Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Grey

  "Your clothes," I start, "are expensive. You can't find leathers as fine as this in The Bend if you try. Even if you trade in the darkest part of the Merchant Market, you won't find anything so perfect."

  "She thinks I'm perfect." Marcello smirks toward his friend, the supposed 'genius'.

  "I said your clothes are perfect." I flick a golden buckle, making it ting against my nail. "Don't get it twisted." My gaze roams up over his wide shoulders, the muscles concealed but still apparent under the long sleeves, and eventually find myself staring into the never-ending pools of his eyes. My mouth goes dry, my tongue heavy and numb. I open my mouth to continue, but no words come out.

  Marcello's smile grows wider. "Have I left you speechless, Nilsa Windsor?"

  And just like that, whatever concoction of emotions was keeping my body hostage releases its hold. I grab his forearm, ignoring the way my skin tingles where it brushes his. "Your hands."

  "What about them?" He leans closer, letting his breath fan against my cheeks. He smells of licorice and peppermint candies.

  "Too smooth. No... scars." My attention flicks to his mouth. "Your attitude is too flippant." I drop his hand and take a step back. "I don't think you're charming enough to be the prince, but you seem educated enough. Obviously lacking in general street smarts." I tilt my head toward Juilliard. "Smartass over here must have studied up on The Bend before you ventured this way. I'd peg him as an Oasis Hybrid too. Friend of yours," I add "since you have so much chemistry yourselves."

  Juilliard's thin lips set into a tight frown, his eyes widening. He looks surprised. It's not like anything I had deduced isn't something that someone else who lives in The Bend couldn't figure out on their own accord. I have no particular training other than what I've learned about these creatures on my own or from Arron.

  Marcello laughs. Juilliard only shifts his gaze to him, remaining propped upon the bed as his friend speaks. "I'm not trying to fool anyone. No reason to. Though I tricked you easily enough to stay alive."

  That is my mistake. One I'll live with until it can be corrected. But I need Marcello to get through the Games. When the Games come to an end, so will his life. So will King Caspar's life. And the prince who has entered the Games anonymously. The reward will be so great.

  I make my way back to my trunk, setting my boot up on its edge and leaning onto my knee. Even now as I examine him so plainly, I can't see any ailment that could be considered a handicap. Had the tip from Genovese himself been misplaced?

  "What’s wrong with you?" I say plainly.

  Juilliard snorts. "What isn't?"

  "I haven't a clue what you mean." Marcello likes to play coy. Is that something they teach them in their proper Oasis schools?

  "Where is your handicap? When I got the job that should have ended your life, if you weren't blessed by Luck himself, my tip was that the target had borrowed a lot of money and had a handicap. Immediately, I went for the Orc. He'd spent a great deal of money on that fitted piece for his leg. But you... you appear whole."

  "I'm surprised you haven't sniffed it out with the way you seem to know everything else about me." Quietly, Marcello begins rolling up the sleeve on his left arm. With his right hand he digs his nails into his skin so hard I expect blood to swell in the crescent shapes they'll leave behind. There isn't any blood. Not a drop.

  I shouldn't be shocked. Not really. I asked him where his handicap existed, so I know at least some part of him is fake. Fake body parts don't bleed.

  A sound like bone being ground away pierces the air for just a second. He pulls the tan skin on his wrist up and the entirety of his left-hand falls into his right. It's still attached, of course, hanging by a few blue wires.

  The smallest breath leaves my lips. Wires? Without the hand pressing against the nub of his wrist he still wiggles the fingers on his dangling left hand. It's a frightening sight. Not because he has the handicap, but because I've never seen electricity used in such a way. And that's what this is... is it not?

  "What the fuck is that!?" I inch closer just so I can examine the piece. I'm only vaguely aware of how close I stand to Marcello, moreso distracted by this thing.

  "It's not very ladylike for you to curse." Juilliard sniffles, pulling another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it up.

  "Fuck off." I say at the same time Marcello responds with "I don't think Nilsa is very ladylike."

  And a big 'fuck you' to Marcello too then.

  I pinch at the skin and tap where bones in his loose hand should be. I'm greeted with a very metallic clanking from under my nails. The skin itself is so... smooth and soft. Just like his skin should be. Maybe this was why he doesn’t have scarring on his hand. It's fake. Could his other hand be fake as well?

  "This is a robotic limb my step-father had fashioned for me when I lost my hand. Fine work, if I do say so myself."

  "Can you feel this?" I tap against it loudly again. Hard enough that if he does have feeling, perhaps it would hurt, and that would serve him right.

  "Can't feel a thing."

  Anywhere I press my nails into the skin, it rebounds to its full and firm look again. The small marks don't remain, and it's almost frustrating. I like my marks to last.

  "How does it work?" I lower myself so that my face is level with his forearm, trying to look inside the hand.

  Smooth silver steel, or so I'm guessing I haven't a clue what type of material they'd use to fashion actual working body parts on someone, is curved to fit neatly into the end of his forearm. The wires run from under his skin, the real skin, and into the hand device. I do notice where his wrist ends is the only place on his body that does seem to have some callousness.

  "How does it work? How does your hand move as if your mind can control it? Magic?" I curse myself the moment the word magic falls from my lips. The only known Immortals that have what we think of as magic are the few witches that exist in the world. And those are even fewer and farther between than Humans. Real magic is hard to come by.

  Marcello connects his hand back to his wrist, carefully molding the skin back together like clay. There's an amused smile on his face, but he doesn't outright laugh. Perhaps he thinks it better of him not to, or else he might end up with a dagger to his throat.

  "No magic. Though it's a complicated procedure, and I do not know enough about it to share. Even if I did, I have a feeling the technology is so foreign to you it'd just fly right over the top of your straw-colored locks."

  I brush my fingers over the end of my ponytail. I'm more partial to describing the color as sandy blonde or even honey gold. Those things sound much more pleasant. Straw is brittle and dry. Is that how Marcello sees me? How he sees my hair? I flick up the ends to look them over, all mostly healthy since I give myself regular trims throughout the year. Even if I don't consider myself pretty or beautiful, I still try my very best not to look like the Orcs.

  Rolling my eyes, I turn away from him, forcing my thoughts away from my vanity. It's mostly unimportant. Mostly.

  "The Oasis has so many grand things," I drawl with heavy sarcasm, though it's true.

  Juilliard nods his head in agreement, blowing out a large cloud of smoke in my general direction. Waving my hand in the air I try to keep the smell and toxic clouds away from my face. Marcello tucks his hand behind his back and rocks on his heels.

  "So what of the gun on your hip? That doesn't look like a creation from The Oasis." I point at his waist.

  "This?" He reaches for the weapon with a new spark of excitement lighting up his gaze. "I picked this up on my journey to retrieve you. Human artifact, I traded some other Elves for it."

  The way Elves collect old bits and pieces of Human history is painfully annoying. They know nothing of them and they don't even like Humans, but they still find it so fascinating to hoard everything they find. I'm chalking it up to their greedy nature instead of some weird obsession with Humans. Elves like things, and working Human artifacts are rare.

  "May I?" I extend a hand.
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  And either Marcello is far too trusting or he is infamously stupid, because he pulls it from the holster on his hip and places the old revolver in my palm. It's heavier in my hand than I seem to remember guns ever being, but I haven't touched one in years, so that isn't saying much. I stare down at it. This weapon would be considered old back when Humans still had control of the world and the Immortals were still in hiding. Now it's ancient.

  I push my thumb against the cylinder, popping it out to examine it. There isn't a single bullet loaded into the gun. Which is what makes them so useless now. Even if I owned a gun, I wouldn't be able to get ammunition for it. Closing the cylinder, I frown because I know exactly why Marcello would hand it to me so easily. The worst I could do with it is clobber him over the head.

  Extending my arms, I point the gun away from both men and look down it's barrel into the sight. My finger remains on the side of the gun, away from the trigger out of an old habit. If I had to wager a guess, this revolver probably has a decent kickback and an eardrum shattering sound when it fires.

  "Do you... know how to use one?" Marcello tilts his head to the side.

  "Yes."

  Of course I do. Arron was fond of guns. Always told me they were the superior weapon and much better than the swords I'm trained to use.

  "If I had ammo, I could shoot a bullet right through that thick skull of yours." I swing around and aim at his forehead, just for a little fun. Arron would hate it. He had all these rules he preached about gun safety. I never understood them, because in the years that I'd been in his care he'd never actually used a gun. Most of the collection he had left behind in his death I eventually traded off. Those guns helped me eat most of my meals while I was working to become who I am today. That did me much better than leaving the hunks of metal sitting around to rust.

  "I was just curious if perhaps you could show me?" Marcello reaches out and pushes the barrel out of his face.

  "No," I say quickly. Then just for the show of it, I flip the gun so that it rotates once in the air and I catch the barrel in my hand, offering the grip to him.

  "That's no fun." He frowns, but takes the weapon back. His thumb traces the cylinder where my fingers just touched. Sending Juilliard a quick look out of the corner of his eyes he pushes it out and examines the lack of bullets inside before clasping it closed and looking back up.

  Maybe he didn't know there weren’t any bullets in the gun. Maybe he is stupid. I mean he's entering the Games, so I suppose that's answer enough.

  "That's enough chatting for now." He adjusts the hat on his head. "Make yourself at home we'll be at Kaprisha soon enough." His boots squeak against the floor as he turns. Opening the door, he stands in the light that enters the room, looking between me and Juilliard, who looks entirely unimpressed. "Are you comfortable?" Marcello looks at me. "Do you need a meal? Or something to drink? Are there any other accommodations that would make this trip better for you?"

  I can't entirely tell if he's joking or not. It's pretty safe to assume that he is, because watching a Hybrid go out of their way to help a Human... that would be a first. I answer with a shake of my head.

  "Humans are so feeble, I just wanted to make sure you'd stay alive long enough to reach our destination." The swaggering way he runs his teeth over his lips to hide his lordly smile forces me to take a deep breath to calm the rising anger and the tinge of embarrassment I wish I didn't feel.

  Soon enough the door closes and I don't have to see his striking features any longer. But when I go to sit behind the desk and close my eyes, somehow the image of his face is burned behind my eyelids.

  ***

  Even before we reach Kaprisha I can hear screams and rowdy cheers. It's like Geno's Bar on the very worst of nights. The nights when the drinking gets out of hand, or when tensions are high from some sort of escalating gang war.

  Some of the shouting comes from Marcello's own crew as their excitement grows the closer we get. Even when the ship stops to dock, I don't leave Marcello's cabin. I don't want to. One Elf in here with me is plenty, I don't need to be greeted by the many of them working to do whatever it is they do with all those ropes and chains.

  I press my fingers into my closed eyes, trying to think around Juilliard's snoring. He'd smoked nearly five cigarettes before crossing his legs on the bed and fluffing up a pillow for a nap. The door opened and closed only one time in Marcello's absence and only for someone to usher in a meal. Juilliard hadn't bothered to crack an eye when they'd set a tray next to him on the bed. His food is still there, cold as an evening breeze, I'm sure.

  The meal had been plenty enough. Rations of fish, biscuits, and pathetic looking greens. At least they'd tried to hit multiple food groups, if only for my sake. Unlike Juilliard's plate, mine is empty with not even scraps left over. I’d hidden half the biscuit in one of the unlocked desk drawers, in case I’d need it later. Hopefully, Marcello won’t find it before I do. Years of never knowing when you'd get your next meal will do that to a person. Elves from The Oasis clearly know nothing about that.

  With Juilliard asleep and Marcello away, it gave me time to snoop through Balander's desk. I couldn't make out many of the words, though I quietly tried under my breath. I'd reluctantly resigned myself to tracing the shapes of land on the maps and memorizing each route line drawn in different colored inks.

  As heavy footsteps near the cabin, I stare at the space above the map. The place where The Oasis would be if the map continued up. There are clear landmarks and squiggles that make up The Bend and places I'm familiar with. There are route lines that weave through the ocean from one port to the next until they meet up with the land on the edge of the map, the only bit of The Oasis visible. But then it just ends... leaving me with just as much knowledge about The Oasis as I'd started my day with. I'm not sure if I should be thankful that I can still live in ignorance, or pissed that I have no way of preparing myself.

  The moment the door cracks open, Juilliard sits up, blinking only once before he looks to the door. Which leads me to wonder if he was ever truly asleep or just faking it. That, or he has some keen sense of knowing when Marcello is close.

  With his hands wrapping around the edge of the wooden door, Marcello leans into the room, his face lit with excitement. "We're here! Let's go."

  Juilliard moves only to grab some food off his tray and shove it quickly into his mouth. He stuffs his cheeks full, reminding me of a chipmunk or a squirrel. With the mouthful of food, he still offers us a knowing grin. How exciting can Kaprisha be?

  I stand, running my hand over my waistband to casually feel my weapons concealed beneath. Though the blades couldn't have gotten up to run away, I always feel the compulsion to touch them just to be sure. Better safe and anxious than dead and weaponless.

  Marcello slips into the room, pulling his pink jacket off the chair I’d sat in. He waits for me as I gather up my cloak and tie it around my neck. Its warmth on my shoulders is a comfort as I pull it's hood up to hide my face... my round ears...from the public. Juilliard rises from the bed, stretching with a yawn. He waits for me to exit first before he falls in line behind me.

  I feel like some sort of damn royalty with these two standing around me like bodyguards. I'm Human. I'm not fucking glass.

  Inside the cabin I knew time had passed with such slowness I was certain I could feel it moving backwards, but the telling sun suggests I'd examined the maps and letters on top that desk for far longer than I thought. Darkness is creeping up to replace the day. It eats away the light in a hazy sort of pink and purple color before it dissolves completely in the dark navy-blue sky.

  A few lanterns are already lit in strategic places around the top deck, giving us light for when we return. Father off, over the tall railing of the ship’s ledge, down over the gangway that leads to a dock spotted with empty liquor bottles and random pieces of garbage, and into the small village, street lamps flicker. Their glow helps to highlight the throngs of Hybrids dancing, singing, and some even in the midst of
lovemaking. With every breath, I can smell the barbarous scent of unwashed bodies, sex, and stale alcohol. It stings my nose so much I force myself to breathe through my mouth.

  "Isn't it beautiful?" Juilliard gasps, grabbing for a rope strung taunt in the air and pulling himself up to stand on the edge of the ship.

  "Beautiful is not a word I would use to describe this." I fight the urge to gag as I watch a man stumble out of a building and heave his guts up into the lap of a woman who cups her hands, as if she can catch it and protect the red skirts covering her legs. "This is... revolting."

  "Either that means a lot because she comes from The Bend, or it's the best compliment this pirate island has ever been given." Marcello chuckles. His fur coat catches on the rough wood of the railing as he raises a hand and pulls Juilliard back down and points him toward the docks.

  While we walk down the gangway, I want to keep my eyes on the small town festering on this island so I can stare at it, pick it apart until I can figure out what exactly is so amazing about it. Instead I'm watching every shadow. Shards of broken glass crunch under the soles of my boots as I step onto the gravel covered earth.

  Juilliard continues ahead, his dark hair and clothes helping him to blend in with the quickly settling night. His own cloak billows behind him from how quickly he walks. Marcello kicks at the dirt as he keeps pace next to me. He watches me from the corner of his eyes, both hands tucked safely into the pink jacket, his old revolver bouncing against his leg with a noisy, repetitious pattern.

  "Have you ever left The Bend?" he asks.

  "Yes." I don't stop my constant sweep of the land before us. These Elves may be comfortable here, but I certainly am not.

  "But never here?"

  "Why would I want to come here?" And it doesn't bother me that the question is mildly insulting. Actually, it would probably be good for him to be insulted a little.