CHAPTER THIRTY
“Why couldn’t it be this way?” I gestured down the stark empty hallway that led away from the hustle and hoopla of the palace kitchen and sighed. “But no,” I whispered. “Since we need secrecy, the room we want has to be splat in the middle of the fricken circus that is our lives.”
I followed Rowan down yet other boring white hallway and prayed for once that the Fates stopped screwing with me.
Rowan chuckled and nodded that the coast was clear. “That which doesn’t kill us. . . .”
“. . . better run like hell, because it’s not getting another shot at us.”
Rowan kissed my hand and pulled me along, his shoulders bouncing as he laughed. “And that’s why I love you, Lady Rowan.”
Lady Rowan. Man, I loved the sound of that. With my one dagger sheathed behind my leg, I was hoping not to run into anyone other than staff. From my experience with chance encounters in the staff areas of the palace, they were like timid little mice. A living example of ‘they’re more afraid of you then you are of them’ and that totally worked for me.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I asked.
Rowan’s head tilted from side to side as we descended a set of stairs. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
I was just about to start our first fight as a married couple when we rounded a corner and collided smack into a staff kid rolling a liquor trolley. Bottles clanged and toppled and the three of us scrambled to save as many of the glass soldiers from death-by-marble as we could. The crash-and-smash of three unlucky fellows echoed in the halls like cannon shots.
The poor boy looked horrified, but Rowan was on it. He adjusted the bottles to fill the space and told the boy that if anyone noticed bottles were missing to say that two Strati took them and headed toward the orchard. No one would go looking for them. The boy seemed hesitant at first, but shoved the broken glass to the side with his boot and nodded.
With our trolley friend off on his way, we resumed the search for the Fae Trinity Chapel and hopefully the palace records room.
“Here.” Rowan took the key his godfather had given us and opened the door. As we stepped inside, the lanterns flared to life and he locked us in. Four, long chapel pews carved with tomes—scenes from ancient battles, men fighting, women swooning, children clutching to the gowns of their mothers—segmented the rectangular space.
On the wall behind the raised altar was the same depiction of the Fae Royals that we had over the main entrance of the castle back at Haven. Castian, of course, was front and center, his brother Dane to his right, Alyssa, Shalana, Zophia and her three bitch-sisters all looking sultry and resplendent and—oh, they still had Rheagan in this family sculpture.
Rheagan had been removed from all Pantheon depictions of the Royals in the Realm of the Fair right after Castian exiled her. I guess Attalos didn’t get the memo. I wondered if the fallen Fae goddess knew Abaddon and the Scourge were fighting to set her free. After ten thousand years of being banished as a sea beast, would she even care?
“Lexi? You with me?”
Right. Following the priest’s instructions, we made our way to the dais and found the crescent moon brooch on Castian’s cape. Rowan grabbed the marble dial and fought to turn it once all the way around. When it settled back into its original position, the wall let out a click and a seam appeared where a moment ago there was none.
Bingo.
“Hurry,” I said. “Zale and his band of bastards will know I’m missing by now and be searching. If they think to check the Queen’s playroom for you, we’re busted.”
With both of us pulling at the exposed lip of the door we managed to pull it far enough for me to squeeze through. There was no way my brawny husband was fitting. “You keep watch, I’ll check it out.”
Rowan frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you—”
“What’s the worst that can happen, Doc? I get stuffed-up from mildew and dust.” I rolled my eyes and grabbed a lantern from the wall. “You know what they say, Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.”
“Who says that?” Rowan snorted.
“They. People. You know. Them.”
Rowan shook his head. “No one says that. Now get your perfect little ass in there so we can get done and out of here.”
“Roger that.” I slid inside and lifted the lantern. My heart sank. Books and parchments and scrolls and tomes in every direction. From what I could see, no alphabetization, no order, in fact, I was pretty sure Mr. Dewey Decimal was rolling over in his grave. “Don’t priests take a vow of neatness or something, cause uh . . . wow.”
Rowan peered through the crack at the door. “I think they’re more concerned with poverty, murder, adultery . . . that sort of thing.”
“Well, that’s not going to help me in here.” Leaning over the one long table in the room, I hooked the lantern on the pendant hanging from the ceiling above and started flipping through some of the piles. It was still amazing to me that I could even read this.
Blah. Blah. Blah. Land registry. Blah. Blah. Old marriage records. Some architectural drawings for the addition of the amphitheatre. Blah. Blah. Law books. Nothing.
I straightened and caught sight of—”Oh, these look promising.”
Skipping past an avalanched pile of leather-bound books, I fingered the spines of a set of journals bearing the royal seal and the same serpent-entwined rod that was embroidered on the side of Rowan’s medical bag. Skimming through the pages I read the documentation of an appendectomy preformed two years ago on Princess Forbearance. I snorted. “Maybe Grace isn’t so bad as designations go.”
I slid that journal back in place and pulled one out further down the line. It was older, but still not far enough back. A few more tries and—
“Someone’s coming,” Rowan hissed. “Get the light.”
I willed the flame to snuff as he slid the door a sliver from being shut tight.
“What are you doing in here?” A voice barked in the chapel.
“Enjoying some privacy,” Rowan answered. “Is there a problem?”
I held my breath and stood statue still. The sound of shuffling feet moved closer. My heart thrummed double time. Was the opening of the door noticeable? Could I get out to help Rowan if things went south?
“What’s this?” the Strati asked.
I drew my knife from under my skirt and readied to launch. The ping of a phone stick seemed to echo off the chapel walls. “No, not her, but I found the Queen’s whore in the chapel . . . yes sir . . . on our way.”
I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat remained. Don’t take Rowan. Don’t take Rowan. Please, Fates if you’ve ever listened to me, don’t let him take—
“Come with me,” the Strati commanded. “The last of the dramas has begun. The Nobles are readying to begin the marriage ceremonies.”
“I’ll be right up,” Rowan said. “I just need to—”
“—you’re coming now, whore,” the soldier boomed. There was a quick shuffle, then a dull thud and Rowan choked for breath. I moved with as much speed and stealth as I could, intending to blast through the door, but stopped just short of the door. The chapel was silent. I leaned close to the crack in the door and searched the chapel beyond.
They were gone.
The thought made my stomach queasy and my palms sweat. Gods, my heart was not so much beating, but flipping out in my chest.
He’s fine. We were just going our separate ways for a bit and then I’d find him and everything will be fine. Yeah . . . right. Damn. I couldn’t even believe my own bullshit.
Turning back to the journals I brought the lantern back to life and continued reading what I’d found. There were dozens of entries during the period the Queen had fallen ill. Speculations and panic from healers, the doctor at the time, clergy, and any number of others they hoped could shed light on what was happening.
What caught my attention were the references to her eye color. In the beginning examinations, her eyes were listed as moss green and clear. Later, during intermittent exams, while she’d lain unconscious for weeks, her eyes were listed as being a deep emerald.
There were also mentions of fitful dreams and her healers complaining of an evil entity trying to possess her. They dismissed it as hoohaw. I shivered as the memory of the icy chill entered my chest. Hoohaw my ass. The notes from the final examination on her blood work that gave me the quakes.
No. Fucking. Way.
Reduced to mono-syllabic thoughts I fought to think of another answer. It couldn’t be. But what else could it be? Nothing. Apparently, after weeks of her lying in a fitful coma she’d just woken up. Her eyes had popped open and she sat up, right as rain. Under protest she’d agreed to a final exam which was when they’d discovered that her blood had changed from the normal scarlet to a rich, royal violet.
Royal . . . violet.
I dropped the book and bolted for the crack in the door. As I tugged at the stone edge I let my mind fly through the impossibility of what I was thinking.
The only people I knew that had purple blood were the Originals. The royal family of the Fae Pantheon. Castian had it. I’d seen the depiction of his seven drops of purple blood creating the Elven race a zillion times on the walls of the castle stairway. Zophia had it.
The door gave way enough for me to barely squeeze out. Not all Originals had emerald eyes . . . only Castian, his brother Dane and his half-sister—Rheagan.
The golden train of my outfit caught on the stone of the door and tore as I forced my way into the chapel. The carved frieze on the wall seemed to be mocking me. Why hadn’t I figured this out when she pricked her finger in her study . . . the purple blood . . . the emerald eyes . . . my mother was possessed by Rheagan, and the bitch was making a play for a comeback into the Realm of the Fair.
I fell to my knees and for the first time in my life I prayed—prayed as though my life depended on it.
Because it did.