Broken Prince: A New Adult Romance Novel (19 page)

Eliot stood there for a moment, looking down at the golden liquid, the glinting light off of the glass. It was beautiful, he thought. He slowly eased himself down onto the tile and brushed the glass away from around his feet, making a clearing for him to sit. Broken, every little bit shattered.

He leaned his head back against the oven door and began to cry.

The next morning Eliot woke up cold and aching to a tickling sensation on his nose. Still half-asleep, he scratched his nose and let himself float back into darkness. The tickle came back and he opened his eyes. Staring back at him was a small ash-gray cat.

"Ah! Lucky!" Eliot pushed the cat away, holding his head as a shooting pain lanced through it. Not to be put off, Lucky redoubled his efforts, crawling over Eliot's slumped body and sniffing into his ear. The world smelled like alcohol, and the light coming in from the windows was so bright Eliot was sure it was already afternoon.

"Okay, okay, I'll feed you," Eliot moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. God, he'd never been so hung over.  "Be careful."

Lucky was careful, picking his way nimbly through the shards of glass and puddles of brandy on the floor. Eliot followed, his head and neck pounding with agony as he poured Lucky's food into a bowl and got him fresh water. The thought of eating made him sick, so he sat by the kitten and stroked his silken ears as he ate. Lucky ignored him, flicking his tail and purring as he ate. When he was done, he looked up at Eliot with a questioning look.

"She's not here, cat," Eliot said, scratching Lucky under his chin. "She left."

Those two words, so simple, wrenched Eliot's heart. He coughed and bent his knee, standing up shakily. His clothes were still wet from the night before, and he was shivering. His entire body seemed to be turned inside out with pain.

"I need to take a shower," Eliot said, more to himself than to the cat. But his feet led him downstairs to the baths, and he followed them. He hadn't been back down there in a while, ever since—

He did not want to think of that.

Eliot walked down the marble stairs to the baths where the underground springs welled up. The air grew hotter and damper as he made his way down the steps. No lights illuminated the underground room, and he didn't flick the switch to turn them on. The darkness made the pounding in his head slow down a bit. Instead, he made his way down to the springs by touch, his fingers trailing the brass rails that led down to the marble baths. In the darkness he felt at home, warm.

His hand reached the knobbed end of the rail, and he paused, slipping out of his shoes. He pulled off his clothes awkwardly in the dark, the wet fabric clinging to his skin. The humidity of the room caressed his bare torso and he breathed the darkness in deeply. It felt as though the world was breathing for him, the heavy damp air forcing itself into his lungs, then out. He was not breathing anymore; the world was breathing him. He merged with the air, became part of it, and the room itself became an organism, the marble pressing against his feet just as his feet pressed against the marble, equal and opposite, like he had learned in physics so long ago. In the darkness he could not see his own body, and the skin that normally served as a boundary between him and the outside was invisible.

Eliot took a small, hesitant step forward, his toes sliding on the slick marble surface. Only a few steps stood between the rail and the baths, but the distance seemed longer in the dark. When his foot finally found the edge of the marble bath, he knelt down, touching the surface of the water with his hand. The spring waters absorbed his fingers, melting them into their warm caress. Dizziness threatened to overtake him, and he leaned away from the water, blinking hard in the dark as though he would be able to see if only he squinted hard enough. The dizziness cleared and he breathed shallowly, not trusting his balance just yet. A moment passed in silence, and then he heard a single
drip
off somewhere near the middle of the baths. A breath escaped his lips before he realized that it must just be the condensation off of the roof of the baths. Still, his heart pounded fast.

Slowly, cautiously, he sat on the edge and eased himself down into the water. The sound of the ripples echoed softly through the room, infinitely louder in the darkness. He was naked, completely naked, and he pushed himself out into the middle of the baths without thinking.

There was nothing here. No sound save for the slow drip of condensation from the ceiling. No light. He might have been dead.

He lay back and let his body float in the hot water, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Was this how death was? The heat soothed his pains, and he thought that perhaps death would do the same thing, only more permanently. Standing up, he moved toward the deeper part of the baths, one foot in front of another.

A sharp pain shot up through his leg, and he recoiled from it. Something had bitten his foot, the bottom of it. No, there was nothing in the baths, he was being silly. Perhaps he had a splinter of glass in his foot that he hadn't noticed until just now. He touched his foot but felt no cut or glass, only a small welt of pain on his heel. He frowned and slid his other foot forward, sweeping it from side to side. If there was something on the bottom of the baths—

There
.

He felt the sharpness with his toes. Taking a breath, he submerged himself into the dark water and felt around for it with his fingers. If it was glass, he couldn't very well leave it here for someone else to be hurt. His fingers scrabbled on the tile underwater, searching. Finally they caught onto the tiny sharp object, and he pulled it up, a chain coming with it.

It was a necklace. His fingerpads moved along the sharp part, and although he was in complete darkness, he closed his eyes as though it would help him visualize the piece of jewelry. Then, all at once, the shape came together under his hands and he remembered. The silver heart, the two diamonds set into the center...

It was Brynn's necklace, the one he had given her to celebrate her nameday. Her Hungarian nameday, that is—Brynn was not a common name in Hungarian, but she'd wanted to join in the fun after one of her friends at the Academy celebrated theirs. She'd lost the necklace somehow, and didn't remember how. Eliot had been a mite irritated at her losing it so quickly, but he never said anything. But she must have lost it after the attack.

"Brynn." Eliot murmured her name, and the whisper floated through the dark air. All at once he felt an overwhelming wave of love and protectiveness, mixed with an undercurrent of anger. Brynn had been the only thing that gave Eliot's life meaning and brightness, and he had let her slip away without even trying. Clasping the necklace in his hand, he moved back through the water and to the steps, leaving his wet clothes behind. He went up the stairs two at a time and flinched only at the brightness of the light.

Naked and dripping, the chain of the necklace dangling from his fingers, he strode across the tile floor to the kitchen. The hot baths had warmed him enough that he didn't even mind the chilly tile under his feet. Still clutching Brynn's necklace with one hand, his other hand scrambled for his phone on the counter. He turned it on and called Brynn. To his surprise, she answered after the first ring.

"Eliot?" Her voice was scratchy.

"Brynn? Where are you? Are you in California?"

"Yes." There was a pause on the phone, and then Brynn broke into sobs.

"Brynn? Brynn, are you okay?" Eliot felt helpless. He wanted to put his arms around her, to cradle her against him.

"She's dead," Brynn said finally, through her tears. "My Nagyi. She had a stroke overnight. She...she..."

"Brynn, I'm so sorry," Eliot said.

"The funeral is this Sunday," Brynn said. "They said she went in her sleep. They said...they said it was painless."

Eliot waited for Brynn to swallow her sobs. Before he could say anything, though, she spoke again.

"Is there anything on the news about the murderer?" Brynn asked.

"The murderer?"

"I can't find any coverage that isn't in Hungarian, and I don't know what's going on. They found the killer? I saw a video of a man—"

"They found him," Eliot said. "It's him. He's being held in jail now."

Brynn exhaled, the relief palpable over the phone.

"I can make it to the funeral," Eliot said, probing tentatively. Brynn said nothing, and he continued, his heart falling into disappointment. "If you want me there."

"Please no," Brynn said. "No, don't. You have so much work to do at the Academy."

"But I—"

"Don't. Eliot, it's already...it's already too hard for me."

"I understand," Eliot said, even though he didn't.

"I have to go," Brynn said. "I have an appointment with the funeral director. My dad hasn't even called back, so I'm the one in charge."

"Brynn—"

"I have to go," Brynn said again, her voice firmer. "I'm sorry."

"I love you," Eliot said. There was a pause during which Eliot's heart threatened to break. Perhaps it had all been a mistake, this relationship with a girl so much younger than him. Perhaps she wanted to be with someone her own age. Perhaps... perhaps...

"I love you too," Brynn said. "Goodbye."

She hung up before he could say another word. Eliot dialed another number, and soon he was in a cab on the way to the airport, to America. She loved him, or said she did. And if there was a fraction of a chance that following her would save the beautiful connection they shared, it would be worth any effort it took. He only hoped that she felt the same way.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Brynn

It was hot and sunny the day my Nagyi was buried. One of her friends from a knitting circle drove me from her house to the cemetery. On the way to the funeral we passed by a park where families were all having play dates and barbecues. Kids ran across the lawn and dogs ran with them, the laughter and barking rising over the music being blasted from a single boombox on a picnic table. I rolled up the car window and closed my eyes.

"She was a wonderful woman, your grandmother," her friend said. I could only nod, my eyes burning. I was all alone in the world now, and in the past day I had spent my waking hours trying not to break down into tears. My father had replied to me with a message saying that he was traveling with his wife on a movie shoot and would not be able to come to the funeral. I hadn't expected him to come, but knowing that the one family member I had left would be absent made me worried. I thought that perhaps it would just be me and the funeral director at the funeral. But the day she died, two of her knitting friends had come over with food for me. At least there would be another person there, I thought.

As we walked toward the place where my grandmother was to be buried, I gasped.

There were hundreds of people milling around the grave. The men were dressed in suits, the women in black dresses with black shawls, despite the heat. So many people. Throngs of people, families with their children. Older couples and small clusters of women who spoke solemnly to each other.

"A wonderful woman," the friend repeated to me. I walked forward. Although I did not know anyone there, everybody seemed to know me. Women came forward to press my hand or kiss me on both cheeks, a gesture that reminded me of Hungary.

"You are Katalin's granddaughter? She took me in when I left my husband," one middle-aged woman said. "If you need anything, anything at all—"

"Katalin was such a large part of the church," another man said. "We will miss her dearly."

I nodded dumbly, moving through the crowd and accepting consolations and offers of help. Katalin. That had been my mother's name. My grandmother I had always known as Nagyi, but here she was Katalin too. I wondered if her name had given her grief after my mother had died, if it had been a reminder of her sorrow.

Some of the people there came up to me and took my hands in theirs, speaking in Hungarian. I answered as best as I could in my halting Hungarian words, and was greeted with happy surprise that I knew their language, even if only in part.

A noise behind me made me turn. Six men were carrying the coffin to the gravesite across the cemetery lawn. Following them was a group of women, their voices raised in song. I could not understand the words, but the music flowed over me and I closed my eyes, tears running freely down my face. The song was dark, the melody as dissonant as the Gymnopedie that Eliot and I had played together. Hearing the women sing all together, though, I felt a strength pass through me and buoy my heart upwards. It was a song of grief, but also a song of hope.

The procession paced slowly towards the grave and placed the coffin down at its side.

I looked at the coffin where it lay. It seemed too big for my grandmother's body, my grandmother whom I could pick up in a hug if I wanted to. It wasn't a fancy coffin—my Nagyi had never liked ornamentation for its own sake—but the wood was stained her favorite cherry color and it had been polished until it shone brightly in the daylight.

It was too beautiful a day for a funeral. California mocked my grief with the blinding daylight, and my tears dried quickly on my cheeks.

The pastor from Nagyi's church rose to speak. He'd warned me that his sermon would be in Hungarian, but that he'd find a translator. The woman standing beside him spoke after each of his sentences. At first the translation was halting, but as they went on the sentences began to flow from one to the next and the two languages cleaved together.

"We gather here to honor the life of Katalin Tomlin. She was a good woman, and more than that, a good person who helped anyone who needed help, who lent a hand to anyone in trouble, who gave until she could not give anymore. Each of us here today has a piece of her in their hearts, and we will not ever let her go."

A stream of people came forward as the pastor spoke, laying flowers on top of my Nagyi's coffin. Most of them were roses, but some people brought bouquets of other flowers, silken orchids and white lilies with their flat round petals. A little girl came forward and lay a handmade bouquet of daisies at the foot of the coffin, stepping shyly away to her mother after glancing up at me.