Autumn Rose: A Dark Heroine Novel

by Abigail Gibbs

  I found that despite being a great deal larger than I had been as a child, I could still nestle myself into the crook of the tree in our front garden, the place I had fled to after my vision for its comfort . . . the point where the trunk split into four limbs to form a seat from which I could not fall, should I collapse again.

  That was what had scared me. I had collapsed. Straight down, like a plank of wood onto the tiled kitchen floor—and even worse, there had been a knife in my hand, because I had started preparing dinner. How I had avoided hitting my head or impaling myself was a complete mystery.

  The only warning I had been given of the impending blackout was a short but excruciating stab of pain through my head. I still had a bad headache around my temples.

  And what I had seen could not wait.

  I felt the brush of magic move ahead of them and hopped down out of the tree in one leap onto the garden path just as the three men landed themselves. I frowned as Fallon came straight toward me. “Did you fly the entire way?”

  He shrugged, as though it was no feat, but he was sweating and had to push his hair back from his face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  I shook my head and led him and Edmund inside, Richard having already disappeared. I bent down to slip my shoes off; as I stood up, the prince reached forward and cupped my cheek, bringing me closer. “You look like death warmed up.”

  With wide eyes I recoiled from his touch and grimaced. “I hate to say it, but you stink.”

  He groaned and turned away, covering his face with a hand. “Smooth, Fallon, smooth,” I swear I heard him breathe and Edmund was barely restraining a smirk. The prince turned back. “Can I use your washroom?”

  I pointed upstairs and headed back to the kitchen. If I wanted to eat that night—and my appetite had returned with a vengeance—then I would have to carry on making pizza with them there.

  Edmund came in as I returned to the half-sliced bell pepper. I glanced up. He must have literally transformed his clothing in the hallway, because the jacket he lived in was gone, and his white button-down had been replaced with a gray polo shirt.

  He closed the door behind him. “It was a vision, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded and went back to my work. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest that he knew about them. He was well in, to say the least.

  “You do know he’s relaying everything you tell him to his aunt and uncle, and they to the king, don’t you?”

  I stopped chopping and closed my eyes. “I know. So long as Fallon acts as middleman for the time being, that’s fine.”

  “If more of your visions prove correct, they could start basing policy around what you see,” he insisted.

  “I know,” I retorted too quickly, missing my fingers by a hairsbreadth as I violently trimmed the last quarter of the pepper. I took a breath and slowed myself down. “I know, Edmund. But what choice do I have? They’re about Violet Lee, for Ll’iriad’s sake!”

  He lounged against the portion of the wall between the hall and the doors that separated the living room from the kitchen. “I wouldn’t curse like that around Fallon, young lady.”

  I shot him a filthy look to match my words and muttered more under my breath. Ever since he had taken it upon himself to be my surrogate uncle, he had corrected every slight misdemeanor of mine, from my language to my posture to my eating habits. My new two-inch heels for school had been a battle, because he thought I was too young to be wearing heels in an everyday situation. I had eventually won when I pointed out that Fallon liked them.

  “How are you getting back?” I asked after a while, beginning to chop an onion and wondering if I would need two. “You’re not flying, are you?”

  Edmund shook his head and came to sit down at the breakfast bar. “Cars are being sent down for half past eight.” I chewed on my lip and examined the clock. It was almost six, more than plenty of time to explain what had happened. But half past eight was rather too close to the time I expected my parents back, and a second meeting wasn’t at the top of my list of things to do. Edmund seemed oblivious to my turmoil and reached forward to pluck a raw piece of pepper from the pile I had created. “Of course, if you allowed us to place more security around your home, as I feel is necessary, then Fallon could simply . . .” He trailed off and popped the pepper into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it with a shrug. “Stay over.”

  “Edmund!” My eyes were stinging and I rubbed them against my inner elbow, so I couldn’t see his expression, though I knew he had switched to his older brother–esque teasing mode.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, my lady, other than your taking up the offer of a more powerful shield.”

  I shook my head against my jumper sleeve. “My parents don’t want anything intrusive, and you know that!”

  “Yes, I did rather get that impression from your mother.”

  I let my arm fall away, restarting on the onion and deciding one would be enough, even if I had to feed more than just myself. Edmund wandered off into the living room and shut the door behind him, and I growled in frustration at the onion, partly because it was agony to cut and partly because Edmund had a way of getting under my skin.

  The onion had to endure my hacking until arms swept themselves around my waist and a hand much larger than my own took custody of the knife and placed it aside. Empty, those hands secured themselves on my stomach and eased me away from the counter. Suddenly, all the energy I had managed to retain drained out and I felt exhausted, so I slumped against Fallon’s chest and let him support my weight.

  The back of my head found the comfortable hollow between his collar, throat, and shoulder and rested there for several minutes, until I felt recovered enough to stand up using my own strength.

  I was thankful when he suggested sitting down, and took one of the seats at the opposite end of the bar from where Edmund had sat. He swiveled me around so our knees were touching.

  “I was awake for this one. At least, until I collapsed.”

  “You collapsed?” He reached forward and snatched my stiffened wrists, like he was afraid it might happen again. His eyes darted around my upper body, checking for injury.

  I saved him the hassle. “I’m fine. Other than a headache, and a really horrible pain a few seconds before I blacked out. But that doesn’t matter. What I saw matters.” He steadfastly refused to remove his hands as I created a cradle for my temples with my palms, elbows resting on my thighs. He waited for me to gather my words, which were even harder to say than I had imagined. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing how?”

  “Embarrassing because I saw Violet Lee and Prince Kaspar Varn . . . sleep together.”

  Like a trap springing open, his hands released my wrists and I buried my head even deeper into my own palms.

  “Violet Lee?” he muttered. “How? She was almost raped a few weeks ago. Are you sure it was her?”

  “Yes. It was so close up, I couldn’t mistake them.”

  My eyes started stinging again and I scrunched them shut even tighter, yanking a box out of the shadows of my mind and trying to force the images of the pair down into it. It was useless. It had been voyeuristic, sick, perverted; pornographic in the detail; and I was furious at fate for choosing this vision of Violet Lee to be the clear and not abstract one. I had experienced everything. I saw parts of a man’s body I had never seen. Parts of hers, too. I heard every word. Every grunt. Tasted the blood and sweat and something else on her skin. I had been there, with them, until she screamed and blacked out, and he fell and almost crushed her not-so-petite frame with a growl I really hoped he conjured because he was a vampire and not because he was a man.

  Then I had woken up. Washed my hands frantically; swilled and spat out a glass of salt water. It couldn’t take it away. Not really. I had been touched, and where I had been touched I crumbled like ash. Hot circles burned on my palms.

  I keeled forward on the chair and I heard the metal legs make contact with the ceramic tiles. I was caugh
t and cradled in a half-crouch. Edmund’s voice sounded over the ringing in my ears. Fallon’s was closer. I found the hollow in his neck and settled there.

  “You’re crying,” he whispered, taking me down to sit on the floor. His shoulder nursed my sore head, and his thumbs dried my wet cheeks.

  “It’s the onions,” I mumbled, happy to keep my eyes closed while my temples throbbed.

  He chuckled and his upper arms and shoulder tensed for a few seconds, and I could feel how taut his chest muscles were.

  I heard the sound of running water and would have jolted if I had the energy. Instead I forced my eyes open to find Edmund on his knees in front of me with a glass of water in hand.

  “Drink,” he said, but my arms wouldn’t move. He took that as a sign to bring the glass to my lips and have Fallon tip my head back slightly as I sipped. The water helped. It was cool, and counteracted the burning of shame and the hot parts of my body. My head started to clear. I placed a hand on the floor and first supported my back until I could straighten it, and then attempted to get back up. Both men placed a hand on either shoulder.

  “I’m not a damsel in distress,” I muttered distractedly, as I focused on shrugging them off and using the counter as a convenient handhold.

  “Fate forbid,” Edmund said.

  I felt like a toddler clambering to her feet for the first time as both of them fussed and cooed encouragement, the elder of the two righting the stool for me. They worked quite independently of each other, and for a very brief moment I thought Fallon’s eyes were even green as he directed his focus to his bodyguard—or, more accurately, my bodyguard—yet somehow together they accomplished the task of sitting me down, fetching more water, and agreeing that Fallon would help me finish the pizza, as it was important for me to eat. Edmund was skeptical of this, and I didn’t focus on their terse words enough to understand why. Eventually, he stole away to the living room with the newspaper.

  I stayed in my seat for a few more minutes. Fallon hovered, waiting for me. When I got up and started on the tomatoes, he continued to hover. I sighed, got the bowl of dough from the far counter, and placed it opposite me on the island.

  “Roll that out. You had better make two if Richard wants to eat. The rolling pin is in the drawer behind you.”

  He found that easily enough, and then, like he was unwrapping something that might explode, removed the tea towel from the bowl. He looked at it, puzzled, for a while, and then went to wash his hands. By the time he had placed the dough (which drooped into an oblong in his hands as he lifted it) on the counter, I had finished with the tomatoes and had fetched the vegan cheese to grate. When my back was turned, he started rolling. I nearly dropped the cheese on the floor when I saw what he was doing.

  “Wait! You have to use flour!” I rushed around the island, blinked back the dizziness, and snatched the pin from him. Sure enough, the dough stuck, forming thick, sticky strings between the worktop and the rolling pin.

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” Edmund called from the next room. “He’s useless. He couldn’t tie his shoelaces until he was fifteen.”

  Fallon’s eyes turned a distinct shade of pink and glared at the thin air behind me as I slipped between him and the counter so he couldn’t do any more damage.

  “Edmund, you’re fired,” he growled.

  The rustling of the newspaper threatened to drown him out. “Nice to know you value our friendship as highly as I do, Your Highness,” came the bright reply.

  The prince turned back with a groan and a rueful expression that told me Edmund got under his skin just as much as he did mine. Clearly, the man had aristocratic Sagean teenagers all figured out.

  I was keen to avoid making eye contact with Fallon, because the irises of his eyes still resembled the flowering fuchsia creeping its way across the kitchen window—I didn’t want to add to his embarrassment. So I preoccupied myself with sorting his mess out, salvaging what dough I could by scraping the counter with my nails. He helped by doing the same with the rolling pin. When we had re-created two balls of dough, I went to open the nearby bag of flour, which promptly ripped, sending a puff of chalk-white powder straight up and into the prince’s face. It took a few moments for the cloud to settle and the results to become visible. It was only when he started coughing and spluttering that the air cleared enough for me to be able to see that he resembled a poorly done Halloween ghost—his skin was powdered, his hair grayed, and his eyes appeared to protrude on stalks as the flour ringed their edges.

  “I am . . . so sorry,” I breathed, torn between laughter and a feeling of detachment. Powder-puffing princes in kitchens was not how things were done.

  Grabbing a tea towel, I dabbed at his eyelids, then frantically rubbed his cheeks. He let me finish without a word, frowning at the floor, which was imprinted with footprints where we had cleared the flour. I rocked nervously on my heels. He waved his hand—I thought in dismissal of my repeated apology—but when I felt the tiles briefly heat, I realized he had cleared the kitchen entirely.

  “I— How . . . but you don’t cook?” I gazed around in wonderment at the gleaning countertops, which were now uncluttered save for our ingredients.

  “There was a kitchenette in the dorms back in Sydney. And screw this,” he added, waving his hand over the dough. In just a few seconds, two fully formed pizzas sat in front of us, piled too high with ingredients and dripping sauce and cheese onto the counter.

  “Food never tastes as good when you make it by magic,” I retorted as a way of thanking him, eyeing the dough until it hovered enough for me to slip baking sheets under each.

  “I’m hungry.”

  There was a finality in his statement—he might as well have said “period”—that told me not to bother arguing, so I placed both pizzas in the hot oven and waited for him to finish washing his hands. When he had done that, he flopped down on the bar stool I had accidentally overturned, muttered a few words, and then let his magic cover the counter in creamy-white envelopes.

  “I thought we could go through some invites,” he explained. “You know, for the party I’m organizing for the Kable students. If you’re feeling okay?”

  I groaned and sat down next to him. “You sent out invites? Real, paper, addressed invites?” I neglected to add that they were silver-embossed, sealed with an Athenean wax stamp, and there seemed to be hundreds of them.

  “Of course.” He charmed a letter opener into his hand and started on the nearest envelope. “There is no way I would text details around, even on my nonpersonal cell, if Gwendolen Daniels is going to get hold of them.”

  He shuddered and I had to hold back a snort of laughter, which quickly slithered back down into my throat when I caught sight of the actual rectangle of card the details had been printed on.

  “You used my coat of arms!” I accused, snatching it from him and taking a closer look. On the left was the formidable Athenean insignia, a stylized A with three thin wings on each side, and on top of that, pointing skyward, a sword with an elaborate guard, which, as a child, I had been convinced was supposed to resemble an eagle. Now I knew it symbolized both the Death’s Touch rose and the Canadian maple leaf. However, on the right of the card was the shield of the duchy of England, surrounded by banners bearing mottoes and topped with three roses. If the insignia had been in color, I knew, from left to right they would bloom golden, black, and then a blend of red and white: a withered rose, a Death’s Touch, and a Tudor rose.

  I looked back at him, and I couldn’t help the tint of black reaching my irises.

  “It is your party—”

  “It’s not my party!” I protested, creasing the card with my firm grip. “I only agreed to this because you promised not to throw one for my birthday.”

  My narrowed eyes must have worked, because he slumped into the backrest and took up another envelope. “Your name isn’t on the invitation, and I haven’t marketed it to anyone at school like that. Happy?” he asked, with a sideways look that was a cross between a sm
ile and a glare. One or the other brought the dimples out in his cheeks.

  “No. You’ve invited Valerie Danvers,” I sulked, waving the invitation in his face.

  He repeated his sideways look, but this time it was one of reproach. “And if I left her out do you think she would be any better toward you?”

  I didn’t appreciate the admonishment and went back to opening the invitations, pulling out many names I didn’t recognize. Every single one of them had agreed to come. “How many did you invite?” I finally asked after my tenth envelope.

  He shuffled the pile around a bit, examining the addresses. “Your whole grade, most of my grade, and a few of the year twelves. Tammy’s cousin, too. So about eighty in total.” He separated the pile out, pushing all the invites for my friends toward my end of the counter. “But I doubt everybody will be able to make it, though I made sure with the housekeeper we could accommodate twenty if all the ones we invited to stay the night do. And there are enough cars to take the rest back home.”

  He seemed to have it well under control, and I almost didn’t want to burst his organizing bubble by saying that every single person he had invited would turn up, even if they had to drag themselves through peat bogs wearing nothing more than their underwear. I already knew that Gwen had arranged to stay with Christy the entire mid-term break, forfeiting her chance to go on a family holiday to Spain, just so she could attend. Christy herself had given up her waitressing job when they refused to allow her time off, and Tammy had constructed an elaborate lie about an overnight ballet workshop so that she and Tee could escape their overprotective parents. This, of course, was strictly confidential and a no-no for gossip, as the entire Kable population was determined to keep their cool in the face of the biggest and most exclusive house party Devon had ever seen. The reality, however, was that the girls were breaking down in the toilets over outfits and the boys . . . well, the rumor went that the school nurse had run out of free condoms.

  I sighed, swiveling in my stool so our knees were touching, just as they had been when I explained about my latest vision. He paused in the middle of tearing an envelope.