Penelope & Prince Charming (19 page)

“Damien, don’t,” Penelope said.

Damien lowered his knife. It was one thing to carve up a demon, another to kill a child, even though that child had done its best to strangle him a moment ago.

“Holy Christ, sir,” Petri breathed.

“I know.”

“He’s terrified,” Penelope said. She sank to her knees.

“He’s playing on your sympathy, love,” Damien said quickly. “Once it heals, it will turn back to a deadly demon.”

“I know, but…” She bit her lip. “Boy,” she said in halting Nvengarian. “Do you understand me?”

The child-demon raised its head and stared at her. After a long pause, it nodded.

“Do you have a name?” she asked it.

Damien waited, poised to strike if the thing tried to attack her. He felt Petri tense on his other side.

The boy-logosh took a gulp of air and said, “Wulf.”

Damien wondered if that was a name or simply a guttural sound in its throat. Penelope took it for a name. “Wulf.”

The boy gave another nod. “Princess.”

The word, in Nvengarian, was clear this time. Penelope pressed her hand to her chest, surprised. “Yes. Princess.”

The boy held out his hand, fingers shaking. “Princess.”

“He wants me to go to him,” she said.

Damien gripped his knife. “And you will not.”

“Princess,” the boy repeated, his voice weaker, tears running down his cheeks to blend with the liquid from his nose.

“He’s badly hurt,” she said.

“He’s a demon who tried to kill us.” Damien spoke in Nvengarian so the boy would understand him as well.

Wulf shook his head, still staring at Penelope. “No. Princess.”

“Were you trying to kill me, Wulf?” she asked him.

He shook his head. His face was white in the dim hall. “Help.” His eyes rolled back, and he slumped against the wall.

Penelope got to her feet and started forward. Damien seized her in a firm grip. “No.”

“He’s a child, Damien. A hurt child.”

“He is a demon.”

“He has a name, and he said he was not trying to hurt me.”

“Perhaps demons are liars, my love. Perhaps they simulate being a tearful child to lure their victims.”

From the look on her face, she did not believe that, and neither did he. He felt both relieved and alarmed that the logosh was not an adult—as a child it was more vulnerable. But if he was a child, how large and strong were the adults of its kind? And, terrible thought, where was its mother?

“You started to tell me a story, remember, before I fell asleep?” Penelope said. “About a beautiful princess and a logosh? How did it end?”

“The princess healed the logosh after he was nearly killed by hunters. He turned into a handsome prince, and married the princess.” He cast a glance at the halfconscious child. “He is a bit young for you, I think.”

“Perhaps the story is true.” She held up her hands as he started to argue. “I am certain it has been embellished in the folk tale, but perhaps a part of it is true—that a princess helped a logosh—and he remembers that. Perhaps they will not hurt a Nvengarian princess.”

“They certainly have no compulsion about hurting a Nvengarian
prince.”

“But when he saw me behind you, in the ballroom, he turned away. And when I came out here, he stopped.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

Penelope’s hair snaked about her in beautiful waves, her face flushed with their argument and her eyes bright with determination. The coverlet bared her shoulders and threatened to slide down her torso. She was almost edible, and damn enchanted sleeps and child logoshes that kept him from eating her up.

“He will die,” she said.

“He came to kill me. When he is better, he will try again.”

Penelope gave him a stubborn look. “If I can make him loyal to me, like in the story, he will not.”

When they thought of all this again much later, each of them realized that neither had argued this logically or made a rational choice. But perhaps the prophecy was pushing them where it wanted to go. At least, Damien blamed it ever after for his decision.

He stepped aside. “Very well, love. But if you make a pet of him, he will
not
sleep on the bed with us.”

Penelope smiled faintly at his joke and moved toward the boy.

“Sir, are you mad?” Petri asked.

“Very likely. But wait.”

Penelope approached the child warily, not foolish enough to rush to it and embrace it. The boy began to shiver, whimpering in his half-dazed state. Penelope reached him. Damien moved closer, ready to drag her away if he suddenly became demon again, but Wulf did nothing.

She knelt beside him and gently pushed a lock of hair from his forehead, as tender as a mother.

The boy turned then, but only to fling his arms around her waist. Red blood, human blood, smeared the coverlet. Penelope, tentatively at first, then more firmly, gathered the child to her.

“It’s all right,” she crooned. He clung to her like any child hurt and frightened. Penelope rocked him and touched his matted hair, without betraying any sign of disgust. She looked at Damien over his head, her eyes so full of compassion that he knew he loved her all the way through and not because of a piece of ancient magic.

“I’ll be damned,” Petri whispered. “She’s tamed a mother-loving logosh.”

“Do not tell me,” Alexander said as Nedrak looked up from his scrying stone with an anguished light in his eyes. “It did not work.”

Nedrak gulped. “No, Your Grace. I am afraid not.”

Alexander got impatiently to his feet and walked to the window. It was sunset, and the sky was streaked with crimson and gold. Mountains soared above the town, turning the view into a glorious landscape painting that no human’s brush could ever match. The highest peaks were still tipped with snow, the slopes dark green with summer.

They were harsh mountains, without remorse, but their stark beauty, as always, pulled at his heart. If he could find a way to close the gate to Nvengaria, to keep the rest of the world out and save this pristine place forever, he would.

But he knew he could not. Nvengaria depended on trade with other nations, and no good came of complete isolation. He’d be damned, however, if he let Austria or Russia or far-off England swallow Nvengaria as part of some imperial conquest. Britannia could go rule somewhere else.

And there was Damien, hand in glove with the Prince Regent, winding the English aristocrats around his little finger. While Nedrak concentrated on the prophecy and nonsense magic, Alexander watched what Damien
did.

What Damien had done was sweet-talk a girl into believing she was the long lost Nvengarian princess needed to save his kingdom, and buttered up the Regent and men in the cabinet and House of Lords so they’d come running to help at his call. England would sink its teeth into Nvengaria and never let go.

I will stop him.

“It is simply astonishing,” Nedrak was bleating. “Astonishing. I wondered what the prophecy meant when it said the princess would tame wild things. I never dreamed it meant she’d befriend a logosh. And there is a mage there working spells, plain as day. That enchantment was not mine.” He mused. “I wonder if
she
is the mage? She certainly is powerful.”

His tone held admiration.

“Nedrak,” Alexander said dryly. “You seem to be altering your loyalties.”

The older man looked up with a start, sudden and abject panic on his face. “No, Your Grace. Never.”

“If you help me break the prophecy, as you promised,” he said, “you will be vastly rewarded. If you join Damien, you will die with him.” Alexander leaned over the table. He was profoundly tired, and he could not say why. “You can, of course, decide to help neither of us. You may retire to the country with your grandchildren and leave politics behind. There are plenty willing to take your place.”

Alexander saw the offer of retirement stir Nedrak’s soul. Nedrak was always bleating about how heavenly it would be to sit with his daughter and son-in-law and five precious grandsons on the shores of the lake in the north.

But Nedrak was at heart a greedy and ambitious man. The thought that another mage would take his place ate at
him. Besides, he did not trust Alexander not to send an assassin to the lovely house by the lake and to end Nedrak’s life late one quiet night.

“No indeed, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “I am your man. And your mage. Do not think for a moment that I would desert you.”

Alexander let his features soften. “No, of course you would not.”

He turned away, keeping his anger from his face. Nedrak was a fool and a romantic. Damien and his princess were more appealing to him than a stickler of a grand duke trying to pull Nvengaria from the mess Damien’s father had made.

He couldn’t understand why a man like that was alive when Sephronia…

Earlier that day, while the Nvengarian sun spilled through the valley, Grand Duchess Sephronia had been laid to rest. It was a bright day, a day for celebration and song, a day when Nvengarian maidens tossed blossoms at Nvengarian men in the town square, and the citizens strolled about in the warmth, smiling at neighbors, sipping coffee in cafés and enjoying respite from the harsh Nvengarian winter.

A mahogany casket, closed, had reposed at the gates to the marble mausoleum, the resting place of the Grand Dukes of Nvengaria and their families. Alexander, wearing formal military blue and a black band of mourning on his upper arm, kept his eyes on the blades of grass the casket had crushed as the priest droned on through the service. He held the hand of his son Alex, who clutched a small bunch of flowers, waiting for the moment when he was to lay them on his mother’s casket.

The casket remained firmly closed. Sephronia had begged him not to let others see the wreck her body had become. Alexander had respected that wish and allowed no one to look at her as she lay in death. It was the least he
could do for her after she’d endured seven years of marriage with him.

The coffin was carried through the gates of the mausoleum and lowered on lavish ropes into a stone tomb. Alexander led Alex by the hand to the square tomb, and lifted him into his arms. At his prompting, Alex leaned over and dropped his small garland of red flowers onto the polished coffin.

Alexander stepped back, still holding the boy, and waited for his men to close and seal the tomb. The scraping noise the carved stone cover made as they slid it into place was lonely and cold and empty.

As orchestrated, Alexander’s men brought the huge mourning wreath of dark leaves and flowers and ribbons that Alexander had had made as soon as they’d brought news that Sephronia had died in her sleep. Setting Alex on his feet, he lifted the wreath himself and placed it carefully in front of the tomb. He stood a moment in silent contemplation, then turned and walked out.

Outside, in the summer air, the two dozen military color guards came to full attention. The captain saluted stiffly as Alexander passed them, leading little Alex by the hand.

As soon as Alexander had gone by, the captain gave a brusque order to the sergeant, who then bellowed out the order to raise arms and fire. The muskets cracked, fire spurting into the bright summer sunshine, signaling the end of Grand Duchess Sephronia.

The color guard lowered their weapons and stood once more to attention. Alexander nodded at the captain, implying thanks. Then he turned and led Alex to the black carriage and horses, and let it take him back to the palace.

Once there, he resumed his duties. His wife’s death had barely caused a hiccup in the day-to-day routine of the palace. That angered him. The country should have frozen at least a day for her.

But he knew that ordering them to observe a day of
mourning would not have been popular. The people wanted to spend all their time preparing for bloody prince Damien and his long-lost princess. The newspapers tomorrow morning would have a precise engraving of Alexander placing the wreath on his wife’s tomb, the entire first page devoted to a description of the ceremony and remembering the grand duchess’s life. The people might worship Damien, but Alexander controlled the newspapers.

He had not been very surprised when Nedrak informed him that the ridiculous scheme of sending a logosh after Damien and Penelope had not worked. The fact had only increased the superstitious Nedrak’s loyalty to the prince and the prophecy.

If the head of the Council of Mages turned on Alexander, he would pull many with him. Damn the man, and damn custom for giving an idiot so much power. Nedrak was left over from the dead Imperial Prince’s rule; Alexander was determined to handpick the next one.

He turned back to Nedrak. “You have worked hard for me, Nedrak. Perhaps I have not seemed grateful, but I am worried.”

Nedrak nodded, responding to the praise like a bird just thrown a crumb.

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I will prepare a banquet in your honor, as a reward. I have been meaning to do so for some time.”

Nedrak’s eyes brightened, his pride stroked. “Why, thank you, Your Grace. I have, indeed, been working very hard to establish your right to rule Nvengaria.” He paused. “I am sorry the logosh did not work. I was certain he would kill Prince Damien.”

Alexander shrugged. “It was a good idea. It’s just a shame the only creature you could capture was so young. Not your fault.”

Nedrak preened, and Alexander barely hid his irrita
tion. Fool. Nedrak liked romance and drama. Alexander saw things straight and clear. Damien would fail, and Alexander would make certain of it. In fact, Damien had already failed. A few more snares in place, and Damien would fall in the eyes of the Nvengarians, and that would be that.

Nedrak asked hesitantly, “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you this afternoon?”

Alexander turned away, his hands behind his back. “No. You’ve done enough. Go about your business.”

The dismissals always infuriated Nedrak—the two men should have been equals, after all. “Yes, Your Grace.” He scuttled to the door, then paused. “May I express my deepest sympathies on the death of the Grand Duchess.”

Alexander looked up. Nedrak shivered. He could feel the ice of those blue eyes all the way across the huge room.

“Thank you, Nedrak,” Alexander said silkily. As the mage turned to leave, Alexander added, “And, Nedrak.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Do not speak of my wife again. Ever. Do you understand?”

Nedrak swallowed, his throat dry. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Alexander looked away. It was like a gate clanging shut. Nedrak scurried into the hall. A stiff, silent attendant shut the door behind him.

“Cold-hearted bastard,” Nedrak muttered as he made for the mage’s council halls. Then he cast a swift glance around, fearing he’d been overheard, gathered up his starry robes, and ran. Alexander had spies everywhere.

Sasha was beside himself with excitement when he learned that Penelope had tamed the logosh. Not only had she tamed the boy, Wulf, she’d washed him and dressed his wounds, which were already closing and healing. Wulf, in turn, clung to her.

“It is in the prophecy, sir,” Sasha prattled. “‘And the
princess will heal the sick and tame the beast.’ I did not understand the part about the beast, sir; I thought it meant you.” He flushed. “Oh, I did not mean…”

Damien smiled, but he felt grim. “My life was admittedly wild before my father died, but the prophecy seems to be amazingly literal.”

“It is all coming true, Your Highness,” Sasha said happily. “It is all coming true.”

The household woke groggily from its enchanted sleep. Mathers, indignantly rousting servants from bedrooms, discovered Rufus and Miles with the two pretty maids and gave them all a good tongue-lashing. Rufus and Miles resumed their duties looking a bit sheepish and a lot smug.

Petri, on the other hand, sank into remorse. “I failed you,” he said while he tried to straighten Damien’s bedchamber, picking up things and absently setting them down again. “I have never, ever in my life fallen asleep while I guarded you, not even when we were lads begging for scraps. The logosh could have killed you while you slept, and I could not stay awake to prevent it.” He squared his shoulders. “You may put me to the sword, sir. I will deserve it.”

“For God’s sake, Petri, we all succumbed to the damn spell. Do not turn dramatic on me, I beg you. You are my voice of reason in all this madness.”

“You did not succumb.”

“Yes, I did. I do not know what woke me, but I was sleeping as hard as anyone else. Penelope only woke when I smashed into the wall, and so did you.”

He shook his head, his eyes haunted. “No, sir. I woke when the princess shouted. The logosh might have throttled you before I could reach you.”

“Stop flagellating yourself. If you want to make recompense, find the mage who cast the spell. It had a decidedly Nvengarian feel to it, so it is one of us.”

Petri’s eyes flashed, anger replacing remorse. “I will flush him out, sir. And skin him alive.”

“Now you sound like Titus. Before you skin him, bring him to me so that I can ask him a question or two.”

“Yes, sir. I will not fail you.”

“Good.” Damien could bear no more of the man’s guilt, and stalked out of the room.

He found Michael Tavistock in the lower hall. When Tavistock saw Damien descending the stairs, he swung to him and waited at the bottom. “A moment of your time, please,” the Englishman said stiffly.

Damien nodded and gestured that they should talk in the sitting room. That room, however, proved to be full of giggling ladies who looked up eagerly when Damien walked into the room. “Good evening, Your Highness,” they said collectively.

Damien stopped, controlling his impatience. “I beg your pardon,” he said. He put his hand on his chest and made a deep bow. The giggling escalated, accompanied by fluttering fans and batting eyelashes.

Damien escaped, and Tavistock suggested they walk outside.

As usual, several footmen detached themselves from duties and followed, watchful and alert.

“When do you leave?” Tavistock asked him.

It was early evening, the long English summer day at last drawing to an end. The clouds he’d observed earlier had thinned, and only a few golden-streaked wisps adorned the horizon. Gentle swells of green hills flowed away from them and disappeared into haze where the sky met the ground.

A flat land,
Damien thought, thinking of the razoredged mountains of home.
Damn, but I miss it.

He cleared his throat. “Immediately. Tomorrow. The last ritual is tonight. Penelope and I and a small part of my entourage will depart in the morning, with the rest
following when they are ready. I realize they’ve become somewhat entrenched here.”

He said it apologetically, trying his winsome smile. Not that it ever worked with the hardheaded Tavistock. Meagan had once claimed that her father was a cheerful and happy man, but Damien had never caught him at it.

“You and Penelope will marry in Nvengaria?” Tavistock asked.

“Yes. It will be the wedding of the year. She will be married in fine style, never fear.”

“Will this be a Christian wedding? Performed in a chapel? Or another Nvengarian ritual?”

Damien kept his best Prince Charming smile in place. “In a cathedral, with a bishop.”

Tavistock stopped walking. They stood a short distance from the house, halfway down the drive, at the top of a green hill that dropped down toward the village. “Penelope is an English girl, despite your tale of rings and lineage. I would rather see her married in an English chapel in a ceremony she understands.”

The smile deserted him. “The ritual we performed this morning binds her to me as though she were my wife. The wedding in Nvengaria will only seal it. I assure you, this is no elaborate trick to gain a new mistress.”