by M. L. Ryan
After our regal slap down, Tannis suggested we spend the next day away from the palace. The outing was multi-purpose; she would help me pick out some appropriate, but stylish apparel, I’d have some much-needed time without my aid, and we’d both be less likely to invoke the queen’s ire if she couldn’t catch us doing something inappropriate.
At first, the excursion was productive and fun. The shops carried unique, boutique clothing, a far cry from the mass-produced, mall crap I was used to seeing at home. With Tannis’ encouragement, I snagged four new outfits likely to pass muster with Pixie that didn’t make me look like pre-leather Sandy from the musical Grease. Once I’d exceeded my shopping limit—four stores or two hours, whichever came first—Tannis agreed we should pause for lunch.
It was still a bit early, and the bistro was pleasantly uncrowded. I took my time perusing the menu, pleased to be dining where I actually got to decide what to eat. The food at the palace was tasty, but often a little too heavy on the red meat and creamy sauces for my taste. Aside from my vow to eat further down on the food chain to make up for my mammal-skewed, Yterixa diet, my human body couldn’t handle all the fat and cholesterol my Courso hosts preferred. The waiter took our order, grilled trout for me, filet mignon for Tannis, and we settled in to await the food.
“I think this is the first purely recreational thing I’ve done since Kyzal’s death,” she said with a sigh. “The formalities involved with a funeral for a crown prince make the whole process so long and drawn out. I didn’t realize until this moment how tense I’ve been.”
“It seemed rather grueling and torturous to me as well, but I suppose someone so famous requires a grand send off.”
“Old traditions die hard,” Tannis offered. “Although, it would be easier if the well-being of the living were taken into consideration. I’m sure Kyzal couldn’t care less how many memorials were observed in his honor.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. He always struck me as the type who’d want a lot of public carrying on. Nevertheless, if funerals were supposed to help the dearly departed’s loved ones move through the grieving process, then more than two seemed excessive.
We changed the subject to topics less morose, and when our meals arrived, we were in decidedly better moods. Although for me, the transformation may have been a result of the bottle of wine we shared. While Tannis could have downed three times as much without feeling the slightest effects, I had quite a nice buzz.
I was about to comment on the deliciousness of my fish, but noticed the noise level in the restaurant had picked up. “This place got busy fast,” I shouted, leaning closer to Tannis to be heard over the din.
She glanced around and quickly shielded her face with her hand. “Don’t look over there…” she began, but it was too late. I’d already scanned the area where most of the racket seemed to originate. I expected to see tables filled with newly arrived patrons, but, instead, people jammed the entrance, craning their necks in our direction. When they noticed I was looking, the clamor intensified.
A tall woman in the front of the pack yipped out something, clearly thrilled she’d made eye contact. She waved frantically at us, and the throng surged forward. The beleaguered hostess tried to control them, but no one person could possibly restrain twenty. They surrounded the table, all jabbering at the same time in a cacophonous mash-up of mostly unintelligible words.
Despite the almost frightening crush of middle-aged women, Tannis smiled and nodded, and I followed her lead. Thankfully, the hostess returned with two of the waiters and a burly fellow sporting a crisp, white toque. He used his cap to swipe the people near him away from the table, while the others used less physical means to disperse the crowd. The chef apologized for the interruption, assuring us we would not be disturbed again. He further insisted we could not possibly consume lukewarm meals and instructed the waiter to remove our plates. I was hungry and didn’t care if my meal was no longer piping hot, but before I could voice any objections, the dishes disappeared.
My stomach grumbled its displeasure. “They certainly were excited to see you,” I complained, gazing longingly at my retreating trout almandine.
“No one was excited to see me,” Tannis observed. “They wanted to meet the fiancée of Crown Prince Aldegrexynthor.”
“What? I know my Courso sucks, but I didn’t hear anyone mention Alex.”
“No, but they were calling out for the ‘gryndin lypsemma’.”
I stared blankly. “And that is…?”
“The consort of the crown prince,” she answered, a smug grin curling on her beautiful, full lips. “You are quite the celebrity.”
“Everyone was all charged up because I’m supposed to marry the next in line to the throne? That’s crazy.” And a little insulting. I didn’t want to be known as the chick who was sleeping with their future sovereign.
“You’re new, mysterious,” she mused, wagging her brows. “We are old hat. Besides, the people took Kyzal’s death badly. You are something to keep their spirits up.”
“Wonderful. Now I’m the human anti-depressant,” I muttered.
“Yes, but remember, they don’t know you are human. The public thinks you are half-Courso. Otherwise, we’d have to explain the whole Sebastian-in-your-Kindle debacle, and we know that would just lead to more problems.”
Like I’d forget the late Otto’s quest to pervert Sebastian’s last resort, life-saving experiment as a means to offer immortality to the highest bidder. All you had to do was transfer your essence to a new body every three hundred years or so. You could even pick the person who got to die so you could live on.
“Plus,” she continued, “Even though the public doesn’t know the specifics, it is common knowledge that you were instrumental in defeating Keem.”
“Those ladies would have thought twice before barging in here if they’d known I can change into Birdzilla.”
Tannis grinned. “Truly. One fire-spewing dispersal would likely prevent such problems from reoccurring.”
“Nothing slows down groupies better than incineration,” I agreed.
The replaced lunches arrived quickly and were as mouthwatering as the first set. The chef refused to let us pay, and in case anyone remained waiting for our departure at the front of the restaurant, he let us leave through a side exit. It was the most exciting thing that had happened since Alex and I arrived. And I used to think chinchilla milking was dull.
Tannis peeked around the corner where the alley met the street in case anyone was lurking, but the roadway was empty. “What should we do now?” she asked. “Given your love for shopping, I guess more retail therapy is out.”
Down the street, I noticed a man leaning against the front of a building. Smoke billowed over his head, and I realized he was the first Courso I’d ever seen with a cigarette. Hell, he also was the first one I’d seen in a wife-beater and Bermuda shorts. Interesting observations, but not nearly as intriguing as the body art that covered every visible inch of his muscular arms and legs. He reminded me of Wyatt, an equally well-inked bartender at my favorite watering hole in Tucson.
“Check out that guy down there,” I said, pointing to Mr. Smoking Guns. “I had no idea people here got tattoos.”
Tannis peered at him and smiled. “It isn’t as popular as in your dimension, but the idea is catching on. There’s a shop over there; he’s either a customer or one of the artists. Want to take a closer look?”
I’d considered getting a tattoo, even came close to doing it a few times, but always bailed at the last minute. It wasn’t fear of pain that stopped me, but I could never decide on a design good enough to gain a permanent spot on my person. I detailed my love-hate relationship with indelible skin pigment while we ventured forward.
As we approached the storefront, Smoking Guns eyed us impassively. “Can I help you, ladies?” he asked, taking a deep draw on his cigarette. I raised my eyebrows, and he smiled, exhaling the smoke. “I heard you speaking in English,” he acknowledged, answering my unasked
question.
Tannis nodded. “Then you must have spent time in the human dimension.”
“That’s where I learned my craft. More places to study.” He gave us each a cursory once-over. “You here for some ink?”
Maybe it was the wine at lunch, or the released tension of the official mourning period ending, but the words, “Yes, I am,” sort of exploded from my lips. Tannis shot me a curious glance, but said nothing.
Mr. Guns dropped his smoke, crushed the butt under his boot, and invited us inside. The place looked much like all the other parlors I’d visited, except instead of drawings, 3-D holograms decorated the walls. The images made it much easier to get an idea of what the end product might look like, as a specific rendering could be placed on a particular body part so you could view it from every conceivable angle.
After careful consideration, and some helpful input from Tannis, I decided on both the design and the location. The process was mostly painless and within an hour, I was the proud owner of a colorful, curved feather that covered the embarrassing, hickey-shaped birthmark on my left butt cheek.
“That’s awesome,” I gushed, twisting around with a hand mirror to admire the work.
“I’m pleased you like it,” Smokey replied, dabbing away some stray blood and ink.
“You know, I have to say I’m surprised there was no magic involved.” I hadn’t expected little pots of ink and a tattoo gun like in any shop back home.
“You are a newbie,” he said, grinning. “There’s no magic in the inking, but the aftercare is a breeze.” His hand hovered over the still-oozing feather, and the tat began to tingle. After a minute or so, the prickly sensation faded, and he moved his hand. “There you go, all healed.”
“What, no washing with antibacterial soap or anointing with salve?”
“Nope, no seepage or bleeding, either. You are good to go.”
Wow. Post-tattoo management to prevent infection was notoriously bothersome, not to mention the itching that often accompanied the healing process. I didn’t have to worry about any of that.
I hiked up my pants. “What do I owe you for this?”
“It’s on the house. If anyone asks who did it, make sure you send them my way.”
“That doesn’t seem like the best business model,” I noted.
“It is when I’ve just inked the future queen of Alenquai.”
*****
Back at the palace, I retreated to our suite, plunking down on one of the sleek sofas in the living room. The excursion was supposed to cheer me up and give me a break from the inter-palace grind. Aside from a full stomach, some purchases that had not yet arrived—royals never carried their own parcels—and some spiffy butt art, the rest of the day’s events made me question the wisdom of ever stepping out from behind the walls again. Just the thought of people recognizing me and rubbernecking made my stomach roil, almost as much as being forever stuck in the palace where people were paid to watch and critique my every move.
Cocooned within the buttery leather, I dozed off, napping until Myrjix delivered my haul.
“Excuse me, Your… uh… Hailey,” she stammered, wincing at my slumber-addled self. “Had I known you were asleep, I would not have disturbed you.”
Without making eye contact, Myrjix hurried into the bedroom. She returned a minute later, minus the hanging bags, and attempted to make her escape without uttering another word.
Stifling a yawn, I sat up and admonished her, not for waking me up, but because she still had trouble addressing me by my first name. “Come on, Myrjix, it can’t be that hard to remember to call me just Hailey.”
“It’s not that I forgot,” she admitted, turning to face me. “I’m worried I will make a mistake and refer to you that way in front of the protocol aid, or,” she added, her voice lowering to a whisper, “Ryxjat or the queen.”
She had a point, and I was a jerk. “Sorry, I shouldn’t give you a hard time for adhering to conventions you might be penalized for not sticking to. Maybe we can come up with something else that won’t piss off the stick-up-their-assers and won’t make me want to hurl.”
Myrjix let out a relieved breath. “That would be best, ma’am.”
“Oh, definitely not ma’am. It’s bad enough they want me to look like a throwback to the fifties; I don’t want to feel like one, too.” Her eyes narrowed, and I realized she had no idea to what I was referring. “We’ll think of something.”
“How about Khaleesi?” Alex leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, a roguish grin plastered on his winsome face.
“Won’t work,” I said, shaking my head. “She just rides dragons; she doesn’t turn into one.”
He pushed away from the doorway, stepped across the room, and leaned down to kiss me on my head. “Technically, neither do you.”
“True, but I’m also not blonde, nor do I control an army of ten thousand ninja eunuchs.”
“You’ve got me there,” he admitted. “I’m all out of ideas, then.”
Through our playful banter, Myrjix’s curious eyes darted between us. While she probably knew I was Yterixa and could form-bend into a hawk, my humungous auxiliary form remained a secret to all but a few. I wasn’t certain if her tension and confusion stemmed from thinking I might transform into a beast, or that the US armed forces had a battalion of castrated soldiers at the ready. I decided to set the record straight, sort of.
“We are talking about a character from a series of books popular in my dimension,” I offered as explanation. She seemed relieved to find out it was all fiction.
“By your leave,” she said, curtsying.
I stared awkwardly at the top of her head as she remained bent at the knee.
Alex raised his eyebrows and gestured with his hand to indicate there was something I needed to do.
“Oh, sorry,” I sputtered, finally remembering my part in the formalities. “You can go, Myrjix.”
She rose, bobbed her head in acknowledgement, and exited. When the door closed, I let my shoulders slump.
“I’m never going to get used to this kowtowing bullshit.”
Alex pulled me to him. “It gets easier as you go along,” he advised.
“This is why I never wanted my own business. I hate telling people what to do.”
“If it makes it any better, the staff doesn’t look at it that way. They act a certain way and expect us to behave accordingly.”
I huffed out a sigh. “Is that also true for our subjects?” I almost choked on the last word. Subjects. Geez.
He released me from his embrace and guided me to sit next to him on the sofa. “I heard you and Tannis had some problems in town.”
My version of the day’s events gushed out like a leaky dam that finally burst: the overly solicitous shopkeepers, the mob at the bistro, and the tattoo freebie for no reason other than I was the gryndin lypsemma. I hadn’t intended to drown Alex in my troubles, but it did feel better to unload some of my frustration.
“I’m sorry, carisa. After what happened after the last memorial, we should have anticipated the possibility of more over-exuberant crowds. We are used to such attention, albeit of a generally less frenzied nature, but that’s no excuse for not being mindful of how unaccustomed you are to the limelight. I will assign a detail to accompany you when you leave the premises to prevent further incidents.”
“It’s bad enough having Pixie constantly comment on my posture, dress, and facial expressions, now I’ll have babysitters when I go out as well?” I whined.
“I may have a solution, at least a temporary one. Uncle Fry invited us to visit. There is no way I can swing it, but there’s nothing stopping you from going. You will be much less recognizable in Jjestri, and taking in the sights there will give you more interesting things to do than learning protocol and waiting for me.”
The prospect of traveling without Alex didn’t thrill me. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable going alone.”
“You won’t be. Tannis will accompany you.” He nestled his head int
o my neck, trailing light kisses along my throat. “Now that is settled,” he breathed, reaching around to tug at the waistband of my pants. “Let’s see this tattoo.”
*****
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about a solo excursion. Unbeknownst to me, a nice trip with my future sister-in-law had a different meaning than I thought. Members—or in my case, members-to-be—of the royal family of Alenquai did not travel as official guests of another royal family, even if that family was family, without an entourage.
We needed our ladies-in-waiting to oversee our extensive wardrobes, along with a trio of porters to schlepp all the crap we had to pack. Normally when I traveled, I brought a change of jeans, one just-in-case semi-nice outfit, a small bag of toiletries and makeup, and enough shirts and underwear for as many days as I was to be away. Silly me to think a medium-sized piece of luggage was going to cut it for my jaunt to Jjestri. Required, at minimum, were three changes of clothes per day, and because what one might be doing could necessitate anything from casual to formal attire, this meant somewhere around nine possible outfits daily. Hell, my ball gowns alone had their own trunk. Ball gowns?
If the fuss about the clothes wasn’t bad enough, the queen insisted my PA come along. One of the reasons I accepted the invitation was to get some time away from the humorless priss, and now he was our travel companion. She claimed his purpose was to educate me about unusual Jjestri etiquette, but my gut told me there was more to it.
“She wants Pixie to keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t do something embarrassing, doesn’t she?” I fretted while chucking eyeshadow into a cosmetic bag. We were scheduled to leave the next morning, and my annoyance had not subsided since the day before when I discovered I wouldn’t be leaving my PA behind.