Page 9 of The Crimson Princess (The Ravengale Chronicles #1)

Chapter seven

M y father sips from his glass, his gaze sliding between me and Bellar, and there’s no mistaking the pleased look in his intelligent eyes; as if, impossible as it should be, he knows what’s transpired between me and the druid prince.

A private magic exchange is just that—private.

And yet…my father acts as if he knows exactly what has taken place.

I remind myself that he is not just the king of Ravengale, the ultimate protector of gales and humans alike, but one of the most powerful living beings in existence, if not the most powerful.

He is not one to underestimate or place in a box with others.

I now believe he knows very well who holds the card magically, and he’s simply playing head games, or testing me, or a little of both.

His attention shifts to Bellar, and while on the surface he is in a casual, easygoing mood, there’s a dark energy beneath his surface that bleeds death.

Bellar is as still as the stone carved with my name, but for the deep swallow and bob of his throat that tells me he too senses that dark energy.

“One thing I do believe you will discover,” my father pauses, I suspect strategically, before adding, “my young druid prince, is that my daughter is nothing you might expect, but then, neither was her mother.”

It’s a curious comment that has me wondering what he knows of my battles fought at my mother’s side, or is he indicating a knowledge of my inherent skills that I’m still discovering?

Twenty-three did not come upon me in an uneventful way, nor did it deliver a rush of new magic, as I’ve been taught to expect .

The first course arrives, saving Bellar a response to the king I suspect he was grappling to find, as we all turn our attention to the meal, and each of us is served an artichoke dripping with butter.

There are many things in Ravengale that mimic life within the human world, and this dish is one of them, though it’s far more a staple for us than the humans.

I learned my love of artichokes from my mother, and also like her, I’m not at all shy about eating, choosing to be the first to dig into my food.

I pull off a leaf and dip it in the butter before I scrape the deliciousness onto my tongue.

The two men ignore their plates, instead chatting about the upcoming Challenge, and I tune them out.

The last thing I want to think about right now is those damn bloody competitions.

Death has a hold on me, on our entire kingdom, for that matter.

We need less of it, not more, and yet, it’s the way of our people, the way of the book.

Of course, they won’t let me escape the topic, and Bellar turns the attention back on me.

“You’ve never competed, correct?”

“I’ve spent years doing the job the contestants are competing to make their own,” I reply, sliding my plate to the side, having managed to down most of my appetizer while they talked amongst themselves.

“And you think there’s nothing in competition that can surprise you now?” he challenges.

“If you’re suggesting I’m afraid to compete, you’re mistaken,” I assure him.

“I’m not suggesting you’re afraid,” he states, “but it’s an odd thing to me.”

“What is ‘it’ and what does that even mean?” I ask as the main course arrives, temporarily pausing our exchange.

Once each of us is served a meat pie, much like the human’s pot pie, one of the famous dishes of Ravengale, my father is the one who brings us back to the topic. “The druids don’t allow their women to go to battle.”

“Ah. Yes. The druid way. I’m aware,” I say easily. “You ignore the immense magic of your females. I’ve often wondered if you fear them. It seems a waste of their skills to simply have them dress pretty and attend those druid operas your people so adore.”

“I won’t be offended that easily, princess. I believe in our ways. I sometimes wonder myself about you and how much you believe in your ways. We shelter our greatest gifts. And when we lex, it’s with purpose.”

“The gales are the chosen. We fight so you don’t have to. As for lexing. To lex is to use one’s magic and if you do not, you limit your ability to expand your skills. Never realizing one’s potential is no way to live.”

“And you, of all gales, know that moment has the potential to equal death .”

The anger bristling beneath my surface at his reference to my mother is hot but my tone is cool.

“She would have rather died fighting for the innocent than watching, as is the way of a female druid,” I say.

“And make no mistake, she was far more powerful than you, Bellar. You would not have survived what she faced.”

“And yet, you did?”

It’s a question meant to taunt, an attempt to play on my raw emotions, and I do not take the bait.

I reach for my fork and cooly say, “You’d be smart to remember that.

We should eat while the food is hot.” I taste my pie and savor the tangy spices, but as I watch Bellar sample his food, I cut my gaze toward my father, who winks at me.

Apparently, he’s pleased with me, and as much as I resent him, the little girl inside me still feels aglow with his praise.

Bellar is polite enough to rave over the food, and there is small talk. I assume the political talk comes later. “What kinds of creatures did you face guarding the portal with your mother?” he asks, and this feels like a size-me-up kind of question.

“Nasty ones,” I say simply, unwilling to allow him more detail. “What about you? What’s been your most daunting challenge in battle to date?”

“You’d be surprised what we’re capable of conquering in the great caverns. ”

Their legendary training grounds, set in another world , I think, well aware of the dangers that live in that land. “Must be nice.”

“Nice?” He does not sound pleased. “What’s nice about death traps?”

“The chance to learn before you face a real enemy. It’s not a luxury I was ever allotted.”

“Are you suggesting my experience is less than yours?” His expression is indiscernible, but his question reads combative.

“You tell me? Is it?” I shove a bite of buttery crust in my mouth. A girl has to eat, after all.

“There are many who do not make it out of Druid Mountain,” he clarifies. “Why don’t you come give it a try?”

My father clears his throat, but I jump in before he can shut me down. “I’m in, but on one condition.”

I didn’t take his bait, but he does mine. “And what would that condition be?”

“You compete in the Challenge next week. If you win, the Book of Life has officially accepted you as part of our world.”

I expect my father to immediately object, but he actually chimes in with approval. “My daughter is quite brilliant. That would certainly unite our people.”

Bellar sips his wine, seemingly nonchalant, but I can feel his magic curling in the air and quivering about, a sensation I’ve known only in battle as my enemy falters and then attacks.

“I must respectfully decline,” he says coolly, setting his glass down on the table.

“I’m the future of the druid. Should I die or end up at some human portal, I can’t serve my people. ”

“My mother competed,” I remind him. “One could argue the book that sees all knew she would as well, and expected the outcome.”

“Your mother is dead, and forgive me for that bluntness, princess. I mean no offense, but it’s relevant.”

“None taken,” I assure him, and for the first time in my life, I recognize the freedom that not living under the gauntlet of the Challenge represents for the druids, and I question who really won the war.

“Send a representative,” my father suggests, or rather, presses.

“I’m not telling my people we’ll be sacrificing our young,” he states immediately. “That’s not the way to unite our people and avoid another war.”

In this moment, I respect Bellar and his need to shelter his people.

It’s an action worthy of a future king. There’s a shift in energy, and my gaze lifts to the path where Ronan, my father’s personal attendant, appears.

My father’s attention is already on him, a hint of surprise in his eyes that is there and gone in a mere breath.

He motions Ronan forward, and, gentleman that he is, once Ronan is beside my father, he apologizes for the interruption before he discreetly whispers in my father’s ear.

For a moment, my father is unmoving, but there’s a slight tightening along his jawline that I know all too well, the younger me an expert at earning his wrath.

He’s bordering on eruption, and he eases into his seat and simply says, “Young prince, I regret the need to end this dinner early. We have an unexpected guest that requires our attention, but please stay and enjoy the full meal.” My father is already standing.

I hesitate and offer my own apology. “I’m disappointed. I was hoping we could chat more later.”

“As was I,” he says, his eyes warming. “Can I take you to breakfast in town tomorrow morning?”

“It would be inappropriate during the Tribute, but I’d be pleased to have you join me here.”

“An invitation I happily accept. What time?”

“Seven?”

“I’ll be here.”

I push to my feet, and he stands, offering me an incline of his chin and my father a formal goodbye. “I hope everything is well. If I can do anything to aid you…”

“There are many things you can do for me,” my father states, “starting with your respectful handling of my daughter. ”

“Always,” he assures my father, a casual reply lacking the respect others would offer him.

My father studies him with eyes as cold as the Antarctic and as hard as our most enduring stone. “Be sure you do.” With that, he offers me his hand and guides me around the table and toward the path.

The moment he’s out of sight, I turn to my father. “What’s happening worthy of interruption?”

“You’ll know when I know.”

It’s an evasive answer, but I don’t push for more, sensing he’s in his own head, calculating his actions.

I’m officially baffled by how any visitor could possibly place my father on the defensive, but that’s exactly what I believe to be happening.

I’ve spent almost no one-on-one time with my father, and certainly not as an adult, but this does not feel expected or normal.

There’s a hum of adrenaline and magic inside me, a reaction to the unknown that my mother taught me to embrace but control.

My chin tilts upward, and I’m ready for whatever follows.

Our destination is the throne room, and once we’re seated, the towering gold doors of the entryway part, and Andreas, a member of the royal guard who attends the court, steps forward. “May I announce, your majesty, the royal king of the empire of Bloodstone, Toren Ashcroft.”

My spine stiffens in shock. I’ve never actually met a vampire, let alone “the” vampire, the king of them all, and with good reason.

The vampires are not only our enemies, they refuse to recognize the council or my father’s rule.

We are in what could be called a cold war with them, all of us taught never to trust anyone with fangs, not that they walk around with them on display.

Andreas steps aside, and I can feel the vampire king’s magic before he ever shows himself, brutal magic, so forceful my skin burns with the depth of power, of his power.

And when he appears in the entryway, towering in height, his shoulders broad, his body lithe and muscular, he is everything I’d expect out of a well-honed warrior.

As would be expected, he’s dressed in his formal king’s uniform of black and with blood red trim, the colors of his homeland.

His collar high and stiff, as is the identifier of a king’s attire, the garments luxurious and no doubt woven with magic.

He saunters toward us, all loose-legged swagger, and I swear my magic hums with his presence, my belly fluttering with every step he draws nearer.

He holds me spellbound, and I silently declare him the most gorgeous male I have ever encountered.

I also now understand why there are murmurs of his many seductions, though I do wonder if magic is at the core of his appeal.

I cannot say at this point for certain, but the way his presence dominates the very air I breathe does not feel natural, but neither does it feel uncomfortable.

An eternal moment later, he halts in front of us, the king who appears a mere thirty-five when his age rivals my father’s.

He’s beautifully masculine, but not in the traditional way one defines aristocratic beauty.

His jaw is straight but not sharp. His nose a bit imperfect.

His raven hair thick, and long enough to be wild, and somehow, everything about him is absolute control.

“King Killian,” he greets, his attention focused wholly on my father.

“Toren,” my father replies, unwilling to greet the vampire by his rightful title of King.

There’s a twitch of Toren’s mouth, as if he’s amused by what he sees as nothing but my father’s stubbornness. “I wish to offer my condolences.”

“Do you, now?” There’s a challenge tinged with disdain in his tone.

“With deep remorse,” King Toren assures him. “Your queen was special. She left us too soon.” And then, quite abruptly, his attention swings to me. “I’m sorry for your loss, princess.”

In that blink of time, I’m staring into eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, lost at sea and drowning in the vampire’s presence.

He’s everything I expect a vampire king to be, everything my mother warned me Toren would be if ever I met him.

He possesses the kind of seduction and beauty that you can only call deadly.