The Lost Prince (28 page)

Tim was losing his train of thought. It was not his first whiskey of the day—but it didn’t mean he was lying. She watched Lelani talking to the security team. The centaur never cast a spell she didn’t need to. She had tremendous respect for the magic and treated it as the dangerous thing it was. Cat was not comfortable about magic being used around Bree. It was more than just an alien thing to her … she felt the sorcerers were playing around with a primal force that even they did not fully comprehend—like sixteenth-century men suddenly finding themselves in a nuclear power plant control room filled with shiny buttons.

“Do you have family?” Cat asked the musician.

“Father’s a thatcher. In fact, he’s a tenant of Lord Godwynn’s—you know—Chrysla—” Tim stopped midsentence. He looked at Cat with sad eyes, then back down at his glass, burped, and suddenly stood.

“These drinks are going right through me,” he said. “Hey, Red!” he shouted toward the command center. “Fire up that eye in the sky cause I’m about to take a whiz! A wide-angle lens is recommended.” He excused himself. Cat had that feeling again … that there was something everyone else knew that she didn’t.

Clarisse returned with Balzac and handed Cat a glass of pinot grigio.

“Tim’s not usually like that,” Clarisse said. “It’s that bastard Malcolm.”

“What did Malcolm do?”

“Everything. Tim’s band was on the tour of their career. Then this whole thing happened. We got a call the next night inviting us to Lord Shorty’s suite. They hugged and said how happy they were that they were both alive and successful. Then they started talking about the prince. Tim was very up front about the tour, the band, and how he wasn’t going back to Aandor. I mean can you blame him? Where would he plug in the amp? They argued. Mal really laid into him about duty, honor, all that crap. So we left.”

“But you came back?”

“Heeeee…”—indicating Mal with a finger aimed at the bedroom—“BOUGHT THE FREAKIN’ RECORD LABEL!” she yelled. “And then, he sold the band’s contract to another label for a ridiculously low fee, under the condition that Tim not be associated with the band in any way, and then he paid off the other band members—THOSE DOUCHE BAGS—to not reform with Tim under any circumstance! And those assholes took the money!”

Clarisse was red and breathing heavy. Clearly, they’d been drinking for quite a while. “It don’t matter what universe you’re from…,” Clarisse continued. “The rich and powerful always fuck the small guy. It’s like nature or something.”

“Ah nature…,” said Balzac, who had remained quietly amused during Clarisse’s tirade. “Found in every corner of creation. Nurture, not so much. Lady MacDonnell, don’t you find it fascinating how our inborn natures manifested themselves in this reality? How the different realities reward the same talents?”

This guy is a mind reader,
Cat thought. Her guard went up when Balzac spoke—something about the quality of his words, or the way he said them, belied his genteel appearance.

“Tell me, were you not glad to learn that Callum was a high-ranking officer from back there, instead of a foot soldier with parents cramped into a thatch-roofed hovel?”

Balzac’s abrasive querying would never win him friends. The man was itching for the kind of debate Tim or Clarisse were not capable of having and that Malcolm would have no patience for.
Why do I get stuck?
she thought.

“He didn’t have two coppers to rub together in this reality, much less a family, and I married him anyway,” Cat said.

Balzac showed his big white grin. “Tim was an excellent minstrel in Aandor,” he said. “He packed them in at the Phoenix Nest, the largest tavern in Aandor City. But he could never have achieved the success he had here. Universe hopping is the best thing that happened to Tim.”

“It’s true,” Clarisse confirmed. “Babies Ate My Dingo have the number nine video on MTV.”

That’s where I know him…,
Cat thought. The band’s ads were everywhere.

“Malcolm comes from a long line of smiths and miners,” Balzac continued. “He could have pounded his anvil for a thousand years in Aandor, and never have attained the power and wealth he acquired here in just thirteen years.”

“Mr. Cruz, I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” Cat said. “You’ll get no argument from me about the drawbacks of feudal economics.”

“I’m speculating. It’s just interesting that Callum has essentially the same vocation here as he had there, but here, force is subordinate to intelligence—political maneuvering and people skills, and he did not attain a similar status to the one he had in Aandor.”

“My husband wasn’t a cop in Aandor.”

“He is a knight,” Balzac affirmed. “He uses force on behalf of his rulers to maintain the order. Same difference.”

“He protects
everyone
here,” Cat said, resenting Balzac’s tone.

Balzac laughed. “My, you
have
sipped the Kool-Aid. Fine—it’s not crucial to my point.”

“It being…?” Cat asked. This guy made her skin crawl. Where the heck was Malcolm?

“Tim and Malcolm are creators, and once freed from the limitations of despotism, they prospered. Callum’s role in both universes is to protect and serve the established ruling class—a glorified bodyguard to maintain the status quo. Only here, MacDonnell was not born into his status. And force, not being equally as rewarding, he did not have the capacity to work his way to the comparable level in this world that he enjoyed in Aandor.”

The pompous ass was dancing on Cat’s last nerve. She took a sip of wine and counted to ten in her head. “What were you back there, if you don’t mind me asking?” Cat said to change the subject.

“He was a clown,” said Clarisse, amused.

Balzac threw the girl a wicked glare.
You don’t want to get on his bad side, honey,
thought Cat.

“I was the court jester,” Balzac corrected. “More George Carlin, less Bozo. Before that, a scholar of nonmagical studies.”

“And here?” Cat asked.

“Tenured professor of literature.”

“So educators are poor and taken for granted in all universes,” Cat said.

Clarisse giggled.

Balzac’s smile was a thin red line. “Men of
science
are held in a different regard in Aandor. But I wouldn’t call myself poor. Working in a royal court, one comes across opportunities. It’s like Congress.”

Cat was tired of Balzac. Red faced, he probably downed as many drinks as Tim. She looked toward Mal’s bedroom, wishing he’d return.

“Your husband is nothing more than a commoner in this reality,” Balzac spat out. “That’s all I was trying to point out.”

“We’re all commoners in America, Mr. Cruz,” Cat said. “My husband’s title is ‘mister,’ same as the president.”

Balzac acceded to Cat with a raised glass and a nod. “True. But the ramifications of this excursion to another reality are greater for some than for others. For example, you don’t think Malcolm is actually gay, do you?”

“Why should I care?” Cat shot back with venom in her voice.

Balzac put up his hands in a mock form of surrender—thick, hairy fingers … the fingers of a juggler. All that was missing was a twirled mustachio. He had initiated some sort of game, and they were the pieces. Why was she putting up with this when she could go lie down with Bree?

Because Balzac had information. And he was willing to parcel it out, as long as his game was in play. Cat took another sip and dug in.

“My dear,” Balzac said. “Malcolm is a great victim of Proust’s folly.”

Balzac’s volume had increased—the exchange garnered attention. Lelani gingerly navigated her way to Cat.

Cat said, “What makes you the expert of other people’s affections?” Her ire was up.

“Balzac is alluding to the nature of dwarven women,” Lelani said.

“What about them?”

“Physically, they are almost identical to the men,” Balzac said with an almost gleeful twinkle in his eye. The man was made for gossip. “They have thick muscular limbs, are squat like the men, and sport facial and body hair and have high testosterone levels. They smell manly. Malcolm could not have found women in this reality as attractive—they’re biologically wrong for what excites him. He tried—married and divorced within a year, which works out fine for his wife back in Aandor.”

Cat was stunned. If this was true … Did Scott know? For some reason, this track of the conversation made Cat sick to her stomach. A pit rubbed against her innards. Too many secrets …

Balzac excused himself to find the lavatory.
What a besotted little group of losers,
Cat thought. Bree called for Cat from the bedroom. Lelani offered to check on the girl.

“He’s a little full of himself,” Clarisse said.

“Are you from Aandor, too?” Cat asked.

“God no. California.”

“And Tim’s made his decision about not going back.”

“Definitely not going. I’d go back if he did, though. I love Renaissance fairs. At least I’m lucky—Tim didn’t have someone back there, like Mal or this captain guy they talk about.”

Cat froze. She felt like a fish that had just been hooked and yanked out of its nice safe ocean. She didn’t realize she’d spilled her wine until she felt the liquid soak into her stocking.

“Does one of the other guardians have someone back home?” Cat asked in a soft, breathy tone.

“The captain, whoever he is. He and this girl…” She snapped her fingers repeatedly trying to come up with the name, and failing. She waved her hand, dismissing her unfinished thought. “Well anyway … They’re engaged, and supposedly are like the Brad and Angelina of Aandor. Everyone wants to be them.”

The pit in Cat’s gut morphed into a thick snake, sliding its way up her abdomen.

“Clarisse,” said Tim, who had quietly reentered the scene. He stood behind his girl—his face, a tense, haunted mask resolved to make her shut up.

“Who has a fiancée?” Cat repeated. Her pulse quickened; it was harder to breathe.

“I told you—the captain!”

“Clarisse!” Tim forced her name through gritted teeth.

“What! Don’t make faces … Can’t you see I’m talking?”

Cat’s blood turned to ice.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tim said.

“What is the matter with you?” Clarisse said.

“The captain? Really?” he said. “Captain MacDonnell. Lady MacDonnell’s husband.”

Clarisse’s eyes became saucers—her delicate mouth shaped into a perfect black O.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, looking at Cat. The horror poured into her drunken face. Her hand began to quiver. She splashed her drink down on the table and turned to Tim. “But you called him lord. How can a lord be a captain?”

“One is a hereditary political title,” said the redhead at the command station. “The other’s a military rank. You can be both.”

Clarisse was crimson and on the verge of crying. “Balzac just told me this while we were making drinks. He never … I—I thought…”

Cat stood quickly, and immediately realized her legs were giving way and that her vision was getting dark around the edges. She heard Clarisse yelp and a rush of footsteps run to her side.

Shit, I’m actually fucking fainting,
she thought. Strong hands grabbed her before she reached the floor and guided her back to the couch.
They’re going revoke my feminist membership.

A cool towel brushed her forehead and Cat began to come to. She had blanked out for only a few seconds, but bigger problems were coming up. Cat bolted for the bathroom, knocking Balzac against the door frame as he came out of it. She made it in time to pour her stomach into the porcelain bowl. People crowded around the door with concern. She kicked it shut behind her with a slam and retched again. She was vaguely aware of the Kohler stamp on the white porcelain as her mind raced through the last few days. Tears soon followed the retching.
Lots of women marry men with past wives and girlfriends,
she thought.
It’s not a big deal. Why am I crying?

The stab of pain in Cat’s chest didn’t come because of Callum’s past … it was his present that hurt her. His choice not to tell her of the woman he left behind. Cal had kept this from her … this very important item that should have been the first thing he shared. It was
his
responsibility, not some airheaded groupie from California blurting it out over cocktails.

Why keep it secret?
Unless he still had feelings for her. That was it. The spell that awoke all his memories also returned his love for this woman, fresh and clear, as though it was just yesterday. He’d never fallen out of love with her; never had a fight, an argument—a change of heart over spending his life with her. He still loved her.

Cat thought she had a choice about whether to go to Aandor or not, to wait for him until the war was over and the prince secure on the throne. But now, there was another woman still waiting for his return, to pick up the life they had started together.

Cat threw up again. She wanted to wail with all her might, but choked back the scream and pounded the sides of the bowl with her fists until they ached. If only Cal had told her. It was the first time she felt truly alone since this escapade started. If only Cal had told her … if only he’d trusted her enough to share this news. Then Cat would believe she’d truly won his heart from this other woman.

She flushed the toilet and wiped down the bowl with paper towels. She splashed her face and rinsed out her mouth with a complimentary bottle of Scope until the taste of puke was gone. Only Lelani, Bree, and Malcolm remained in the suite when she came out.

“Are you okay?” asked Malcolm.

Seeing Bree put things in perspective. He would never abandon her. The other woman deserved Cat’s pity, not fear.
Then why am I still shaking?
she thought.

“I’m okay,” she said hoarsely. She shot Lelani a fierce look:
You knew.
Lelani met the glare and to her credit did not flinch. The affairs of noblemen and their many loves took a backseat to her race’s survival. This was probably not the first triangle she’d encountered … it was the way of her world. A clearly marked pecking order placed Cat’s need to know subordinate to Cal’s ability to finish the mission.