Claiming the Prince: Book One (4 page)

“We don’t want any trouble,” Kirk said finally.

“Damn it, Kirk! Just open the gate! This iron is going to make us all sick if we have to stand out here much longer.”

“Hmmm . . .” Kirk said. “Let me just see if Master Python is home.”

She clenched her teeth, measuring her breathing, fending off a wave of dizziness. Kirk, like so many of the races of Alfheim, enjoyed his petty torment of other races, particularly the ruling ones, since his kind were almost exclusively servants.

Riker hung as far back as he could, almost at the main road. After his stomach had been emptied, Damion continued to heave and spit

“I’m sorry,” she said to him. “I should’ve warned you.”

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “I thought it was bad in the troll’s truck . . .”

“Corbin uses magic to mitigate some of the iron's power. His kind aren’t bothered by it.”

“I suppose the Oracle is not bothered either,” he said, panting.

“I never asked,” she said.

Finally, the locks clicked. The motor hummed as the gates slowly opened wide.

She hooked Damion under the arm and helped him up. “It will subside once the fence is behind us.”

Practically carrying Damion—no small task—beyond the fence and up the long sloped drive, she experienced another flare of indignation.

Back in Alfheim, Pixies were the most powerful creatures, aside from the reclusive Elves. But the way they lived now, chased by iron at every turn, their magic dampened by the overwhelming force of it . . . The better-forgotten voice inside of her growled that Damion was right. This was not how she should’ve been living. Better to die in the Lands, than to be half-alive in exile. But the voice was wrong. The stupidity of that voice was the whole reason she was here to begin with.

Behind a bevy of privacy-lending and fragrant ornamental trees, the front was the least conspicuous view of Python’s mansion. Little more than archways and red-tiled roofs were visible. The portico was broad, covered, lost deep in shadow, and choked by the aromatics of sage and myrtle and bougainvillea. The ivory and gold-threaded marble started at the low steps, flowing into polished pillars and a dramatic archway overhead. Two great porcelain urns sat on either side of the copper gates, beyond which were glass entry doors. Damion eased back from her as they approached the door, regaining some of his color.

The gate doors opened and then the glass doors too.

“I love this place,” Riker said with a grin as they stepped into the grand foyer with its marble Orion Star medallion inlayed at their feet. Two curving staircases stood off to the sides, sweeping up to an arcaded gallery, all in marble. Fine art hung, perfectly lit, on the gold-hued walls. A gold-plated chandelier shone down on them with warm and inviting light.

A tiny man, the top of his head measuring to the middle of her shin, appeared before them, dressed in a fine toy-man suit that complimented the bronze hue of his skin. His sharp nose and pointed ears protruded. His hair was a gnarled nest in spite of his otherwise immaculate appearance. Acute brown eyes fixed on each of them in turn, the grim press of his lips growing all the grimmer.

“You are done expelling your stomach fluids?” he asked Damion in a pert, but perfectly strong voice—stronger than seemed reasonable for a person little more than ten inches tall.

Damion glowered down at the brownie, but Kirk only smirked.

Though her first instinct was to smear the little monster under her sneaker, she refrained, reminding herself that the small folk were the most mistreated back in Alfheim. The tyranny of the Elf King—who ruled the great southern isles—was particularly devastating. Some of the small folk, brownies in particular, who fled across the seas, severed from the vital power of their homelands, had no choice but to be bound to a higher order being, or they would die. This was true in Alfheim and in the human world.

She remembered, too well, how it felt to be at the mercy of someone else’s goodwill. How powerless and vulnerable it had made her feel . . . and angry.

So she did something that she had never done before, she lowered herself, down to her knee, to meet the brownie’s widening eyes. Their rich brown hue was striated, like the rings of a tree.

“Mistress, what are you doing?” Damion said breathlessly behind her.

“Kirk,” she said, fixed on the brownie. “Where is your home?”

Kirk blinked rapidly for a moment, as if he did not understand the question. And then, he squared his shoulders, tugged at his fine silk jacket with its tiny gold buttons, and pronounced, “I am from Slashwood-under-the-High-Holly.”

“And how long has it been since you left that place?” she asked.

His knotted face, like the wrinkled surface of a walnut, darkened. “Over five hundred years.”

“And yet, it is still your home?”

“When the Tenth King burned it, I burned,” he said. “It is not just my home, it is who I am. But you are no better than the Elves.”

“What—?” Damion took a menacing step forward, but Magda raised a stalling hand.

She measured her tone. “I know my kind has not treated yours well—”

Kirk let out a short laugh. “You do not treat yourselves well,” he said. “You and the Elves have failed. You have forgotten who you are and why you were chosen.”

“We rule because the last living god placed the Crown onto the First’s brow and declared her and her progeny the rightful rulers of the Lands.”

Kirk snorted. “You see? You know nothing.” He turned on his heel and stalked across the gleaming marble. “This way.”

She rose slowly. Another bout of nausea churned in her, but not because of any iron. She realized that this was the first time she had asked a creature of another race what they thought about the great changes that had been sweeping over Alfheim. She had always been taught that the other races disliked hers because they were envious. Besides, the Pixies were protectors of the peoples, taking in all the refugees from the Elf King’s purges . . . though those who managed to escape often died anyway or were forced into servitude.

“What was that all about?” Damion growled behind her. “Why would you lower yourself to the level of a brownie?”

Riker shared a vague look of disapproval. Odd, since he usually kept his handsome face neutral.

In a way, she was just as disturbed by it. But in another, stronger way, she felt as though it was the first right thing she’d done in a very, very long time.

“Come on,” she said, leading them after Kirk.

Along a colonnade, they passed expansive rooms weighted with ornately carved furniture and gold-framed paintings of plump nymphs lounging in lush forests. Arch-framed views of the back patio displayed the shallow, classically-inspired gazing pool, which jutted out towards the gardens and the swimming pool below and, of course, the ocean in the distance. The ceilings were lower in the west wing, dark wooden beams cross-cutting the plaster. Many of the outer doors stood open, thankfully. The breeze up here was cooler than in town, and it cut into the heavy resinous scents that meandered around them like fat cats—amber, frankincense, myrrh, lilac, jasmine, rose.

The scents grew more herbaceous as they moved, changing to sage, basil, oregano, rosemary.

They entered into a kitchen that was as big as her trailer. Marble countertops, a stone hearth, copper pans hanging from an iron rack, steel appliances, steel cutlery . . . Her head throbbed, but she steadied herself against it.

Snapping and hissing, food sizzled in pans on the stainless steel stovetop. At the far side of the center island stood Python, a lean brown man of indeterminate age with a smooth expressionless face and long graceful limbs. He brought down a butchering knife onto a raw carcass, slicing at the joint and then wriggling off the shank. Blood ran over the butcher block, dripping onto the floor.

Her gorge rose. Pixies may have been willing to spill blood and rend flesh, but they did not consume it.

Python’s gold eyes slid up to her. “Hello, Magdalena.” His voice was soft and gentle, like the glassy smooth surface of a deep lake.

She folded her arms tightly over her chest, attempting to keep her stomach down. Riker and Damion hung back in the threshold. The gray hue had returned to Damion’s face.

Kirk had vanished. Brownies found the eating of animals as offensive as Pixies did.

“Hello, Python. Got any stock tips for me today?” she asked, her back pressing hard against the cool edge of the marble countertop.

“Certainly,” he said, hacking off another leg. “But I don’t think you have the capital to invest nor the fee required to obtain such information.”

“Come now, Python,” she said, forcing out a smile in spite of her aching head and rolling stomach. “Do you really need any more money? Can’t you just do a favor for a friend?”

Python smiled too, but it was a thin, dangerous kind of smile. “The price for my favors is even steeper.”

“I know, but . . . I need your help,” she said, the knots in her guts tightening.

“I know,” he said, setting down his gleaming knife and wiping his hands on the towel tucked into the string of his red-and-gold-striped apron. He glanced at Damion. “Frank is afraid that your cousin will bring ruin upon our little sanctuary.”

“And how much will it cost me for you to allay Frank’s fears?”

Python’s smile remained as he unknotted his apron and pulled it over his head. Underneath, he wore simple linen pants and a loose crimson-hued shirt. He laid the apron down and limped to the sink to wash his hands. The profile of his face was flat, nose slitted, like a snake’s. When he was done washing, he dried his hands and picked up his cane.

“Your cousin has lied to you,” Python said.

She turned to Damion, scowling. “What lies?”

Damion opened his mouth as if to argue, but then closed it quickly, probably because he was afraid of being sick again. He shook his head vehemently.

“He has stolen something,” Python said, turning back towards them, leaning a narrow hip against the sink. “Something quite . . . powerful.”

Riker leaned away from Damion.

“I did not steal it,” Damion said, clutching at the threshold. “I brought it to its rightful owner.”

Magda brought her hands to her face. “No, Damion. Please say you didn’t.”

Damion lowered into a crouch and then lifted the baggy leg of his sweatpants. Coarse rope bound a small swaddled object to his calf. He untied the rope with care. Magda’s heart began to pound, her throat tightening. She bit her lip, covering her mouth, holding her breath. It couldn’t be . . . he hadn’t . . . he wouldn’t have brought it here . . .

With just as much care, he rose again and set the wrapped object on the counter next to her. She moved back, in spite of the great bit of iron hanging overhead. Tears blurred her eyes.

“Oh, Damion . . .”

“It belongs to you,” he said through tight lips.

She shook her head, shutting her eyes, choking on a string of curses.

“What is it?” Riker asked.

“Go ahead, open it, Prince,” Python said, his voice closer.

Magda’s hand shot out before she could stop it, slamming down on the bundle. “No.”

Riker stared at her, startled. Python had moved closer to the stovetop. He covered a pan of vegetables and turned off the burner. “Frank was right, I’m afraid,” he said. “Your cousin has brought trouble.”

He drifted over to them. Magda’s hand curled around the hard object hidden under the wrappings. A fiery swirl pushed up through her, exploding the delicate restraint she’d had over that old part of herself—the Pixie, the noble, the Rae.

“All I ask as payment for this most generous warning I have given you,” Python said, “is that you open it.”

S
HE SLID THE
package off the table. Under the layers of hemp cloth, the sharp edges bit at her palm.

“I’m not going to open it,” she said.

“Then I’m going to have to ask for some other payment,” Python said. “And it will be most unpleasant, I think. Since I see that your future is dark indeed, I cannot offer you an installment plan. Besides, you were right. I really don’t need any more money.”

“Do not threaten her,” Damion said, still leaning heavily upon the threshold.

“I am not the one who has put her in danger,” Python said. “I have only warned her of the imminent danger which you have brought upon her. And all I’ve asked in return is one . . . small . . . glimpse.”

Her heart jumped into her throat, pounding. “How imminent?”

“Give me what I ask, and I will answer your question.”

Sweat had broken out between her shoulder blades. Her hands pulsed and protested the grip she had around the bundle. But finally, she relaxed her hold and untied the rope cinching the cloth. As it fell away, the cloudy gray surface appeared—an elongated, three-sided prism with two pyramids at each end, little longer than her hand from heel to tip. Though she was not actually touching the surface, energy emanated from it through the cloth. The weakness inspired by the iron and the blood and the fear faded away, replaced by a clear and undeniable sense of strength and purpose.

“What is that?” Riker asked.