A Royal Craving

A Royal Craving

Elaine White

The right of Elaine White to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, items, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To my parents, who have always supported my writing journey, no matter where it leads or how awkward it gets when I ask for help with the plot.

S
pencer ducked into the doorway of the shop, following the prophetess. He knew he should not be here, but did not care. He had dreams and if no one would treat him like an adult, just because he was different, he would seek his future elsewhere.

The prophetess took her seat at a wooden table and gestured to the chair opposite.

Spencer sat and held out his hand, as per their agreement. She knew he had no money, but had sworn to guide him to his future. Her payment - knowledge she would not share. With no money, he had no choice but to agree. She had not even seemed to notice the awkward cadence of his voice, that his parents often told him about.

“There is life in you,” she said, confusion wrinkling her forehead. “You will die before your twentieth birthday. But you will live a long and prosperous life.” She chuckled.

Spencer frowned; that made no sense, but he had not come to her for sense. He had come for knowledge and was lucky to have been accepted.

The prophetess was the only true seer in the city. She had been prepared to turn him away until he gave his name and she looked into his eyes. Something she saw had persuaded her to take pity on him. It was not a surprise; he and pity were well acquainted.

“Do you see…love?” he asked, risking his pride.

The old hag sneered, implying she knew his other secret. As his parents had warned she would. “Yes. Love for a man and child. But though the child be of your flesh, you must beware. There are two paths before you. Take one and you will find a future of love. Take the other and you shall die in the streets of the city, never knowing adulthood or love,” she said, holding up her finger, in warning to heed her words.

“But, the right road…the one to my dreams…how will I know when I see it?” Spencer persisted, desperate for a better future.

“You will know when you see him.” The hag cackled. “But, be warned. A golden girl will seek to harm you, if you do not have your wits about you,” she said, then let go of his hand and held hers across the table, waiting.

Spencer stared at her hand, turning over her words. A man would show him the right path. That tallied well with his greatest secret.

He was of the wrong persuasion.

While his father talked of him marrying a local girl and having babies with her, his heart would not allow it. He could never love a woman and feared the day when he must tell his parents.

Those of his own persuasion often took up life as a brothel worker, because no gay man had ever been employed in another trade. With his other circumstance, brothel work remained the only viable future he had. But if he could keep his feelings a secret, he could gain employment elsewhere.

The hag snapped her fingers before his eyes, waking him from his thoughts. “I wish a token from you…something you value,” she demanded.

Spencer had nothing to give. He did not own any trinkets or jewellery, with which to pay her. “I have nothing.”

“Give me your hand,” she persisted, with a stone cold look that frightened him.

He obeyed, watching as she pulled a pin from her hair and stabbed his fingertip. He yelped, but knew better than to question her right to his blood. He had been foolish enough to make a deal with a prophetess.

She put the pin to her lips and licked the tip, grinning a terrifying approval. “That is payment enough,” she said, letting go of his hand. “I know your fate. When faced with a two pronged pathway, think about your dreams and you will make the right choice,” she swore, with a lightness that made him wonder.

Did this prophetess want him to live his dreams? What gain would she gather from that?

Dazed and confused, he left the shop and swayed, as he faced the sunlight. Something painful throbbed behind his eyes and he stumbled into the doorway.

Spencer gripped the wood, holding on for purchase. A stabbing pain cut into the middle of his left palm; the hand he had given the prophetess.

His whole body shook as he lifted his palm and gazed at the cross carved into his skin. It bled as freshly as a new wound, but that was impossible. The hag had not touched his palm.

Spencer gripped the bottom of his tunic top, wrapping it around his palm, until the bleeding stopped. Then he looked around for some form of treatment.

A salt seller across the road stood out as his only option and a horse trough nearby supplied a counter-treatment. He made his choice and rushed over.

He waited until the seller had turned to serve a customer, then shoved his left hand into the barrel of salt.

He bit his lip, to stifle the cries of pain and quickly removed his hand to run to the trough. He sighed in relief, as his hand made contact with the cold water.

He had learned his lesson. He would never make a deal with a prophetess again.

Spencer tossed and turned in his sleep. He was surrounded by red and his teeth hurt. They pulsed and ached in a way he did not understand. Yet he knew the blood-red of his dreams to be the cause.

A baby cried in the distance, waking him.

He sat up, sweating and shaking, as he realised the importance of his dream. He did not know what it meant, but something dark approached and a child's life hung in the balance.

Had not the prophetess told him so, three days ago?

One road led to the child's life and the other to a future where the child never existed.

Spencer ran his hands over his face, trying to clear his thoughts. He was not supposed to go into the city alone, but when he heard rumours about the Vampire King visiting, he wanted to discover the truth.

His parents had warned against accepting 'charity' from a prophetess; they knew everything and were dangerous to those with a secret. Shunned by the villagers, he should have been discarded at birth, for the troubles he would cause. But, for whatever reason, his parents had kept him. He should not have risked their sacrifice and struggles by speaking to the woman, but his curiosity always got the better of him.

Spencer slammed his fist on the bed.

Lifting his left hand, he stared at the cross in his palm. The salt wash had not healed the wound, but it had stopped the bleeding. Still, it flared an angry shade of red.

Thankfully, he had learned to keep quiet, when in pain. If he had not, the salt bath would have had him arrested for disturbance of the peace and theft. A few salt grains were still lodged in the open wound; it had never healed properly, but it did not hurt. Would it be a curse or a gift, from the prophetess?

Spencer threw the covers back and headed to the window of his room. It was light outside the curtains, just after daybreak. He left his room and carried out his ablutions in the household bathroom.

Returning to his bedroom to dress, he found a hole in the knee of his good trousers and a tear forming at the back of the other leg. They were the best of a bad lot. His tunic top was in better condition, except for the new blood stain on the bottom left hand side.

The festival took place today. The earlier he got into the city the better.

Spencer left his room and headed downstairs, where he found his hat and jacket in the hallway. Donning both, he picked up the basket nearby and left the house, walking the three miles to the city.

He thought of the prophetess and her words. She had promised a life of love and children, with another man. He wanted that life badly and would give anything to get it.

He had survived a visit to the most powerful prophetess in the city. If he could do that, he could be smart and careful enough to choose the path that led to his dreams.

Even at fourteen he knew what he wanted. He had succeeded in his first step: to get to the festival before opening. The sellers were still setting up their stalls when he arrived.

The rumours had been rife for weeks that, on the day the King came to visit, free food would be given from every stall. It was an opportunity not to be missed for those families without other means of getting fresh foods.

A city guard eyed him as he passed, clearly displeased with his prompt arrival. But as long as he behaved, he could stay out of trouble.

Spencer tipped his hat, in a promise to do just that. But he was not the problem. A scrawny fourteen-year-old could be mugged, beaten or killed for a basket full of food.

He did not intend to be one of them.

Spencer did not get far before the seedier part of the city caught up with him. Not a city man, he knew Lafayette from his home town of Ruiseart. A braggart and a thief, his finer qualities still marked him as evil.

“Well well,” the man said, nudging his cap up from his forehead. “Fancying seeing you here, little 'un. And no folks about?” he asked, looking around for his parents.

This was the last person Spencer wanted to meet near a dark alley. Lafayette owned two male brothels and lived in Ruiseart; close enough to torment him whenever he ventured through the streets. Every step became an opportunity for Lafayette to get his hands on him.

The thirty-year-old man did not know Spencer liked boys, but would not care. He wanted a young worker to draw the punters in and too many people had told Spencer he was attractive, for one so young.

“Mister Lafayette, I am here to gather food for my family.” Spencer stayed calm on the outside, though his heart beat an erratic drum inside his chest. He forced a smile and tried to be polite, hoping not to anger the vile man.

“If you were to work for me, boyo,” Lafayette cooed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You would not need to wait for a festival, to eat well. I'd have you eating pork and potatoes, drinking wine every other night. Why not work for me?” he asked, pleadingly.

A hand caressed his cheek, turning him to face the leering man beside him.

Spencer's insides crawled, in response to the touch.

“You know there is no other work for you. With your condition, my pet,” Lafayette smirked. “The only work you're any good for is lying on your back. Come with me…I'll show you things you never thought you'd see,” he promised, making his insides shake with shame and anger.

Spencer froze in fear.

Lafayette could expose him as something that would ruin his career options, until the only choice would be to join his brothel.

Spencer refused to give up. He grabbed the man's wrist, pulling it from his face.

Lafayette allowed it, with a smile that said they both understood who had the power between them.

“I am sorry, Mister Lafayette, but you know I cannot. And if I were to tell a city guard what you had proposed, they would not be happy.” Spencer reminded him of the dangers of his profession.

Gay brothels were tolerated, while the council members and city guards frequented them, but Lafayette had other charges against him. Trying to recruit a boy under fifteen was currently illegal, though that age lessened with each year.

Lafayette scowled, as a hand appeared on his shoulder. They both jumped from surprise and looked up at the owner of the hand.

Spencer nearly dropped his basket when he saw the Vampire King, Prosper, standing beside the man he feared most in the world.

“Leave or suffer my anger,” the King demanded, with eyes burning the same blood red of his dreams.

“The King of Vampires,” Spencer muttered, too shocked to make sense of the sudden sensations coursing through his body.

Prosper turned a gentle smile on him and his insides shook, but this could not be fear…this felt far more terrifying.

The King's face remained in shadow, both from the hat dipped over the left side of his face and the enclosed alley Spencer had passed through, trying to avoid the gathering crowds.

“The…what?” Lafayette asked, with a look of shock. He took off toward the festival crowds, leaving him alone with the King, who made his heart stutter and caused the oddest sensation in his belly.

“T-thank y-you, Master.” Spencer bobbed his head in gratitude, stumbling over his words as he stared at this powerful man. He hoped he did not think his speech too uncouth for his Kingly ears.

Prosper touched Spencer's chin with the tips of two fingers, tilting his head up, then let his eyes walk over him.

Spencer was captivated, as tingles followed the path of the King's gaze.

“Are you harmed?” the King asked, shocking him. This wonderful man, a vampire and a King, cared for his well being.

Spencer shook his head, incapable of words.

Prosper's thumb traced a caress over his cheekbone, making his eyelids flutter at the tender touch. He wanted to close his eyes to it, to his first caress from a man, but he refused. He wanted to look at this man.

“Run along home,” the King said, disappointing him.

He wanted to stay, to bask in the presence of power and strength, to inhale that masculine scent, but nodded his obedience and reluctantly turned away.

Spencer walked a few paces before looking back to find Prosper still watching him. It made his nerves shake, but, as he turned toward home, he caught a glimpse of Lafayette waiting in a nearby alleyway.

Terrified Lafayette lingered for him, after the King told him to leave, Spencer ran for home. He had food in his basket to feed his family for a week. And, if not mistaken, he had just met the man who would lead him to his destiny.