Blood, Love and Lies

by Brooke Sivendra

  He feared leaving the kingdom in this state; he feared leaving Asher with so few people he could trust. These were difficult times, and Asher was younger than Martin had been when he’d ascended the throne. He’d found it hard, and he’d inherited a stronger economy and only the rumblings of war.

  “Did you see Alistair this morning?” Martin asked as they were being driven to the hospital.

  “No, only last night before I went to bed. He refused to speak to me,” Emilia said. She looked away, but Martin saw the pain in her eyes.

  Martin took her hand. “I know this is hard, but what else were we supposed to do? We cannot let him continue to snort away money.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice strong. “I know it’s the right decision, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And with the change of title, I worry about him.”

  Last night they had spoken with Alistair and advised him his royal allowance would be slashed until he proved he could better manage his finances. As expected, it hadn’t gone down well, and Alistair had stormed out of the Martin’s office—but not before giving a look that had made Martin pause. It had been the look of someone who wasn’t afraid, and Alistair should’ve been, because this was only the first disciplinary action that would be applied if his behavior didn’t improve.

  “He needs to cool off. I’ll check in with him again later today,” Martin said, suppressing another cough. His back ached from the convulsions and his body was constantly in pain.

  Emilia’s phone rang, and she dug around in her bag before pulling it out. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

  “Hello, Alistair,” Emilia said. “No, we’re on the way to the hospital. Your father is having some additional tests . . . Sure, I think that’s a good idea. I’ll call you when we’re on our way home.”

  She lowered the phone and looked to him. “He wants to talk.”

  Martin nodded. “Good, but he cannot plead his way out of this. He needs to prove himself.”

  Emilia nodded. “Agreed, but it’s an improvement from his attitude this morning.”

  It can only improve, Martin thought, but he was suddenly distracted as a car came screeching around the corner.

  It was heading right toward them.

  Emilia screamed, and his voice caught in his throat as it slammed into them.

  Two more cars joined them—black SUVs—and masked men jumped out from them.

  “Down!” Martin said, taking Emilia’s hand. The royal security teams raised their weapons, but a blast shook the entire car as Martin laid his body over Emilia, protecting her.

  A second blast rocked the car. Martin couldn’t breathe—and that had nothing to do with his wheezing chest. The windows of the car shattered and blood sprayed. Martin looked around, frantic. If they got out of the car, they were dead, but if they stayed he couldn’t see things ending any better. Two men approached his door, but as they reached for the handle they fell forward, their bloody chests hitting the car. They slid down, disappearing from view. More men approached, and Martin waited for his team to respond again, but they didn’t. His eyes connected with one of the masked men. The eyes weren’t familiar.

  “Martin!” Emilia screamed.

  He squeezed her hand. It took him a minute to realize the two security guards in the front seats were dead. He looked through the shattered windscreen and saw Luke’s car under attack. He tried to count the masked men, but there were too many. He turned, frantically looking behind them, but the security car at the rear was also under attack.

  Martin leaned forward, grabbing a weapon from his dead guard. It had been a long time since he’d held a weapon, but he’d spent enough years in the military to remember what to do.

  Six masked men approached the car, their weapons pointed through the broken glass. Martin’s hand shook as he pulled the trigger, knowing this was his last chance. He took down two unsuspecting men, but the moment they raised their weapons he knew he was taking his final breath. Time slowed, fear washed over him like a ghost, and he squeezed Emilia’s hand.

  “Martin,” she said, her voice a tormented whisper. “I love you,” she said as the first bullet was fired.

  Martin’s heart stopped beating as he felt warm blood splatter over his right cheek. “Noooo!” a scream roared from his throat. He pressed his hand to Emilia’s neck, desperate to stop the bleeding.

  The last thing he saw was his wife dying in front of him.

  Asher

  When the sun rose, Asher was awake. He hadn’t slept at all. Abi’s scream had echoed through the hallway all night.

  Prince Asher’s girlfriend.

  It wasn’t just IFRT that had made her a target.

  Who had known?

  Who had seen them together?

  He thought of everyone who had seen them, but Asher feared their enemy wasn’t someone they knew—he feared it was someone who had been hiding in the shadows.

  He reached for his phone, but there was nothing from Jesse.

  Where had Abi been held all night? Had she been cold, tortured, abused?

  Asher shook his head. He couldn’t go there. He had to stay strong.

  He rubbed his scratchy eyes and threw the covers back. His neck was aching and he needed to move.

  He dressed in his gym gear and headed for the indoor court. Security followed him like a shadow.

  Alistair emerged from his quarters as Asher walked down the hallway. They hadn’t spoken since their last encounter, which the Queen had interrupted. Asher wondered what would’ve happened if his mother hadn’t stopped them; Asher had never hit anyone before, but Alistair knew all the right buttons to push, and he didn’t doubt that Alistair hadn’t had the same temptation.

  “Want a partner?” Alistair asked.

  Asher almost tripped over his own feet. Maybe Alistair had dual personalities. That could explain many things.

  “Sure,” Asher said slowly. So many things were wrong—he didn’t need to be fighting with his brother, too.

  “Give me a second,” Alistair said before disappearing into his quarters. He reemerged a minute later dressed for the gym.

  “Have you seen Mother this morning?” Asher asked.

  “Yes, they left for the hospital an hour or so ago. Father was going for more tests,” Alistair said.

  “It was on the calendar for him to leave late in the morning,” Asher said.

  “I have no idea,” Alistair said with a shrug. “Mother came in and drew my curtains this morning and told me they were leaving. I think she just wanted to make sure no one was in my bed.”

  Asher could hardly blame her, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “Any news from Jesse?” Alistair asked.

  Asher glanced sideways at his brother. Why was he so talkative this morning?

  “Nothing,” Asher said, and it wasn’t a lie.

  Asher grabbed a ball as they walked in. He stopped at the three-point line and shot the ball. It swooshed through the net.

  “Always a show-off,” he thought he heard Alistair mumble under his breath.

  “Pardon? I didn’t hear you,” Asher said.

  “Always a good shot,” Alistair said with a wink.

  Something was off with his brother, Asher thought, but then he wondered if he really knew Alistair at all anymore. He knew the drunk version of Alistair, but the sober version? He had no idea who that man was.

  Alistair took a shot and it bounced off the frame. He mumbled something again, but Asher couldn’t make it out.

  Asher was beginning to regret his company. Shooting hoops wasn’t fun with Alistair. He found himself longing for Jesse’s company and even more for Noah’s.

  Asher’s phone rang and he ran for it, hoping it was Jesse.

  Asher frowned when he saw the name: it was the man Jesse had left in charge—Luke Thompson.

  “Asher speaking,” he answered.

  “Asher, you need to sit down,” Luke said quickly.

  Asher frowned. “What? Why?”

  “
There’s been an attack,” Luke said. “I’m sorry, Asher. Your father didn’t make it.”

  Asher made a strangling noise. “I don’t . . . What are you saying?” Asher put his hand against the wall, steadying himself. He should’ve sat down like he’d been told to.

  “Our cars were attacked. Your father was shot and killed,” he said.

  Asher couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

  “No,” Asher whispered. “No!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Luke said. “We did everything we could.”

  “No!” Asher said, the word now coming out as a strangled yell. He couldn’t believe it, it couldn’t be true. “Where is Mother?”

  Luke paused for a moment and Asher almost fainted. “She’s been rushed to the hospital. She was shot too, and the bullet went through her neck. She’s fighting, but the doctors don’t know—”

  “Don’t! Don’t say it!” Asher growled. “She’ll make it!”

  “Of course,” Luke said quietly.

  Alistair stood in front of Asher, and it took him a moment to realize his brother was there. How long had Alistair been standing there?

  Asher couldn’t think straight and when he looked at Alistair, he realized he was all he had left. Noah, his parents, Abi. Gone.

  He remembered the recording.

  Santina will fall, and we will take it.

  “No!” Asher said through gritted teeth.

  A knock on the door sounded before the gym doors opened. A guard in royal uniform entered and walked toward them. He saluted and said, “King Asher.”

  The court closed in on him.

  He couldn’t be king.

  He wasn’t ready.

  Alistair looked at him expectantly. Asher opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  He couldn’t do this.

  Abi

  Abi sat on the damp floor, shivering. She hissed as her wrists fought against the rope binding them together. Her blood was sticky, and every time she moved her hands she felt like a razor was slicing deeper.

  The young girl—a servant—appeared at the metal bars again. She carried a bowl of water and a towel. A sickening feeling swirled in Abi’s stomach and worked its way up to her chest. Abi knew how this worked.

  The girl was here to “prepare” her.

  She unlocked the door with a key cuffed to her own wrist before banging the cell door closed behind her and shuffling forward.

  “I prepare you now,” she said in broken English. Abi looked her over again. She looked to be in her late teens, but she spoke like a child.

  It took Abi a moment to see it: the faint tattoo on her wrist. The girl wasn’t a local—she was from a neighboring kingdom.

  “Where are you from?” Abi asked.

  The girl blinked, seeming shocked that Abi had spoken to her.

  “Adani,” she said, timidly.

  But Abi knew the girl was lying.

  “My friend has the same tattoo as you,” Abi whispered so the girl knew no one would overhear them. Abi knew all of the reasons she wasn’t talking, and Abi didn’t blame her.

  She looked at Abi with curious eyes.

  “I went there once,” Abi said. “To a little place in the south.”

  The girl’s large eyes softened.

  “Are you from there?” Abi asked. She hadn’t actually been there, but she knew the villages in the south had been heavily targeted. There was a good chance this girl was from one of those villages, and Abi was going to do everything she could to befriend her. The girl was literally holding the key to her freedom.

  “Long time ago,” she whispered, so faintly Abi barely heard it.

  “What is your name? Abi asked.

  “No name,” she said, guarded.

  Those kidnapped weren’t allowed names, a tactic to break the women and children—to further isolate them. They were treated like nobodies, and after a while, they believed that. They gave up all hope of escaping and became compliant to their kidnappers. That’s when they were considered “broken.”

  “What did they call you in your village?” Abi asked, but her eyes darted behind the girl.

  A man came into the cell.

  Abi knew him, and he knew it. He smiled cunningly. He was the doorman that had been at Rachel’s apartment the night Abigail’s apartment had been ransacked.

  Abi stared at him with hard eyes. She showed no fear, and her eyes said everything she couldn’t: She would never break. She’d never let them break her.

  “Did you hear?” he asked with a laugh. “Santina has a new king.”

  Abi didn’t know what was on her face; she hoped she’d remained impassive, but she couldn’t think. Chills ran down her spine.

  “King Asher,” he said, looking straight at her for a moment before chuckling and walking away.

  The threat had become reality.

  “What happened to King Martin?” she asked the girl in a hushed whisper.

  The girl tilted her head, seeming to assess Abi. “Bang, bang,” she said under her breath as she dipped the towel into the bowl of water.

  Abi sucked in a breath. The King had been murdered?

  “Queen, too,” the girl whispered.

  Abi’s jaw fell open, and she choked on her own breath.

  No, it can’t be. It can’t!

  Abi remembered the night Noah had died, only a few weeks ago—and now both of his parents had been assassinated too. How was Asher supposed to cope? How would anyone be expected to cope?

  Santina will fall.

  Abi refocused on the girl. She had to get out of here. She had to get back to Santina.

  “Hurry up!” the guard boomed from behind them. Abi startled, not realizing he’d been standing there.

  The girl gently patted Abi’s face with the wet cloth, careful around her wounds. She was compassionate, and that told Abi there was a fighting chance.

  The key dangled in front of Abi, hung from the cuff on the girl’s wrist.

  Abi’s eyes darted to the cell bars, but she couldn’t see the guard. She knew the consequences of trying to escape—her torture would be more brutal than otherwise—and she knew the consequences of remaining a prisoner: she would be prepared and given as a gift.

  Abi would not be given like a commodity that could be traded. She’d worked her entire life to save women from this, and she would not end up a victim herself. She’d rather die fighting.

  “Please help me,” Abi whispered. “I’ll take you with me.”

  The girl’s eyes bulged. “You die,” she said with a shaky voice.

  “No, we run to a safe place,” Abi said. “Then we go to Santina, to see King Asher.”

  The girl’s hands began to shake, and Abi knew that was because she was considering it. She was scared, and so was Abi, but death was better than a lifetime of torture.

  “How?” the girl asked, almost trembling now.

  “I just need to get outside,” Abi said, her eyes pleading. “Get me outside the walls. You can trust me. These people hurt you, I know. I will take care of you.” Abi reeled through her mind, mentally pulling information from IFRT intelligence reports.

  “Have you heard of the Night Angel?” Abi asked quietly. She’d heard whispers of the rumor—the name they used for her, the leader of IFRT—but had never confirmed it. They called her the Night Angel because her teams came in the dark and rescued the girls.

  The girl tilted her head, her eyes on Abi.

  Abi nodded. “I’m the Night Angel, and I will take you where you will be safe. I promise.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, and then she stood up. “I come back.”

  “No, please,” Abi said, pleading. “Help now!”

  “I come back,” she repeated, opening the cell door.

  Abi reached for her, but with her bound hands and feet, there was nothing she could do to stop her. The girl with no name walked out of her cell, taking with her every ember of hope Abi had remaining.

  The guard returned. “You’re not rea
dy,” he said flatly. It was a statement and not a question, so Abi didn’t answer with anything more than a look of defiance.

  You’ll never break me.

  The corner of his lips turned up. “Lamberi is waiting for you.”

  Sickening dread made Abi’s blood turn to ice. No!

  Her team hadn’t come for her. They must not have been able to find her.

  She looked away before the guard saw the hot, stinging tears in her eyes. Abi was cold to the bone, but the moment the guard walked away, she fought against her restraints. Her skin burned as the rope cut deep and blood dripped from her wrists, but she didn’t care. She had to fight.

  She heard laughter at the end of the row of cells. She knew the routine well enough now to know they were changing shifts, which was fine with her, because she hated seeing the arrogant glimmer in the guard’s eyes.

  She shuffled over to the bars so she could hear them better. She tried to move as silently as she could given that she was bound, but the best she could do was dig her heels into the ground and try to slide across. She was filthy, and she knew if she didn’t get out of here, it would be a long time until she’d get a hot shower. It was supposedly one of Lamberi’s techniques to break his captives: he locked them in a dark cell for three months, with no amenities, and no company except his. He bathed the woman in the dark, and then raped them until they were unable to stand. He repeated it over and over, returning every night. They’d never received a report of any of the women surviving, and they only knew of his methods through rumors. IFRT assumed Lamberi’s methods were a sick power play, as ultimately his captives perished. Their reports came through rumors of the guards that talked and laughed about it, praising Lamberi for being so powerful.

  Powerful.

  The thought made Abi sick. These men knew nothing about power.

  A powerful man was someone like King Martin who fought against everything he despised, even though it would’ve been politically easier for him to condone the behavior of countries like Adani. Santina would’ve received more aid and their economy would’ve been stronger, but they would’ve sacrificed women and children as part of those deals—and then men like Lamberi would’ve eventually worked their way into Santina. Santina would’ve become the world’s next Adani: a portion of the civilians would be wealthy, while the others lived under the poverty line with so few human rights it made her stomach churn.