The Eye of the Wolf (20 page)

          Just as Mikayla
opened her mouth to ask Victoria about the artwork she had seen produced by the
Crown Princess, the doors to the receiving room were thrown open. The heavy
wood banged against the wall. All heads swiveled to look at the dark, dangerous
man who strode into the hall.

          Kankaredes.

          Antonio Kankaredes
strode across the room in long, purposeful strides. He stopped at the edge of
the settee, bent, and whispered in the Princess Royale’s ear. Elizabeth
remained impassive to the sudden interruption, but before he was through
whispering, her eyes were down-cast and a tear trembled down her cheek. She
nodded her head and dismissed Kankaredes with a single flick of her wrist.
Kankaredes bowed slightly and walked to the door; he did not exit, but waited,
imposing and cold.

          Elizabeth
swallowed and wiped the tear that rolled down her fine cheek, leaving a trail
through the faint make-up, away. She took Victoria’s hand in her own and stood.
“I apologize, Dr. Knight, but we must cut this interview short.”

Mikayla rose as the two ladies moved away from the
sitting area. Elizabeth turned at the edge of the carpet and looked at Mikayla
coldly. “Now you will have more to write about in your history book other than
just the nine hundred years of continuous rule. Now you will be able to write
about the funeral rites of King James and the coronation of my husband, Prince
Andrew.” She bowed her head slightly and led Victoria away towards Kankaredes
who waited still near the door. Elizabeth slumped slightly and accepted the
help of Kankaredes as she stepped from the room. Victoria stood straight, tall,
beautiful. No tears trembled on her lashes, and a slight smirk flirted briefly
with the corners of her lips before disappearing into the appropriate mourning
look. Her walk was purposeful as she followed her mother and the king’s most
trusted advisor down the hall to the family’s quarters where her grandfather
would be laid out for the mourners and prepared for his funeral rites.

Mikayla sank into the chair, stunned. She had known
that the king was very ill, but it had never occurred to her that he would die
while she was on the island. She had always assumed he would recover or he
would die following her leave. The idea that she would witness a coronation was
not part of her initial plan, and despite how sad the world would be to hear of
James’s passing, Mikayla couldn’t help but understand what a change her future
had just made.

Her mind flitted briefly around Victoria’s response,
the brief smile that had danced on her lips, unable to grasp the meaning hidden
there. She was drawn from her thoughts as Dejeune moved restlessly from his own
chair.

Dejeune stood beside Mikayla’s chair, his hand
resting on the back, waiting for the royal family to depart before escorting
her back to the house below the Secluded City. He watched Kankaredes lead the
Crown Princess and the Princess Royale from the room. His hand trembled
slightly. The wheels had been set in motion for the next phase. The death of
the old king was the signal, the signal that the Wolf was waiting, planning his
next strike, planning his next move. Hunting.

Will climbed out of the Jeep like a man lost. He
stumbled through the pouring rain and booming thunder to the edge of the cliff
and stared down into the darkness of the foliage below. Tears coursed down his
face and soaked the collar of his shirt. It didn’t matter. It was already soaked
through from the storm that had arrived to herald the passing of an era.

The king was dead.

An inhuman scream ripped itself from his lungs and
was thrown into the wind. Carried away into a world beyond him, beyond his
grasp. He sank to his knees at the edge of the precipice and felt the rough
gravel and mud dig into the knees of his khakis. There was pain as one sharp
rock dug through the heavy cotton, but he was oblivious. He was beyond caring.

The king was dead.

Murdered while he slept.

Will reached into his pocket and pulled out the
carefully embroidered handkerchief. The small letters shown silver in the
fading light. He unrolled it in his hand and allowed the syringe to fall into
his hands. Rain droplets bounced off of the glass. Lightning streaked across
the sky lighting the cliff for the briefest of moments. He stared at it. His
eyes never blinked. His grief never wavered. The murder weapon lay in his hand.
Once it had held a poison that had been used to end an already tortured, dying
life. It had held a poison that had been used to cause a dying man great pain
and suffering in his final moments of life.

The king was dead.

Murdered.

The mantra ran through his head. Echoing. Taunting
him.

Will took one last glance at the murder weapon in
his hand and flung it from the cliff into the stormy darkness below. It was
gone. Hidden from the world. No one must ever know that the king had been
murdered while he slept, murdered by the hand he had trusted the most.

Will stood from his place on the ground, afraid
suddenly of the dark, afraid of what had come over his home. It was no longer a
sunny place for frolicking in the surf. It was now the home of a murderer. The
storm that drowned the island was a fitting reminder of the evil the island
held.

Will jumped back into his Jeep and rocketed down the
hill into the rain and gloom. Tears streamed down his face and cries of anger
and grief lodged in his throat. He had to get away, but he didn’t know where to
go, not with the storm raging both inside and out.

My father is a vicious ruler. He has no love for
the people, and the people have no love for him. But never would I have
believed what the people in the village markets are saying. Never in my life
could I have believed that my father, King Richard, could ever take the life of
another, except in battle.

Today, as I wandered in the marketplace,
searching for the freshest fish and cleanest mountain berries, I heard some
people speaking in the beer garden. They were drunk; it was obvious, and normally,
I would have walked away. After all, it is unseemly for the Dauphin of Amor to
be eavesdropping on the drunken ramblings of the commoners, but their words
stopped me. They were speaking of my long dead grandfather, a man I never knew,
but a man I admire. They remarked how grand of a king was my grandsire, King
Henry. How proud he was and how deftly he led his knights into battle, not only
in the Moorish lands of Jerusalem but also here, against the barbarians. He was
a grand man whose life was cut short by a tragic fall from the cliffs where now
the walls of the future Secluded City are being constructed. The spires of the
castle my father is building for my grandmother, the beautiful Queen Elena, are
reaching into the sky as I write this. It was at this point in the conversation
that my attention was gained for the men in the beer garden suddenly began
whispering that King Henry, my grandsire, hadn’t fallen but had been pushed. He
had been murdered by the one person he should have trusted the most, his own
son, the light of his life, my father, King Richard.

I fled from the market place at the ill words
spoken against my father. In Amor, it is blaspheme to speak against the king,
and I should have reported the men for their words, but I was struck dumb. Fear
courses through me even now as I pen these words. Is it possible? Is it true? I
know that my father is a hard man, but he is my father. It is wrong to think
evil thoughts of one’s own father, but how can I not, when I have grown to see
all of the harm he and his minions have wrought on this land.

If this is true, if my father murdered my
grandfather, then it is my destiny to correct the damage my father has caused.
It is my destiny to bring lasting peace to Amor. I must…

The pounding on the door jolted Mikayla back into
the present. Her head jerked up and wide eyes looked towards the front door,
hidden in the gloom brought by the storm. She waited a moment, allowing her
heartbeat to slow to its normal rhythm, allowing her breathing to slow before
rising slowly. Malachi’s words echoed in her mind, where she had been lost in
his medieval world. She picked up the lantern that had illuminated the ancient
pages of King Malachi’s diary and wove her way from the dining nook to the
front door. The house was cast into shade by the flickering candlelight, the
only light left since the storm had knocked out the electric power for the
entire island.

The pounding on the door was incessant, never
ceasing. Then, she heard her name called over the sound of the winds. She
stepped carefully over her wet shoes where she had kicked them off upon
entering the house just after the gale had let loose its fury. She had been
caught on the street with her camera and recorder by the blast, unaware of the
nature of tropical storms in that region of the Mediterranean as spring drew
closer. The island was immersed in its three days of mourning, which preceded
the funeral of the king. Each house was decked in black crepe to signify the
sadness of the loss. Each hour the church bells dolled out the mourning tones
reminding her of the poem “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” A sad, mournful sound that
struck her heart. There had been no people on the streets and all of the
restaurants, except those at the resorts along the far coasts, had closed to
demonstrate respect for the king who had passed on.

“Mikayla!” Will’s voice called through the door,
fear and anger laced through that one word, her name. His fist pounded on the
door, threatening to create a hole if she didn’t open it soon.

Mikayla wrenched open the door and felt the force of
the blast of icy, wet air that waited for her on the porch. There, in a faint
pool of light cast by her glowing lantern, Will waited, soaked to the skin. His
gray eyes were dark as the storm, but there was a bright smile on his face
despite the blonde hair that was plastered to his head like a really bad
toupee. His smile betrayed the fury that consumed him from within.

“Hey.”

Mikayla lowered the lantern she had held up in order
to see his face better. “Hello.” She was irritated with him and wouldn’t allow
the image of him soaked to the skin like a drowned rat diminish that annoyance.
“What are you doing here, Will?”

Will looked over her shoulder into the room with its
flickering candlelight that blew around in the wind from the storm. “I know the
power is out.” He shrugged his shoulders in an impatient gesture. Then,
surprising them both, he took her free hand and kissed it lightly. “I was
worried about you.” 

It was a simple statement, one that shouldn’t have
tugged at her heartstrings so, but it did, and it melted the inner tension she
had felt for the past few days, wondering where he had been and why he hadn’t
stopped by after the tour. Why he hadn’t even bothered to send a note to say he
wasn’t coming to work in the following days. She knew she shouldn’t have cared
so much. It was dangerous to care so much, but it was there, hidden inside of
her. She couldn’t deny that a part of her wanted him to care for her as much as
she was beginning to care for him. He wouldn’t ever care for her though, not in
the way she desired him so she pulled her hand free and rested it on the door,
not opening it any further, not allowing him in. Forming an imaginary wall that
she should never have allowed to diminish. Forcing him to stand in the freezing
rain that pelted him from behind.

“I’m fine. You needn’t have worried.” Her tone was
stiff, afraid that if she relaxed just a little, those feelings of inadequacy
that had arisen after he had disappeared would reappear again. She didn’t look
into his eyes, afraid of getting lost in that sea, afraid more than anything of
the power he seemed to have over her.

Will pushed against the door and met no resistance
even though her eyes were hard, cold, and she stood straight in the doorway
denying him that need he wanted her to feel, a need that matched his own. He
stepped inside, not waiting for an invitation, and pushed it shut behind him.
The storm was outside, raging against the night, but it felt as if it were
raging within him. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t come here. He had
promised himself that he wouldn’t turn to her. He was vulnerable, and he wanted
to be comforted. He wanted to be comforted by Mikayla, to feel her arms wrap
around him and to lose himself in her. He knew he wanted her and that was why
he had promised himself he wouldn’t turn to her, but he hadn’t been able to
control himself. He had driven home and then past his home to arrive at her
doorstep. A force beyond himself had forced him out of the vehicle and to her door.

Now, he stood on her rug, dripping and angry at the
world that dared to interfere with his life. A tempest swirled within him, but
it was beyond his control despite the valiant efforts he made to turn away from
what he felt inside. He wanted to be lost in her. Her scent. Her eyes. Her
voice. He wanted to be lost and forget the world outside for just one moment.
He needed her like he had never needed anything before. He remembered falling
into their kiss and wanted to feel that again. He wanted to feel that
suspension of time and to be lost, even if she would have him for it later. And
he knew she would have him; there was no way to prevent it.

Mikayla looked at him, standing on her rug, watching
her with dark, wild eyes, emotions flitting over his face as water dripped off
of him. Suddenly, she was afraid. She had never been afraid of him before, but
now, she was afraid. Afraid of herself. Afraid of the emotions swirling inside
of her. Afraid of him and the sudden need that she could read on his face and
in his eyes. There was danger here. A danger she didn’t understand, but a
danger she would have avoided in any other situation, if it were any other man.