Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Grey

  I've never thought to question where they get their goods from, though I can't imagine their methods are peaceful. In The Bend it's every man for himself and most things can't be gained unless they are taken. Thieves, the entire lot of us. Myself included.

  From the barest of information I've gathered over the years, I'm aware that other kingdoms exist overseas. Though I haven't the barest idea if they live in squalor like us. Or if they've divided their land with a large wall as we have, to separate the upper class from the lower with no in-between.

  Maybe Genovese, Parlakey, and Spects are the only in-between. The richest men in The Bend, though their wealth isn't known to most. It'd be trouble if anyone else decided to do as they have done. They'd see it as an infringement on their territory, which would only lead to more gang wars. As fond of death as I am, even I am not stupid enough to wish that sort of destruction upon The Bend.

  My eyes move over every figure, not really making eye contact with anyone. I look for the dark hair, warm skin tone, and bright silver eyes I remember. How could I forget? Marcello will always be captured in my mind as the man who got away. The attractive mistake I overlooked.

  Even now I wonder what sort of aliment he has. My tip for the job was that my victim is handicapped, stunted in some way or another. And when you look at Marcello... there isn't any imperfection there. Nothing beyond his Immortal bloodline.

  Some creatures eye me moving about the edge of the street, coming nearer to the ships tied up at the docks. Four tall masts rise up into the clear sky, flags waving in the breeze. Four ships, only one of which is my ticket to the game.

  You could bolt now, Nilsa. Some dark part of my mind suggests. There is still time for you to go into hiding, or even board a different ship to see how you fare in another kingdom.

  No. This is bigger than me.

  Then the angry part of me smiles. It snarls in its nasty voice.

  There is still death to be paid.

  Yes. I still had the will and the want within me. Blood will be spilled in the name of every moment of mistreatment me or any other Human has had to endure. It's that thought that makes me move a little faster.

  In carefully engraved and then painted letters, each boat has a name printed across their bow. Women's names, if I have to guess. Why is it always women's names? Even in the rise and fall of the Immortal wars and the battles that Humans fought somehow years after, it is still women that suffer the most. And if you are a Human woman like me... the battle is that much harder.

  When I win the Games, I'll buy my own boat. I'll buy a whole fleet of ships. And I'll name every last one of them after men. That I would love to see. Maybe I'll name a boat after Joss, see how he feels about being objectified.

  The street before the piers is too full for anyone to allow me my own crumbling sidewalk. My shoulders knock against other passersby as the front of the ship with the only faded name that starts with a 'G' comes into view. This has to be the Genevieve.

  My attention follows the gangway down to the street, where a hot-pink fur jacket comes into focus. A black hood is lifted to cover his face as he talks animatedly with another man whose hair is split down the middle with his bangs hanging into his eyes.

  Marcello Torres.

  My one-way ticket to freedom.

  There is a static in the air. Or is it just in my head? In my chest? The entire world blurs around Marcello, my vision tunneling on only him. I guess it is the uptick in the beating of my heart that draws his attention, or maybe it's the way I'm barreling through the crowd toward him.

  In the daytime, Marcello's skin glows like gold. Flawless and rich. His eyes are haunted, but he masks the look with a dazzling white smile that makes dimples appear in his cheeks. He turns away from his friend, lifting his hands up from his sides in welcome. There isn't an ounce of shock on his face that I've suddenly made my appearance. No, he’s cocky enough to assume that I was coming. It's enough to make me want to turn and walk away right now. I force myself to keep moving forward, only stopping when I'm a foot away.

  "Ah, you're here!" he calls. "So you've decided to take me up on my offer?"

  I bite the inside of my cheek, cursing myself and this life. Without answering, I shift my gaze to his friend.

  Marcello glances to his side. He grabs the man's shoulder and yanks him forward. "Meet the first member of our team. My best friend, Juilliard." He tousles Juilliard's hair. "Say hi."

  "Hi," his friend bites out with a small wave.

  I’m unimpressed. What is this, yet another pirating Elf? How does he expect to win the Games with no one of talent other than myself?

  Juilliard stares back at me with deep-set brown eyes. His nose is perfectly straight as if he has never had to take a punch. The same could not be said for my round, crooked nose. He is a slender man, not near as much muscle on him as Marcello. Even his cheekbones cut across his face so sharply it gives him the appearance of someone who hasn't eaten in weeks.

  I turn to Marcello, not offering his friend even the slightest reply. I'm here to win the Games, not become all buddy-buddy with Hybrids.

  "Here, allow me." Marcello reaches for the items I'm holding. I jerk them out of his arms reach. His smile falters for only a second before he tries again. "I'll show you onto the boat then. Someone left you a trunk." He points beside him. Red and polished, a trunk that looks almost brand-new awaits. "Would you like to carry this yourself too, or may we assist you?" His tone is taunting.

  I make a show of looking between the men and the chest before I give him a slight nod. Marcello shuffles to one side, squatting to take a handle while motioning for Julliard to do the same. His friend follows along with clear objections on his face.

  "Let us show you onto the ship." A statement with little excitement behind it.

  Julliard grunts, surprised by the weight of the chest. What had Genovese packed inside? Weapons? New weapons? My heart flutters at the prospect.

  Marcello's hood falls off his face as a strong wind cuts through. His hair is drenched with sweat and he pushes it out of his face with one hand.

  "Is she mute?" Juilliard whispers through his teeth, as if I can't hear him. I immediately notice he does not share the same accent as Marcello. His is more plain, much like mine.

  "She talked plenty last night. Maybe she's scared of your ugly mug," Marcello teases. "Think of it as a kindness, nothing she says is as pretty as that face of hers."

  Everything in my upper body goes tense. Heat floods my cheeks and I tilt my face towards the ground to hide the blush. Pretty. Hybrids don't call Humans pretty. I myself am not pretty. Not with the scars all over my body, the most gruesome one cutting over my mouth. Not with the dark circles that are always under my eyes, the unladylike way that I walk, or every other clear flaw.

  Elves, though I hate them, appear to be superior in their evolution. Everything about them is precise... perfect... beautiful. Much the same could be said about Vampires. I'd even go as far as to lend the compliment to a few Dwarfs. Not Orcs, though. Those things are always unsightly. And every other Hybrid is far too different from Humans to even be considered in this category.

  I have to change the subject, anything to hide the red tint of a blush as blood rushes to the surface of my skin and stains my neck and cheeks. Hybrids don't call me pretty. Not unless I've lured them into my bed for my own personal satisfaction. And even then, I’m not prone to believe anything that falls from their devious lips.

  Tucking my chin, I stare at my feet. The two of them, grinning at each other like they've got a secret to share, begin weaving through the crowd. It's for the best that I follow. I hadn't a cloak to mask my Human scent and sooner rather than later Hybrids would start to notice, start seeking me out. I am an oddity in this Immortal world. A particular yummy goldmine for any passing Vampires.

  There was a time before the Rise of Immortals that Humans ran the world. Then there was a time when Humans were almost extinct, much as it is again today, compared to the newly a
nnounced races. The start of the Rise of Immortals began when Elves, Vampires, Orcs, and other less common species emerged, no longer willing to hide in the shadows. The wars that followed were bloody, or so I’m told. But learning to live together, that was far worse. The time of the Immortals has since come and gone. Their muddled bloodlines still in reign, but no longer able to live forever. Every species with Human blood in it has its own timeline for death. Undoubtedly, death comes for us all.

  Forcing myself to lift my chin up, I follow Marcello and Juilliard. They head for the gangway and make their way up with ease. My feet teeter on the edge as I feel the flimsy bridge bounce and vibrate with every step they take.

  "Are you coming? Not going to chicken out now, are you?" Marcello tosses the words over his shoulder.

  A part of me still insists that there's time to run, that every step forward is one inch closer to my impending death. Or my timely victory. I try to back my thoughts up with positivity. A trick Arron had taught me that I didn't often utilize. Positivity, simply put, isn't my strong suit.

  I push myself forward, one foot at a time until I'm up the gangway and standing on the large deck of the ship. My head turns on a constant swivel, trying to take everything in. Mark every visible weapon, pinpoint the Hybrids I'm certain have weapons hiding, I'm even looking for any and all exits. The crew that hustles about is plenty, more Elves than I would have liked to guess. Without moving my hand to the hilt, an act that would likely draw attention to the hidden weapons, I recognize the warmth of the handles pressing firmly into my waistband.

  Even with the anchors holding the boat in place, it still rocks gently as the ocean comes and goes. From where I stand, I can see the white foam of the waves curling against the dock, against other ships. I imagine it's much the same for the hull of the ship I stand on now.

  "If you already have the tickets then it's too early to head up for the Games. No need to go through the grueling interview process," I call to them, though they're only a few paces away. Not to mention their hearing is damn near perfect. I couldn't pass gas without them noticing the sudden gust of air hissing out of my asshole.

  "She speaks!" Juilliard cheers.

  "That's because we're making a few stops along the way. Picking up the rest of our teammates." They set the trunk down and lower themselves to sit on top of it. I stop, leaving more space between us than is truly necessary, holding Marcello's gaze.

  Why does he look at me like that? How is there so much fire behind his eyes? Does he stare at everyone as if he can see straight into their soul?

  My hands beg to fidget under the relenting hold his starlight eyes have. I choose instead to fist my them at my side. I will not budge. I will not be moved by such a terrible species.

  Juilliard adjusts his position on the corner of the trunk. His head volleys back and forth between Marcello and I like he's trying to figure out who will win in this pissing contest. Me, it turns out. With an airy chuckle, Marcello looks back at his friend.

  "I'm sure you'll welcome others with this warm personality of yours..." he trails off. "What would you like us to call you? Or should we just call you..." He mouths the word Ghost.

  Panic, white and hot, stiffens my spine. To use that name out loud, so publicly, around all of these Hybrids would likely be my death sentence. Not even Joss could save me if that knowledge were released to the entire community.

  "Nilsa," I say far too quickly.

  "Last name?" The drawl of his voice, so cocky and sure of himself, makes my ever-present sneer deepen.

  "Windsor."

  The pair nods to themselves as if the two names coming together makes perfect sense for someone like me. Did they expect a more traditional Human name? Elizabeth? Or maybe Anne? Such feminine names as those would look wrong on my muscular frame.

  Marcello stands, stretching his arms up over his head. The hem of his leather vest lifts up over the top of his jeans, revealing chiseled muscles that veer... down. I keep my gaze from lowering. He smacks his lips, giving Juilliard a quick nod.

  "Ah, the man of the hour!" Marcello moves around me and I allow the compulsion to watch him take me over. His attention is fixed across the deck and I turn, following the point of his eyes.

  The Elfish crew parts enough to reveal Captain Balander. His deep brown dreadlocks that usually hang around his face are pulled back in a loose ponytail at his nape. The tanned skin of his face is shadowed by a large hat without any gaudy decorations on top of it, like many of the other pirate captains like to do. He raises a fist, shouting orders, and his maroon jacket, that peplums at the hips, wrinkles with the motion.

  I thought this was Marcello's ship? I squint, as if it will change who I'm looking at and suddenly this will all make sense.

  The space between the two men quickly closes as Marcello darts in front of him. His hand moves with such speed it's only a blur in my vision. But I know exactly what he is doing. The point of a sharpened sword, Balander's sword to be exact, meets the flesh under the Captain's chin.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Balander bellows, raising his hands in surrender. His green eyes search for help from the crew, still moving busily around us. His throat bobs as the blade grazes, but does not yet pierce his flesh.

  Many of the pirate’s steps stutter while they do their work, with one eye pointed at the dramatics of this scene. None of them rush to help or even drop their tasks.

  I tug my hood a little tighter to my face and step around the trunk and Juilliard to stand in the only bit of shade the top deck can offer. I have enough marks on my record, this doesn't need to be one of them. Juilliard lounges with his elbows propped on his knees, watching with a blank face. How much of Marcello's plan does he know? He’s certainly not surprised by his friend’s blatant act of disrespect.

  "Oh," Marcello laughs, "sorry, I thought you understood what was happening. It's a mutiny." Cheers rise up from the Elves, all in support of Marcello.

  So he truly is that charming then... Or lucky? Luck isn't a Saint that often blesses me. Yet it is clear that it was something that Marcello is just chock full of. First he was able to escape death at my hands. Now this? Swaying an entire crew of men sworn under the leadership of the renowned Captain Balander.

  “Sorry, Captain, doesn’t look like you have a whole lot of friends on this ship,” he adds with a mocking pout. Marcello stands tall and proud, with no quiver of nervousness in his weapon and outstretched arm.

  Balander opens his mouth to protest or to say whatever words he thinks might be fitting as his last, but he never gets them out. With a simple flick of Marcello’s wrist, the sword, his own fucking blade, slashes over Balander’s neck. A line of deep crimson starts to show and the more he opens and closes his mouth, like a fish out of water, the more blood wells up as the cut then begins to drip. Red rivers run down the tendons in his neck, staining the collar of his shirt

  Balander is a good guy. As good as a thieving, pirating, Elf could be. Still, I don't have room in my heart for sympathy. He deserves this. They all deserve an ending such as this. His knees crack loudly as he falls. The smallest of smiles edges of my lips. Something I'm just not able to contain.

  This had been what, one or two minutes upon this grand ship? One or two minutes of Marcello seizing something that is not his? I register the death quicker than I had in my younger years. I’m too used to the end of life for my mind to bother processing what I’ve witnessed.

  One hand rises to Balander’s throat. He touches the wound gingerly, pulling his hand away to stare at the blood coating his calloused fingertips. Seeing it is the beginning of the end. It's enough for him to accept his fate, and his eyelids flutter before he collapses on the floor.

  I'm surprised. Actually surprised. Dare I say... impressed that Marcello is able to pull such a thing off.

  None of the crew move to their previous captain’s side, too busy with their tasks that need completing so they can make their departure time. Many of them watch out the corner of their eyes,
with healthy smiles on their faces. Perhaps Balander taking a break to get a drink and send letters inside of Geno's Bar had been too much for them. Assuming the man wasn't often helpful with loading and unloading all of the supplies.

  I can't help but shake my head as I emerge from my hiding spot. Marcello nudges the body with his boot. His smile only falters when his boot comes away with the slightest bit of blood, which he precedes to wipe on Balander's pants.

  “I thought you said there was already a mutiny. Not that we were going to be a part of one.” I stare down at the growing puddle of blood.

  “Yeah, guess I left that bit out.” Marcello smirks.

  “You lied to me.”

  Heavy footfalls sound behind me. I've already tagged the weight and the repetition of the movement as Juilliard in the back of my brain. He appears next to me, his tongue running over his teeth as he thinks.

  Marcello's shoulders rise and fall in a lazy shrug. “I’ve only known you for a day, what do you expect?”

  That sort of attitude is something I could see a Bend born Hybrid doing, not someone from The Oasis. Who are these men?

  Juilliard squats low. The pallor of his skin makes me wonder if he's ever seen a dead body before. Do the citizens in The Oasis even know what death is like? With a shaky laugh, he says “Probably not a mutiny. Gods above, he is still bleeding!”

  Marcello looks down. Humming a friendly tune, he snatches the large wide brimmed hat that's toppled away from Balander in his fall and places it on his head. He adjusts it for a moment until he's satisfied with the covering it provides for his features. He snaps his fingers at a couple of pirates who walk together. “Men, clean up on aisle three.” He looks to me. “Isn’t that something you Humans used to say?”

  I wouldn't know. My education didn't exactly cover any humanisms. Once I was taken in by Joss's coven, my training mainly included different forms of physical combat and a simple sleight of hand. All that I've gathered of history is from the odds and end clues left behind from the war or conversations that I've eavesdropped on. I am pretty good at that. Eavesdropping, I mean. I can't consider myself a great listener, but when it comes to overhearing something I shouldn't, suddenly I'm soaking it all in like a dry sponge.