His Princess (A Royal Romance)

by Abigail Graham

  The other part of me is warm with the rightness of it. Rose Dawson was fashioned to knock on doors and yell at their owners about where their cars are parked. I feel like every moment of my life stretching back was a chain of events that led me to step up to the that door and pound on it with my fist.

  I want to cry but I can’t, I just feel numb. I think some part of me refuses to believe he’s really gone. The passion I felt with him was the most real thing I’ve ever known. The rest of the world is just dust.

  Still, I have my girls. He made them happy for a time. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I always knew that bastard Russ would make another move to get the girls away. He has no interest in raising them himself. He’ll pass that off to his new toy while he goes out and fucks the younger model on the sly. He just wants to spite me.

  He told me once he should have just driven me to an abortion clinic instead of letting me be a boat anchor around his neck. That’s my eldest he’s talking about. My little girl, Karen. Thinking about that man taking custody of my children makes my blood boil.

  Finally I slip my feet out from under the covers and stand up, sweeping my robe around my body. Then I spot it. There’s a box sitting on my side chair.

  When I lift it, I find it surprisingly heavy. I move it to the bed and run my hands over the surface. It’s just wood, with two latches that flip up.

  I raise the lid and almost keel over.

  It’s full of money. A lot of money. I pick up one stack and find that it’s a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills bound together. Ten thousand dollars in my hand, and there must be dozens of them in the box. No, let’s see—six deep and ten wide…

  There’s at least a million dollars in here in cash.

  There’s also a note.

  It reads,

  * * *

  Rose,

  You are the only person in my life that has ever given me a happy memory. I wish more than anything that I could stay with you and your beautiful family. Without you I return to the nothing that I have always been. I will do everything to keep you safe. You will never hear from me again. I love you.

  Burn this letter. Be careful with the money.

  -Quent

  * * *

  I stare at the letters for a time, hoping that they’ll change, morph into a promise to return when everything is settled, but I can read it in the words. He doesn’t expect to ever come back because he doesn’t expect to be alive.

  The box is like something out of a dream. I can’t believe it’s real. I slip the note in my pocket, close the box, and shove it under the bed, dizzy at the idea of all that money in one place, and in cash. I have to get it somewhere safe, but where? I can’t just walk into a bank and put in all that money. I’ll have to tell them where it came from.

  It’s enough, though. If I figure something out, I can leave here. Get rid of the house. Pay a lawyer to deal with Russ once and for all, no more of his bullshit.

  “Yay,” I sigh to myself.

  I should feel free but I feel more constrained than ever. Stepping lightly, I check on the kids and make sure they’re in their beds before I descend to the first floor and sit on the living room couch for a while.

  Quentin settled into this house in so little time. I can’t look anywhere without seeing something that reminds me of him over the last few days. Even where I’m sitting.

  I turn the TV on low and let it drone as I flip channels through infomercials and bland Sunday-morning news broadcasts, bleary-eyed reporters talking about the same things they were yesterday or things not important enough to wait until later.

  Eventually I warm a bowl of oatmeal and grudgingly eat it.

  “You should put some brown sugar on top.”

  I jump out of my skin at the sound of Karen’s voice.

  “You’re up early.”

  “I went to bed early,” she says, but yawns anyway.

  She sits on the far side of the couch, crosses her legs, and plucks at her grippy sock with her fingers.

  “So, he’s gone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s not going to come back, is he?”

  “No, sweetie.”

  She’s quiet for a while, then, “Why?”

  “Nothing to do with us. He couldn’t really stay. It was only for a little while. Some things can be good without lasting forever.”

  “But they’re better if they do,” Karen adds.

  “Yeah,” I sigh.

  “Are we going to have to go live with Dad?”

  “I hope not.”

  “I don’t want to. They can’t make me if I don’t want to, right? I’m almost an adult, don’t I get to say where I go?”

  “I wish it was that simple, honey.”

  “All that stuff he said about you neglecting us, that wasn’t true.”

  I sigh again, harder, and let my head flop against the couch. “I know, hon, but the judge might not see it that way. It’s all about how your dad presents it, and if he knows the judge.”

  “That’s not fair. If Quentin came back, he could—”

  “He’s not. He did what he could to help us, but he’s gone and we have to accept that.” My words come out with more force than I’d like.

  Karen shrinks back. “I’m sorry. I miss him, too.”

  She hugs her knees to her chest. “Is that what it feels like to have a dad? What it was like when he was here.”

  I can’t answer her. My chest seizes up and I almost drop the oatmeal. I slap it on the table and walk to the window, hoping that if I pinch the bridge of my nose hard enough I won’t start crying.

  Nope, that doesn’t work.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s not yours either.”

  I nod, trying to stop crying. I don’t want Karen to see me crying, not like this. Karen brings me a tissue, and I wipe myself up and try to think of what we can do today. I don’t want to sit around the house. The block party is over.

  There must be something.

  When Kelly eventually wakes up her first target is the cupboards and a bowl of disgusting sugary cereal I shouldn’t let her eat. Karen makes eggs, and somehow manages it without ruining and blackening them or undercooking them. She must have been studying Quentin.

  Damn it, there he is again.

  Once the girls eat and dress, I invite them on a walk with me.

  That means we have to walk in the street until we’re out of the neighborhood. Whoever designed the place didn’t want pedestrians, only vehicles three model years old or newer or whatever.

  I look back at Quentin’s house as we leave. It’s clearly empty, light shining through the windows. The car is gone, everything is locked up, and the place looks just as uninhabited as it did a week ago.

  A week, can this have been one week of my life? It feels like it was ten years.

  Kelly holds my hand as we walk. Karen doesn’t. Once we pass the gate there’s an actual sidewalk.

  “Where are we going?” Kelly asks.

  “Somewhere,” I tell her.

  The answer is anywhere but here. I really want to just keep walking. It’s maybe a mile to the park and by then Kelly has to stop on her little legs and rest, so we sit on a bench for a while. I wish I’d brought something for the girls to feed the squirrels. They used to love feeding the squirrels. An especially chubby one almost comes up to our feet.

  “Sorry,” Karen tells the squirrel, “we don’t have any food for you.”

  The little creature scampers off into the trees, but I swear he looks annoyed before he spirals up around a trunk and disappears.

  We walk some more. Kelly swings on the swing set and Karen joins her while I stand and stare past them at nothing, at distant trees and late-summer haze. It shouldn’t be this hot. Sweat beads down my back.

  I want to go home, but it’s not back at that house.

  After a few hours we’re done walking the park. It’s not that big. It doesn’t even have a
name. It’s a just a gap between more of these shitty developments, held by the county to keep more houses off of it. Keep it open.

  We all hold hands walking back. I need to look at the papers Russ gave me. Last night I just shoved them into the mail sorter when I came in the door and never touched them again. Then I need to write bills. My stomach grows sour thinking about all the things I have to do. Little things that don’t feel like they should matter anymore, and of course tomorrow I have to go to work.

  I’m looking forward to that. Burt is about the last person I want to see, even if he did turn into Mr. Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol.

  Quentin, I realize, probably had something to do with that, too. I sigh. Is there nothing he hasn’t touched?

  How long am I going to think about him every minute of the day? How am I ever going to find somebody like that?

  There’s only one answer and I don’t like it.

  Once we’re back at the house the girls need a hearty lunch. I use leftover marinade from yesterday to make them some chicken. I don’t feel hungry until Karen insists I eat some, too.

  I decide we’re getting delivery for dinner, courtesy of Quentin’s stash. I still need to figure out something to do with that. I can’t pay a lawyer in stacks of cash, can I?

  Wait, what am I saying? I probably can.

  I let the girls go for a few hours. Karen does homework while Kelly plays video games in the living room and I try not to drink.

  It would be so easy to just pop the cork from that bottle I opened last night.

  Instead I notice the time and call the girls down to decide what to order before the places all close. It’ll be two large pizzas, one with extra cheese at Kelly’s insistence, and the other with pepperoni. I don’t care, I could eat either. I’m finally starting to feel hungry.

  After I order I send them back upstairs and sit in the living room. Maybe twenty minutes later, my doorbell rings.

  “Damn, that was fast.”

  When I open the door I find not a pizza delivery person, but a tall man in a light linen suit, wearing a pair of gloves and a black mask that completely covers his face.

  I blink then I slam the door shut, too late. His hand catches it and throws it open. The door hits me and knocks me square on my ass.

  I scurry away on all fours and throw myself to my feet, but he catches my ankle and pulls me back. Karen pops out of her bedroom and I motion for her to go back in.

  “Tell them to come down.”

  His voice is muffled by the mask, but deep. He has an accent but nothing about it tells me from where, exactly. I roll on my back and scoot away.

  “I direct your attention to that sconce on the wall,” he says, pointing to the light by the kitchen door.

  There’s a sound of glass shattering as my front window cracks and the light explodes into pieces, all without a sound.

  There’s a little red light on the wall just below where it used to be.

  “The laser is not for sighting purposes. Rather I think it should be quite clear what it is meant for.”

  I look down and the little red dot has already centered on my chest.

  “Tell the children to come down.”

  Still I say nothing. Karen, run, get Kelly and run.

  “I will take them whether you die or not. This is your last chance.”

  “Karen,” I croak out. “Get your sister.”

  The girls are already coming down the stairs.

  The dot snaps away from my chest and settles on Karen’s forehead. My whole body goes solid like a block of ice.

  “Stand up.”

  I grab the couch and pull myself to my feet. Oh God. Oh God.

  “What do you want? Who are you?”

  “What I want is a complex matter, one I shall explain to you in the car. As to who I am, I am many things to many people. I might say that I am the devil, and I come to do the devil’s work. But it is better if you call me by name. I am Santiago de la Rosa.”

  17

  Quentin

  By dark of night I leave, drawing out of Rose’s bed in soft silence. I leave her lying on her side, her pale skin aglow in the dark, her red hair made inky black in shadow, a sleeping princess in a world that doesn’t belong to me. It’s time to go.

  My first act is to retrieve the case full of cash from the house. I dart across the gap between her home and my safe house, retrieve the case, scrawl a note, and rest it on the easy chair in her bedroom.

  I want to kiss her, to touch her cheek or her hand or something, but if I wake her she will talk me into staying another day and I will protest I must leave again, and the cycle will repeat until the devil comes calling to collect his due.

  I won’t ever let him have her.

  This is not going to be easy.

  Back at the house I move everything from the garage to the basement, except what gear I feel is worth it to take with me. I have a program on the computer that wipes the hard drives, replacing the data with useless gibberish. It’ll take all night to run since it repeats the process seven times, but once the first is done I’ll leave and just let it run while I’m gone.

  All in all it takes me less than forty-five minutes to pack up. I take only enough clothes to last a few days, my dad’s gun, and some other weapons and ammunition. Time comes I need more, there’s going to be plenty of it.

  I have become the target of the international fraternity of assassins. No one else will touch me as long as Santiago is on the hunt—none of them would dare risk offending him by stealing his kill.

  Once I kill Santiago, though, it’ll be open season on Quentin. There will be dozens more after me.

  So that’s the plan: kill them all. Once they stop coming I’ll start working my way through my old contacts. I will make my life mean something. No more will I serve flesh-mongers and warlords, thieves and procurers. I will go where the authorities can’t, do what the police cannot do.

  Kill who they dare not touch.

  I will destroy the network of crime syndicates and families and gangs or I will die in the attempt. I will most certainly die, but it will be a good death. A worthy death.

  When I was very young I dreamed of being a knight. Rescuing ladies and such. Somewhere along the line I turned into a blackguard, the worst of the worst. I became the bad guy.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be a good guy, but I can do something with the time I have left.

  The gear I’m taking with me isn’t enough and I don’t have time to move the rest. I’ll have to consider it abandoned since I can never come back here, ever. I need more.

  I’ll need whatever Dale can spare. He’s not going to be happy to see me, which is why I’m not calling.

  When the first pass on the data eraser is done I get in the car, start her up, and drive out. It’s almost daylight now. I ease off the gas as I pass Rose’s house for fear of waking her, and drive too fast through the rest of the development to the front gate, angrily choke my steering wheel while the gate goes up, and drive.

  I don’t care about lying low or tickets or anything like that. I want to drive, to feel the blood sing in my veins, for something, anything to break this hot gray malaise that grips my soul. I know nothing can fill the void Rose left within me. I leave my heart behind tonight. Tomorrow I am a dead man, waiting for my ticket to get punched.

  I’m going to punch it first. In the face.

  Easy, Quentin. Let’s get to Dale’s place first.

  It’s not a long drive into Philly but it makes me nervous. I’m not exactly low key here. I ease off the gas even on the interstate as I get to the city. I take the exit onto Columbus and then Market Street, watching the city breathe in quiet before it really comes awake. They say cities never sleep but everybody sleeps at four in the fucking morning.

  Including me, if I wasn’t out of my mind.

  This is what I should have done in the first place. Meet them head on. Instead I run and discover that life is actually worth living, but I can’t kee
p it or I’ll poison it.

  I used to spend most of my downtime in this city. Walking in Chinatown, eating in the Old City around the Liberty Bell, visiting theaters, picking up women at the clubs. If I wasn’t sneaking up on someone to shoot them in the back I’d be here.

  I’ve wasted my life.

  I take a circuitous route to Dale’s place, constantly checking that there’s no one following me. The city may be mostly dead, but mostly dead is slightly alive, and there are still cars on the road. A police cruiser slides by and I tug at my seat belt and give him a little wave as he gives me the eye.

  He might be looking for me. Cops can be on the payroll in a town like this. I know I’ve greased my share of palms for the authorities to look away after a messy job. It’s part of the business.

  The route I take to Dale’s garage is a big spiral, circling ever closer, until I edge around the big power substation and park in the alley behind the building. From the outside it’s exactly as I remember, a nondescript brick two-story appointed in early postindustrial hell. I cruise around the building itself on foot before approaching.

  He’ll know I’m here now and open the door.

  Except he doesn’t. I buzz, no answer. Okay, it’s now five in the morning, he might be asleep. I’ve never known him to be anything but a night owl, but it’s almost early right now. I give him a few minutes, feeling more and more exposed. It’s hot but I feel cold.

  Finally I head around back and go in through the garage. The lock on the back door poses a problem, it’s better than you’d find on some random house, but not much of a challenge for me. Once inside I weave around Dale’s booby traps and alarms. I know them all; he showed them to me, in case I ever needed to get in if something happened to him.

  My stomach closes to a grim, cold place as I pass through the garage. The door to the upstairs is unlocked. I let my eyes adjust and step carefully, watching for a tripwire or motion sensor.

  They’re there but they have been disabled. That’s not normal. Dale never shuts down his grid.