The Eye of the Wolf (31 page)

Mikayla
frowned slightly, her eyes looking from side to side. Suddenly, she very much
wished she had listened to that inner voice that had told her to not tell
Victoria anything. “Uh-huh, I’m sure. I contacted a friend who specializes in
Greece. She translated it for me so I trust it.” She arched an eye brow and
cocked her head to the side. “Why? Does it mean something to you?”

Victoria
glanced over. Suddenly, she burst into a smile that could have dimmed the sun
with its brightness. She laughed that tinkling laugh that reminded Mikayla of
wind chimes. She waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss Mikayla’s suspicions.
“Me? Oh, heavens no! I find the legend of the Eye of the Wolf intriguing,
that’s all. I honestly don’t believe it exists, but it’s interesting to
imagine.”

Mikayla
relaxed slightly. “You sound just like Will!” She mumbled and turned to move
down the beach towards her house. She wanted to make sure she blocked the door
in the basement before she went to sleep that night, otherwise, she wouldn’t
sleep for a week. She paused when Victoria laid a delicate hand on her arm.

“Mikayla,
I have something I would like to ask you.” Mikayla nodded slightly, waiting for
Victoria to go on. Victoria was suddenly very serious; it seemed the woman
moved among her moods like a pendulum moved back and forth. Victoria slipped a
hand inside her pocket. Before she withdrew it, she made Mikayla promise to
speak to no one about this conversation. When Mikayla assented, curiosity
brimming now at the promise and the seriousness in Victoria’s tone, Victoria
unfolded her hand and revealed a glass vial.

“Mikayla,
I found this in the bed chamber just before you appeared through the wall.”
When Mikayla said nothing, Victoria continued, her voice hitching slightly with
unshed tears that brimmed her eyes. “My grandfather was dying. I will never
deny that. He was very ill and had been for quite some time, but Mikayla, I
believe someone killed him.”

“Why
do you think that? You said he was ill, perhaps this is from his medicine.”
Mikayla gestured to the vial in Victoria’s hand, but her heart beat dully in
her chest. Something close to fear filled her for a reason that she couldn’t
fathom.

Victoria
shook her pretty blond hair and allowed a tear to roll gracefully down her
cheek, only making her more beautiful, Mikayla thought. “My grandfather didn’t
take medicine. He believed only in herbs that were administered in his tea. I
think someone injected him with whatever was in this vial and caused his heart
attack.”

Mikayla’s
head shot up. Her ears were perked. The palace officials had reported that the
King had died from his cancer after the long illness. There had been no reports
of cardiac failure. “Are you sure about the cause of death?”

Victoria’s
bottom lip trembled. “Yes, Mikayla, he died of a heart attack during the night
not from the cancer.” She laid a hand carefully on Mikayla’s arm. Her hand
shook slightly from the strain of carrying this secret with her. “I’m afraid,
Mikayla.” Her eyes pleaded as delicate tears rolled off of her lashes. “If you
find anything in your research, please tell me. It may lead to the discovery of
the killer of my grandfather, especially since your research was stolen, and
there’s a passageway that connects your house with my grandfather’s room.”

Mikayla
nodded thickly. Murder? How was this possible? This was paradise and this
wasn’t some stupid novel where the pretty tourist gets thrown into the middle
of a murder mystery where she’s the prime suspect.

That
thought about being the prime suspect had Mikayla sucking in a sharp breath.
She fought the sudden panic that bubbled inside of her. What if they suspected
her if this was discovered? How would she explain? She forced herself to calm.
She would never be a suspect. She was a historian hired by the King to complete
a job. She would do that job to the best of her ability and return to the
United States. If the King had been murdered, it had nothing to do with her.

Mikayla
agreed to keep Victoria’s secret and to provide any information she might learn
that might have something to do with the King’s death, if in fact he had been
murdered. A foolish chill swept up her back as she then moved into the house,
leaving Victoria on the beach, staring after her.

Victoria
pocketed the vial and moved around the house to the staircase. A faint smile
played across her lips as she climbed towards the Secluded City.

The
shadows danced across the room, shifting with the flames from the fireplace.
Waves crashed with a sound similar to thunder on the rocks below adding to the
innate gloom of the room, a room where death haunted the stone of the walls as
if it were part of the very stone.

Cunning
green eyes peered from the darkness sending a chill down Dejeune’s back. The
other stood near the door, guarding it, as if to prevent Dejeune’s escape. His
eyes darted from the Wolf in his corner to the servant near the door. He licked
his lips nervously. Sweat dribbled down his back, soaking his shirt but leaving
him cold.

“Tell
us, Rene, why is it that you stole her research yet she still moves forward in
her investigations about the royal family and history?” A thin line of smoke
rose from the red glow in the darkness beneath those searing green eyes.

Dejeune’s
eyes darted back and forth. Again he licked his lips. His mouth was dry but his
hands were clammy. Nervously, he took a drag on the cigarette that smoldered in
the ash tray at his elbow on the ancient scarred table. He tried to calm his
heart that felt as if it would explode in his chest. His breathing was shallow.
He swallowed stiffly. His voice was weak, denying the strength he wanted to
exhibit, denying the strength his employees saw when he stood before them. Of
course, he wasn’t afraid of his employees. He was terrified of the Wolf.

“Sire,
I can’t explain why. All I have is what the boy brought me when he stole into
the house in the night.” He licked his lips nervously. “Remember, she
interrupted him, surprised him by coming down the stairs when he thought she
was sleeping.” He shrugged helplessly.

The
Wolf leaned slightly forward so the light in the room just barely hit the blond
hair that covered his head. “Rene, she has the diary of King Malachi. That
diary is the key to everything. We spent five years looking for that diary and
she finds it within two months. Explain that to me!” His voice exploded,
echoing off of the stone walls. Dejeune cringed in his chair, wishing not for
the first time that his greed wasn’t stronger than his sense of right from
wrong. Wishing that he hadn’t sold his soul to this devil for money.

Dejeune
held his hands out in front of him in a helpless gesture, begging for mercy. He
slid bonelessly from his chair and kneeled at the feet of the Wolf. He gripped
the pant leg in his hands, crying, begging for mercy that he knew inside would
not come. He clung even as the servant lifted him and dragged him back to the
chair. The servant’s hands were strong as they forced him into the chair and
held him in place.

The
Wolf exhaled slowly and lowered back into the chair. A slow, steady stream of
smoke rose to the ceiling as he exhaled from his fine French cigarette. He
turned his eyes again to the quivering Frenchman across from him. Anger
threaded through him as he thought of all of the time that had been wasted on
this one. He was weak and a fool. The herbs laced in the tobacco calmed him. He
was able to think clearly. “Tell me, Rene, how did the American get a
translation of the carving and the tapestry when it wasn’t supposed to be able
to be translated?”

Dejeune
swallowed with difficulty as the servant’s hand wrapped itself slowly around
his neck, applying pressure. He gasped for air and fumbled at the hands that
gripped his trachea. “I don’t know, Sire. I don’t know.” He whimpered into the
darkness as stars came in front of his eyes. His hands grabbed at the vise that
held his throat, weak now from lack of oxygen. Then, the pressure was gone. He
gasped for air, falling from the chair to the floor beneath him. On his hands
and knees, he dragged in deep breaths of air as his vision cleared again.

The
Wolf leaned forward and tipped Dejeune’s head up until they were eye to eye.
“This is your fault. She knows more than she should. You will solve this
debacle, and you will do it tomorrow!” He exhaled sweet smoke into Dejeune’s
face, a feral smile appearing when Dejeune gagged on the smoke. “I don’t like
it when my subjects ruin my plans because they are stupid. Show me how smart
you are, Rene. Take care of the problem you have created!” He flicked a finger
down Dejeune’s nose and then sat back. “Get out of my sight!” He ordered, his
voice cold as ice.

Dejeune
scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. Out into the night he stumbled, his
eyes wide with fear and hope. Fear of what he must do and hope that there still
might be a way to save his own skin.

The
Wolf watched Dejeune disappear into the darkness. He then turned those animal
eyes on the servant near the door. The servant began to move out into the
night, but the Wolf’s voice called him back. “Antonio, be sure he doesn’t live
to see the sunrise once he has completed this newest mission.”

Kankaredes
nodded his head slightly in the darkness. His eyes were dark, bottomless. “As
you wish it, Sire.” He turned and strode from the room into the darkness, his
back straight and his walk as cold as the wind from the ocean. The Wolf had
spoken and now, as his servant, he was to carry out the orders. Dejeune and the
American professor wouldn’t see another full day.

           
The day before today was my
coronation. I am now officially king of Amor. I was raised to become king. I
was raised to lead, but I fear. I fear the people, but more than anything I
fear myself. Why is it that we choose our kings based on where they fit in the
birth order? Why do we not choose our kings based on the strength of the
character of the king? Why do we not ask the members of the city who should be
king and have an election as the ancient Greeks did?

          I
suppose these are dangerous questions for a king to be asking since I rule with
out the consent of the people.  I rule over them because they were not
strong enough to survive their rebellion. I am their king yet inside I feel
like a scared child who is only pretending.

          Grandmother
Elena came to me today. She laid her hands on my head and blessed me, wishing
me to be like my grandfather in ways that were not obvious to all and to be
stronger than my father. She made me promise not to fall prey to the curse of
the Eye of the Wolf. She begged me to not fall under the spell that the stone
casts on whomever holds it, to rule with a kind heart and not be greedy as my
father was. She made me promise to love the people instead of fear them to
bring peace to this land. She made me promise to do away with the Eye of the
Wolf, calling it a curse upon our house, a curse created by the sultan whom it
had been stolen from. I promised her all she requested; I could never refuse
her anything.

          Once
she had my oath, she placed my grandfather’s crown upon my head, kissed my
cheek and walked away. I promised her to do away with the Eye of the Wolf, but
I will not. This promise to my grandmother I cannot keep.

          Now,
as I sit here, with the crown of the King of Amor upon my brow, I sign this
entry for the first time….King Malachi of Amor.

Mikayla
lifted her head from the diary that sat upon her lap as the cathedral’s bells
rang across the island announcing the presence of a new king, King Andrew of
Amor. The ceremony that would make him the official monarch was over and the
king would parade through the decorated streets in an open, gilded barouche led
by a team of four, cheered by his new subjects. They would wave flags, the
national anthem would blare, and people would rejoice in the welcoming of a new
king just as days before they had mourned the passing of a king.

Mikayla
closed her eyes briefly and imagined the streets crowded with a hungry press of
people, desperate to get a glimpse of the king, his beautiful wife, and their
beautiful children. Her heart fluttered slightly as she imagined Will in his
dapper navy suit, a ruby red tie glimmering in the sun, the sash stretched from
shoulder to shoulder, announcing to the world that he was the heir to the
throne, the Dauphin. His hair certainly would flutter in the breeze, shining
bright in the sun, like California sand in the sun. His smile would curve as
women threw roses in his direction, and laughter would dance in his eyes at the
idea of these people, these strangers loving him without knowing him.

Mikayla
frowned as she thought of the thousands of people who had flocked to the island
for the coronation ceremony and the month long celebration that would lead to
the 900
^th
anniversary party at the end of the month. The press would
surround the rich and glamorous who had swept in during the last few days. The
Secluded City would resound with music and laughter as balls and elegant dinner
parties entertained the royal families of the United Kingdom, Denmark, Greece,
and Monaco.

She
had been invited to the coronation ceremony and the ball that evening, but she
had chosen to not attend. There was no need for her to write about an event
that was being broadcast worldwide in fifty different languages. The world
would not care to read about the ceremony in her historical narrative when it
was so fresh in memory. It was the past that was truly of an interest, not the present.