Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1)

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Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1) Page 15

by Rebecca Grey


  Marcello plays the part well, acts as though he isn't a wicked monster of strength and beastly form underneath his appealing facade. He'd even spun me the story of losing his first love. It's probably a lie. He wants me to feel sorry for him, to not think about his head on a spike as I carry it to Genovese along with the king and the prince's head. He's smart, I'll give him that. You can be smart and still be a fool. And Marcello Torres is a fucking fool.

  "A small visit shouldn't hurt but we can’t stay too long because the celebration of the start of The Oasis Games is tomorrow evening and we wouldn't want to miss it." Marcello offers Juilliard his hand and hauls his friend up from the couch.

  Sloane admits a squeal and Finnegan claps his hands together. She disappears behind the door and Finnegan waves his hand, beckoning us forward.

  "Come, come," he urges.

  I sigh and force my hands into my pockets. Marcello takes his place next to the door, holding it open for all of us to follow the Vampires into the next room. I'm the last to follow and I have to force myself to take each pitiful step. My teeth grind together and I keep my mouth closed. Almost immediately, my mouth falls back open.

  The room we'd been standing in, the one with the ancient looking covered furniture and the dust layered over dust is nothing like the room we're entering now.

  Bright green walls are covered with gold framed paintings. A large polished wooden table runs the length of the room with ten chairs seated around its edges, five on each side. The center of the table is decorated with a long white table runner dotted with tall gold candle holders and their lit white candles. Each seat is dressed with its own golden plate and silverware set.

  Not. A. Single. Speck. Of. Dirt. In. The. Entire. Room. It's polished and pristine and very, very expensive looking.

  I walk by the table and run my fingers over the silverware. What if I took it? What if I slip it into my pocket and pawn it off later? How much could I get for these fineries? The thief in me smiles wildly.

  Chairs glide across the floor, a shining cement, as everyone pulls their seats away to sit down. I keep my distance from the Vampires to be certain they can't get any ideas about feeding from me, and so that I don't focus on the way Sloane smells like a bouquet I want to shove my face into. Even now as I remember the feeling that washed over me in her closeness, the smallest part of me, the weakest part, wants to curl into her lap.

  It's almost a blessing from a Saint that I'm so mesmerized by the china. I remain standing and stroke a finger down the sharpened knife with lines carved into its handle. It had taken time for someone to make these, and skill. Above the dinner table, a chandelier lit with candles flickers and the light reflects in the gold. I want this. I think I need it, too.

  "Nilsa, sit," Marcello whispers, pulling a chair out for me.

  His words startle me and I blink rapidly as I look up. Out of habit, I push the knife up into my sleeve without looking and cock my head at Marcello.

  "Don't expect a thank you," I say quietly back to him and lower into the seat.

  His arm loops around the back of the chair as he lowers himself down to smile at me. Saints, his smile is beautiful. It lights up his face and compliments the startling silver glow in his eyes. "I might fall over dead the day you express gratitude or apologize. I'm more likely to die from shock than I am to die in the Games."

  "In that case, let me thank you and save myself the trouble of killing you after this is all over," I pull my napkin from the table and shake it out to lay against my lap.

  Marcello pulls out the seat next to me and sits on the edge, still angling toward me. He draws a finger over the top of my hand where it rests on the table. Juilliard, who sits on my other side, groans in annoyance. I stare down at his touch. Persistent. If Marcello is anything, he's persistent.

  I hate that. But I kind of like that.

  I like that my mortal life plagues him. Let it haunt him more. Let him think about me until he is driven mad. Let him crave the idea of my body pressed against his, the curve of me squirming underneath him. Let him have the knowledge that all these attempts at flattery, of persuading me into being enthralled with his charming demeanor, will never work. He'll never have me.

  So I don't pull my hand away. I just watch as he draws little circles over my skin. I sit still as the feeling tingles up my arm.

  "Is there always this much sexual tension between them?" I hear Finnegan whisper to Hedda whose shoulders rise and fall. I keep my attention fixed on Marcello's face.

  "No, I’m just wondering what the hell the Human plans to do with the knife she’s trying to steal off your table," Marcello says, then his eyes travel up my body where tension riddles me and he curls his fingers into my sleeve, plucking the knife out. He sets it with a thunk against the table. "I'll try to keep my hands off you from now on. I'd hate for you to follow through with one of your threats and I end up with two robotic hands." He sits back in his chair and smiles up to Finnegan and Sloane. "Your home is lovely."

  "Thank you," Sloane gushes, but still pins me with an inquisitive stare. Her long nails click against a pitcher of water as she walks between us and pours it into our cups. She looks down at me when she gets to my side. "My apologies for wanting a taste when you got here. You smell delectable. I can see why the Elf is interested in you. You're so pretty, in like a rugged way."

  That's not a compliment.

  "But please, don’t steal my things,” she continues, “I'm hoping that we can put that behind us now that we're teammates."

  "I think that would be for the best." I agree and wrap my hand around the goblet as she moves on to Marcello. Nothing finer has ever touched my lips as I bring the gold cup to my mouth. The water is fresh, and so cold I can feel it travel all the way down to my stomach.

  "Why don't you tell us about yourselves?" Finnegan sits at the end of the long table and smooths down his hair against his head. He points a finger at Hedda, his long yellow nail even more disturbing in proper light.

  "Mmm, yes," Hedda swallows and sets down her cup. "I own a brothel on Kaprisha. Pretty good business for this side of the wall, if I do say so myself. I reckon Marcello picked me up for the team because of my steady aim."

  "Hedda could shoot a man dead from across the city, no matter how crowded the streets are. It's marvelous, her abilities." Marcello presses against the table look from Hedda to Finnegan.

  "Did you know each other before this?" Finnegan points between the two.

  "I mean, I've visited Kaprisha a time or to myself. Visited Hedda's establishment."

  Of course, he has. I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't want to throw up all over this damn table, either. Sometimes I'm funny like that, only in the way that it's not fucking funny at all. But sometimes, when someone is as attractive as Marcello, the thought that they've touched anyone else other than myself is infuriating. No matter how attracted to him I may be, I just have to keep reminding myself that it's all superficial. It's a good combination of skin, hair, eyes, and muscle. Under all that is nothing more than a lying, evil creature.

  Hedda, on the other hand, is a good shot. I'd witnessed that myself. So maybe she isn't the most athletically inclined, but do you need to be when you can lie on your belly and shoot a man from a hundred yards away?

  "And you?" Finnegan shifts his gaze to Juilliard.

  "Can I smoke in here?" Juilliard brushes the black strands from his eyes and pulls out a small carton of his cigarettes.

  "Juilliard," Marcello warns under his breath.

  Juilliard huffs a breath and puts his cigarettes back into his jacket. "Fine." He pouts. "I'm smart, I guess."

  "Just smart?" Sloane sets the pitcher on the table and curls into her husband’s lap at the head of the table.

  "Yeah. That's it. I mean, I'm well trained in battle and I've been this bastard’s best friend since he came to my home town." He points his thumb to Marcello.

  Then all of their gazes turn to me, as if Juilliard had said enough. I return the stare, bo
uncing from one waiting face to the other. Hedda smiles, hopefully waiting for any tidbit of information she can glean from whatever I'm about to say. Do I even know what I'm about to say? Shouldn't Marcello be jumping to explain my life story like he has before?

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. "I'm a hired mercenary. I've gotten away with killing Hybrids in The Bend for years."

  "She's being modest." Juilliard taps his fingers against the table without looking up. "Nilsa is the Ghost that takes men in the night."

  I grimace tightly as Marcello adds, "She's fucking stealthy. Quiet as a wisp of wind. Deadly in the very best of ways. Unafraid."

  "The Ghost? We're in the presence of a legend!" Sloane throws her hands up. “And to think we almost ate you.”

  "I thought you've been in solitude for decades?" My eyes narrow into slits.

  "Dear," Finnegan laughs, "You think that actually stopped us from getting visits from our dearest friends? Oh, Saints no. We're up to date on most major news, including the plague of the Ghost that roams The Bend."

  "What about you Marcello? Please, tell us something else about your life. I'm dying for another sob story." I incline my chin to him.

  He hums and folds his hands together on the table. "I'm the leader. I put the group together and picked all of you out months in advance."

  How long had he been planning this?

  "And he's a wicked good fighter. Been training most of his life as a warrior and can cut through a crowd of men bent on killing him. Done it before." Juilliard points out.

  "How lovely," Sloane says without looking away from her husband and the way her hand strokes along his face. The show of affection makes my shoulders curl inward and I immediately look away.

  "And you two? Train robbers?" I mumble.

  "Yes. We too have a passion for being unseen. We blend in with the crowd, make friends easily. Not to mention we're quick. That was the trick for emptying the train of its goods without getting caught. Move quickly before there is time for the good guys to get you."

  That's when it hits me. The group of us, we’re not good guys. At least the part of us Marcello and Juilliard had gathered from The Bend. We are the bad guys, criminals and thieves, and we were heading into The Oasis.

  "Why did you pick us, Marcello? I'm curious." I say it quietly, but don't look up when I ask. Everyone else sits unmoving, waiting for the answer as I do.

  Marcello clears his throat. "You all have skills I think will be useful in The Oasis Games. I think the similarities and the differences between us all make it so that we can work together with little to no issues. Well, at least most of us. I hadn't realized Nilsa was a Human when I'd planned this, nor did I know she has such a delightful attitude. That's all a testament to her strength though."

  "Beautifully said." Finnegan smiles through Sloane's touch. "Dear, let me up and I'll go pack us a few things and we can be on our way. Would you like to stay and entertain our guests?"

  "I would love that very much," she coos, standing to let him stride past her and out of the room.

  Hedda grips the edge of the table and tilts back in her chair. I watch her from my peripheral but stay facing the Vampires as one leaves and the other stays standing. "Hey, you got any food?" Hedda calls.

  Finnegan is too far to hear her. Sloane tilts her head and watches her for a moment. I wonder if she's waiting for the punchline or something. It doesn't come. She finally raises her brows and answers.

  "Sorry, we only keep blood on hand. Oh! Actually, we might have some old chocolates someone left us after their last visit. Let me check." The wall behind the table, with the door Finnegan had just left though, has a long buffet table running along it. Pictures of the couple and a few other stuffy old looking people are propped up on its top. Sloane tugs open a door and fiddles around inside of it.

  Old chocolates. Yuck.

  "Ah-ha!" Sloane cheers and cups a small bag with the previously mentioned chocolates. She mimics a throw first then sends the bag hurling through the air when Hedda lifts her hands at the ready.

  We sit in the dining room, listening to the sound of Hedda munching on old chocolates. I try to focus on anything else. I try to let my mind explore the room as we wait. Finnegan had suggested that Sloane would entertain us while he is absent. At this point I'm starting to think that she believes her appearance is entertaining enough. She stands in front of a small mirror that hangs on the wall as she fluffs her pretty blonde hair.

  Her hair is the type of blonde that's nearly pristine. Pure and bright. My hair is littered with streaks of light browns. Streaks of different shades of blonde. I reach behind me and pull the end of my braid over my shoulder and examine it. I look between it and the colors of her hair.

  Damn Hybrids and their beauty. Damn them all.

  After some time sitting with nothing else to do, Finnegan strolls back into the room with two small suitcases in his hand. Marcello stops the picking he's begun doing at his nails and looks up. Hedda's chewing has stopped. She must have finally finished the chocolate.

  "Lovely!" I cheer. I actually cheer because nothing could possibly sound more exciting than getting out of here and ending this awkward silence. "May we leave now?"

  "I suppose we shouldn't keep you any longer." Sloane lightly holds her own fingers in front of her as she talks. "Shall you lead us to the vessel that will take us away to our destiny?"

  "Should we live or die, come what may." Finnegan beams.

  Soon we would find out. Is this the beginning of our forever, or the tragic end to an already plagued tale? We would sleep two more times before the first event. If we could sleep, that is.

  "Should we live or die, come what may," Marcello agrees.

  I slap my hands against the table and push myself up out of the seat, following Marcello as he slips from his chair. My attention looks back over this magnificent room and all of the belongings they've either brought or somehow collected. We've sat here long enough I think I've got the room memorized. I bet if I get bored later, I can draw it in its likeness.

  "It's been just grand," I tease, "getting to sit in your very, clearly, humble abode. I'll be so sad when I'm forced to go back to hiding in the captain’s quarters for the rest of our journey."

  "Beautiful home," Juilliard murmurs much more politely as we pass through the dust ridden entryway. The same tickling sensation builds inside of my nose.

  My boots hit the ground in a determined stride and I reach the door before Marcello. "Here, allow me." I open the it.

  "You're holding the door for me?" One hand rises to touch his chest.

  I jut out an arm and keep him from walking around me though he tries to exit. "As if I'm holding the door for you. Ladies first." I point to Hedda.

  She snorts and tosses her dark hair over her shoulder. "I'm no lady."

  "Alright," I try to smile, though I know it's stretching my scar in an unpleasant way. “Juilliard then.”

  The Elf stops abruptly. “Are you calling me a lady?”

  “Is being called a lady some sort of insult?” I shoot back quickly.

  Juilliard glares, flattening his lips with no response. Marcello snickers under his breath as I walk through the door and out into the foggy atmosphere.

  Marcello's answering blusterous laughter follows. Over my shoulder I catch Juilliard rolling his eyes. The three of them are quickly followed by the Whitlocks. Sloane is still in her dress, heels and all. Walking down the hill may be easier, but it feels almost more dangerous as gravity pulls us down. My boots skid in the dirt after a few yards, but I catch my balance quick enough to keep from falling. Now, imagine doing all this in strappy three-inch heels. No fucking way. I would never do that.

  "Bet I can get down this hill faster than you." Marcello nudges Juilliard.

  "Is that a challenge?

  "You're damn right it's a challenge."

  Their feet scuff along in the dirt as they push off each other, trying to snag the other to hold them back from getti
ng in front of them until Juilliard is able to break free of Marcello's grip and begins sprinting down the hill. The new pirate captain is quick to follow and both of their outlines are lost in the fog quickly as they tumble down the slope. It's really a Saints damned shame that there is all this fog, more than our trip up here, because now if they trip over themselves and slide down the hill on their faces I won't get to witness that.

  "I want to race," Hedda huffs and quickly jogs after them.

  Now she's more likely to be the one to do somersaults down the hill.

  "Just us and the little Purist, darling," Finnegan says. The two of them step around me so that they walk on either side.

  I pick up my pace, knowing the two of us alone is probably not the best thing for me. They've both fed, I remind myself. They shouldn't be too crazy for me now. An even more glaring thought crosses my mind, Marcello wouldn't leave me alone with them if he thought they were still a threat. They keep next to my side.

  The arm that Sloane carries her luggage in is still brandished with the light pink marking of the cross. She swings her arm as she walks, unbothered by the way it brushes by the materials of her dress when she does. "You don't have to worry about us. We're on the same team now, we know how to play nicely with others."

  "That's not my strong suit." I look straight ahead.

  "Not worrying?"

  "Clearly she means the playing nice part, honey." Finnegan chuckles.

  Clearly.

  "Now that we have you alone for a few minutes, I must ask," he continues, "You are from The Bend? Yes?”

  “Yes.” I arch a brow.

  “And you are often hired to complete rather difficult tasks?” Finnegan looks from me to his wife, as if this hasn’t already been explained, or that it simply explains something to them. “Are you part of the Resistance?"

 

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