Coming to the foot of the grand double staircase, she rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants before grasping the railing. She was very tired and it was hard to keep her eyes open. After four flights of stairs and several guarded checkpoints they reached the top floor. When they came to stand before a set of guarded dark wood double doors, Tarloq turned and held out his hand. It was an odd gesture, but she shook it anyway and he smiled.
“This where I leave you, Lieutenant. I wish you good fortune.”
“Thanks Tarloq. Best to you as well.” She turned back to the ominous looking doors, and the two guards each grabbed a handle, opening them.
The room she walked into had previously been used to host private parties. It was brightly lit with at least six crystal chandeliers. The floor was light, polished wood. Tables were set up everywhere. Some had maps spread out over them. Some held a pile of weapons, and two had several plates piled high with meat, fruit and all kinds of liquor. Gypsy’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since early yesterday morning. Maybe I should have defected after dinner, she thought.
The next thing she noticed were the enormous easels surrounding the room. Each displayed several sectional maps of the Imperial city and the outlying territories. The center easel’s map was the largest of all. It had the empire and all of the bordering kingdoms. As her brain tried to filter everything her eyes took in, she realized that Grand Duke Augustus von Goth stood by the center easel, facing her. On his right were Desmond and Kharon and on his left was her father, alive and well. It was hard not to throw herself into everyone’s arms. For a few heartbeats she wondered if she was still under the influence of Dzabol’s creepy drink. The whole scene was so unbelievable that Gypsy couldn’t move. Gavin’s alive? Has Dragon brought him back? The confusion was almost too much to handle.
All her attention focused on her father. She was afraid to believe this was real. Kharon stalked over, pulling her into his arms and hugging her tight. An entire range of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Relieved to be back with everyone, she was terrified and ashamed to have to explain to Gavin that she’d lost Missy. This was her ultimate failure as his daughter.
Kharon nuzzled her neck. “You need to swear loyalty to the Grand Duke. Later we can talk.”
Gypsy nodded feeling anesthetized. Augustus looked larger than she remembered. He wore the black ceremonial uniform of the nobility with the house of von Goth insignias embroidered around his high collar and cuffs. Sinking to her knees, she bowed her head.
“I am yours to command, my lord. I swear my loyalty and obedience.”
“You are most welcome here, Gypsy,” he replied.
Gesturing to the left he said, “Your father would like to speak to you in private.”
Gypsy’s shoulders fell and she kept her gaze to the floor. When Gavin rose and walked through an open door panel into a side room, she just followed.
Once inside the small room with the door closed, Gavin sat in one of two wing chairs next to the only window. Gypsy went to her knees next to his chair with her head bowed. She really wanted to fall to the floor, curl up and cry. Her throat tightened, her sinuses ached and it took almost a minute for her to get enough control of her misery to speak.
"Excellency,” she said in a raspy whisper. It was the only thing that would come out and not tear her innards out with it.
“Stand up and look at me.”
Gypsy stood but couldn’t meet his gaze. She was far too ashamed.
“Look at me,” Gavin repeated louder.
Finally, Gypsy did, expecting his one good eye to glare pure hatred at her. But that’s not what she saw. His look was softer. He hooked the toe of his boot around the chair next to him and dragged it closer. “Sit.”
Overwhelmed by sadness, she could feel her lower lip twitch as she lowered herself into the seat.
“Desmond and Kharon told us everything, Gypsy. What happened to Missy was not your fault.”
“Where’s mom?" her voice cracked hoarsely.
“Since she is the only doctor in the city at the moment, she is at the hospital. Your mother is well enough.”
Gypsy could feel her face contort with the agony of her emotions, but she held her tears in check. She doesn’t want to see me and I don’t blame her.
In a very stern voice her father said, “I know what you’re thinking and you are wrong. Your mother wanted to be here, but there are wounded troops who need her. She doesn’t hold you at fault for what happened to Missy, nor do I.”
“It was my responsibility to keep her safe and I failed everyone. I am so very sorry,” her voice broke softly.
“Sometimes you can make all of the right decisions and still get fucked. That is the nature of life, Gypsy. We will get Missy back. I know the bounty hunter she is with. He was an army officer once and not a wicked man. All he wants is to collect his bounty. We’ll season the pot to entice his return with her. I have no reason to believe he will harm her in the meantime.”
He gestured to the bar, and Gypsy quickly got up to pour him a whiskey. She brought it back and returned to her chair. Instead of taking a sip of his favored drink, Gavin looked her up and down with his scrutinizing eye.
While waiting for him to speak, Gypsy licked some crusty blood from her dry, split lips. When the commander had beat her, she never bothered concealing her wounds. She wanted the other soldiers to know exactly what kind of male he was. Had Gypsy known she was being brought to her father, she would have tried to clean up.
Almost on cue he asked, “What happened to you? Why are you battered?”
“I got in a fight.”
Gavin shook his head slowly and gave her a smile laced with over eight hundred years of experience. “No. Although I have been accused of being squeamish regarding your mother’s profession, I have learned a few medical things over the years. Your bruises are of different ages. I can tell by the varying colors. Some are dark brown and purple, overlaying some yellowish tints. Some appear to have faded almost to nothing. You were not a prisoner in Commander Dzabol’s camp, so why were you beaten?” he asked, taking a sip of his whiskey.
Gypsy knew Gavin suspected why. She’d been beaten because of Gavin’s disagreement with the commander, regarding her enlistment. But none of that mattered. “It’s not important. You wouldn’t be asking Desmond these questions. So why ask me?”
After a moment’s thought, he conceded. “You’re right. We’ll just—”
“Who is this Makara? I’ve never heard of him before.” Gypsy hated to interrupt, but she couldn’t contain herself anymore. “I’m sorry, Gavin. But please, I need some hope that I didn’t relegate Missy to a death sentence with my incompetence.”
Gavin touched the patch on his bad eye as if it could summon memories. He studied her for several moments before speaking. “Makara was an academy graduate who had the misfortune of keeping company with one of King Soloran’s daughters. Margale was a wild girl and seized every opportunity to sneak out of the palace to find her pleasures. She was an unparalleled pain in the king’s ass and an embarrassment to the crown.”
Gypsy remembered some royal history. King Soloran had lived over a century before her birth. He ruled for a few hundred years and wasn’t a bad king, as kings go, but he could be controlling to the point of cruelty. He had died from a battle wound infection. The thought of Megolyth dying of a battle wound sent a wisp of amusement through her. One would have to see battle to actually die of a battle wound.
Gavin paused to sip his whiskey again, then offered the glass to her. Gypsy gratefully accepted. The last drink she’d had was from Dzabol’s private collection. Finally, a real drink. She savored the smooth burn of the amber liquid as her father continued.
“One night as was her custom, Margale dressed as a commoner and went to the taverns to find companionship. Makara said he had seen her there before but had no idea she was a royal. So he played his most seductive hand and the two began some friendly chatter.” Gavin shrugged as if he could minimize
the memory’s impact by trivializing it.
The night’s drinking led to more and they soon took a room upstairs to fuck. The barkeep’s wife recognized her and saw an instant opportunity to make money. The wretched woman sold the information to one of the King’s Guard, who responded to the room with a few of his men. Makara was caught in the act performing cunnilingus on the very delighted princess. For his crime, the offending body part was publicly removed and I was forced to discharge him. He should be elated that his dick wasn’t in her at the time.”
“What happened to her?”
“No one knows for certain. She was never seen outside the palace walls again. When the king died, the queen simply said she had been sent away. Rumors swirled for years, the most predominant of which had the king walling her up in her room, but there was never any proof. I expect she was given to a foreign nobleman as a consort.”
“Why do you know so many details about this story?”
A deep frown settled and his handsome features darkened. “You see, I was there that night. Makara and I had been having a cocktail with some other officers when the princess came in. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t pay much attention to her. Her face was partially hooded and her clothing was well made. I should have guessed who she was, but I was too drunk to care. My only concern was to find a whore to fuck and pass out when finished. Makara liked her very much. He gave her a few compliments and she drank up his attention. I jokingly encouraged him to pursue her, and so did our fellow officers. Of course, no one in our group knew her true identity.”
Running her pinky along the rim of the glass, she looked him in his eye. “You act like this was your fault. How could it have been? If you didn’t know who she was—”
Gavin cut her off. The guilt I harbor simply this one fact. Had I not been so inebriated at the time I may have—no, I would have recognized her—and warned him off. Makara is extremely intelligent and would’ve been an exceptional leader. When you are charged with training and mentoring young soldiers, you do your best to ensure their success. I was the senior officer in the group and unfortunately the drunkest at the time. My affinity for whiskey has cost me many things over my lifetime. It is a liability I am forced to bear, especially when someone else has to pay for the weakness in my character.”
Considering the story, Gypsy finished off the whiskey. She placed the glass on the carpet between her boots. “Even if you hadn’t been drunk, you still may not have recognized her. I mean she managed to dance right out of the palace unnoticed. Unlike my husband, who was screwing King Vieran’s daughter, Golda, I assume you didn’t spend a lot of time bedding or socializing with King Soloran’s daughters.” Gypsy tried to mask the shadow of her petty jealousy. “What happened to Makara wasn’t his fault or yours. It was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
A ghost of a grin lifted his lips. “Just as Missy’s abduction isn’t your fault. Just some bad luck is all.”
She had nothing to counter that observation with. The old bastard had won this debate. Standing up, Gavin grabbed her wrists and pulled her out of the chair and into his arms. Gavin pressed his cheek against hers, and for the first time in her life, he held her tightly for a long time. A really long time. Sometimes she really loved this old beast.
“You did the best you could and I couldn’t be prouder. Tonight you will be given command of a platoon and victory is your only priority. We will attack Megolyth’s forces in a few hours. I know sleep will be impossible but try to at least get some food. If we fail to win the night, Missy will be the luckiest of the Theron family. Now go report to your husband so he can debrief you and get your battle gear restored.”
Gypsy dropped her head forward in a short, tense nod. “I was really scared you were dead. I’m glad you’re okay, Dad.”
“Me too, dear.” With that Gavin kissed her on the forehead and gave her a gentle shove toward the door.
Chapter 23
The night was unnaturally quiet. Not even the faint rustle of a breeze through the dead leaves could be heard. The weather was cool with misting rain and poor visibility. Nature refused to concede any advantages to either side. Gypsy and her platoon rode quietly to their assigned position and waited. The musk of sweat and fright filled the air. It wasn’t unlike her first war battle. The panic that licked at her senses was exactly the same.
Under her armor, perspiration collected between her shoulder blades and trickled down her back right into the crack of her ass. There’s some battle glamour you don’t tout in the taverns. I’ll bet the boys get all kinds of testicle chafing they don’t talk about. Her armpits were downright soaked and she knew the minute she started fighting she’d start collecting painful rub spots. But the discomfort of it all was nothing compared to her fear. Fear of maiming, fear of a lingering death, and worst of all, fear of failure.
Gypsy took some comfort in being able to reclaim her battle mount, Declan. Though they were still learning each other, they had many unspoken understandings. Declan had been her much protested wedding present from Kharon. Regardless of his warnings, she loved the animal. He was perfect for her and if she lost him in battle she would be just as grief stricken as if she’d lost a friend.
Before her father’s arrest, she’d trained with the fractious beast daily, despite Kharon’s gloomy predictions that the unstable, disobedient animal was going to end up getting her killed.
Declan was the one. She knew it the second she first swung her leg over his saddle. Gypsy had recognized his aggressive intelligence from the start. When they were alone the animal was calm, protective and had a surprisingly advanced sense of humor. But whenever her husband was around, the beastie was stubborn and downright obnoxious. Gypsy knew the furry bastard did it on purpose. Kharon hadn’t wanted her to ride into this battle on the ornery beast, but she dismissed his protest and thankfully he hadn’t challenged her on it.
Word spread down the line and eventually made it to her platoon. The call to charge was coming. The thirty men under her were mostly young—green junior officers with a few seasoned enlisted thrown in. She counted on them to help her keep the younger soldiers from breaking ranks. She’d given them all, both young and old, a pep talk earlier and hoped it would see them all through the battle still astride their steeds.
It saddened her to have to kill men from the Imperial army. How many would she know? She had just spoken to the lieutenant who saddled her hyperia when she left Dzabol yesterday. Her memories of him from the academy were faint, but still there. The thought of killing him on the battlefield left a sick feeling in her stomach. What if Makkai or even Falken hadn’t defected to Augustus? Could I callously cut them down?
Gavin once asked her if she could kill Kharon under order from him. Though they had just barely discovered the Primal Fever and weren’t married, she couldn’t answer the question because she didn’t know. The question still disturbed her.
The call sounded with the booming strikes on a line of war drums. Gypsy spurred Declan forward and entered black chaos. Mounts hissed and growled as they quarreled with each other in the crowded charge. Some had already lost their riders but it didn’t matter. These hyperia were battle-bred and trained, and would fight other hyperia until the battle was done. The crash and clang of armor and weapons smashed the silence with its metallic noise. Within moments, the first screams of men tore through the dark fog.
With the smell of spilled blood infecting, invading her nostrils, a murderous ferocity clouded her mind, taking over. It chased away all thought and reason. Everything left her but the need to fight and survive.
The enemy lit their night fires as she galloped into a dense group of soldiers with her sword raised. She cut and chopped at men like they were overgrown weeds, sending blood flying everywhere. It ran in thick rivulets down her face, her armor, her mount and matted her hair as it dried. The ground beneath them greedily soaked up the waves of blood, creating foul smelling mud.
When someone’s intestines were breached the stench was
distinct. The abundance of it knotted her stomach, but, like the pots she’d scoured and the armor she’d polished, she focused on her task. Enemy soldiers tried to drag her from her mount but she cut them down. Slicing, stabbing and chopping through flesh, her detached emotions wandered to a question she had asked Gavin as a child. Much to the horror of her mother, she’d asked him what it felt like to kill people. Her father never hesitated or sweetened his answers. ‘It feels like work,’ he said with no further comment. Now that she was a soldier ensconced in battle, she understood.
Enemy soldiers ran in every direction, many so green their lines plummeted into chaos. It was like herding cats. Gypsy didn’t know how many hours passed before the sound of the enemy’s horn called retreat. She was proud to see most of her green recruits continued to advance and put to sword many of the retreating enemy. It reminded her of her first battle, only the ones sounding the retreat then had been her own forces.
In flickering firelight up ahead, she caught sight of Gavin. He was covered in so much blood and gore he was almost unrecognizable. Then he disappeared into the darkness again.
Gypsy pushed hard to ride down the fleeing enemy. They had completely broken ranks and weren’t even bothering to defend themselves as they fled, some even throwing away their swords in hopes we might take mercy upon their pitiful retreat and cease our advance.
While closing the distance between them, Gypsy felt a sudden albeit brief sensation of weightlessness. Then she was on the ground under Declan as he fought to get up from the mud he had slipped in. Declan recovered and got to his feet but not without stomping the wind from her in the process.
“Gods, I would have been better off riding a goat out here,” she yelled at him.
The beastie gave her an insolent look and sniffed a nearby corpse. Thankfully, battle hyperia were trained not to bolt off to safety when their rider went down. Finding her bearings, she saw her sword stuck half a blade deep in the mud. Ignoring the pain screaming through her, she scrambled to her feet, turning quickly to retrieve her sword. Suddenly a hateful, venomous roar filled her ears, distracting her. Looking up, she saw a large warrior riding toward her. Even with a helmet on, she knew it was Dzabol. She had polished his armor enough times to know every scuff, dent and engraved detail.
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