Rebel Grey

by Stella Drexler

  Chapter Two

  Meanwhile, at King Scarlet's luxurious palace...

  Prince Dante's bedroom was as large as an apartment. The King's palace was an enormous, lavish affair. The ceilings above were tall and vaulted. The stars barely twinkled through stained glass skylights. A four poster bed with black silk sheets stood in the center of the room. Dante had slept late. He always slept late. The thick, blood red counterpane was still rumpled. He frowned slightly at it. He jabbed a button on the wall beside the double oak doors.

  "Sir?" The young woman's voice was soft and hesitant.

  Dante smirked. "Get up here, Claire. My room needs cleaning." There was a moment's pause. He scowled. "Now!"

  Claire didn't reply, but seconds later there was a quiet rap on the door. He yanked it open. The maid was younger than he by a few years, no older than sixteen. She had been the daughter of one of Scarlet's favorite Nobles until the King's closest friend and advisor, Warin Scanlan, had fingered them for treason. When her parents had been imprisoned, Scarlet had offered the girl a home in his mansion in exchange for her servitude. It was the best Scarlet offered to the displaced children of Razor City. He'd been fond of her.

  "What took so long?" Dante barked.

  Claire stared at him in surprise. He relished the frightened look in her pale blue eyes. She looked thinner than he remembered. Her short, red maid's uniform hung off her meager frame. He recalled that her father's sentencing was in a few days. She was probably worried about him. She had a very good reason. Dante already knew his father intended to execute the traitor. He almost always executed treacherous Nobles; it wouldn't do to allow the others to believe they could cross the King and live to tell about it.

  King Scarlet liked to send strong messages.

  Claire bobbed her head. "Sorry, sir."

  "Well? This room isn't going to clean itself."

  She spun and hurried toward the bed. He watched her straighten the sheets for a moment with narrowed eyes, then nodded in satisfaction. The girl would make the bed perfectly. She always made it perfectly. She had learned long ago not to annoy him. He turned back to the large, wrought iron vanity mirror on the north wall.

  He looked good. He never looked anything else. He tucked the tight, black, long-sleeved tee shirt into his black jeans and tossed his dark, shoulder-length hair. It fell perfectly back into place. It always fell perfectly back into place. He smirked at his reflection.

  He wanted a drink, and he wanted a woman. He would have both. The city gave him exactly what he wanted. He glanced over his shoulder at Claire. She leaned over his bed, tucking the sheets tightly under the mattress--exactly the way he liked them. He considered her a moment. No. She was too thin. She was too young. He liked women with curves and experience.

  She didn't know that, though, and it had been a boring day. He strode up behind her. She straightened in surprise. "Sir--"

  He chuckled in her ear as she bumped backward into his lean chest. "Claire." His voice was a low purr. He felt her trembling against him. "That sheet is a little crooked."

  Her body quaked. Her voice came out in a squeak. "I'll fix it, sir. Please let me fix it. Please."

  He laughed and stepped back. "Don't worry, Claire. You're a little scrawny for my taste." He spun away and grabbed his black leather jacket from the hook beside the door. When he looked back at her, she was staring at him with huge, watery blue eyes. He smiled. "It had better be perfect when I get home."

  Her reply was a terrified yelp. He didn't wait to listen to it. He strode out of the room. He ignored the two Marshals in red suits standing guard outside the door. When they followed him, he gave them no indication that he noticed them at all. They might as well have been invisible. He was accustomed to the bodyguards his father insisted accompany him wherever he went.

  They did not speak to him. He didn't like them to speak to him. In fact, he didn't like anyone to speak to him unless he spoke to them first.

  "Dante."

  He spun to face Warin Scanlan on the stairs. He frowned. His father's friend was still dressed in the black suit he'd worn earlier in the day for the children's home dedication. His face was lined, and he was thin. He looked ten years older than Scarlet, though they were the same age. They'd been friends since childhood, since before the war and the inception of Razor City. His sandy hair was receding. He almost never smiled.

  Dante lifted an insolent eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you want, Warin?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Out."

  "Out where?"

  "None of your business."

  Warin's deeply lined face scrunched into a frown. "Your father does not wish for you to leave the house. There have been a number of rebel uprisings and outlaws crossing into the city limits."

  Dante laughed. "I can take care of myself." He pushed aside his jacket to reveal the long-barreled pistol on his belt. He smiled smugly.

  Warn scowled. "It is dangerous for you out there, Dante. Your father is not going to be happy about this."

  Dante shrugged. "Then don't tell him."

  "You know I can't do that."

  "Why? Because you're his little errand boy? His lap dog?"

  The older man took a step toward him. His eyes narrowed into a furious glare. "I am his partner."

  "His partner." Dante laughed. "Right. You're equal to my father like a dog is equal to his master."

  Warin's eyes flared. "You know nothing about it! You're nothing but a spoiled brat! Your father and I started this city. We're the ones who made order from chaos when the war destroyed everything, when there was no one to help the people."

  "No. You followed him and rode his coattails while he built this city. When the government fell, he was the one who had the power and influence to stop the looting and the chaos and bring the city back together again. You had nothing. It's under his rule. Not yours." Dante lifted his eyebrows. "Are you suggesting you would prefer to take over for him?"

  Warin's expression changed abruptly. He looked suddenly frightened. "No! No. I am simply reminding you that I have been beside him from the beginning. I have helped him."

  Dante snorted. He turned away from Warin and flicked his fingers in dismissal. "Then go on. Go back to him. Kneel at his feet. And leave me alone. I have things to do."

  "You will not always be the King's son, Dante," Warin called after him as he started back down the stairs. "You will not always be the prince. There might come a time when you have to stand on your own, to be responsible and behave like an adult. You'll have to live on your own merit instead of riding his coattails and getting away with anything you want."

  Dante lifted his head from the bottom floor to glance back up at Warin. His father's advisor glared down at him from the second floor loft. Dante looked back at him with an expression so cold, the air might have turned to ice around him. "When? When you take over? Please. No one can touch my father. He's the king. And I am the prince. I do what I want when I want, and no lapdog is going to tell me what to do."

  "Fine. Just remember, Dante. Things change."

  "And you're going to be the one to change them?"

  "No. I'm happy. But there are whispers in the wind, and the word on the streets is some people might be looking to make some changes. It might not always be like this."

  Dante shrugged. "Whatever. Nothing's changed lately, so I don't see it happening any time soon."

  "You better enjoy it while it lasts."

  The prince lifted his chin and grinned at him. "Oh,. I think I will." He was still laughing as the heavy front door closed behind him.