The Lost Prince (22 page)

The decision to abandon his old life left him with a heavy heart. Allyn loved Aandor. He loved the archduke and duchess almost as much as his own family. Sophia was especially kind and graceful, and her family a generous contributor to the temples of Pelitos. The temple in Aandor City would not have been completed as quickly if not for her patronage. How could he abandon her son? The obligation ran deep in Allyn—he drummed the armrest of his chair unconsciously, struggling with the urge to take Danel into his home and hide him from all his enemies. How silly a notion was that? It was unlikely child services would allow a white child to be placed with a black family. He could never explain where the boy came from.

Allyn’s mind was a pendulum swinging between two worlds.
Get involved—don’t get involved.
He crushed the scrap of paper in his hand.

“It would bring wizards to my house,” he grumbled. “And other undesirables.” Allyn tossed the scrap, but in midswing altered his aim for the desk instead of the trash. A conclusion to his internal debate still eluded him when the front doorbell rang. The murmurings of greetings came through the study door.

Allyn joined Michelle in the foyer and greeted his guests, members of his church’s board—Miles, Fred, a rejuvenated Maurice, Shirley Johnston, and Sheriff Kevin Martin. Michelle welcomed them into the foyer and instructed Rosemarie to put on some coffee.

“Wanted to see how you was holding up, Al,” Miles said with a smirk. “We all knows how much you love the press.”

A cadre of trucks with large white dishes on their roof had stationed themselves on the block. Allyn had become the latest obsession for bookers of the network news shows. Reporters fluttered along the sidewalk; Allyn was a flame to a moth in this hero-starved world. The sheriff had posted tape along the perimeter of the lawn and told the reporters if anyone crossed the line he’d arrest them for trespassing.

“How’re the Taylors doing?” he asked Maurice.

“Coming along. Darnell sends his apologies for not stopping by—they’re releasing the kids from the hospital about now.”

Allyn dismissed the need for an apology and showed everyone into the living room. Michelle went into the kitchen to fix snacks. They made small talk about the Panthers’ chances for getting into the Super Bowl until Michelle and Rosemarie emerged with trays filled with biscuits and coffee.

Miles turned serious and leaned toward Allyn across the table, resting his arms on his legs. “We came by tell you that we unanimously granted your request for a temporary leave from your duties as minister,” he said.

“With full pay, of course,” Shirley cut in.

The group laughed.

“Thank you, my friends,” Allyn, said. “I am so blessed to have you in my life. I never doubted I could count on your support.” He looked around the living room at the faces of his congregation … his family. Miles had coached high school football for the past fifteen years; Fred retired from fishing the Outer Banks for twenty years; Shirley was the third generation Johnston to run the Happy Ochre diner in town; and Kevin, who served as an even-keeled sheriff after twenty years in the Army Rangers … these were his people now, with ties that bound more tightly than anything he had in that other universe.

“I have decided not to take the leave,” Allyn told them. Michelle shot him a look. He smiled back at her, confident about his decision. He would ride out the war at home.

The group enjoyed its coffee and biscuits, relating the progress of the Taylor kids and each offering their opinion on the fate of the man that had chased them into the forest. The phone rang and Rosemarie answered.

“Dad, some man’s asking to speak to you,” she said.

“I am not doing interviews.”

“He’s not a reporter,” she said. “Says he met you a few years back. Someplace called ‘And Door.’”

2

Allyn locked the study door behind him and listened for a moment to his colleagues and friends chatting away in the living room. To Michelle’s credit, she barely reacted to the news that someone from Aandor was on the phone for him—she recovered quickly, averting a near disaster of spilled coffee all over Shirley’s lemon-yellow skirt.

Allyn carefully picked up the receiver. A moment passed, and when he heard the click of the other extension, he cleared his voice and said, “Captain MacDonnell?”

“Not quite,”
came the response.

The voice was familiar, but not Callum MacDonnell’s. It was higher than the captain’s confident baritone.

“Malcolm Robbe,”
the voice said.

Allyn flipped through the Rolodex of his brain to remember thirteen years back, in the pantry with a group of people he had only just met. The centaur was Fronik, the lieutenant was Tristan, Malcolm was … “Ah, yes … the sergeant at arms.”

“Very good, Prelate Grey.”

There was something in the man’s tone—a confidence. He sounded rich.

“Did MacDonnell task you to find me?” Allyn asked.

“I have not yet met with the captain, nor spoken with him,”
Malcolm said.
“He’s currently unavailable, so I’ve tasked myself with finding the prince’s party independently. I have—resources.”
The word “resources” resonated with an understated air. The word did not match the entirety of Malcolm’s tone.

“I see,” Allyn said. “I do not have—resources. What I have is a wife and daughter—responsibilities to a community. I have a life.”

“As do we all that still live,”
Malcolm answered.

“Who’s died?”

“I’ve yet to track down Galen and Linnea, but the Raincrests died many years ago of causes unrelated to the mission. Tristan was murdered a few days ago. Like you, he had a family. Now there’s only a widow and two boys, halfway to being orphans. The home of Proust’s apprentice was recently torched. No sign of the lad—he may be dead. MacDonnell himself was attacked a few days ago, as were his wife and daughter. I believe he’s taken off with his family. No idea whether he’s engaged in this search. Perhaps like you, he’s forsaken his oath.”

The dig did not sit well with Allyn. This was Malcolm’s attempt to light a fire under him. Pride was listed as a deadly sin for a reason. Allyn fought the urge to defend his decision. Instead he asked, “If the captain was not engaged in the mission, who returned our memories to us? Someone is obviously working for our cause. We would have been sitting ducks otherwise.”

“Our
cause
?”
Malcolm stressed the first word.

Allyn could almost hear him smiling on the other end, like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail.
Yes, damn you!
he thought.

“I wish no harm to befall the prince,” Allyn said. “I pray for his health and that he will be reunited with his family soon and placed on his rightful throne. I just—I can’t involve my family in this conflict. They need me. My church needs me. I am invested in this community. My roots run deep.”

The line remained silent for a while as both men mentally pivoted for the next round.

“I have a life, too,”
Malcolm said.
“A damn good one; much better than my lot in Aandor. Things are more—complicated—for me than I care to divulge.”

“We’re each responsible for our own decisions.”

“I won’t begrudge your choice. I am just a sergeant, after all. But can you do one thing for me? One thing for which I will be extremely grateful and will not bother you further.”

Allyn tensed. He was wary of any commitment. Even small obligations had the potential to suck you into larger matters of which you’d rather not be a part. “What is it?” he asked warily.

“Locate the prince. Use your abilities the way you found those children in the forest. I will retrieve the boy myself; you need not be involved in any effort to extract him. Do this, and I will make it worth your while. I will even set matters straight with the captain regarding your choice to remain with your family.”

That was a fair request. Allyn’s anxiety had been over leaving his loved ones. Malcolm Robbe had offered to carry the burden of collecting and protecting the boy. If he’d advocate on Allyn’s behalf with MacDonnell …

The reverend wanted to help the young prince. Now he could do his part in the safety of North Carolina, without leaving his home—the family … without heading toward the mayhem up north.

“Do you have anything that might have the prince’s blood, hair, or skin on it?” Allyn asked. “A rattle, a blanket?”

“I have as many items as you do, Reverend. That might change the more we dig up; I have leads on other guardians.”

“It will be very difficult to find him without some personal effect. Even something with only an emotional attachment would do.”

“I’m sorry, I have no such items. Will you try anyway?”

Allyn wracked his brain for a solution. He was long out of practice in the clerical arts.

“I don’t have anything at the moment, but yes—I will try.”

CHAPTER 16

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER

The sensation of speeding through a black tunnel backward, away from the light, had inverted itself. As Oulfsan came out of the darkness, the scene around him sharpened into focus. The whole exchange took less than five seconds, but the pain and exhaustion lingered as though it were an hour-long exertion. Though he and his brother had swapped consciousness thousands of times, he would never get used to the switch—each time he wondered if death would finally drag them to the bowels of hell.

If it were pleasant, it wouldn’t qualify as a curse,
he thought.

The frequency and randomness of the swaps had accelerated since coming to this plane of existence. In Aandor, they could go days before switching, but here it was almost daily, sometimes as short as several hours.

Oulfsan took note of his surroundings; he was in the Baltimore motor lodge rental they used as a base to spy on Colby Dretch. Hesz was already on his way down with Hommar and Todgarten, and it was odd that they were not already there. Oulfsan took stock of his surroundings; everything looked the same as the last time he was here, except for the bloodied leg—foot to knee—hanging on the far edge of the bed. Oulfsan walked around the bed to find that the leg belonged to a dead naked woman facing up on the floor. Her eyes were open and rolled back, her throat had a large gash across it, and she had a knife wedged in her gut. Her legs were spread, one lay bent on the floor slightly under the bed and the other went up the side of the bed, hip and butt braced against the mattress—like she’d fallen out in her sleep. She smelled like sex and blood. What Oulfsan would find upon arrival after a switch was always a mystery; Krebe was most unpredictable and every bit chaotic.

His brother’s striped boxer shorts, which were the only things he had on, were greasy from lack of washing. Krebe was shorter, stockier, and fatter, with coarse black ringlets of hair over his torso, arms, and legs. As for the man’s hygiene, if the switch wasn’t jarring enough, the assault on Oulfsan’s nose each time he returned was enough to wrench his gut. Krebe enjoyed torturing his brother from afar to see how long he could go before Oulfsan bathed for him. To Krebe it was all a game—the young woman dangling off the bed was just another play.

The brunette was in her twenties, with fair skin, freckles, and a delicate upturned nose most boys seemed to favor. She’d be missed. Her blood seeped into the rose-colored carpet from the wounds, fueling spongy brown stains that tried to join each other beneath her. It was Krebe’s third kill since arriving to this reality. If Dorn found out, he would kill Krebe for jeopardizing the mission. Oulfsan doubted if Dorn would even care which body his brother inhabited at that moment—he could end up losing his true vessel. And then what…? What happens if his brother ceases to live? If they knew for certain that the death of one of them would end the switch, Krebe would have killed Oulfsan years ago. Uncertainty was the only thing that kept that psychopath at bay.

Oulfsan had some bittersweet gratitude toward his brother for providing a plastic tarp to dispose of the body. It was his duty to clean up the dirty mess because Krebe was too thick minded to handle the details. And, if Krebe went to prison, Oulfsan would also live half his life rotting behind bars. This untenable existence is what led Oulfsan to seek out Lord Dorn in the first place. His part of the agreement to serve Dorn included the wizard’s help in breaking the curse.

He sold the idea to his brother by playing up the fortune they’d both earn in pay and plunder—after all, in a world with no telephones, their trick was useful in relaying information quickly between whatever distant points they occupied. One brother could scout miles ahead while the other stayed with the master, so that when they switched, information would be relayed instantaneously. Oulfsan convinced Krebe he’d have ample opportunity to engage his murderous hobbies across the continent and be protected under Dorn’s patronage. In Farrenheil, Dorn’s word was second only to his uncle, the archduke. Should Krebe’s habits be discovered, he would have been protected; Dorn and his uncle couldn’t care less about dead peasant girls. But here in this world, a serial murder investigation could jeopardize everything. Dorn was barely hanging on to sanity as it was. Oulfsan had to work quickly … the others would arrive eventually.

He wrapped the girl’s body in the tarp and used duct tape to seal her in. He placed her in the bathtub gently and tried not to think of her life or the family that will miss her. He filled a large trash bag with ice from the lodge’s three machines, enough to pack the tub. The landing outside their room had a wide view of the parking lot; he hated the exposure. They should have gone to a traditional motel. The Baltimore area was still a mystery, but resided next to a bay with a large crab population. They were excellent scavengers and would make short work of the girl in no time. He would do it right after he located Colby.

Oulfsan checked the iPad on the nightstand. The device was a late adaptation to this new reality due to Dorn and Kraten’s insistence early on that their group would not be in this universe for very long. Therefore they did not need to waste time with its alien distractions. As soon as it became clear they were not on the heels of the prince’s guardians, that in fact, some years might have passed since they arrived to this reality, Dorn relented. Kraten still clung to his archaic ways, but then that was the character of desert dwellers … they resisted change and resented progressives.