The Lost Prince

by Edward Lazellari

  “We’re four days in now, Scott, and it hasn’t happened. I can’t make sense of it—I don’t know if I’m a gay dwarv, a straight one, or just utterly confused. This much I know … I love you. As much today as I did before the spell. You’re still the one that turns me on the most in two universes.”

  Scott’s eyes welled, mostly with happiness Malcolm thought. His face turned beet red as it always did when he became emotional.

  “But your children…,” Scott said.

  “Come back with me,” Mal offered.

  “Your wife will love that,” Scott said sarcastically. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Does she get the guest room or do I?”

  Mal laughed despite the heart-wrenching truth behind the statement, and Scott joined in.

  “I can’t leave Molly and Claire,” Scott said. “They’re not even in high school yet. How could I…?”

  “See. It’s not easy,” Malcolm said. “But it’s not just my kids. My people have run out of places to live. Aandor was the only kingdom that could stand up to Farrenheil and its coalition. Many kingdoms won’t take us in. They think of dwarvs as greedy, dirty, and uncouth. Who wants to take on a burden when, in addition to feeding mouths, it only earns you the animosity of one of the richest, most powerful kingdoms on the continent? If Aandor falls, we’ll be pushed out. The dwarvs’ backs are against the proverbial sea. This is as much my fight as it is Callum MacDonnell’s. If he had died in these past years, I would still be leading the charge to save the prince and return to Aandor.”

  “What good can one boy do?” Scott said.

  Mal arched his eyebrow and considered what he knew. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “We’re governed by accords that were signed in blood by the heads of all twelve kingdoms over a century ago. We are in effect a confederation … a leaderless empire. The heads of the kingdoms are princes, descendants of the emperors of old, but adhering to the accord, none may use the title ‘prince.’ They go by archduke or grand duke. It is one big family squabble over who gets to be in charge over a new empire. The heads of the wizards and religious orders witnessed the accord signing and countersigned to validate it. The age of ascension is sixteen in Aandor. At sixteen, you are a man, free to leave home, marry, join the army, start a business, or rule a kingdom. If Danel, Blood of Ten Kings, returns home, in three years, he will be the first ruler in over a century with ‘prince’ as his title. He would be a step away from producing the next emperor and would draw the support of kingdoms that have so far stayed neutral during this aggression, as well as backing from the Wizards’ Council and priestly orders. The neutral kingdoms don’t like Farrenheil any more than we do, but as long as they stay neutral—don’t criticize the cleansings—Farrenheil lets them be.”

  “Because that works so well,” Scott said. “What was it that theologian who lived through World War Two said? ‘… Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak out for me.’”

  “Niemöller. Aye,” Malcolm agreed. “But we went through decades of bloody torturous war between kingdoms before the accord was signed. People need to know Danel still has a viable claim before they stick their necks out. It would hearten them, rally them, and may even foster enough force to shut Farrenheil down once and for all. Even Farrenheil’s greatest ally, Verakhoon, would balk at such a rising. But none of it means anything if we don’t get the boy back alive.”

  Scott sat on the bed, hands on his lap, rubbing his thighs. It was a lot to take in.

  Mal sat next to his partner and rubbed his back. He always liked the texture of Scott’s sweaters, always of the finest wools. “I know you won’t leave the girls,” Mal said.

  Scott put his head on Mal’s shoulder and they sat there in perfect balance, each exerting the right amount of push, like the voussoirs of a Roman arch. There would be no solution to their dilemma today. But Malcolm would hold Scott for a little while longer and pretend that tomorrow was an open book.

  CHAPTER 26

  CAT IN A GILDED CAGE

  As consciousness approached, Catherine MacDonnell was vaguely aware her face rested against something soft and satiny. She awoke to find herself in a luxurious king-sized bed in one of the most elegant bedrooms she’d ever seen. Edwardian came to mind, and she was sure the furniture, bold in details, with gracious ornamentation, was in the style of one of the Louises, probably the fifteenth. Her bed’s large headboard loomed behind her; what she took for the ceiling at first was really the canopy at the top of a four-poster bed. A diffused yellow light on the nightstand begrudgingly pushed itself through the room leaving the far corners shadowed and mysterious—the heavy drapes, closed, denied her any sense of time of day.

  Cat pushed off from the pillow; her vision swirled and she fell back to where she started with a soft poof. The ceiling shifted in a dizzying jig, which even with eyes closed failed to stop. The darkness was as bad as it sloshed like fluid in a shaken jar. Roman candles burst soundlessly on the black screens of her eyelids. Her thoughts were thick, and despite the fog in her memory, the one feeling that came through clear and undiluted was the piercing throb in her temple. Cat was certain she’d been drugged.

  Panic grew as the events of Central Park slowly unfurled. She remembered the three men that came out of the woods, especially the one called Kraten—bloody Collins, frozen Lelani, and—Where’s Bree? She sat up again, too quickly, and immediately suffered for it. Her senses spun, she again fell back toward the pillow, but made an effort to go off center as though not ending up in the exact same position she started from was somehow less pathetic.

  “How many times are you going to do that?” said a voice in a dark corner of the room.

  An obscured man sat in the shadows.

  She pushed herself up slowly this time. “Who’s there?” Cat asked.

  The chair moved forward with the sound of a thin mechanical whir. As he came into the nightstand’s feeble light, Cat saw that it wasn’t a man, but a boy with short spiked brown hair and hazel eyes in a black, padded wheelchair. It was one of those deluxe chairs with a computer monitor and a tube affixed next to his mouth to help him navigate. Velcro straps secured the boy’s torso to the chair and his emaciated arms to the armrests. A U-shaped brace around his parietal bone kept his head from bobbing too far in any direction. Quadriplegic, Cat realized.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Tory,” the boy answered. His voice trembled … he was hoarse as though he’d been screaming and burned out his throat. And why wouldn’t he? she thought. Being kidnapped by thugs was scary enough when you could move your arms and legs.

  “I live in Carroll Gardens with my mom,” the boy continued. “I can’t get a call out to her … there are zero bars on my pad.” He glanced at the monitor. “Do you know why I’m here? No one will tell me anything.”

  You’re another victim of Dorn’s war. “I don’t know,” Cat said. She tried to shake the cotton out of her brain.

  “I’m going out of my mind,” Tory said. “Most of my life’s lived through this monitor—I can’t get Wi-Fi or any stations. My battery’s running down.”

  She could hear the fear behind the complaint. She’d read about these modern computers that reacted to eye movements, giving some semblance of control to people like Tory who lived vicariously through others. What would it be like for the simplest tasks in life to become herculean efforts? Cat’s maternal instincts kicked in. She hated the thought of any frightened child.

  A throbbing in Cat’s hand soon joined the one in her skull. She massaged it and remembered Kraten’s smack with the flat of his sword. The sheets around her were soft, at least six hundred thread count; they implored her to lie back down and close her eyes. She squeezed her injured hand and winced, coming awake.

  “At least it’s nice,” she said to Tory, and feebly gestured to the room.

  A cold, sick feeling ran through Cat. She looked around the room. Bree wasn’t here. Cat remembered the girl running up th
e trail. No one went after her. So where was she? Lost on the streets of Manhattan—or worse. Lelani was probably dead. With Cal in Maryland, who would help Brianna? An overwhelming depression came over her tinged with guilt. She wanted to mourn the centaur, but could think only of her daughter.

  “It could be Jay-Z’s house for all the good it does me,” Tory said.

  “What?” Cat said, coming back into the moment. She shifted slowly to the edge of the bed.

  “The room,” he said. “Luxury doesn’t do me any good. There are medicines I need to take daily. I have to be moved several times a day to prevent sores. My chair will run out of power soon. I—I can’t eat—or use the bathroom—I can’t—anything.” His eyes were moist, and he struggled to stay calm. “My colostomy bag needs to be emptied…”

  He truly was helpless, more than even Bree. Bree could at least run. At least there was a chance she’d run into policeman or a good Samaritan. Cat wondered what value this poor kid could have to Lord Dorn. This was no random kidnapping; they’d targeted Tory. She was afraid for the boy.

  “I’ll take care of your meals and cleaning,” Cat said. “I’ll get you out of here.” The hollowness of those words echoed back at her. It was a knee-jerk statement to make her feel better, and she was already regretting it. Cat just saddled herself with an extra burden. Her number-one responsibility was to escape and get back to her family. How the hell was she supposed to accomplish that dragging Tory along?

  The French doors opened and the brightness of the adjoining room flooded into the dark bedroom. A tall, well-built man with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail entered. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and wore an expensive dark gold suit. Cat was reminded of the actor Julian Sands in his youth. This had to be Dorn. He flipped a switch beside the door and the bedroom’s chandelier came to life. The brightness made Cat squint.

  “Ah—the Lady MacDonnell.” His voice had a trace of an accent, similar to Lelani’s. It was deep and penetrating; the kind of voice that led men into battle or broke the laws of physics by asking. His intense gaze made Cat grateful to be squinting. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Please, remain seated,” he ordered, as though she was expected to stand in his presence.

  Cat had a million questions for Dorn but mixed feelings about voicing them. This was the psychopath who’d invaded her home, killed Erin and Ben, invaded Cal’s kingdom. Then a thought occurred … if Dorn’s kingdom hadn’t invaded Aandor, she would never have met her husband. It irked Cat to believe she owed this monster any debt of gratitude.

  “Please do not entertain thoughts of escape or rescue,” he said. “I have wards around this suite that block any messages or sorceries I do not approve of.”

  “Where’s my daughter?” Cat asked.

  “She’s not here, if that’s what you are concerned about,” said Dorn. “A mistake on my men’s part since she, too, would have been a valuable hedge against your husband’s success. Perhaps the centaur found her, or, no doubt one of New York’s finest.”

  Lelani was alive! Cat considered this news a mixed blessing. Bree, alone in the park at night—she was sure Malcolm wouldn’t abandon her daughter either.

  “Why have you kidnapped this boy?” Cat asked. “What threat can he possibly be?”

  “My lady, kidnapping to create leverage over an opponent, or ally, is a time-honored tradition in my reality. Whole battles can be avoided by a simple compromise. The cripple is simply an insurance policy.”

  Cat winced at Dorn’s very un-PC reference to Tory. It was a bad sign that he didn’t refer to the boy by his name. It dehumanized the boy—made him expendable.

  “This has something to do with my dad,” Tory said.

  Dorn picked up on Cat’s lost expression and added, “The detective.”

  “Dretch!” she said, realizing. “But he’s your man. We saw his trail of bodies upstate.”

  Dorn poured himself a glass of something smoky brown from a crystal decanter on the bureau. “Colby has not killed a single person in my service,” he said. “His heart is not fully committed to the task. I have been sanitizing the trail behind him. Yet, your husband is quite the sleuth in his own right. So here we are, neck and neck at the stretch. My horse just needs a good kick. Brandy?” he offered.

  “He’s quadriplegic,” Cat said. “His life’s hard enough already.”

  “My dad doesn’t give a crap about me,” Tory said.

  “Quite the contrary,” Dorn said, ignoring the boy and continuing to speak directly to Cat. “Colby’s deal with the devil was to give his cripple a better life than he could ever provide for on a prison salary.”

  Behind Dorn, in the suite’s common area, Kraten walked in with an unconscious blonde over his shoulder. Cat’s heart jumped into her throat. The woman was tied and gagged. He unceremoniously dumped her on the couch. Her leather miniskirt rode up her thigh, her fishnet stockings were torn, and she was missing one red shoe with three-inch heels. She looked cheap, not because of her disheveled appearance but because her hair was too bright to be natural and Cat could smell the overbearing perfume from a good twenty feet away. Cat’s instinct said something more nefarious was going on than the carnal needs of Dorn’s men. Symian walked into the bedroom pushing a cart of covered food plates and blocked her view of the living room. He placed the cart before Cat and removed the silver covers. Chicken Francese with risotto and a side of string beans. Under a towel lay a basket of freshly baked rolls, still steaming, and next to it, cool water in a carafe, dripping with condensation. A crystal tumbler and wineglass sat next to a bottle of Trimbach pinot gris Hommage Á Jeanne 2000. There was nothing on the tray for Tory.

  “What about him?” Cat asked, pointing to the boy.

  “In my reality, there are two sets of rules,” Dorn said. “One for the aristocracy, and another for everyone else.”

  “I’m a commoner,” Cat pointed out.

  “You are James MacDonnell’s daughter-in-law, the mother of his granddaughter, and therefore are entitled to be treated in the manner with which we treat captured nobles. In a way, we are two of a kind. Please, regard me as your … friend.”

  Dorn just managed to squeak the word “friend” out of his throat, Cat thought, where it was in danger of getting stuck. The gracious bit was an act. He did not consider her equal to him despite the fancy speech.

  “Can you eat this?” she asked Tory. A miniscule shake of his head confirmed that he couldn’t. He would need something strained. Cat looked at the meal before her. It smelled great and she wanted nothing more than to dig in. Instead, she folded her arms and looked up at Dorn, refusing to touch even a napkin or utensils.

  “These are rules of etiquette,” Dorn said, calmly, “not laws. Pray that you do not try my patience, Lady MacDonnell.”

  Cat looked around the suite, at the crystal chandelier, the oil paintings, mahogany furnishings, and the rest of the opulence. She turned back to Dorn and in a tone designed to underscore his pettiness said, “Would strained beef and carrots really break your bank, Mr. Dorn?”

  Dorn gestured with two fingers, and Symian left the room. “It’s Lord Dorn,” he corrected her. “Your bravado shall make our conversations very interesting.”

  And by “interesting,” Cat was sure he meant “trying.” “I have nothing more to say,” she shot back.

  “Ah, but there is so much more that you want me to say, my lady.” He paced slowly before Cat, studying her, deciding on a tack, no doubt, by which to wheedle his way into her heart and mind. “You think me the villain,” he said. “Your husband has filled your head with his version of events about how we invaded his kingdom.”

  “Do you deny it?” she asked.

  “The invasion? No. But there are more shades of gray to this story than on a mountain before the storm.”

  Cat stood up wobbily from the bed and walked stiffly around the room trying to improve her circulation. “You killed his countrymen, tried to murder an infant, wrecked my home, and now you’re h
ere to kill an innocent thirteen-year-old boy,” Cat said. “How many shades of gray does that cover?”

  “That boy is not innocent,” Dorn said in a severe tone. “He is a weapon, stained with the blood of his ancestors.” Dorn positioned an expensive-looking chair by the bed and motioned to Cat to resume her seat on the edge of the mattress. Whatever he had to tell her, it required her undivided attention. Cat sat reluctantly, more because he wanted it than her being exhausted from standing up.

  “Prince Danel’s mother, Sophia of Bradaan, was first betrothed to my cousin Johan, son of my uncle, the archduke of Farrenheil. Had they married, it would be their child with the blood of ten kings and the next prince regent of the empire and father of the next emperor.” Dorn sipped his brandy patiently, waiting for his words to sink in. He locked eyes with his prisoner and said, “Johan was assassinated before he could pluck that rose. It looked like a hunting accident, but was a bit too coincidental for an experienced hunter. We offered Bradaan Johan’s younger brother, a strapping, handsome lad only one year younger than Sophia. But the duke of Bradaan had already sold his prized heifer to Athelstan of Aandor. Not even four days had passed—my cousin’s corpse was still warm.” Dorn pushed aside the food tray and bent down low to stare her in the eye, blocking her view of everything. Something was not quite right about the man’s look, a frenetic shifting, ever so slight as to be unnoticed—the look of pain and the desperation of hiding it. “Tell me, Lady MacDonnell—who do you suppose assassinated Johan?”

  Cat stayed silent. This was the big league—breeding contests, wars, and assassinations. Thousands of years of human evolution honed to its deadliest arts. She’d never make fun of Republicans and their dirty politics again if she survived this visit. They were downright congenial compared to Dorn.

  “So you see,” Dorn continued, “we’re simply fighting for our rights.”