Dirty Halo

by Julie Johnson

  Of what that might mean for you, Emilia.

  I glance away sharply, wishing I could block out the sudden fear coursing through my veins. Wishing I could alter the strands of my DNA as easily as I do the strands of hair on my head. Wishing a lot of useless things.

  The nasal voice of the Press Secretary rings in my head like a death knell.

  If the Duke cannot produce an heir… for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders for the throne…

  What would happen if they knew the truth?

  That Linus did produce an heir.

  He just didn’t want her.

  “I’m sorry, Ems.” Owen’s voice jerks me back to reality. When our eyes meet, he swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  With a weak half-smile, I bump my shoulder into his to let him know I’m not upset. It would take far more than a few terse words for me to actually be mad at Owen. We’ve been friends since we were assigned adjacent cubbies back in nursery school. We grew up on the same street — which makes him, quite literally, the boy next door. It’s hard to imagine him doing anything that could ever break that bond. He’s the one constant in my life, no matter what else changes.

  The talking heads on the television chat for another few moments, trading detestable words like lineage and line of succession, but I tune them out, trapped deep within my own thoughts. My eyes flit absently over the graphics that flash onscreen — a royal family tree, King Leopold and Queen Abigail already crossed out with resolute black lines. Their small portraits seem to lock eyes with me from the screen, ghostly and grave.

  In another life, they would’ve been relatives.

  My aunt and uncle.

  Now, they’re a memory.

  Feeling numb, I stare at the blank branch on the Lancaster family tree below Linus — the branch where my name should reside — and swallow down the bitterness that rises like bile in the back of my throat. The news anchor zooms in on his face, on the words DUKE OF HIGHTOWER scrawled beneath his visage. As my eyes move over his weathered features, I can’t help flinching at the striking similarity to my own.

  Same dark, thick hair.

  Same endless green stare.

  Same stubborn set to his full-lipped mouth.

  “Who is that?” One of the crying girls in the crowd whispers to her friend, peering at the television through glossy red eyes.

  “Haven’t you been listening? It’s the king’s younger brother, Linus. The Duke of Hightower,” her friend whispers back. “If the prince dies… he’ll rule.”

  “Isn’t he, like, seventy?” her friend asks.

  “Seventy three, last month,” I murmur without thinking.

  Both of them glance at me a bit strangely. I look away before they can question why I’d know such an obscure fact. The onscreen authority is still prattling on, saying things I don’t want to hear.

  “We will have an update on Crown Prince Henry’s condition within the next few moments…”

  I go totally still, hardly able to breathe, and send up a prayer to whoever might be listening for the cousin I’ve never met.

  Please survive, Henry.

  You have to survive.

  You have to rule.

  A solemn hush descends once more over Hennessy’s — the nondescript little dive around the corner from campus we frequent when I don’t have class and Owen isn’t stuck at work. On a Friday night, it’s typically ground zero for debauchery. Now, it’s eerily silent, with even the drunkest patrons seeming to hold their breath.

  Owen’s hand settles on my hipbone — heavy and warm, pulling me close. It’s an intimate touch; one that might make my brows lift, under normal circumstances. But these circumstances are anything but normal. I can’t spare more than a moment to wonder whether my best friend is crossing the unspoken boundary that’s been there for as long as I can remember, because the anchor is back, her voice piercing the airwaves with fresh horror.

  “Though we still await official confirmation, we are now hearing reports that Crown Prince Henry is alive but unconscious. He has been admitted to the intensive care unit in critical condition, undergoing treatment for third degree burns, smoke inhalation, and severe head trauma. It is not known whether he will survive the night.”

  The room is so silent, I can hear the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of a leaky sink behind the bar. Each droplet sounds like the report of a gun in the stagnant air. The newscaster takes a deep breath and steadies her yellow-blazered shoulders. She stares straight into the camera, her brown eyes unwavering, and delivers a broadcast that will be replayed on a loop for the next hundred years, archived in history museums and national annals until the world fades into dust.

  “According to our source at the palace… several moments ago, Linus Lancaster, the Duke of Hightower, was officially sworn in as King Regent. As we wait to see if Prince Henry recovers… he will rule in the interim.” Her voice goes faint as she recites the official motto of Germania, so quietly it sounds like a prayer. “Non sibi sed patriae.”

  Not for self, but country.

  “God bless King Linus,” the newswoman says starkly. “Long may he reign.”

  “Long may he reign,” the bar-goers around me echo back at the screen, their voices morose and fearful as they stare at the projected image of their new monarch. A man with thick dark hair and cold green eyes. A man I’ve spent my entire life attempting to avoid.

  His Majesty.

  King Linus.

  My father.

  Chapter Two

  Suddenly, it’s all too much.

  The press of the crowd, the dull roar of the television, the weight of an unknown future resting sharply on the blades of my shoulders. I can’t catch a breath, can’t hear anything over the rising tide of panic rumbling between my ears.

  Owen is saying something to me; I can see his mouth moving, but none of his hushed syllables permeate. I mutter something about needing air and shove out of his grip, beelining for the front exit. He’s close on my heels as we cut a path through the dense crowd. No one seems to know where to look or what to say. They are paralyzed, unable to process the news that their kingdom has crumbled, staring dazedly at the televisions as though they’re trapped in a nightmare from which they’ll wake at any moment.

  The bouncer who checks IDs at the front door barely spares me a glance as I barrel out into the crisp October night. I take a few halting strides until I reach the side of the brick building, where an abandoned cobblestone alley offers a modicum of privacy.

  I focus on things I can wrap my spinning mind around. The feel of cool brick pressed against my forehead. The half-moons of my fingernails cutting into my tight-clenched palms. The breath inside my lungs, expanding and emptying, emptying and expanding. An endless vacuum.

  After a few moments, I sense Owen’s presence at my back. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say a word. He simply stands there, offering silent comfort. Just as he has through every skinned knee and failed grade, bad date and broken heart.

  My best friend.

  “Ems…”

  “I’m fine,” I whisper in a strangled voice. “Totally fine.”

  “But—”

  “No!”

  Whirling around to face him, I plant my hands on my hips and fix him with a severe glare. At five-foot-two, I’m hardly an intimidating figure — Owen towers at least a foot above me — but height is the least of my problems if I look even half as ragged on the outside as I feel on the inside. My dyed curls cascade around my shoulders in a messy lavender curtain. My chest heaves against the fitted crop top, exposing a pale sliver of stomach muscle with each labored breath. My mini-skirt is riding high on my thighs, which are tensed from the urge to bolt. My green eyes are a bit too wide, too wild, as they glare up into his.

  In other words, I’m about two seconds away from a total breakdown.

  All aboard the Hot Mess Express.

  Toot toot!

  Som
ehow, Owen doesn’t laugh at me. In fact, as he takes in all my tattered edges, his expression is so solemn, he’s damn near unrecognizable.

  “Like it or not, Ems… you aren’t fine,” he says gently. “And how could you be? This is your family.”

  “No,” I repeat, stubborn as ever.

  “You might be able to convince everyone else in that bar that this doesn’t affect you. Hell, you might even convince yourself, if you try hard enough.” His eyes narrow on mine. “But you can’t pretend with me. I know you too well.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Owen,” I say thickly, wondering why the air suddenly feels so heavy. “Those people aren’t my family. They never have been. They never wanted to be.”

  Owen sighs. “Ems…”

  “Why should the death of some monarch matter more to me than it does anyone else in that bar? Why should I grieve people who never gave a shit about me?” My voice quivers pathetically but I push onward, determined to get the words out. To expunge them from my body like deadly poison. “Why would I mourn people who threw me and my mom aside like trash?”

  “Ems…”

  There’s a heartbreaking crack right down the center of his voice. He takes a step toward me, closing a shade of the space separating us. His hand lifts from his side carefully — so achingly carefully — and with a tenderness that makes my breath catch, he cups my face. His callused thumb caresses my cheekbone and I suck in a sharp breath at the foreign sensation that small, simple touch sends spiraling through me.

  His eyes are bright with unchecked emotion, even in the dark. “Don’t talk like that. You hear me? You are not trash. You are… something to be treasured. If you could see what I see… if you… you… God, Emilia, I…”

  My heart starts to pound. There’s something new in his voice. Something I’ve never heard before, in all the years I’ve known him. A mix of determination and desperation and…

  Something I’m too afraid to name.

  Frozen in place, all I can do is watch as he shifts toward me, ever so handsome in the pale moonlight. A blond lock of hair falls across his forehead as he leans in. I don’t have time to wonder whether the world has turned upside down, whether I’m hallucinating, whether my best friend is about to bring his lips to mine and change everything between us… because before he can close those final few inches…

  Screeeeeech!

  The jarring squeal of rubber on asphalt fractures the night sky, bringing reality crashing down around us. We spring apart, both our heads whipping toward the sound, and watch as two black SUVs careen up onto the sidewalk in front of Hennessy’s.

  Instinctively, Owen shoves me behind him, acting as my very own human shield as the mammoth vehicles slam to a halt at the mouth of the alley. Their headlights blind us in a halo so bright, I lift my arm to shield my eyes from the glare. I hear the creak of car doors opening, the swift crunch of boots against cobblestone, but my stinging retinas can make out only silhouettes of the men closing in on us, blocking any chance of escape.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  Owen tries to shove me deeper into the alley, but there’s nowhere to go. My back hits a brick wall, far too tall to scale.

  Whoever these guys are, they are not messing around. They move with methodical precision — a highly-trained unit, not uttering a single word as they flank us on all sides. There are four of them, dressed in nondescript black suits. Their cold, assessing eyes scan us up and down, even as their peripherals monitor the perimeter for unseen threats. I lose my breath when I see the handguns strapped to the holsters at their sides.

  For a split second, I think they’re actually going to kill us in cold blood, our bodies left to rot in this forgotten alleyway like garbage, but they make no moves to take out their weapons. Still, I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t hammering double-speed inside my chest. Outwardly, Owen’s shoulders appear steady, but I can feel the rapid intake of his breath through the thin fabric of his shirt.

  He’s scared, too.

  I peer around his shoulder, trying to get a better look at the men. They don’t offer any identification or explanation for their sudden appearance. As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I know in the marrow of my bones that they aren’t here for Owen.

  They’re here for me.

  My frantic thoughts trip over each other as they fight for position at the forefront of my mind.

  Who sent them?

  And for what possible purpose?

  “Emilia Lancaster,” the nearest suit says in a dead voice.

  I flinch. I’ve been going as Emilia Lennox for so long, I almost forgot what the name on my birth certificate says.

  Almost.

  “We need you to come with us.” The man’s voice is as empty as his stare. “Immediately.”

  I try to speak, but I can’t get more than a squeak of air past my numb lips.

  “Not a fucking chance,” Owen growls on my behalf, pressing me tighter against the brick. His back muscles flex with tension. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

  The suit places a hand on his holster — a clear threat. When he speaks again, his words are punctuated by tiny droplets of spittle as he enunciates with lethal clarity.

  “Last warning. Step. Away. From. The. Girl.”

  Owen doesn’t shift a single inch. “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

  The man moves so fast, he’s practically a blur. I don’t see him pull the gun from his holster, but I do hear the awful thud it makes as it cracks down against Owen’s head with enough force to send him staggering off balance. A scream tears out of my throat as I watch my best friend crumple to the cobblestone, his hands pressed over the gaping wound on his temple. Blood flows quickly between his fingers, spattering the stones like red rain.

  “Owen!”

  Two suits step over him like a piece of rubbish and advance on me. Their companions look on impassively as iron-clad hands clamp over my biceps. I try to keep my eyes on Owen, try to thrash out of their steely grip as they haul me into the glaring headlight beams like a bug toward a zapper-trap, but it’s no use. They’re too strong.

  Within seconds, I’m manhandled into the backseat, my head shoved down to avoid banging the roof like a criminal being loaded into a cop car. The last thing I hear before the door slams shut behind me is Owen’s voice, clogged with pain and panic, ringing out into the night.

  “Emilia!”

  Owen’s scream echoes in my ears long after we jolt off the sidewalk and race down the street, the engine screaming like a caged creature beneath the hood. I’m alone in the backseat. I can’t see much of anything with the partition up, closing me off from the suits in the front.

  Attempting not to panic — oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I’m totally panicking — I try the door handles, but they’re locked tight. Likewise for the dark-tinted windows. I look around for my purse and my cellphone… before realizing I left them sitting on a barstool in Hennessy’s, where they’re of absolutely no use to me.

  Perfect.

  My search beneath the seats turns up empty as well. No convenient tire irons left out for me to use as a weapon, no pointy objects I can jam into a bad guy’s eyes given the opportunity. I’m officially on my own.

  I press my forehead up against the glass, trying to see outward, but there’s only darkness as we hurtle through the night to destinations unknown.

  “Let me out of here!” I scream, banging my fists against the partition. “Are you insane?! This is kidnapping!”

  There’s no response from the other side of the wall.

  “I’ll call the police!”

  I cease banging to listen, but there’s nothing. Not even the faintest indication they’ve heard me. The car turns with a sharp screech of tires, and I go flying across the leather seats. My elbow smacks into the glass window with enough force to leave a mark. Blinking tears from my eyes, I rub my funny bone and make myself fasten my seatbelt.

  No point in dying
before they have a chance to murder me.

  We drive for about twenty minutes before I feel the brakes engage. When the engine shuts off, I un-click my belt and go perfectly still, waiting for the moment my door will open, waiting for them to drag me out of the SUV to… to…

  Well, frankly, I have no idea where they’re dragging me, but I can only assume it’s not somewhere I’d normally choose to spend my Friday night.

  A minute passes in silence.

  Then another.

  My bare knees bounce up and down with nervous energy as I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Finally, I hear raised voices outside. Not the suits — I can’t imagine them letting their steely composure slip even for an instant — but someone else, yelling incoherently as he’s led toward the vehicle, the slurred outrage in his voice growing louder as they approach.

  Another captive?

  A moment later, my suspicions are confirmed when the opposite door jerks open. I lurch forward, thinking I might squirm my way out, but there’s nowhere to go. My exit point is blocked by a wall of brawn in tailored black wool. The useless scream for help dies in my throat. All I can do is watch, stunned, as a boy is shoved into the backseat along with me.

  Correction: not a boy.

  A man.

  A highly inebriated man, judging by the scent of bourbon emanating from his pores. I think my BAC increases just by breathing around him. Or maybe that intoxicated feeling is simply a byproduct of staring at his face because, dear god, even in the dim light of the car I can see how insanely attractive this guy is. I don’t know what he’s doing here with me, but he looks like he just walked off the set of a movie.

  Fifty Shades of Great-Now-My-Panties-Are-Wet.

  In his mid to late twenties, he’s solid muscle in crisp white button down and charcoal dress pants, with the most chiseled features I’ve ever seen outside an airbrushed magazine spread or filtered Instagram feed. His eyes are glazed with liquor and lust, ringed by a thick set of lashes any girl would kill for. His cheekbones are so sharp they’d probably cut your heart clean in two if you were ever stupid enough to get too close. Hell, he might as well be holding up a neon sign that says ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE. It would be a fairer warning for those poor souls attempting to guard their hearts — and ovaries — around him.