Ciaran stepped past the two guards to approach the woman. Bane heeled obediently at his left side, but Ciaran still kept a firm hand on his collar until they were within a few feet of the shapechanger, just in case the dog decided to take a bite out of one of these guards, too.
“Where have you been?” Ciaran asked the woman. “You were supposed to be at my flat over an hour ago.”
He took another step towards her, and she tensed. She slid one foot behind her into a position that made her perfectly poised to either turn tail and flee or leap forward and attack.
The finer details of the woman’s features were difficult to make out in the dim light, but her body language was unmistakable. Ciaran had seen it many times in cornered animals, constantly searching for exit points and constantly sizing up the threat.
And like a trapped animal, she clearly knew how to find the optimal escape route.
“I … ” The woman’s eyes flicked to the guards behind Ciaran, then back to him. “I got lost.”
“Of course you did,” Ciaran said. He sighted and slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Where’s your map? I just gave it to you a few days ago.”
“I forgot it.”
He rolled his eyes as he said, “Of course you did. You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck.”
He stepped next to her, turning to face the guards, and slid his arm around her waist. She stiffened, but otherwise did not protest.
“Well, the important thing is that you’re safe,” he said to her, then looked to the guards and said, “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
The guards did not move, and there was an uneasy tension in their stances. Ciaran frowned. These guards he recognized; there was no excuse for insubordination from them.
“I said you’re dismissed.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” one of them said, apprehension making his voice thin. “His Majesty said we needed to check the documents of anyone out past curfew.”
“And I’m telling you she’s with me. You can take it up with Nolan if you’d like.”
The looks on their faces clearly showed they would do no such thing, nor would they dare to argue with Ciaran any further. They bowed and hurried out of the alley.
When Ciaran was sure they were out of earshot, he pulled his arm away from the woman’s waist and turned to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back. “I hope that wasn’t too forward. I needed to make it convin—”
His voice was cut off as he was hauled into the air by the lapels of his frock coat and slammed into the brick wall behind him. The skin at the back of his skull split, and it took a few blinks to clear his vision. When it did, he found himself face-to-face with the woman, her nose barely an inch away from his.
He cast his eyes out for Bane, and found him sitting nearby, watching the assault with curious interest. So much for having a personal protection dog.
“Give me one good reason why I should let you walk out of here alive.” The woman’s voice was so low he could barely hear it, but the sound reverberated through his bones.
“I just saved your life!” He tried to push against the vice grip she had on his coat, but she was like stone.
She scrunched her brow. “From a couple of guards?”
Ciaran swallowed. If he’d saved anyone, it had been the guards.
His fingers fished in his pocket for the plum-sized lodestone that weighed there. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it.
“I know what you’re after,” he said, his heart hammering in his chest. “I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“That’s not what it looked like this afternoon.”
Her upper lip curled into a snarl, and Ciaran was relieved to see normal, human teeth.
“Look,” Ciaran said, “you’re obviously having a hard time getting close to Nolan, or else he would be dead now. I need him gone, but I can’t kill him myself. I figured we could come up with a … mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Why would you want to murder your own brother?”
Ciaran opened his mouth to speak, but as the memories of the events in Nolan’s office that evening ran through his mind again, he decided against the truth. He couldn’t admit to her that he was afraid for his own life. Certainly her kind wouldn’t tolerate weakness.
“I should think that’s obvious,” Ciaran said. “He’s on the throne now, and I want to be there instead.”
The woman scoffed. “So you’re just greedy.”
Ciaran bristled. He did not need moralizing from a murderer.
“Why not do it yourself?” she asked.
Ciaran winced. “Frankly, I don’t have the stomach for it.”
“So you want me to do your dirty work for you.”
“It’s your own dirty work, isn’t it?” Ciaran said with a huff. “I’m just offering you some assistance.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trap? Or you won’t have me killed as soon as I’ve killed your brother?”
“You don’t, just like I don’t know you won’t eat me as soon as you’ve eaten Nolan. We’re just going to have to trust each other, aren’t we?”
The woman’s glare deepened. She looked like she trusted him about as far as she could throw him. Which, admittedly, was probably pretty far. Something about that was oddly exhilarating.
For a moment, she said nothing, and Ciaran saw the gears turning in her head as she weighed her options. Then:
“Fine.”
She released him, and he took a deep breath, relieved she was no longer constricting his chest. He wiped the sweat off his palms onto his trousers as casually as he could manage, then straightened his bow tie and the silk lapels of his coat as he said, “Well, I would introduce myself, but you already know who I am, obviously.”
The woman said nothing as she grabbed a bag off the ground and threw it over her shoulder.
“Can I have your name?” Ciaran asked, extending his hand to her for a handshake.
The woman simply looked at it, then back to him with a curious expression, as though the answer should be obvious.
“Asra Taj-Sylvia.”
It sounded like a perfectly normal name, if not a bit of a mouthful. He had expected something more feral and animalistic, like Swiftkill or Bloodspill or—
Asra.
His eyes widened and his hand dropped back to his side.
“Gods around us,” he whispered. “It is you.”
“Who else would it be?”
Ciaran wasn’t sure how to answer that question as he watched her adjust the chest straps on her bag. It seemed oddly convenient to run into this specific shapechanger out of the dozens or perhaps hundreds that hid in the city, devouring soldiers and guards. It seemed even more odd that she didn’t see why it was odd.
The image of Asra looming over him with a blood-slick muzzle raced through Ciaran’s mind again, and his hand found the lodestone in his pocket once more. He looked to Bane, but the dog didn’t show the shapechanger anything more than the standard aloofness he showed any stranger on the street. Ordinarily, Ciaran trusted Bane’s assessment of potential threats, but after the debacle in Nolan’s office, he was beginning to wonder if his dog was broken.
Nevertheless, he released his grip on the lodestone.
“How did you find me?” Asra asked.
Ciaran pulled a thick silver band out of his coat pocket and handed it to her.
“You left this behind this afternoon. Bane’s an excellent tracker.”
He stroked Bane’s neck. Asra’s eyes flicked to the dog, and a brief look of disgust flashed across her face. Ciaran’s opinion of her was deteriorating by the minute.
“So what’s your plan?” she asked.
“I don’t really want to discuss it out in the open,” he said quietly. “I have a penthouse not too far from here. We can discuss it there.”
Her eyes narrowed at him again, and he sighed.
“Listen,” he said, “if this is going to work, I’m going to need you to stop glaring at me every eight seconds, like I’m waiting to stab you in the back. It’ll just be you, me, and Bane there. It’s far more dangerous for me than for you.”
Asra grumbled, then said, “How far away is this place?”
“It’s about four blocks over.”
Ciaran started towards the street, but Asra said, “Wait.” He paused and turned back to her.
She walked back to the rear door of the food kitchen and stared at it for a moment, as if contemplating if she wanted to go inside. She then slowly removed the knit cap from her head and placed it on the stoop. The scene was bizarre, yet uncomfortably intimate, as if Ciaran had just interrupted a stranger’s funeral.
Eventually she turned back and met him on the sidewalk. She looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to move, but the full view of her face momentarily distracted him.
The hair on the left side of her head was trimmed shorter than the other, prominently displaying her left ear. The lobe and a long strip of the top remained, but nearly everything in between was tattered or missing. His eyes widened. It hadn’t looked like that when he first saw her eighteen years ago.
“What?” she snapped.
Ciaran shook his head, ashamed of himself for staring. He extended an arm out, indicating which direction to walk, and she slammed a felt cattle-wrangler’s hat on her head before shouldering past him without a word.
Bane sat at Ciaran’s side, watching the woman leave. Ciaran’s head throbbed, and he tentatively patted the back of his skull. When he pulled his fingers away, they were smudged with red. His stomach roiled and he snatched the handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the blood away.
He looked down at his dog and said, “Thanks for the backup. Some protection dog you are.”
Bane only wagged his tail in response.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
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They arrived at the building of Ciaran’s penthouse in stony silence. It towered over the surrounding buildings, its beautiful red brick facade a stark contrast to their wooden exteriors. Flowering bushes and a lush lawn adorned the entrance, and guards stood dutifully along the edges of the cobblestone pathway to the lobby.
“How is no one gonna see us here?” Asra asked. “This place is crawling with guards.”
“No guards in my private entrance, or my penthouse.”
He directed her to the rear of the building, where strategically placed hedges hid a lift, its doors protected by a gilded iron gate.
“Why?” Asra asked as Ciaran fished the lodestone key from his coat pocket.
“Because, believe it or not, I like to keep my private life private. I don’t need a scandal every time I bring someone new home with me.”
A foresight that proved exceptionally useful for him now. The lowly city guards patrolling the streets may not have known Ciaran had been forbidden from leaving the palace, but the royal guards in front of this building certainly would.
He held a small, iridescent lodestone dangling from a fine chain over a corresponding stone built into the wall. Magic snapped up the chain into his fingers, and the gate slid open.
Ciaran frowned. Vincent had personally installed this lock spell. He should get it replaced soon.
“Get around a lot, do you?” Asra asked.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Ciaran wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused. He hadn’t expected the dog-woman to be a prude.
Thankfully, the doors to the lift opened, preventing him from having to field any further questions about his personal life. Asra stepped in first, and Ciaran followed to stand on her right side. Bane stepped between them, turning to sit at Ciaran’s left hip as usual. Asra looked down at the dog and grimaced. She leaned away from him, resting her head and shoulder on the lift wall as she watched the floor numbers steadily rise.
The doors opened into a small foyer leading to the front door. As they stepped out and Ciaran unlocked the door, he realized his housekeeper Susan wasn’t scheduled to come by for another two days. He opened his mouth to apologize for the shoes and coats haphazardly strewn across the floor of the foyer, but Asra didn’t seem to care, or even notice. She pushed past him, and Ciaran followed her brisk pace out to the living area.
Asra scanned the open penthouse, her sneer sharp enough to cut glass. Ciaran wasn’t sure what her problem was. Some of the kingdom’s most popular craftsmen and artisans had designed and furnished it.
The wall to their right featured large glass doors, adorned by intricate cast iron rhododendron branches and flowers, leading to an outdoor entertaining area. The adornments directed Ciaran’s gaze to the mahogany cabinets and marble countertops in the kitchen, then floated down the matching mahogany wainscoting to the parlor. The stone fireplace—classic wood-burning, not lodestone-powered—was the focal feature, further emphasized by the enormous ridgeback painting hanging above the mantle. Trigger had always been a lovely model.
Ciaran never could decide which feature was his favorite part of the penthouse.
He ran his tongue over his dry lips, unsure of how to broach the subject at hand.
“Would you … like a drink?” he said.
“I want to bathe.”
“Oh. Right, of course. You’ll probably want to use the bathroom in the guest suite upstairs.”
He led her up a metal spiral staircase to an open loft. He opened a door to their right to reveal a large bathroom. Copper pipes snaked up the far wall in an intricate design of straight lines and sharp angles, showcasing the natural beauty of the lodestones that heated and pumped water through them.
“There are towels and soaps in the corner over there,” Ciaran said.
Asra paused for a moment, then turned to him and said, “You should clean out that cut on your head. Your blood smells awful.”
Ciaran held back a retort as she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door in his face. He had a feeling that was as close to “I’m sorry for assaulting you in a dodgy back alley” as he was going to get. He sighed and walked back downstairs and into the kitchen.
He tapped the back of his head. Dried blood cracked on his neck and a spot at the base of his skull throbbed. He wet a dish rag and wiped the area down, pretending that the red blotches on the towel were anything other than blood, then he tossed the rag into the trash and poured a glass of whiskey from a decanter on the counter.
By the time he was finished, Asra’s footsteps clanged on the metal stairs. He looked up and saw she was fully dressed again, including her filthy duster and muddy shoes.
“You can take your shoes off if you’d like,” he said, hoping she would take the hint.
She stared at him for a moment as she reached the floor, her towel-dried hair still dripping, then said, “Are we not leaving tonight?”
Ciaran made a point to look at the clock in the den whose hands clearly displayed it was past midnight.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said. “One assassination attempt isn’t enough for you today?” He took another sip of his whiskey. “Besides, we’ll need time to strategize, not to mention time to pack.”
“Pack?”
He sighed. Might as well rip the arrow out now.
“Nolan isn’t in the city right now,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
“Why would I lie to you about that?”
“He hasn’t left the palace in years.”
“He has several times in the last few years, actually. Do you really think he announces his itinerary with people who want to kill him? I don’t even know what he’s doing half the time.”
Asra growled, then ripped off her glasses. In an instant, her eyes changed from brown to a bright amber. Ciaran had forgotten how shockingly yellow her eyes were. He stood transfixed, unaware that she’d spoken until she barked, “Prince!”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, ‘Where is he?’”
Ciaran sighed. “Our vacation house to the north.”
“How far away is that?”
“About a week’s ride, depending on the weather.”
Asra growled. “At least it’ll be easier to get into than the palace.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Ciaran said. “Nolan goes there when he wants to keep things secret from everyone in the palace. I imagine he’s got it completely locked down.”
“You ‘imagine’?”
Ciaran shrugged. “I haven’t been there in years.”
“Then why do I need you?”
“Because you won’t stand a chance at getting in without me. The magic protections on the palace are a joke compared to the protections at the vacation house. Only someone as familiar with the royal wards as I am could get you in.”
Asra grunted and removed her duster and hat, tossing them to the ground before she turned to prowl the perimeter of the penthouse.
Ciaran picked up his glass and the decanter and followed her into the parlor, where she appraised every photograph and piece of furniture with scorn. He placed the glasses on an end table and sat on the cherry-red accent chair. He hadn’t been this close to her since their first meeting as children, and he took the opportunity to observe her now.
With the removal of her glasses and her sleeveless undershirt exposing more of her skin, the yellow sigils all over her body were clearly visible. They started at her hands and spiraled up her arms and neck onto her face, swirls and spots and curling shapes. Her warm brown skin looked feather-soft, belying the hard muscle beneath that flexed and rippled with every movement.
She reminded him of the mountain lion he’d seen at the zoo as a child, pacing the length of its enclosure. Power had reverberated up its legs with each step it took, saliva dripping from its yellow fangs. The only thing that kept it from turning those fangs on the humans gawking at it was the moat surrounding its pen. Ciaran knew it, and he was sure the mountain lion did, too.
Bane padded over to Asra and attempted to nuzzle her hand. She snatched it away and took a step back. Ciaran frowned, then called his dog back to him.
“Do you not like dogs?” Ciaran asked as he stroked Bane’s head. The look Asra pinned his dog with made him feel like her issue with Bane was very personal.
“I’m more of a cat person.”
Ciaran laughed, but Asra’s glare shut him up.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were joking since, you know, you’re literally a dog person.”
Her glare didn’t soften.
“I mean … is that not the proper term? You told me a long time ago you’re not a werewolf.”
“Werewolves are something you humans made up. They’re not real.” She picked up a framed photograph from the console table behind the sofa. Judging by the look on her face, it was one of Nolan.
“What’s the difference?” Ciaran asked.
“Well, we don’t turn into big, ugly, two-legged monsters for starters.”
Ciaran smiled and said, “Oh, I think that’s because of theater. It’s far easier to dress a man up in a wolf costume than try to make an actual giant wolf. I guess the image kind of stuck.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Is it true that when you bite someone, they turn into a were—I mean, one of you?”
“No.”
“But you do heal quickly?”
“Faster than you.” Her nose crinkled, and Ciaran wondered if she could still smell the wound on his head.
“And I’m assuming silver being lethal is a myth, too, considering your bracelet.”
Asra’s eyes narrowed at him once again.
“Is there a point to these questions?” she asked, dropping the frame back onto the table so carelessly that it toppled onto the floor.
“No. I was simply curious. Just making small talk.”
“I’m not interested in small talk.” She threw herself down on the loveseat, sprawling out with one leg propped up on the couch. The sole of her filthy shoe stood in full contact with the white suede cushion.
“Would you mind sitting properly?” he said, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “You’re going to get the cushions dirty.”
She stared him straight in the eye as she dragged her foot off the sofa and onto the floor, her shoe leaving a grungy streak in its wake.
“Is there a problem here?” Ciaran asked, sitting forward. “We’re on the same side. I’m trying to help you.”
Asra scoffed. “Don’t give me that shit. You’re trying to help yourself. You’re only helping me out on accident.”
“By accident,” Ciaran corrected.
Asra rolled her eyes and put on a crude impression of his accent. “Sorry to have offended you with my common tongue, my prince.”
She spat the title at him like it was an insult or swear. It made him oddly defensive, as if the next thing out of his mouth should be to insist that he certainly was not a prince, and how dare she insinuate such a thing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if doing so could stave off his confusion. Perhaps the whiskey was hitting him harder than normal tonight.
“I’ve risked my life bringing you here,” he said. “As far as the law is concerned, I’m a traitor. The least you could do is treat my property with respect and not act like an animal while you’re here.”
“An animal,” Asra repeated, her voice quivering. “You’re covered in gold and jewels from my home, from our mines that your brother slaughtered us for, and you’re going to preach to me about not acting like an animal?”
Ciaran sipped his glass before speaking. “You can play the victim all you want, but we both know if your kind hadn’t been skulking around the city, stealing whatever you liked, Nolan never would have touched your town.”
“My kind?” Asra snapped, leaping to her feet. “My ‘kind’ don’t steal, and we sure as hell don’t need to steal from you.”
“Really?” Ciaran asked. “Then what were you doing in the palace that night?”
“Your brother had me kidnapped!”
She loomed over him like a hawk descending on its prey. Ciaran rose to meet her gaze. He hadn’t realized just how tall she was. They stood eye-to-eye, and Ciaran was not a short man.
“As I recall,” he said, “the guards picked you up. Because you were shoplifting.”
Asra’s brow furrowed. “Well … technically yes, but—–”
“Then you weren’t kidnapped at all.” Ciaran threw back the rest of the whiskey and dropped the glass on the end table. “You were lawfully arrested, and Nolan did what was necessary to uphold our law.”
“He slaughtered civilians! He killed hundreds of people!” Her breath was hot and damp on his face.
“No, you got them killed! If you hadn’t been there that night, running a crime spree, Nolan never would have—–”
Ciaran registered the pain radiating in his shoulders before he realized Asra had grabbed him. There was a madness in her eyes, and Ciaran became keenly aware he’d crossed a line.
“You think I don’t know that?” she shouted, her voice quivering. “You think I haven’t spent every night of my fucking life wishing it had been me instead of them? Wishing the guards had just killed me when they found me?”
The fire left her eyes instantly. An expression somewhere between shock and regret spread across her face, and Ciaran had the distinct impression she hadn’t wanted to tell anyone that, least of all him.
She released him with a shove that made him stumble backwards. For a moment he thought she might renege on their agreement and eat him right then and there, but she turned away without another word. She stomped up the spiral staircase, the vibrations from the metal thrumming through the parqueted floor, then the door to the guest suite slammed shut.
Ciaran slumped to the couch. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his racing heartbeat.
Bane hopped onto the sofa as delicately as a dog his size could manage, then lay across Ciaran’s lap. Ciaran stroked the length of the dog’s backwards strip of fur until his breathing slowly returned to normal. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, cursing himself for losing his temper.
He didn’t necessarily regret what he’d said to her. It was the truth. If Asra had never committed her crimes in his city that night, Nolan never would have had her hauled into the palace, and none of them would be in the situation they were now.
The problem was that Asra would logically still be alive after she’d killed Nolan—the woman had already proven to be exceptionally resilient.
And whatever chance there had been for him and Asra to peacefully part ways after Nolan’s death, Ciaran was sure he just watched it go up in flames.