The Lost Prince Read online

  “I don’t want to get thrown out!” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You’re supposed to at least try!” she said, like it was the most obvious rule in the universe. “Made me feel like I was ugly or had cooties.” Her expression softened a little and the twinkle came back to her eye. “Ain’t many around here see me or talk to me the way you do, Danny. I came in to tease you last night—get you back for makin’ me feel like shit after I posed. Didn’t plan to…”

  Luanne didn’t have the rest of that sentence formed. She gave up on it and shot him her usual suspicious smile.

  “Well … I don’t regret it,” she whispered. “Good thing you poked me, too. If you ain’t done nothin’ after I started on you, left me hangin’ on a limb, I woulda told Mama you came onto me anyway. Can’t make a girl feel ugly in her own bed, Danny.”

  Luanne’s colloquial vocabulary and one-dimensional pursuits had hidden some of the depth Daniel was seeing in the girl now. She was devious and capable of thinking a step or two ahead. It wasn’t book smarts—it was the intelligence of desperation—the eking out of position among dirt and rocks and people born into the same lot in life. If she’d grown up in a wealthy neighborhood, she might have been the mean girl terrorizing a school of well-groomed boys. She was suddenly more attractive, and no one was more surprised than Daniel. She was worth talking to for more than just a safe place to hide, some meals … or other things.

  “You ain’t … uh—aren’t ugly,” Daniel said.

  “Oh, like, I’m just borderline pretty?” she teased, sidling uncomfortably close to him. “I just made your cut.”

  “Really, really pretty,” he said. She could go far in life—strip club headliner, B movies, Fox News commentator.

  “You like my body?”

  His armpits were damp—Daniel felt flushed. “I—I love your body.” He was in the top 2 percent of his class … How did this simple girl have him stammering?

  She walked to her bedroom door and took off her blouse. The vision of her bra straining to contain her bosom shot straight to Daniel’s loins. “I’ll be in our bed—come draw me again.”

  Our bed?

  Cody’s warning bounced inside Daniel’s head like one of those superballs chucked in an empty tin water tower. God help him if Cody ever found out the full extent of his involvement with Luanne. God help him if Beverly or Colby found out. Essentially, everyone in the world that still liked him would be furious and turn his life into a world of crap. He’d be tossed into the street so fast …

  Daniel was mad at Luanne—really mad. Half the problem wouldn’t even exist if she hadn’t shown Cody the damn sketchbook. Then she could have played with him all she wanted. Why would she do that? The right thing to do at that moment was go for a walk in the brisk country air—get Luanne’s scent out of his head. That’s one of the advantages of being in the top two percentile of his class—lots of smarts and an abundance of common sense. Except, his shoes were by the bed. Their bed.

  “I can still have you thrown you out, queer boy!” Luanne sang from her bedroom, scorning his dawdling.

  His loins stirred again at her voice. He walked toward the bedroom, determined to get his sneakers and leave. How did men ever survive precivilization with everything in the jungle trying to kill them and their penises constantly goading them into stupid decisions? he thought.

  Statistically, husbands died before their wives. That was making more and more sense to Daniel. Why bother with marriage? Men can live longer without women.

  His sneakers jutted out from the corner just under the box spring. On the bed, Luanne lay on her side, head propped up on one arm, completely naked. With her other hand, she drew him with a seductively oscillating finger. Her lips pleaded to be kissed. He walked toward her. In that second, Daniel completely understood why men were willing to die.

  CHAPTER 15

  RELUCTANT HERO

  1

  Allyn sat in his study under a reading lamp, turning the scrap of paper with Callum MacDonnell’s number over in his hands. His daughter had found the captain living in New York, the city closest to where they had come into this universe. A news photo of MacDonnell’s NYPD headshot confirmed that it was the right man. Allyn had delayed calling for over a day, unsure of what to say, unsure of his own mind as to what he would do next. The news media wasn’t making things any easier for him, distracting him with many requests for interviews, calling him at all hours, as though their desire to increase their audience to sell more ads for laundry soap and Chevys trumped all other concerns.

  The morning’s headline read—

  SHEPHERD FINDS LOST LAMBS

  This time, he thought. Prince Danel deserved to be found as well.

  Allyn’s desire to serve the prince teetered between his oath to the archduke and his duties to his church and family here. He prayed for guidance, though not exactly sure who to, but hoped the universe would sort it out and get the message to the right deity. Allyn wasn’t sure of what he was afraid of more … that he’d find the boy alive and well or that he wouldn’t. If the boy were already dead, the burden of Allyn’s failure would haunt him to his grave—but he would be free from his pledge and could continue his life and ministry in North Carolina. The wars of far-off places would stay exactly that—far off. Away from his family and the community he loved. Allyn could spread peace and love beyond his small church. With his rediscovered ability to heal, he could do wonders. If the prince were alive, though … well—that was an entirely different matter. He should call MacDonnell either way. Better to know for certain.

  Rosemarie had done excellent research. Callum MacDonnell had been in the news recently. His partner had been killed on a call in the South Bronx just a few days ago. Decapitated. It had the earmarks of an Aandor-centered event. Either that, or criminals in New York have swapped their guns for long swords. Allyn’s reemergence from the long sleep was no coincidence. They were calling up the reinforcements. Everyone was in danger, not just the prince.

  In his gut, Allyn knew the situation could not be simple—the prince raised peacefully in some quiet suburb. Something went wrong. They had all succumbed to the apprentice wizard’s botched magic. Everyone in the party had fallen to their knees in pain, grasping their craniums like balloons filling with too much water. What happened was not meant to be. Their brains were scrambled.

  “Wizards,” Allyn whispered to himself in disgust.

  He dialed the number slowly. It rang twice before the answering machine picked up—a woman’s voice: “Hi, you’ve reached Cat, Cal, Bree, and Maggie—we can’t come to the phone right now; you know what to—”

  Allyn hung up without leaving a message.

  So MacDonnell himself had married and had children. This supported Allyn’s suspicions: everyone’s minds had been affected; the captain would never have consciously betrayed Chryslantha Godwynn. And now, his family here was in danger. This was reason enough to stay out of this conflict. If the captain called to convince him otherwise, Allyn would appeal to the man’s concern for his own family and insist that he was acting in Michelle and Rosemarie’s best interests. A man protected his own first.

  The decision to abandon his old life left him with a heavy heart. Allyn loved Aandor. He loved the archduke and duchess almost as much as his own family. Sophia was especially kind and graceful, and her family a generous contributor to the temples of Pelitos. The temple in Aandor City would not have been completed as quickly if not for her patronage. How could he abandon her son? The obligation ran deep in Allyn—he drummed the armrest of his chair unconsciously, struggling with the urge to take Danel into his home and hide him from all his enemies. How silly a notion was that? It was unlikely child services would allow a white child to be placed with a black family. He could never explain where the boy came from.

  Allyn’s mind was a pendulum swinging between two worlds. Get involved—don’t get involved. He crushed the scrap of paper in his hand.

  “It would bring wizards
to my house,” he grumbled. “And other undesirables.” Allyn tossed the scrap, but in midswing altered his aim for the desk instead of the trash. A conclusion to his internal debate still eluded him when the front doorbell rang. The murmurings of greetings came through the study door.

  Allyn joined Michelle in the foyer and greeted his guests, members of his church’s board—Miles, Fred, a rejuvenated Maurice, Shirley Johnston, and Sheriff Kevin Martin. Michelle welcomed them into the foyer and instructed Rosemarie to put on some coffee.

  “Wanted to see how you was holding up, Al,” Miles said with a smirk. “We all knows how much you love the press.”

  A cadre of trucks with large white dishes on their roof had stationed themselves on the block. Allyn had become the latest obsession for bookers of the network news shows. Reporters fluttered along the sidewalk; Allyn was a flame to a moth in this hero-starved world. The sheriff had posted tape along the perimeter of the lawn and told the reporters if anyone crossed the line he’d arrest them for trespassing.

  “How’re the Taylors doing?” he asked Maurice.

  “Coming along. Darnell sends his apologies for not stopping by—they’re releasing the kids from the hospital about now.”

  Allyn dismissed the need for an apology and showed everyone into the living room. Michelle went into the kitchen to fix snacks. They made small talk about the Panthers’ chances for getting into the Super Bowl until Michelle and Rosemarie emerged with trays filled with biscuits and coffee.

  Miles turned serious and leaned toward Allyn across the table, resting his arms on his legs. “We came by tell you that we unanimously granted your request for a temporary leave from your duties as minister,” he said.

  “With full pay, of course,” Shirley cut in.

  The group laughed.

  “Thank you, my friends,” Allyn, said. “I am so blessed to have you in my life. I never doubted I could count on your support.” He looked around the living room at the faces of his congregation … his family. Miles had coached high school football for the past fifteen years; Fred retired from fishing the Outer Banks for twenty years; Shirley was the third generation Johnston to run the Happy Ochre diner in town; and Kevin, who served as an even-keeled sheriff after twenty years in the Army Rangers … these were his people now, with ties that bound more tightly than anything he had in that other universe.

  “I have decided not to take the leave,” Allyn told them. Michelle shot him a look. He smiled back at her, confident about his decision. He would ride out the war at home.

  The group enjoyed its coffee and biscuits, relating the progress of the Taylor kids and each offering their opinion on the fate of the man that had chased them into the forest. The phone rang and Rosemarie answered.

  “Dad, some man’s asking to speak to you,” she said.

  “I am not doing interviews.”

  “He’s not a reporter,” she said. “Says he met you a few years back. Someplace called ‘And Door.’”

  2

  Allyn locked the study door behind him and listened for a moment to his colleagues and friends chatting away in the living room. To Michelle’s credit, she barely reacted to the news that someone from Aandor was on the phone for him—she recovered quickly, averting a near disaster of spilled coffee all over Shirley’s lemon-yellow skirt.

  Allyn carefully picked up the receiver. A moment passed, and when he heard the click of the other extension, he cleared his voice and said, “Captain MacDonnell?”

  “Not quite,” came the response.

  The voice was familiar, but not Callum MacDonnell’s. It was higher than the captain’s confident baritone.

  “Malcolm Robbe,” the voice said.

  Allyn flipped through the Rolodex of his brain to remember thirteen years back, in the pantry with a group of people he had only just met. The centaur was Fronik, the lieutenant was Tristan, Malcolm was … “Ah, yes … the sergeant at arms.”

  “Very good, Prelate Grey.”

  There was something in the man’s tone—a confidence. He sounded rich.

  “Did MacDonnell task you to find me?” Allyn asked.

  “I have not yet met with the captain, nor spoken with him,” Malcolm said. “He’s currently unavailable, so I’ve tasked myself with finding the prince’s party independently. I have—resources.” The word “resources” resonated with an understated air. The word did not match the entirety of Malcolm’s tone.

  “I see,” Allyn said. “I do not have—resources. What I have is a wife and daughter—responsibilities to a community. I have a life.”

  “As do we all that still live,” Malcolm answered.

  “Who’s died?”

  “I’ve yet to track down Galen and Linnea, but the Raincrests died many years ago of causes unrelated to the mission. Tristan was murdered a few days ago. Like you, he had a family. Now there’s only a widow and two boys, halfway to being orphans. The home of Proust’s apprentice was recently torched. No sign of the lad—he may be dead. MacDonnell himself was attacked a few days ago, as were his wife and daughter. I believe he’s taken off with his family. No idea whether he’s engaged in this search. Perhaps like you, he’s forsaken his oath.”

  The dig did not sit well with Allyn. This was Malcolm’s attempt to light a fire under him. Pride was listed as a deadly sin for a reason. Allyn fought the urge to defend his decision. Instead he asked, “If the captain was not engaged in the mission, who returned our memories to us? Someone is obviously working for our cause. We would have been sitting ducks otherwise.”

  “Our cause?” Malcolm stressed the first word.

  Allyn could almost hear him smiling on the other end, like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail. Yes, damn you! he thought.

  “I wish no harm to befall the prince,” Allyn said. “I pray for his health and that he will be reunited with his family soon and placed on his rightful throne. I just—I can’t involve my family in this conflict. They need me. My church needs me. I am invested in this community. My roots run deep.”

  The line remained silent for a while as both men mentally pivoted for the next round.

  “I have a life, too,” Malcolm said. “A damn good one; much better than my lot in Aandor. Things are more—complicated—for me than I care to divulge.”

  “We’re each responsible for our own decisions.”

  “I won’t begrudge your choice. I am just a sergeant, after all. But can you do one thing for me? One thing for which I will be extremely grateful and will not bother you further.”

  Allyn tensed. He was wary of any commitment. Even small obligations had the potential to suck you into larger matters of which you’d rather not be a part. “What is it?” he asked warily.

  “Locate the prince. Use your abilities the way you found those children in the forest. I will retrieve the boy myself; you need not be involved in any effort to extract him. Do this, and I will make it worth your while. I will even set matters straight with the captain regarding your choice to remain with your family.”

  That was a fair request. Allyn’s anxiety had been over leaving his loved ones. Malcolm Robbe had offered to carry the burden of collecting and protecting the boy. If he’d advocate on Allyn’s behalf with MacDonnell …

  The reverend wanted to help the young prince. Now he could do his part in the safety of North Carolina, without leaving his home—the family … without heading toward the mayhem up north.

  “Do you have anything that might have the prince’s blood, hair, or skin on it?” Allyn asked. “A rattle, a blanket?”

  “I have as many items as you do, Reverend. That might change the more we dig up; I have leads on other guardians.”

  “It will be very difficult to find him without some personal effect. Even something with only an emotional attachment would do.”

  “I’m sorry, I have no such items. Will you try anyway?”

  Allyn wracked his brain for a solution. He was long out of practice in the clerical arts.

  “I don’t h
ave anything at the moment, but yes—I will try.”

  CHAPTER 16

  HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER

  The sensation of speeding through a black tunnel backward, away from the light, had inverted itself. As Oulfsan came out of the darkness, the scene around him sharpened into focus. The whole exchange took less than five seconds, but the pain and exhaustion lingered as though it were an hour-long exertion. Though he and his brother had swapped consciousness thousands of times, he would never get used to the switch—each time he wondered if death would finally drag them to the bowels of hell.

  If it were pleasant, it wouldn’t qualify as a curse, he thought.

  The frequency and randomness of the swaps had accelerated since coming to this plane of existence. In Aandor, they could go days before switching, but here it was almost daily, sometimes as short as several hours.

  Oulfsan took note of his surroundings; he was in the Baltimore motor lodge rental they used as a base to spy on Colby Dretch. Hesz was already on his way down with Hommar and Todgarten, and it was odd that they were not already there. Oulfsan took stock of his surroundings; everything looked the same as the last time he was here, except for the bloodied leg—foot to knee—hanging on the far edge of the bed. Oulfsan walked around the bed to find that the leg belonged to a dead naked woman facing up on the floor. Her eyes were open and rolled back, her throat had a large gash across it, and she had a knife wedged in her gut. Her legs were spread, one lay bent on the floor slightly under the bed and the other went up the side of the bed, hip and butt braced against the mattress—like she’d fallen out in her sleep. She smelled like sex and blood. What Oulfsan would find upon arrival after a switch was always a mystery; Krebe was most unpredictable and every bit chaotic.

  His brother’s striped boxer shorts, which were the only things he had on, were greasy from lack of washing. Krebe was shorter, stockier, and fatter, with coarse black ringlets of hair over his torso, arms, and legs. As for the man’s hygiene, if the switch wasn’t jarring enough, the assault on Oulfsan’s nose each time he returned was enough to wrench his gut. Krebe enjoyed torturing his brother from afar to see how long he could go before Oulfsan bathed for him. To Krebe it was all a game—the young woman dangling off the bed was just another play.