Page 25

Chapter

Twenty

T he kingdom enters an immediate period of mourning, but nobody questions the several plot holes in our tale; the main one being how a gigantic dragon got inside a room with doors not big enough for a beast of that size.

The guards had to chop Arthur into tiny pieces to dispose of him.

Idols, I hope they burned or buried him, because the thought of dragon stew made a tremor run down my spine.

They would be cannibals without realizing it.

The requisite sadness means we can return to the Hallowed Palace without worrying about the empty throne waiting for Hart. He seems less than inclined to take it.

On our way out, we make a stop at the market at the edge of their kingdom. After dismounting, I pat my horse’s neck and check the cloth-wrapped sword has remained firmly attached to the saddle. Excalibur seems satisfied that it has fulfilled its purpose.

As we wander through the market, well-wishers greet the Stirlings with sympathetic words, arm squeezes, and handshakes. An older woman with fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth steps out in front of our party and bows to Hart and Nash, who were at the front.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says as she straightens. At this rate, it’ll take an annus to get back to the Hallowed Palace. She grasps a tray from her stall and holds it up to Hart. “Please take this tray to help ease your heavy hearts and empty stomachs.”

Now we are talking. Death is so much easier with food.

So much better than the random stuff we’ve accumulated—a wood carved dragon (cute, but you can’t eat it); a flask of whiskey (great, but drinking and riding isn’t a good mix); and perhaps the most bizarre, a bundle of men’s underclothes (as if the Stirlings are going to poop themselves in their sorrow).

They handle each meeting with grace and a never ending-patience I could never achieve. They thank the old woman and then we are free of their kingdom. Nash grabs my hips and lifts me onto his horse, who huffs a little. Hart spins and holds up the plate.

“Take what you need for the journey,” he says.

A blush burns my cheeks. What I want isn’t on a plate, but as far as substitutes go, this one will do.

I pluck a few pieces of cheese and some tiny squares of spongy cake off the plate.

They’ll suffice until we get back, and then I will gorge on everything.

Hart’s lips twitch like he can hear my thoughts. I’d love to correct his assumptions, but I am a terrible liar, and he would find great joy in knowing he’s gotten under my skin.

“Why does cheese smell like feet?” I wonder as I inhale its scent. I pop a cube in my mouth. It’s rubbery but also creamy. Cheese is a conundrum.

“Might have something to do with the fact that it is made from curdled milk,” Nash informs me.

Curdled milk? Seriously? I eyeball the innocent piece of yumminess in my palm. “So you are the product of leftovers and rejects, made into something even better than the snobby milk.”

“Why is she talking to the cheese?” Theo mutters.

“She’s having an epiphany and identifying with the cheese,” Hart drawls, and a sense of amusement drifts from my sword.

“Ignore these judgy knights. They’ve never been rejects.

They don’t understand you like I do.” Now that I’ve made friends with the cheese, I can’t eat it.

Dammit. How will I feed my stomach gremlin now?

I pop the cheese in the hidden pocket of my skirts, which is a revelation.

All clothing should have pockets. It’s another thing I would change if I ruled the realm.

As we descend into a damp, murky forest, the dappled light struggles to penetrate the thick canopy above, casting eerie shadows that dance upon the underbrush.

Nash assures me that this is the swiftest path, but I believe it is a road less traveled, one where we might evade the prying eyes of those burdened by sorrow.

The air is thick with unspoken grief. What they have yet to grasp is that the revelation of Arthur not being their true father is, in time, a hidden blessing.

Soon, the truth will cradle them like a gentle breeze, offering solace in the realization that their lineage need not be shackled to the past.

A flash of red appears in the forest, followed by the hungry howl of a wolf. The girl twists her head over her shoulder, seeking the beast on her trail.

“Hey,” I call out.

“What are you doing?” Nash grumbles in my ear.

“We’ve had enough death this diurnal. I am saving the idiot who wears the boldest colors for a jaunt through the forest to her grandmother’s.”

The girl’s gaze lands on us. “He’s following me.”

I grab the reins and pull them to the left to intercept the girl. “Blazes, where are you going?” Theo asks, as their horses follow us.

“Like I said, saving a girl with questionable fashion sense.”

“She’s got a taste of rescuing folks,” Malachi declares. “Now she’s on a mission.”

He’s not completely wrong. But I am not setting about finding people to save, I’m just done ignoring their calls for help.

“Do you have a weapon?” the girl asks with a glance over her shoulder, looking for the wolf tracking her.

My sword hums like he’s trying to decide if he should get involved. “Our wits are our weapons,” I declare. No need to wave my blade around every tempo. He can be a last resort. Hart snorts at my words. Well, he’s missing wit, so we couldn’t count on him.

The beautiful, dark-haired girl runs her teeth over her bottom lip. “Can you escort me to my grandmother’s? She is unwell, and I have fresh-baked bread and jam to deliver.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Hart snaps. “Your grandmother is already dead. The wolf ate her and is waiting for you in the remote cottage, where he will most likely eat you.”

Tears spring free from her eyes and spill down her cheeks. Ugh, she’s a crier, and she’s just become a victim of Hart’s harsh tongue. Harsh and skilled, but the latter is for me alone.

“I must see this for myself,” she whispers.

I scowl at Hart. Nice going, asshole . “Then go to your doom,” he growls.

I rub my forehead, knowing I won’t be able to live with myself if we send her to her death. This is why Gwyneth is always massaging her head. It hurts my brain knowing someone is making a stupid choice. I vow to make less of them.

“How far is it?”

“Daphne, no,” Theo says.

The girl throws her hand up in a random direction. “Two miles from here.”

Two miles? On foot? Is she kidding? Hart jumps off his horse and reaches out to smack her head. She crumples into his waiting arms before I can even utter one word of protest.

“What did you do?” I ask, my eyes wide at the lifeless body in his arms.

He throws her over his horse and shrugs. “You were about to go off on a side quest to save Red here. I took care of the problem.”

“By killing her?” I yell.

He shakes his head as he hooks his foot into the stirrup and launches himself over the back of his horse.

“Not dead, just unconscious,” Nash informs me. “He’s right. We don’t have time.”

A long sigh leaves my lips as Nash clucks to his horse.

Damion leaps into a canter, the other horses keeping pace beside us as the trees whip past us at dizzying speeds.

I stew in my thoughts, keeping my mouth shut to prevent speaking the stinging words that so desperately want to break free.

How can they care for me like I’m precious, yet dismiss a girl in peril?

The genie appears next to us as we circle the center of the Hallows, startling me. “Oh good, you are nearly here.”

I frown at him. “What’s wrong?”

“The favored Charming has manipulated sweet Gwyneth into a mid-diurnal picnic.”

I narrow my gaze. “Manipulated how?”

Genie blushes. “There was some shouting and hand movements.”

Hand movements? “Where are they now?”

“In the gardens beyond the maze.”

That’s quite far out. I don’t like it. Charming has designs on my sister’s floof, and he isn’t getting the point. She’s not his, she’s mine—until a worthy man sweeps her off her feet.

“We’ll get the horses stabled and accompany you,” Nash reassures me as we enter the gates of the Hallowed Palace.

How many accidental ways can one kill a prince?

Would they even miss him? There are a dozen more waiting to take his place.

Really, after five or six, who is going to do a headcount?

All they would know is that the snarkiest and most obnoxious of the bunch is missing.

Really, I’d be doing the kingdom a favor.

Hart drags the girl off his horse. “I’ll go put this somewhere safe and meet you back in our chambers.”

A sharp pain in my chest steals my breath at the sight of him cradling a beautiful girl. Jealousy is a stupid, irrational emotion. I know without a doubt that Hart isn’t planning on having his wicked way with a helpless girl.

Nash kisses my forehead. “I’m going to our chambers and then will meet you in the library. Try to not kill him—yet.”

I’m enjoying that “yet” far too much.

“Don’t forget your sword,” the genie says.

Right, I have responsibilities. Ugh. “Can you go to the knights’ chambers and check that the sword arrives?” I ask.

He salutes me and disappears. I’m still figuring out my powers.

Although I called the sword to me, I haven’t yet tried putting it back.

I unclip the sword from the saddle, still wrapped in its cloth.

My eyes flutter closed and I picture the sofa in their chambers.

The sword’s weight disappears from my palms. I flick my eyes open and grin at my empty hands.

The genie reappears with a blush gracing his blue face. “Did it work?” I hope so, because I have enough problems remembering where I put things with intention. If I misplaced a magic sword in a kingdom, I had no hope of finding it. Maybe there’s a lost and found for magical objects?

“I can confirm the sword is safely in the knights’ chambers.” His hand disappears around his back, and he rubs where his ass would be if he wasn’t a wisp below the waist. He’s forgotten we can see through him.

“Did it poke you?” I ask as I try to suppress my smile. My sword is a tricky thing. He enjoys practical jokes and toying with people.

Genie grimaces. “It has been an age since I felt the touch of anything, then suddenly that steel slices through my ass. It needs an education in appropriate behavior. We have an unwritten rule: no touching each other in those places. I have a good mind to report him to the authorities.”

There’s an authority for magic objects and creatures? Good, because I have a million questions about both the sword and the trident.

“Come on, Daphne, let’s retrieve your sister,” Malachi says, reminding me what our primary aim is.

I huff in annoyance. Every time I get closer to understanding something, it slips through my fingers for more pressing issues, and none was more urgent than rescuing my sister from Prince Poopfloof and his wandering hands.

Theo leads the way, with Malachi at my side. We stride around the outside of the castle, bypass the maze, and spill out onto a wildflower meadow. My gaze scans the enormous expanse, spotting various pairs. But no Gwyneth.

Until my vision narrows on a couple lying on a blanket. My sister’s blonde hair fans out on the ground as the asshole on top of her wrestles her hands down. Oh no, nope, not happening. I’m about to commit my second murder of the diurnal, and I will have zero regrets.