Page 34

Bronwyn

B ronwyn wrung her hands in front of her, unable to stand still as Wynni’s stage manager rushed toward them, his eyes wide with alarm.

“The box is empty and so was the hall,” the man said, breathing hard. “The usher on duty had been knocked out and shoved into a closet. Charles is seeing to him now.”

The pit in Bronwyn’s stomach opened wider. She’d rushed to find Wynni and let her know about the empty box. Her hunch had been right. Someone was up to no good, likely multiple someones. Her gaze darted around backstage, searching for Malik but not finding him. Not that she expected to, given the shadow spell, but she yearned to see him all the same.

“And the box roles?” Wynni asked urgently.

“Mick is getting them now.”

That would tell them who had rented the box and thus was missing.

“Should we call an early intermission?” he asked.

Wynni’s lips thinned.

It might scare the dragons off. A good thing for the opera. Not so good for catching the perpetrators once and for all.

Wynni had just opened her mouth to speak when someone else rushed up from farther backstage, calling her name. “A fire! Ensemble dressing room!”

The stage manager and Wynni took off at once, the latter barking orders at those they passed, calling for water and sand.

Bronwyn trailed close at their heels. “Did you see anyone?” she asked the startled woman who’d delivered the message. “Anyone you don’t know?”

“I— They—” She gaped, eyes wide in panic. “I don’t—” The woman was far too on edge to provide an answer.

When they got there, they spied the fire in the hallway outside the dressing room—a heap of clothes burning and billowing smoke into the narrow hall. Cast members ran this way and that, coughing. Someone was already hurling water onto the mess, dousing most of it.

Bronwyn’s heart raced against her ribs as she took in the scene. This fire was too small, too inconsequential—

The warmth leached from her skin. “A distraction.”

Bronwyn spun on her heel and raced back toward the stage. Wynni called out for her, but she couldn’t stop, not when she was so sure that someone had wanted them to leave at that moment. She wove through the hall, darting past harried stagehands, some rushing toward the small fire and others toward the stage as if the show must go on no matter the chaos behind the scenes.

A troupe of dancers was just moving onto the stage to join the lead soprano. Stagehands pushed some of the castle set pieces into place.

“No!” Her hands balled into fists at her side. A moment too late, not that she had authority to call off the show. Immediately, she searched for signs of anything or anyone out of place—

Then, something caught her attention, not on the stage but above. Two people fought on the catwalk high above the stage. Her heart leapt into her throat. Almost immediately, she recognized one.

Malik. It had to be. Even from a distance, she would know his form. He had the other man cornered, but then something happened. One of the ropes sparked and snapped. There was a terrible groaning. Members of the audience gasped and screamed. Several musicians played discordant notes before quieting altogether. A few dancers tripped or halted completely.

And the chandelier fell.

Only to stop, with jarring suddenness, to sway above the audience.

“Goddess above,” Bronwyn swore. They’d done it. The dragons had really tried to do it, even when such a disaster would cost countless lives.

She stood frozen, staring from her position backstage as the musicians haphazardly began to play and the dancers tried to pick up their cues. Commotion from the audience flooded onto the stage. Malik and the other man were fighting again. Damn it all, she couldn’t sit and watch, she needed to do something. Anything.

A convenient ladder was too much to ask for. But as she turned to rush off and look for stairs, she spotted something even more horrifying.

A man wandered slowly behind the active set. Where everyone else was in a hurry, he was not. A hooded cloak covered him completely … save his shoes. They were fine and polished, too nice to belong to a stagehand, and no performer would be wandering about like that. As he passed by part of the castle set, he stuck something to the back of it, then picked up his pace, rushing stage left. He passed right by her but didn’t seem to see her at all past his hood. The performers were still half in disarray, half trying to carry on. No one was looking, no one noticed the man.

Then, the set piece he’d touched ignited. A plume of fire suddenly blazed like a torch, reaching up, up, up, right to where Malik and the man dueled.

Bronwyn screamed. Malik couldn’t hear her. But the hooded man did. He stutter-stepped, turned her way, and then made to hurry onward.

Oh, no, you don’t. He wasn’t about to get away on her watch, especially not when the blaze he’d ignited might hurt the man she loved.

And damn it, she did love him, even when she tried not to. It was a foolish, damnable thing. The walls she’d built around herself were supposed to be impenetrable. There could be no weakness from loss to drive her to ruin. Yet, he’d managed to break through her barriers like a stubborn vine, forming little cracks in the grouting and working his way in, climbing over impossible barriers until he choked her wall completely with his greenery.

But he didn’t know yet. Not really.

If she didn’t stop this disaster, he never would.

“Stop right there!” She lunged at the hooded man, grabbing at his cloak—anything she could get her hands on.

The man tried to shoulder by. A stiff elbow knocked some of the air from her lungs and sent Bronwyn toppling, but she held tight. Fabric ripped, but not before unsteadying the man and half turning him around.

The cloak was torn away, and as Bronwyn steadied her footing, she found herself face to face with a man in a mask and his finest tails. The mask didn’t cover much without the hood; she could see plainly his wavy brown hair, his somewhat familiar green eyes…

He tilted his head. “Pity.” He pulled a hidden dagger from his coat and lunged for her.

Thinking quickly, Bronwyn threw the cloak she still held at the advancing man. He made to deflect it, but his arm got tangled up in its length.

“Get Wynnifred!” she yelled to anyone who might be listening, anyone who could help.

She wouldn’t run, but she needed help, desperately. A prop rack lingered nearby, and as the man struggled with the cloak, she grabbed a sword. It was wooden, but it would have to do. No sooner had she turned to face the man than there was a sickening thud on the stage.

With her heart in her throat, she hazarded a glance. A beast lay sprawled on the broken stage, one like Drystan could become, one that must be a dragon. Performers screamed and ran for the edges of the stage. A few flames still flickered on the ignited set piece, but many had gone out after the initial burst. Audience members climbed over one another to try and reach the exits. And above… Bronwyn whispered a little prayer to the Goddess as she saw Malik scrambling back onto the catwalk.

But her prayer was interrupted by the glint of metal in her periphery. The masked man stalked her way. If any of the fleeing performers noticed, they didn’t change course to come to her aid.

She was alone.

Bronwyn adjusted her stance and faced the man, gripping the wooden sword with both hands.

“A royalist after all,” the man tsked. “Should have known. He thought you might be different.”

“Who?”

The man ignored her question, lunging to strike at her side. She parried the blade with her own. She might not have any training, but her weapon was longer and light enough for her to swing with ease.

The man jabbed again, low, then high, the second strike slicing her sleeve and nearly her flesh. When he lashed out again, Bronwyn anticipated the move and struck the dagger with her sword. He feigned back, and when he did, his feet tangled in the discarded cloak.

“Fucking—” he muttered, kicking it away.

Seizing the moment of distraction, Bronwyn rushed forward, swung the wooden sword, and just barely missed taking the man’s head off as he leaned back. But the tip caught, scraped against his cheek, and sent the mask fluttering to the floor.

He turned back toward her with a snarl.

Bronwyn gaped. Now she knew why he looked so familiar. They’d met, several times, in fact. And his eye color … he shared it with his sister.

“Mr. Davies,” she said, hardly believing it.

“My sister will miss you,” snarled Elis Davies.

He attacked again, this time with such force and ferocity that Bronwyn had to use all her focus to dodge and block each blow. He’d been holding back before. He didn’t now. Each swipe and jab were aimed toward her face, her chest.

She deflected a blow, but not well enough. As the dagger slid off, the blade sliced a burning line across her forearm, and she cried out, tears leaping to her eyes.

Davies slashed again. Bronwyn was barely able to raise the wooden sword in time. The dagger struck, and by some stroke of luck, it lodged in the wood. He growled in frustration, teeth gnashing as he tried to rip it away, but the wood held. She should have dropped the sword. That’s what she would think later, but instead, she tried to push him away. It backfired.

He grabbed her wooden sword and shoved her back. Hard. Her head slammed against the wall. When had they gotten so far back? Stars danced in her vision, and her strength faltered. Mr. Davies took advantage and shoved the wooden sword hard against her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Then it was sliding up, pressing her shoulders into the wall, and he was right in her face.

“Got you.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked over the word. Why do this? Why hurt her? If she was going to die, she at least wanted to know.

A few wayward tears rolled down her face. They weren’t from the pain but from the death staring her in the face—hers, her loved ones’. Her sister who might now never wake, the man she loved who would never know. She’d been a fool, holding herself back, afraid of what caring for him could cost her. But how much worse, to know that she could have had him and missed her chance because of fear.

Davies’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “A new era is dawning. The dragons shall rule.” He shoved the sword higher, pressing against her neck, nearly cutting off her airway.

“You’re the Dragon,” she wheezed. “It was you? All this time?”

He laughed, a manic sound that would haunt her nightmares. “You honor me, truly. If only I were so great, but the one I serve is a dragon in truth.” He shook his head, still laughing. “Oh, little princess, you have no idea, do you? He is right in—”

Something smashed into the side of Mr. Davies’s head and sent him sprawling. The pressure on her throat released as the wood sword and its captive dagger crashed to the ground. She grabbed at her throat, sucking in one breath after another as she tried to make sense of what was happening.

Malik. Malik was there. He held a metal rod of some sort in one hand, the end of it bloodied.

Bronwyn nearly sobbed in relief. He’d come. He’d saved her. He was all right.

Mr. Davies howled on the ground, half his hair matted in blood and more of it steaming onto his pristine clothes. Malik took his time coming to stand above the man, cocking his head as he stared down at him.

“How dare you touch her,” he snarled.

Never, in all her time with the prince, had she seen this side of him. Ferocity rolled off him in waves. His every movement promised death and retribution.

Mr. Davies rolled onto his back and looked up at his doom. “You!” He gaped. Reached.

Malik swung the metal bar into the side of Davies’s head with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered. The man’s arm fell limp to the ground.

Bronwyn looked away, covering her mouth at the shock of it all. At the brutal, efficient blow that Malik had delivered on her behalf.

Adrenaline ebbed, and she slid down the wall. Words became buzzing in her ear. Then Malik was there, right in front of her, touching her face and saying something. He’d removed his gloves, and the slide of his fingers across her cheek was soothing, comforting. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and lean into that touch.

“Bronwyn?” Finally, her name on his lips cut through some of the haze of shock. “Please. Tell me you’re all right. Your arm…”

She glanced down at it, frowning at the line of crimson and the few drops of blood dripping to the ground. It wasn’t bad, really, not for how terribly it had hurt at first. She’d almost forgotten about it considering everything else.

“It’s nothing,” she managed. “You…” Finally, she took a moment to look him over, from his slightly singed sleeve to the gash on his arm, which was likely much worse than hers given the amount of blood soaking his coat.

“I did.” His mouth formed a grim line. “But when I saw him attacking you, something in me broke. I had to save you, to stop him, to—”

“I know.” Somehow, she did. If their roles had been reversed… She understood. Though it was a damn shame they couldn’t interrogate him first. And Charlotte—

She shut that thought down as quickly as it sprouted. “But your arm. You’re hurt.”

He glanced at the ruined jacket and winced.

“Don’t try to tell me it’s just a scratch.”

Of all the ridiculous responses, he smiled. “There she is.”

“Oh, hells!” Wynni’s exclamation had them both turning to stare at her. She gaped at the dead body on the floor. Her stage manager, pale as a ghost, advanced toward the body, likely to inspect it for signs of life that he would not find. At least the flames on the burned set piece seemed to have gone out and not spread.

Another man stood near her, one Bronwyn did not expect. He took in the scene in shock, eyes blowing wide when they finally landed on her.

“Bronwyn!” Phillip raced over, all but ignoring Malik and dropping to his knees at her side. “Goddess above! What happened?”

She couldn’t respond before he continued, “The chandelier nearly dropped, and everyone panicked. And you weren’t there. I didn’t know where you’d gone, and I was so worried. I looked everywhere and then finally found Lady Wynnifred—” He touched Bronwyn’s face as if that could tell him anything about her injuries.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Malik bare his teeth in a silent snarl, but he said nothing, nor did Phillip look his way before he’d settled back into his grim countenance.

“I’m fine, truly,” Bronwyn tried to assure him. “But…” She looked past him to the body on the floor. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Not for Elis Davies, exactly—he would not have mourned her—but for Charlotte, and for all that she herself thought she’d known and clearly had not. Had Charlotte known? Could he have kept such a thing from her?

Lord Griffith looked at the body of his friend and shuddered. “This is all so…” He shook his head, focusing his attention back on Bronwyn. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you? What did he say?”

Bronwyn swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m not sure any of it matters now.”

“But if he—”

“I need to see about Miss Kinsley’s wound,” Malik interrupted. He stood and held out a hand to Bronwyn. “If I may?”

She took it without question, savoring the way his fingers curled reassuringly around hers and gave a little squeeze of comfort. A small touch, innocent, but it said so much. As did his green eyes, which were full of more emotion than she could currently process.

“ You will see to her wounds?” Phillip gave him a once-over. “I could take her—”

“Yes,” Malik cut him off again. “That is within my abilities.” The hint of a smirk twitched on his lips.

The tension between her suitors was growing by the minute. It seemed Malik was determined to have a pissing match right there on the ruined stage if that’s what it took to get the other man to leave.

“I thought you might be concerned about Lady Sian and wish to see to her well-being?” Phillip crossed his arms in smug satisfaction.

Bronwyn barely held back a groan of frustration. Now was not the time for this.

“I am, but I trust her brother to care for her just as well as I would. Besides, Miss Kinsley is injured. Certainly, that must take priority.”

Phillip opened his mouth to argue, and this time, it was Bronwyn who cut him off. She placed a hand on his arm and gave him her best adoring look. “Really, I’ll be fine here. And I want to talk to Wynni…” She glanced around, not seeing the opera house owner anymore. “This will have quite an impact on her, I’m sure.”

Phillip sighed. He took her hand and kissed it. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

She thought he might release her then, but instead, he leaned in close. His lips nearly brushed her hair as he whispered. “Be careful around the prince. Trouble seems to follow him.”

The comment left her blinking in surprise as he finally backed away.

“Let me know if you should need anything,” he said by way of more formal farewell. “Anything at all.”

Bronwyn nodded, her words lost. Phillip gave another sorrowful look toward his fallen former friend, muttered something, dabbed at his eyes, and left.

She wasn’t sorry to see him go. If anything, she could finally breathe again.