Blood Crown (18 page)

“Can you still do that?”

“What?” I try to push the very thought away from me, as if by denying it inside my own head, I will deny it ever happened at all.

“Communicate with the ship that way. Change its physical make-up just by touching it.”

“No.” I say it, but it seems the lie echoes around me, reflecting back from every surface.

Nic watches me. Analyzing. Judging. I’m positive he can read the lie in me as I can in him.

I jump to my feet. “I need to check on the others.”

Nic stands too, tugging on his jacket and squaring his shoulders. “I’ve always wanted to see inside the
Capital
. May I join you?”

“No,” I snap. It is harsh, I am too harsh. I think of taking back the words, of letting him join me, but I can’t. It feels like they have already floated too far away for me to recall them. A moment later I turn on my heel and step into the transport. I keep my back to the room, and to Nic, until after the wall has coalesced and my decent to the housing decks has begun.

I don’t go anywhere near the levels where the support staff are housed. Instead I change my mind and go up to the only two levels above the control deck. To the royal living quarters. To
home
.

I step off the transport and into a dark corridor. “Lights?” For some reason I whisper, almost as if I might be intruding on someone, the rightful owners of this place. Soft light flickers to life from dozens of sconces high on the wall. The elegant pattern in the rug at my feet comes alive too, as lights embedded in the fiber are activated, adding a sense of magic to the design. In front of the elevator a straight back, cushioned chair, lies on its side, one of its legs broken into jagged pieces.

Directly in front of the transport, behind the chair, a doorway beckons. Beyond the doorway all I can see is a wide entryway. With care I step forward and into the corridor, beyond the chair and into the room.

The floor inside the apartment is made of a gleaming white material my mind names
marble
and I know had been mined from Earth more than a thousand years ago. My feet make no sound, but I know that once, long ago, I’d enjoyed dancing on this floor and listening to the clatter my shoes made. There isn’t a shred of dust on the floor or anywhere else, the ship’s air circulation ensuring that even after nine years, the air and every surface is clean.

I move further in and turn toward the room that lies to the left—and stifle a gasp as the scene comes into view. Two skeletons in limp, faded clothing sit in a chair by the large fireplace. One figure is bent at the waist, hunched over the body in his arms. A large knife protrudes from his back.

My heart racing, I move closer. They were my parents, I am sure of it. Their rich clothing, the golden slippers on my mother’s feet, and a large, opulent ring that lies near my father’s shoes tell me the story.

She died in his arms.

The reality of my past, the truth of this moment—that he loved her, that she found comfort in his embrace—drives me to my knees where the tears I’ve withheld my entire life finally find their release.

A warm hand on my back draws me to the present. At first I think I’ve imagined the touch as my eyes fall once more on my parents’ remains, but it is him. Nicolai, my once-betrothed. The man who claims to be a stranger.

My body instinctively wants to lean back against him, to take comfort from him, but I resist.

I clear my throat, and when I speak it carries the raspiness of tears. “What are you doing here?” The words are abrupt, but there is no malice in them. I feel so tired, and suddenly I think it would be easier to be who I used to be—an outcast, an outsider—than to bear the weight of my family’s history.

“I’m sorry, Serantha.”

At the sound of that name, everything in me stills, as if listening for something beyond my hearing.
Serantha
. I could let Sera, and everything she was, go. I could be princess, queen. I could be strong and capable, I could lead.

But in Nic’s voice, the name fills me with love. Makes me want to be cared for, cherished, as my mother was by my father.

As if he can read my thoughts, Nic places his hand on my back once more and I don’t pull away.

“Why are you sorry?” I ask, still not facing him.

He waits a beat before answering, and I wonder if the question is inappropriate. Maybe
I’m sorry
is just something you say when other words fail you. Maybe he isn’t sorry at all.

“I’m sorry you’ve been robbed of your parents, of your heritage. I can promise you, it is a great and proud history. I am sorry you missed out on a lifetime of love from your mother and father—because they did love you.”

I feel certain of it too. I can feel it, here in this room, like a living, breathing spirit.
Love
. It wasn’t perfect, they were too busy for me, they didn’t take the time they needed to truly cherish me, but they did love me. In their own way, they loved me.

“And,” Nic’s breath wisps across my neck, “I’m sorry you have to go through this alone. Or . . .”

I hold my breath.

“Maybe you don’t have to.”

The energy in the room seems to coalesce around us, snapping to attention, raising the hair on my arms.

Nic draws in a sharp breath. “That is, if you would permit me.” He pulls his hand away, and I am left to wonder at the emptiness it creates in me.

The truth is, at first I thought it was presumptuous of him. People don’t touch me. Bad things happen to men who touch me. But now, with the absence of his touch radiating outward on my back like spreading cold, I realize—I don’t care if he is lying to me about who he is. He is the only person probably in all the human race who could be there for me, who could hope to understand me—even if he can’t yet admit the truth.

I shift my weight so I can turn. He crouches very near me, our faces only inches apart, our knees touching. His features are fine, fair skin and full lips that part as his eyes meet mine. He has the hint of a beard starting on his chin and shadows beneath his eyes. He is tired, I realize, so tired it weighs his shoulders like a cape. Without thinking I reach up and push his thick, dark hair back from his forehead.

He flinches, but doesn’t stop me and his eyes don’t leave mine. A shiver works its way up my arm and into my heart as I drop my hand from his hair. It’s softer than I imagined. I want to touch it again.

He seems to have a similar thought because he brings up his own hand, his fingers warm and trembling ever so slightly, to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he whispers. A second later he seems to realize that he has implied a more intimate relationship than just an admiring citizen. I catch his hand in mine as he begins to pull away.

My eyes cling to his, searching. I see the minute metallic gleam in his eyes as I know he must see in mine. I don’t know what it means, but I know it is the mark of how we are different.

His eyes aren’t as pale as I first thought—I realize now they only appear that way because of the deep shadows that surround them. Instead, they are an icy blue. I lean forward, searching deep into his eyes, looking for the truth of him,
his
truth—and my own.

He brings his hand to my face, rests the back of his fingers against my jawline, traces his thumb over my skin.

I have never dreamed that a touch could be so gentle, so tender. Never dreamed I would want someone to touch me in this way—never dreamed I could want more. I thought my life would be a solitary one, thought I would always be alone. But now . . . now I want this. All of this. I want what my parents had. I want someone who would love me enough to hold me while I die, whose only thought, at the end of their life, would be for me.

Someone whose every thought, every day of their life, would be for me.

As mine would be for them.

Our foreheads touch. My hand is back in his hair, filled with it, drawing him nearer. Our noses touch, then slip past each other. I can feel his breath on my lips, can feel my whole body humming with the need to be closer still, to eliminate all space between us.

“Nico—”

“Stop.” He lurches back, scrabbling onto his hands, pushing away. “Just . . . stop.”

The titanium claws in Gart’s fist had hurt. They had felt like fiery hot death as they carved into my face. But this . . . this feels a million times worse. It feels like a knife in my heart, twisting, burrowing hilt-deep.

I was wrong to hope for more. There can never be more. Not for me. Maybe I’d been cursed along with my people. Maybe the death of my parents had cursed me to a life of loneliness. They had left me. And then, Archibald had discarded me along with the trash.

He hadn’t come back for me. He hadn’t loved me. He was a machine—maybe it had even been him who had betrayed us to the Mind. Betrayed me.

Maybe Nicolai’s family were working with them, seeking the power of our fleet and holdings. Maybe a union between our families was too much of a compromise. Maybe they want it all.

I rise to my feet, looking down at Nicolai who still wears an expression of shock, like he can’t believe what he has done.

“That’s right,” I say. “You have ruined your chance.” The words might be foolish, might be egotistical, but somehow I doubt it. The way his face darkens as he stands, tugging on his jacket, proves he can be just as cold as I.

“As you wish it, Princess.” He tucks his head in that infuriating bow of his and steps past me, careful not to let our bodies touch. When he leaves the room, I call on the ship to close the door and between one thought and the next the room is sealed off from the corridor, locking me in the solitude of my parents’ tomb.

The lights flash red once again and my station pulls on me with magnetic force. We are barely in place, barely restrained before the Mind ship is ripped out of the battle’s fray and catapulted across space. Such a leap will cost us—it can’t be made without incurring damage to our shields.

I am undecided as to whether I wish a safe arrival wherever it is we are going, or whether I wish we had remained and fallen victim to the Mind’s enemies.

Because the Mind must be destroyed—even if that means I die with them.

I leave the royal suite blindly, my legs marching, arms pumping. I turn left down the corridor and walk until there is nowhere else to go. I discover a support transport and take it down, down, down—finally finding myself standing in a massive kitchen.

There is evidence of recent activity here and the tang of blood fills the air. It is a mystery but utterly uninteresting, so I turn to leave. Until I hear raised voices—men’s voices engaged in a heated argument.

I pause, my ears prickling when I catch the words, “girl,” “murderer,” and “stop her.” Turning smoothly on the balls of my feet, I move silently out of the kitchen and toward the voices.

There are three men in a room to my left—one pacing restlessly.

“She murdered Cook—and they’re willing to forgive her in exchange for a room of their own. Whose gonna protect them then? Now she can kill us, one by one, in our sleep.” The speaker moves closer to the door and I can hear his breathing, as if he’s been training hard. “It’s up to us to protect them. That Sera has to be stopped.”