you’re a dragon.”

  The viciousness of Ben’s tone shocked me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why even bother asking anyone’s opinion when you know you’re going to do whatever you damn well want anyway?” His brown eyes were colder than I’d ever seen them. “Typical bloody dragon.”

  Oh, God, not this again.

  “Yes, I’m a dragon, Ben.” I couldn’t bear the look in his eyes. As if he didn’t even like me, much less love me. “And that’s not going to change. This is the life we’re stuck with. There’s no going back.”

  Without another word, he stalked out of the room. No going back. But maybe there was no going forward for us either.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Elizabeth’s closest living relative—at least as far as the funeral director was concerned—I rode in the official limousine, accompanied by Ben, Garth and Luce. The fact that I’d helped kill her, while ironic, wasn’t considered relevant. This was the benefit of using a funeral home that dealt with shifters on a regular basis.

  There was very little talk on the way to the service. None of us were in mourning, but relations between Ben and myself were still strained. Luce stared out the window, and Garth alternated between watching me and glaring at Ben, which didn’t help the taut atmosphere in the car. It was a relief when the limo turned in at the gates of the crematorium and stopped. In front of us stretched a line of cars, barely moving, that wound all the way up the hill towards the chapel.

  “Never thought Elizabeth had this many friends,” Garth muttered, scowling at the congestion. Parked cars lined the roadside. Some were even piled haphazardly on the lawn, stowed in whatever little nook the driver could find between the bushes.

  “It’s marvellous what money can buy,” said Ben, in that clipped, faintly hostile tone that was becoming the norm for him.

  He looked like a lawyer today, dressed in a dark business suit and red tie. I’d never seen him so formal before, and it was a good look on him. It was just a shame the coldness in his dark eyes spoiled the effect.

  Shame about the searing hot day outside too. We’d all be broiling once we stepped out of the air-conditioned limo, even me in my sleeveless black shift dress.

  The car crawled up the hill. Well-groomed ladies tottered along on their heels, easily keeping pace with us, accompanied by grey-haired men in suits. Society matrons rubbed shoulders with shifters of every stripe as everyone who was anyone turned out for the funeral of Elizabeth Appleby, investment guru and philanthropist. This was one shifter death we couldn’t brush under the carpet. Elizabeth had been big in the mundane world too.

  “Half these people probably didn’t like her any more than we did,” I said. “They’re just here to be seen.”

  It took us ten minutes to reach the open area in front of the chapel. It was only open because the security guards had kept it clear, shepherding people and cars away. They hulked together like a line of front-row forwards, their auras glowing a deep troll-brown.

  One of them opened the door of the limo as we pulled up, then stepped back respectfully. He nodded to me as I got out, and I nodded back. These were a Hunter Valley clan, and their loyalty was to the throne, regardless of who was the current occupant. Since that was me at the moment, I knew they’d die to the last man to protect me, which was oddly comforting, even though I wasn’t expecting any trouble today. Funerals were traditionally an unofficial ceasefire.

  Of course dragons were traditionally a bunch of backstabbing traitors too, so Luce and Garth were well prepared. Even Ben was carrying a gun underneath that handsome suit. Most of my staff were here, the thralls at least all armed to the teeth, plus we had the trolls on security and most of the Sydney pack circulating discreetly among the mourners. The funeral director had also arranged for some regular human security, given how many people were expected here today.

  Looking around at the mass of bodies, I figured he might have underestimated. Extra seating had been set up outside, with cameras broadcasting the service to huge temporary screens, since there was no way more than a tiny fraction of all these people would fit into the chapel itself.

  Life had been much simpler for shifters in the pre-modern age. It would have been so much easier just to set her corpse on fire and be done with it, but these days there was paperwork and the expectation of a decent funeral when a society figure died. Bodies of prominent people couldn’t just disappear. The manner of her death had been covered up, of course—beheading was hardly common any more—but there would be all sorts of awkward questions if a coffin were not produced and farewelled with due ceremony. Much as I might have liked to torch her and scatter her ashes to the winds, I had to turn up for this farce instead. Which really got up my nose when I had so many other, more pressing, matters clamouring for my attention. Singing hymns for a woman who’d done her damnedest to kill me was not going to get Lachie back any faster, and that was top of my to-do list.

  There wouldn’t be too many tears shed for Elizabeth, despite the size of the crowd. Anyone who was anyone in Sydney society had turned out, probably more from curiosity to see who’d inherited all that lovely money than any affection for the deceased. Even the prime minister would be here. He’d been a “close personal friend”, apparently. More likely the grateful beneficiary of millions in campaign dollars, but whatever. It showed Elizabeth’s clout if he could make time for her funeral in the middle of what the papers were calling “the monster crisis”.

  Two trolls flanked us as we entered the chapel and made our way down the aisle to our front-row seats. Shifter auras glowed in a rainbow of soft colours on either side, brightening the sea of mourning black. Some of the society ladies wore hats, and one even had a short black veil, which I thought was going a little too far. Enough pearls to sink a ship circled leathery old necks, and discreet diamonds winked from the earlobes that peeked out from their perfectly blow-waved hair. So much elegant appropriateness made me wish I’d worn a bright red dress, or turned up in bare feet.

  Still, drawing attention to myself wasn’t part of the plan. Luce had already fielded a couple of requests for interviews, explaining that I was too deep in mourning to be able to speak to the press at the moment. A few cameras had flashed as we walked from the car to the chapel door, but I doubted many of those photos would see the light of day. Elizabeth wasn’t sexy enough to have gossip columnists covering her funeral; the reporters were more likely from staid financial publications. Any articles that resulted from today’s activities were more likely to focus on what would happen to her various companies than speculation on the unknown woman who’d inherited her large fortune. Best to keep it that way. I had enough to deal with alre
ady.

  Elizabeth’s coffin was almost invisible under the mound of flowers the funeral director had provided. There must have been a thousand red roses cascading over the sides of the dark mahogany casket where it stood in solemn isolation at the front of the chapel. The smell was overpowering to a sensitive shifter nose. I glanced sideways at Garth, stationed against the right-hand wall of the chapel, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest. He sneezed once, then returned to resolute scowling at all and sundry.

  I shouldn’t have looked at him. As if he felt my eyes on him, his gaze found mine, and I felt that surge of longing and lust that was becoming all too familiar. What was wrong with me? We hadn’t known each other that long, and the first time we met he’d been trying to kill me. How had he managed to worm his way so far into my heart so fast?

  I looked away, my body buzzing from the intensity of that grey gaze. Ben was at my side; I should be focused on him. We were going through a rough patch, but Ben was a great guy. So is Garth, my heart whispered. I only had to meet his eyes and my stupid heart skipped a beat. So much feeling in those eyes: everything that Garth was, laid bare. Stubborn, infuriating, loyal and compassionate. So is Garth. And he is fierce and strong, and he glories in your dragon.

  Though I was facing the front, I knew when the prime minister entered by the sudden buzz that swept through the congregation. The usher showed him to a seat in the row behind me, and I banished all thoughts of hunky werewolf and nodded politely. The prime minister didn’t know me from a bar of soap, but I bet he was hoping to change that. Just thinking of all Elizabeth’s lovely money slipping away would be enough to make a politician weep.

  The chaplain stepped up to the microphone, which squealed as he began the service. I let my attention wander to the various dilemmas that awaited me and only caught the occasional word. The prime minister made a short speech, but it was the usual polite talk, all about Elizabeth’s “great contribution to society” and how deeply she would be missed.

  Right. The only person who might possibly miss her would be Gideon Thorne, and he hadn’t dared show up.

  Deep in planning for my Japanese excursion, I gradually became aware of noises from outside. Garth was still at his station, but his eyes kept flicking to the closed double doors at the back of the chapel. Even the chaplain faltered a little during the closing prayer, distracted by the sound of many voices. I looked around for Luce, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  At last the chaplain finished. Bach played while the coffin slid out of sight and the curtains closed. Pity we couldn’t see it actually slide into the cremator and start to burn, but I guess it didn’t matter. She was most definitely dead, and I knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

  The chaplain came over to shake my hand and offer his condolences, then he gestured me to lead the way out. The prime minister leaned forward and offered his hand too.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.” His handshake was so firm it made me wonder what he was trying to prove. He had a reputation as a “manly” man. Seemed like he wanted to make sure everyone knew it. “Mrs Appleby was a great lady. She will be truly missed.”

  Maybe by his party. I hadn’t voted for him, and I was feeling pretty good about that decision now.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mrs Appleby was your … aunt? Is that right?”

  His eyes glinted with interest. Even the prime minister wasn’t above a bit of gossip.

  “That’s right,” I said, “though we haven’t seen each other in years.” I gave his hand an extra-hard squeeze before dropping it. “Excuse me, Prime Minister.”

  He tried not to wince, but didn’t quite manage it. “Of course.”

  Ben gave him a wintry smile as we swept past. Guess he hadn’t voted for him either. The noise grew as we approached the doors. When one of the ushers threw them open, the muffled shouting finally became plain.

  “Monsters out! Monsters out!”

  Luce met us at the doors. She took my arm as three trolls closed in around us and started herding us toward the waiting car. Mourners were packed shoulder to shoulder outside, but beyond the diamond-and-pearl-wearing set and carefully separated from them by a wall of scowling troll milled a crowd who definitely weren’t here to mourn anyone.

  A genuine demonstration, complete with waving placards. “Monsters out” was very popular. It looked like they’d had a number of these pre-printed. But there were also some hand-lettered variations on the theme, such as “Australia for Australians! No freaks allowed!” and one that showed a map of Australia, with “Monster-free Zone!” stamped in angry red capitals across it.

  “Surely they don’t know about Elizabeth?” Ben murmured as we worked our way through the crowd.

  The media was full of suspicion that Valeria had been a dragon. That was a little hard to avoid when so many people had seen a dragon crash into Sydney Harbour, and hers was the body that floated to the surface. But there was nothing to connect her to Elizabeth. All the queen candidates had been set up with identities that were completely separate from our royal mother. All transactions between her and us had been routed through so many trusts and intermediaries it would take more investigation than the average journalist had in them to trace any connection.

  “What else are they here for?” Luce muttered back, her face tight with anxiety.

  They couldn’t have found a bigger collection of shifters anywhere in the country if they’d tried. But how smart was it to bring placards to a fight with shifters? These people needed their heads read.

  The crowd roared and surged forward against the line of trolls holding them back. Ben’s hand crept inside his jacket and Luce and Garth closed in protectively, but the crowd wasn’t looking at us. They’d caught sight of the prime minister leaving the chapel behind us.

  I let out a relieved sigh. We weren’t the target of all the placard-waving after all. Not that a bunch of protesters would have been much of a challenge for the shifters here, but a confrontation could raise a lot of awkward questions. And I certainly wasn’t ready for a public showdown.

  “Relax, guys. They’re after him.”

  Half a dozen reporters had descended on the prime minister, shoving their microphones in his face. He was forced to stop on the front steps of the chapel, causing a bottleneck behind him of people trying to get out. Not that he seemed bothered. It wasn’t in the man’s nature to pass up any opportunity to play fearless leader for the cameras.

  “Prime Minister! When will Parliament pass legislation to deal with the monster menace?”

  “Prime Minister! Can you assure the people of Australia that they are safe from supernatural dangers?”

  “Prime Minister, what is the government doing about the current situation?”

  Okay, so maybe I’d been wrong about the reporters all being from staid financial publications. They’d obviously known the prime minister was attending, and somehow the protesters had found out too. Social media, probably.

  “Monsters out! Monsters out!” the protesters chanted. They might have wanted to catch the prime minister’s attention, but they clearly weren’t interested in what he had to say. I could understand their fear. The world had suddenly become a much scarier place than they’d realised, and they were looking for reassurance that they weren’t all about to be attacked in their beds by their childhood nightmares. Not that the prime minister could give it, but he made a brave attempt for the cameras.

  “The government is doing all it can,” he began.

  Which meant what, exactly? His government couldn’t seem to find its arse with both hands, even when dealing with regular economic issues. What could it possibly hope to do against supernatural creatures it knew nothing about? He had to say something, I guess, but being a politician, he kept it vague.

  “Taskforce Jaeger is continuing its investigations.” Big deal. A bunch of scientists weren’t going to have much impact, if all they had to go on was Valeria’s dead body. “And I’m flying to Canberra tonight for a
special sitting of Parliament. We will be debating comprehensive legislation to ensure that police have all the powers they need to deal with any kind of threat to our great nation. The people of Australia can rest assured that we will work together to resolve this issue and contain any threats that might arise.”

  There was more, but I stopped listening and let Luce guide me to the car. How would he react if he knew that the woman whose funeral he’d just been to was one of the big bad dragons that had everyone so stirred up? That his party had been accepting money from “the monsters” for years? Amusing that he thought shifters were an “issue” to be “resolved”. He might find that a little more challenging than he expected.

  Still, I wasn’t too worried. We’d had centuries of practice at hiding in plain sight from humans. Whatever legislation the mundane government passed wouldn’t give them a magic tool for identifying shifters. They could run round squawking that the sky was falling all they liked, but they’d probably never see another dragon as long as they lived. So much for Dragageddon. The hatred in the faces of the chanting crowd was a little chilling, sure, and that could be a problem if it got a good foothold. But if we kept our heads down, the police wouldn’t find anything to do with their new special powers, and the fuss would all die down eventually.

  We drove away, the sound of chanting fading away behind us.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I kicked off my shoes and curled my feet under me on the lounge. Damn stilettos. Even shifters couldn’t wear them without pain. They were one of the greatest instruments of torture ever invented.

  At least shifter healing came in handy for more than just deadly wounds. I massaged the soles of my feet and sighed happily as the pain seeped away.

  Ben flopped down in the armchair opposite and loosened his tie. Elizabeth’s grand drawing room had probably never seen anything so casual. “Well, that was fun.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “You were expecting to enjoy a funeral?”