The Eye of the Wolf (37 page)

Kankaredes blew out a small
stream of smoke into the still evening air. His eyes were focused on the faint
lights burning in the darkness of the water. If someone had been watching him,
they would have seen the Royal Minister looking abnormally calm. None of the
frustration and malice that he felt showed on his impassive face or changed his
perfect posture.

The woman was a problem, but
perhaps, with this new twist of fate, the problem would rectify itself.
Dejeune’s death was a tragedy and her survival was inconvenient, but they would
both work to the benefit of the Wolf. The objectives of the Wolf would be
accomplished and in time for the 900
^th
anniversary.

He blew another stream of smoke
into the air before pitching the cigarette over the wall. He turned and froze
in place as the green eyes pinned him from the darkness. The hunter had
returned only to find new prey waiting. Kankaredes swallowed and bowed his
head. “Sire?”

The Wolf stepped to the wall
and looked out, his eyes focused on the skiff skimming over the waves in
shadows. Every nerve was as taut as that of a bow, but his voice was cool,
belying nothing. “I find the twist on my plan interesting, Antonio.” He smiled
at Kankaredes, sharp white teeth gleaming in the dark. “I am not adverse to
this change; however, she knows too much. Explain to me why Dejeune did not
kill her? Why is it she lives and he is dead?

Kankaredes lifted his head and
looked out over the dark island, the tourist resorts beacons of light in the
gloom. “I can’t explain, Sire. Perhaps your assassin made a mistake or Rene
happened across the assassin as he was infiltrating the museum. I can’t explain
since I was not there.” He looked at the blond hair blowing lightly in the wind
at the top of the wall. The gilded rings of the Amor royal family winked in the
torch lights on the wall on the fingers of the Wolf. “I think this will work
best to our advantage, Your Royal Highness. After all, now suspicion will be
pointed directly at her.”

The Wolf inclined his head
slightly in assent and leaned an elbow on the wall. His eyes stayed on the
house in the shadows as his mind worked over the information that had come to
him. “Keep an eye on her, Antonio.” His eyes flicked up, the hunter to the prey
just before the kill. “Don’t let her walk away. She’s not to leave this island
alive.”

Kankaredes nodded and stepped
away into the dark. His master had spoken. The plan was to go forward. They
would have the kingdom in their hands before the celebration, and the American
would pay dearly for the crimes of the Wolf and his followers.

The Wolf listened to the steps
of Kankaredes recede into the darkness until he was alone in the darkness. A
feral smile played on his lips. Soon, everything would be as it was destined to
be. He raised a hand and waved at the tourists walking along the beach, a
specter in the darkness, bringing to mind the legend of King Henry’s ghost
seeking vengeance on the walls of the Secluded City. The Wolf’s wicked laugh
rang through the air as he walked along the ramparts in the evening wind,
enjoying the power.

A darkness has descended over the land. It is not
a darkness of the sun, like the hours last summer  when the sun
disappeared from the sky. This is a darkness among the people. I can see it
when I walk down the streets. It is in the way the people watch me. They
continue to bow for me and the other members of the royal family, but in their
eyes I see distrust. They watch me as they watched my father. Distrust and
anger. Resentment and fear.

I call this a darkness because
as I write this, people pound at the gate of the Secluded City, demanding that
I step down from my throne, demanding that Amor be free. My guards have been
attacked repeatedly as they move among the people, trying to restore order to
the rebellion that is brewing. The leader of this rebellion calls for the
people to raise their swords against us. I have heard that he is charismatic
and speaks the words the people long to hear. This man, his name is Askan, will
bring nothing but havoc to my island, my nation, and here I sit, powerless to
defend myself and our way of life against the rabble. They demand that I give
up myself, the palace, and the Eye of the Wolf. This Askan charges that the
Wolf’s Eye, on which this very nation was founded, was stolen by my grandfather
from its rightful owner in Jerusalem. He demands that it be returned to him,
that he is the grandchild of the Sultan and the rightful owner of the Eye of
the Wolf.

I do not know what to do. My
grandmother charged me with destroying the Eye of the Wolf many years ago, on
the day of my coronation. I made her empty promises that I would. Now, this gem
has brought nothing but pain to me and my family. I must fulfill my promise to
Grandmother Elena. I must destroy the Eye of the Wolf before it destroys us
all. I must protect my kingdom before Askan usurps the throne and throws this
once peaceful kingdom into chaos. I must bring peace. I cannot be a warrior
king like my grandfather and father. I must be remembered for the strength of
the country and the belief that we are one. I must fulfill my coronation
promises.

Rain pattered gently against
the glass of the window. The gray sky was a simple reminder of the dread that
had settled on the island following the discovery of Dejeune’s body. Instead of
festive music playing from speakers lining the streets and flowers spilling
from boxes along parade routes, voices were muted and parties were cancelled.
The 900
^th
anniversary celebration had lost its spirit once it had
been publicized that a murderer was living on the island. News reports claimed
that the identity of the killer was unknown, but Mikayla knew that it was only
a matter of time before someone leaked to the press that the American professor
was the prime suspect and no evidence had been found to change their minds.

She gazed out the window as her
pen tapped against the paper resting on her knees. The window seat that had
once been a spot for dreaming was now a spot for remembering. Remembering
information gathered and lost. Remembering events that, a week later, turned
her stomach and made her head spin. Remembering that her life would never be
the same.

She leaned her forehead against
the glass, the pinging of the rain drops an octave above the crash of the ocean
waves. A mournful symphony when the wind whistled through. Her head ached, and
she rubbed her eyes, glasses nestled in wild hair. She was trying to remember,
trying to remember what she had learned through her research. Trying to
remember if there had been anything that would have given a clue as to
Dejeune’s murderer.

The police inspector was kind
to her and was doing his best, but the evidence, circumstantial evidence at
best, all pointed to her. She knew how these things worked; she had read enough
police and spy novels to know that the tourist was always the suspect and was
always convicted on that circumstantial evidence. She also knew that the courts
of Amor were nothing like the courts of America. In Amor, a person was not
innocent until proven guilty. In Amor, a person was guilty until proven
innocent. There was no Constitution to protect the rights of the citizens, and
the American Constitution made no impact on the legal system of Amor. She
hadn’t even been allowed to retain American counsel. Her attorney was a native
who had studied law in Greece and spoke very little English. She was nervous.

Mikayla sighed and returned to
the diary and paper resting on her lap. She skimmed the notes she had written
and jotted a few more ideas. Her head snapped up as the shower down the hall
turned off. She shoved the diary beneath the pillows of the window seat and
smoothed the lump. Then, she nestled in again, sitting atop the diary, hiding
it from view. She willed her heart to settle and her breathing to regulate. A
smile blossomed on her face as Will stepped from the bathroom, a towel slung
low on his hips.

He walked the few short steps
down the hall and pressed a quick kiss to her up-turned lips. He glanced over
the paper on Mikayla’s knees, noting the doodles more than the words. “What are
you up to?”

She handed the paper over and
clicked the pen against her teeth as he read her notes. “I was just trying to
remember some more things from the research we did and from the diary.” She
looked out the window at the water streaming down the glass. “I was also trying
to remember some things from the day of Dejeune’s death. My mind is blank,
Will. I can’t remember anything other than seeing him lying there, those
scissors sticking out of his gut.” She shuddered and was comforted by the hand
he rested on her shoulder.

Will quickly made a few mental
notes concerning what was written down and then handed the notepad back to her.
He wandered down the hall towards the bedroom. “Luv, I told you, you don’t have
to worry about anything. You will be fine.” He dropped the towel and began
pulling on shorts and a shirt. He ran a fast hand through his hair.

Mikayla edged onto the end of
the bed. Questions and suspicions ringed in her mind. She had promised Will
that they would search for the Eye of the Wolf, but now, a week later, as
things died down, her mind began to wonder what his interest in the stone was.
Why was he so interested in a jewel that had disappeared eight hundred years
before? What would he gain if he were to find the jewel? What would it do to
the tenuous relationship they had developed?

Mikayla was sure she loved him.
She knew in her heart that she did, but she still didn’t trust him. Each night
she had awakened in the middle of the night to find him gone, his side of the
bed cold. He would return early in the morning before the sun rose, slipping
into the bed beside her. He thought she was asleep, but she hadn’t slept. She
had considered waiting for him to leave and then following him, but something
inside her held her back. Something told her to stay in the bed where she was
safe.

She watched him dress, then,
run fingers through his hair. She had to know. She had to ask. She couldn’t
continue to sleep beside him, love him in the late hours of the day and the early
hours of the morn
after working side by side for the same common cause,
her freedom,
without
knowing at least what he would say. She cleared her throat, causing him to turn
from the mirror and look at her with amusement. She had to ask, yet it wasn’t
the question that jumped from her mouth. “Will, I would like to go to the
museum today. I want to return to the crime scene.”

Will turned from her to the
window. Water streaked the glass. There was lightning in the far distance.
Before the day was through, a storm would rampage the island. He scrubbed his
hands over his face and through his hair, mussing it. He turned and looked at
her, his features unreadable other than the concern that was evident. All other
emotions were blocked off. “Why, Mikayla? Why do you want to go back there?” He
held out his hands, pleading. “The inspector is doing everything he can, I
promise you. Why do you want to go back there?”

Mikayla picked at a hangnail on
her finger. She avoided his eyes, knowing that he would see the lie. “I want to
use the Hall of Records. I think there are some things that we are forgetting
that we could dig up in there, that’s all.” She kept her eyes lowered, picking
at the loose skin.

Will crossed the room in two
strides and knelt before her. He stilled her hands in his own and tipped his
head until she had no choice but to look at him. “Luv, that is a crime scene. I
cannot take you there. If there are some records you would like to see, I can
have them sent over or perhaps we could just rack our brains somemore.” He
shook her hands slightly. “I can’t take you there.”

Mikayla lifted her head. Her
clear blue eyes bored deep into his. “Will, when the police arrived at the
museum, was anything missing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, had anything been
stolen?” Mikayla jerked her hands away and stood from her seat leaving Will to
totter on one knee.

His head followed her as she
roamed the room, like a panther caged, he thought briefly. He shook his head.
“No, nothing had been stolen.”

Mikayla turned on him, her eyes
sharp, her movements jerky. “That’s not possible, Will. The crown can’t have
been there because it wasn’t there when I went to find Dejeune.”

Will rose slowly from his spot
on the floor. He took her hands in his own, cuffing her wrists to keep her still.
“Mikayla, what are you talking about?”

She struggled to yank her
wrists free as panic started to bubble in her chest. She had thought about
this, she had dreamed about it. She could see the case clearly, the spotlight
catching the glass in a glint of light. The satin pillow was empty; King
Henry’s crown gone. “It was gone, Will. I went to investigate a noise and saw
that the crown was gone. That was when I found Dejeune.” Her voice hitched
slightly. He didn’t believe her. She could tell he didn’t, but why should he
when she didn’t trust him.

Will released her wrists and
stalked away. He could see in her eyes that she believed what she was saying,
but for him, it was too hard to believe. There was no reason for the crown of
King Henry to be missing. It wasn’t even used during coronations any longer.
History had written it off and relegated it to a historical artifact. He knew
that taking her to the museum was dangerous. She was suspected in the murder
that had taken place there. It didn’t matter that he was a member of the royal
family; she was a criminal in the eyes of Amorian law. Her returning to the
scene of the crime, if they were caught, would only enhance the look of guilty.
In order to get into the museum, they would have to commit a crime.