Lost Vegas Series Page 14

  Replacing the mirror in her satchel, Aveline went to the door and sat down. She rested her head back against the wood and gazed at the ceiling. At a loss as to what to say, and doubting the weeping Tiana would listen, Aveline slid the dream catcher under the door. She listened for several minutes to hear if Tiana was calming down.

  “Tiana, you will never be strong enough to leave the city if you cry about everything,” Aveline said in frustration. “You have to toughen up, remember?”

  Her words were met with heartfelt sobs.

  Rolling her eyes, Aveline stood and went to the table to finish her dinner.

  Tiana did not come out for food or when Aveline yelled through the door that she was going to bed. Aveline turned out the lights and stretched out on the floor. The light from the closet casted a golden glow around the edges of the door. By the time Aveline drifted to sleep, Tiana had stopped crying without leaving the closet.

  I hope the dream catcher works, Aveline thought as she slid into slumber.

  Chapter Nine

  “A night hunt?” Warner asked. “For what purpose?”

  Arthur declined to answer aloud, aware his honorable friend would come to the dishonorable conclusion soon enough. He tied an axe to the saddle of his horse, whose breath rose in puffy clouds towards the dark sky. Arthur draped a blanket over the horse’s rump to shield the gelding from the cold and then double-checked his own overcoat. Winter was jabbing his skin with an icy finger. It took a moment of searching before Arthur located the button he had missed. He promptly sealed the tiny opening.

  “Arthur,” Warner said with a sigh.

  Hearing the realization in his voice, Arthur gripped his lover’s forearm with his gloved hand. “Justice.”

  “You mean vengeance.”

  “I would not be my father’s son, if I let a man like Marshall try to kill me without consequences.”

  “No. You would be a better man than your father.” Warner pulled his arm away and stepped back, anger in his blue eyes.

  Arthur debated trying to soothe his friend’s feelings. Warner was a trained soldier from a good family, low enough in standing not to be a threat to the Hanover’s. He did not always understand how much more difficult it was to retain a position at the top of the social hierarchy. Arthur admired his friend’s unerring sense of honor and fairness, of right and wrong, because he himself was often lost in the political intrigue defining his position as the sole male heir to the Hanover legacy.

  “We both know I am not my father, because I have your heart to guide my actions,” Arthur said softly. “And that I must play the part of a true Hanover sometimes. If Marshall had not called me out, I would not have to respond.”

  Had Arthur any doubt about his plan, he would have shed it when he considered any danger he was in, his sister faced as well by becoming vulnerable should something happen to him at the hands of Marshall’s family. His father would call the events of this night a lesson, and Marshall’s family would understand it as a warning, no matter how it was covered up.

  Any attempt on the life of the Hanover children had to be met with brutal retaliation. There could be no mixed messages, no mercy, if Arthur was to preserve his family name and assume his father’s place one day. What happened then, he had not yet determined, except it would involve becoming the man Warner believed him to be.

  “You are so much better than this,” Warner retorted stubbornly.

  “I do not expect you to understand why I must do this, Warner.”

  “But you will do this?”

  “Yes.”

  Warner searched his features. “Then let me accompany you. I am your sworn guardian, the greatest warrior the Shield has produced in two generations, since my grandfather last held the distinction.”

  “No,” Arthur said with rare firmness. “If anything goes wrong, I need you to protect my sister.”

  “Marshall is taking three men with him.”

  “And how many times have I defeated him during mock battles? You train with me. I am second only to you in skill. If you truly feared I could not handle him, you would be on your horse, prepared to follow me to battle, not trying to convince me to stay. You know what this is.” It would have been easy to order Warner to stay, but Arthur cared too much for how his lover felt, so he reiterated the truth both of them knew.

  Warner stewed silently.

  Arthur finished checking the gelding’s girth and turned to face his unhappy friend. “If I do not return by dawn, you know what you are to do.”

  “Return to the city and your sister.”

  “Good.”

  “But I will search for you first.”

  “No, Warner.” It was Arthur’s turn to sigh. “You do not understand how vulnerable my sister can be. She knows nothing of the world outside our home. If anything should happen to me, it will only expedite the plans others may have for her demise. Without any heirs, my father’s position will become unstable quickly.”

  “You ask me to rebel against my better judgment.”

  “If you care for me, you will do this.”

  Warner blew out a breath of air. “You know I do. You know I will always do as you ask as much as it displeases me.”

  “Thank you, Warner.”

  Warner walked away. Arthur did not pursue him. He trusted no one more than Warner to ensure Tiana was safe and to protect her secret, if discovered. As angry as Warner was, he would always do what was just and right.

  Unlike me. Arthur had been raised to survive the political world his family inhabited where one’s standing was as fragile as the ice on a pond on a warm spring day. One day, he might be able to escape with Warner somewhere like the Free Lands. But in the meantime, he had to play the role of his father’s heir.

  Mounting his horse, Arthur guided it towards the four men waiting for him at the edge of the clearing.

  After leaving the city, the hunting party had stuck to the forest as they headed northeast, skirting unfriendly native villages and tracking their game as they rode. The herds of buffalo whose tracks they trailed were less than a day away. The first kill was always granted to the ranking member of the hunting party, accompanied by a select few, and usually occurred at dawn, before the official hunting began. Arthur’s request for a night hunt held special meaning for the man he requested to accompany him, who had reluctantly accepted, with the understanding accompanying Arthur for the first kill was not the honor it was made out to be.

  “Evening,” Arthur said and halted his horse. He leaned forward onto its withers and looked over the three guards accompanying the man who tried to assassinate him in his own tent a week and a half before.

  “Evening,” Marshall replied. “Where is your lapdog protector?”

  “Sleeping, I imagine,” Arthur replied. “If the Hanover heir can ride in these forests without his guard, surely the Cruise heir can do the same, unless your family crest does not represent a lion’s courage but the fact it sleeps all day.”

  Marshall stiffened at the quiet, nonchalant dare. “I do not wear the lion crest for myself but to remind others of the Cruise legacy and the glory no other family in Lost Vegas can claim.”

  Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes. Marshall’s family boasted often of the meaning behind their lion crest. The courageous founder of Lost Vegas, Charles Cruise, had braved impossible-to-imagine odds to establish the first settlement after the Old World perished. The Cruise line ruled Lost Vegas for a mere fifty years, throughout the Age of Darkness, before Arthur’s forefathers managed to wrench power away from the wealthy family and hold it for four and a half centuries.

  “Go and rest,” Marshall told his guards. “I will return by dawn.”

  The men obeyed without question.

  Close in age to Arthur, Marshall possessed the striking features that ran in his family and the same sense of entitlement fueling his sister’s mistreatment of Tiana. While competitive, Marshall had the disadvantage of a kind father, whereas Arthur was raised with the firsthand
knowledge that ruthlessness was the true legacy of the Hanover’s.

  “Shall we?” Arthur motioned to the forest.

  “After you.”

  Stifling a smile, Arthur nudged his horse forward and started into the forest. Marshall followed. Arthur led them away from the encampment, to the north. They passed their scouts and continued onward into the cold, quiet night, riding parallel to the prairie.

  Judging by the smell of scat, upturned earth and fur, the buffalo herd was large. Arthur did not see any of its members on the rolling plains, but the scents were strong and the grass flattened where the herds had traveled. He ventured out of the forest, towards the wide swath of beaten down grass and darkened snow.

  They rode for half an hour, following the wake the herds had left.

  “To what do I owe the honor of accompanying you in place of your lapdog?” Marshall asked at last.

  “We were educated by the same tutor. I am confident you can figure it out,” Arthur replied.

  Marshall said nothing.

  The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood on end suddenly.

  He pulled his horse to a halt, uncertain what his senses were warning him of. He loosened the ties of his hat in order to hear without the fur and leather blocking his ears. The night was still and quiet, with the exception of snow crunching beneath the hooves of Marshall’s horse.

  “Very well. If this is where we are to duel, then let us be on with it,” Marshall stated in a hard tone. He dismounted and yanked two weapons free from the horse, a double-headed axe and long knife.

  Arthur glanced at him and then towards the forest. Grass rustled in the stiff, breathtaking wind, and the light gray clouds glowed overhead, illuminating his surroundings without the need for moon or stars. They stood at the bottom of a low, rolling hill, amidst other hills, in grasslands edged on one side by the forest and the other three sides by the sky.

  What manner of threat was invisible? Not Ghouls or unfriendly natives, the only known dangers in the prairielands. Arthur dismounted and grabbed a lance and double-headed axe, unable to explain or shake off the cold slithering down his spine. It felt as if someone stood behind him, preparing to strike. When he turned, no one was present. He began to suspect this was an extension of his strange magic, yet it was neither a vision nor his ability to track game, the two unnatural skills he was aware of possessing.

  He turned a full revolution, listening to his humming instincts as he did. The magic warning him was similar to the tracking magic he used to find game. It whispered faintly of where the threat was without defining what it was.

  Someone, or something, was at the edge of the forest, waiting and watching.

  Yet Arthur saw nothing.

  Marshall sighed impatiently. “You invite me here for one purpose and stall our inevitable encounter?”

  “I am glad your father has three more sons. He will not miss you, and neither will I,” Arthur replied.

  “It is not my death we should be discussing.”

  “What provoked your attack, Cruise?” he asked roughly. “The timing and place were beneath a man as intelligent as I thought you to be.”

  Marshall was quiet, lifting and lowering the axe in nervous agitation.

  “Only one of us will live to speak of this night. I wish to know the truth,” Arthur insisted. He focused on his opponent, but his instincts tugged his attention back towards the forest. “Speak, Marshall.”

  “Murdering you was not my intent in joining the hunt this year.”

  Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. He chuckled. “Your family has resented mine for four centuries, and you did not intend to murder me by placing venomous snakes in my tent?”

  “Of course I meant to try to murder you, but that was not my original intent behind joining the hunt.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “Not every heir within our circles wishes you dead and to take your place. Not every member of the outer city plots the demise of the Hanover’s. I came this year so we might have a moment to speak. The snakes were to gain your attention and to test you.”

  “I have never heard anything more ridiculous!” Arthur exclaimed, genuinely surprised.

  “There is talk you are not like your father. It is said you could lead the city in a way he would never consider.” Marshall’s explanation was spoken slowly, carefully.

  “And this drove you to try to murder me? Because I am a different man, and whoever backs you disapproves of this fact?”

  Marshall fell quiet. His weapons were lowered to the ground, his head tilted towards the sky.

  The sense of being watched or … stalked distracted Arthur once more. He made a show of swinging his axe, as if warming up, and faced the forest. The danger was still one moment, moving the next. It began to shift along the tree line he and Marshall had followed northward.

  “It was not a real attempt on your life,” Marshall spoke finally. “I was certain to be seen leaving your tent by your lapdog. The location of the attempt, less than a day’s ride from the city, was planned in case you reacted as your father would and slayed my men. But you didn’t react as your father would, which is why I have been hoping to speak to you in private. You are not like him.”

  “I am more patient than my father,” Arthur said. He was unusually grateful for the discussion. A battle would find him too distracted by the strange danger to be effective.

  “Some would say more honorable as well. He has alienated many with his corrupt system of justice and unilateral decisions to burn …”

  Arthur tuned out. Marshall was agitated to the point he was starting to yell.

  The hidden danger passed them, headed south, towards the encampment. Whatever or whomever it was, it remained hidden in the forest. The farther away it went, the more the threat faded from Arthur’s awareness, only to be replaced by inexplicable urgency lighting his blood on fire, as if his instincts understood the intentions of a threat he could not see. Arthur tilted his head, unable to make sense of what he felt.

  He thought of Warner at the encampment and planted the butt of his lance in the ground, leaning against it with a frown. This danger could not possibly pose a threat to the contingent of well-armed, experienced Shield soldiers. Ghouls knew to avoid them, and an attack by unfriendly natives was not likely in this location or before the great hunt went underway. Historically, skirmishes with the natives came after the hunt, or in the heat of it, when the chaos was great enough to hide ambushes and attacks. The Shield members killed during the Winter Hunt almost always died during or after the initial attack on the herds. If not for the city’s desperate need for food, Arthur would not be in the wilderness risking his life.

  Further confusing him was the knowledge he had never experienced such a feeling when it came to the natives on any of the five hunts he had participated in.

  The danger tripping his instincts was picked up by his unusual ability and therefore, could not be fully of this world. The only other time he experienced such a confounding jumble of emotions was …

  … the dream.

  Arthur pulled his lance loose and strode back to his horse.

  Marshall trailed off from his tirade before asking, “What are you doing?”

  “Something is amiss. I must return to camp,” Arthur replied. He secured his weapons, alarm shooting through him.

  “At this very moment?”

  Hearing Marshall’s derisive tone, Arthur paused as he reached up to rest his hands on the saddle. “Stay if you like and await me. I will happily kill you upon my return.”

  “Did you listen to anything I said?”

  Arthur had not paid attention to most of what Marshall said, though he heard enough.

  “What you speak of is treason.” Arthur swung up into the saddle. “You wished me dead then decided, because I did not kill you in return, I was somehow interested in hearing what you consider to be my father’s offenses. If he has offended so many people, they can take the matter to his council of advisors.”


  “Your father burns anyone who speaks out against him!”

  “Then I suggest you hold your tongue. Your opinion of my father carries no weight with me.” Arthur turned his horse to the south and squeezed his calves. The gelding burst into a canter.

  Adrenaline spiked within him, and his ears filled with the sound of his beating heart. Urgency turned to desperation, the same he experienced in the dream where he ran from the skinwalker. Arthur leaned forward and urged his horse to run. The danger was gone, too far ahead of him for him to sense. He raced along the tree line, waiting until he was parallel to the encampment before entering the forest, where he was forced to slow.

  The pounding of hooves behind him as his would-be murderer chased him was no match for the blood slamming through his veins and the tiny voice inside screaming at him to hurry.

  The first sign something was very wrong came when he reached the position of the scout stationed the farthest from camp. The gelding shied and stopped so suddenly, Arthur was flung forward in the saddle.

  He murmured to the uneasy horse and patted its neck, searching the darkness for what had spooked him. Not caring who he tipped off, he pulled a portable torch created by one of his father’s scientists and lit it quickly. The brilliant light blinded him. When his eyes adjusted, he was able to see what had startled his horse.

  The scout positioned here had been impaled on a low tree branch. His blank eyes were open, and an expression of terror was frozen on his features. What appeared to be massive claw marks had pierced his winter clothing all the way to his bones, and his insides were exposed. The kill was fresh enough for blood to drip into a pool beneath him.

  For a long moment, Arthur was stuck between reality and the vision in his dreams, between trying to understand if he had interpreted the dream incorrectly and whether this was the same creature – Black Leg – or something different. He had clearly seen Tiana’s frame and the moon, as well as felt the warm-cool breeze of spring in his dream. This was not the right place or time for the skinwalker to appear, but his instincts, his sense of knowing, were the same as when he saw the creature in his dream.