Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming) (11 page)

A soft sound reached his ears like a
particle of dust floating through the air. It may have been a whisper of noise,
but he heard it as loud and clear as an explosion.

Ryon threw the blade. The knife spun end
over end, flying with speed and power. He held his breath and waited for it,
hoped like hell for it…

KRACK!

The final bullet discharged. The barrel
pointed somewhere in his direction. But the messenger, never too young to die,
grunted. A wet sound. Blood. Took the knife to the chest. The blade embedded
deeply, red ooze beginning to trickle from the wound.

The messenger stumbled and gasped,
coming clear into the moonlight rays.

A stunned expression affixed his
ghost-white face. He wouldn’t know it but he looked how most did when they were
struck with the realization they were about to die. They had only moments to
regret. To wish they could take it all back.

But it was over. Done.

He wasn’t coming back from this.

Eyes glossed over with death as the
messenger’s body slumped to the ground. Gun forgotten in a hand that could no
longer lift to squeeze the trigger.

Ryon stood, lifted his shirt and peeled
open his overcoat to see the damage done. The bullet hole looked nasty; it’d
ripped apart his skin. The jagged hole was already swelling and beet red from
inflammation.

Lord have mercy, it hurt. Grimacing,
sweat beginning to trickle down his temples, he knelt at the messenger. His
eyes were still open but now they didn’t blink as the life had passed from him.

A cold sensation settled over Ryon. It
didn’t feel good to do what he just did. He’d killed before; of course he had.
He’d fought the Avagarians in war for years. But he’d never had to kill one of
his own before, nor someone so young. The messenger had to be in his early
twenties.

Shame and guilt and worse feelings
filled him. But he knelt by the messenger and checked to ensure his pulse was
no more.

It was.

Ryon grabbed the boy’s pistol and
pocketed it, then he left to see the king.

Someone had some serious explaining to
do.

Chapter 10

The
king’s mistress was there to open the door for Ryon at the king’s chamber.
Lysse only arched a curious eyebrow at the blood soaking his shirt where the bullet
was festering.

“Oh my, don’t you look worse for the
wear. If you have need, I am pretty good with a stitch. ”

“Let him in, Lysse.”

The beautiful, cold woman whose motives
Ryon did not trust for a second, stepped aside so he could enter. Lyle sat at
his desk scribbling furiously in a notebook. A smoking cigarette dangled from
his pinched lips and his hair was ruffled and unkempt. He wore only underwear
and his royal cape from earlier in the evening. Judging from the looks of
things, Lyle had had a taste of Lysse after the celebration tonight then had
gotten to work.

Lyle took several minutes before he
sighed in resignation and finally looked up at Ryon. Ryon had been waiting
patiently for his “friend” to notice him.

Lyle blinked, taking in the blood. “What
happened?”

Ryon dropped the royal missive on the
desk. “Did you send this to me?”

Lyle didn’t even reach to pick it up,
didn’t spare it a glance at all. “Seeing as I didn’t send you any missives
today, my answer is no. Still, let me read it.” He opened the scroll.

Ryon was acutely aware of Lysse
listening with interest. “Send your hag away.” His patience was gone. His shirt
was soaked with blood. He’d been fucking shot and dangers were more abundant
than ever. Not just for him, but for Penelope too.

Lysse sucked in a hostile breath.
“Excuse me?”

Ryon didn’t deign to answer. That really
made her angry. He thought she might fly at him in a fit of rage, but instead
she lifted her chin and grinned. Next, she did the unthinkable, and pulled at
the stays at the back of her gown. The dress sagged around her bosom. If she
let her arms drop to her sides the dress would fall. Did she really think that
her feminine “charms” would sway his disgust for her? She moved to disrobe when
Lyle held up his hand.

“That’ll be all, Lysse. I’ll call you
later.”

Her mouth formed a petulant pout,
irritation flaring in her cold eyes. “But, milord, I wanted to stay with you
tonight.” So many promises hung in her words.

Ryon wanted to puke.

“Tomorrow,” Lyle said, finality in his
voice.

Fighting a sneer, Lysse huffed out of
his apartment, slamming the door as she went.

“Not very calm, but her wits are
impressive.”

“By wits, I assume you mean tits,” Ryon
replied dryly.

Lyle shrugged. “Wits, tits—either are
impressive really. Especially in combination.” He tossed the scroll back on the
desk. “I didn’t send that nor did I write it. Though someone’s been studying my
handwriting because it’s awfully similar.” He walked to the door and called
forth a guard to fetch a doctor.

“I didn’t think you did write it. Of
course, I didn’t discover that until
after
I’d been shot.” Ryon was no
threat to Lyle and they both knew it. Besides, if the king wanted him dead, he
wouldn’t hire some young punk to do it. He’d have a trained assassin from his own
personal guard do it quietly in his sleep, probably with a deep gash across the
throat leaving him to choke on his own blood.

Morbid thoughts tonight
.

I
have
been
shot.

It was a mood killer. Especially coming
down from the high he’d felt from being with Penelope today.

“Welcome to the party, my friend.
Someone wants you dead,” Lyle said, almost sounding happy at the news. He even
dared to laugh at the situation.

Ryon growled, then stumbled into a chair
before he collapsed. “You make jokes about me being shot.” Honestly, he wasn’t
really mad at his friend; it felt good being ribbed by him. Better than being
dead anyway.

“They must not have been very good at
their job. I take it he’s no longer living then?”

A nod. “You’ll find him in Karl
Christenson’s old cabin.”

“I’ll have that taken care of straight
away. I suppose the next question is, who wants you dead?”

Ryon didn’t hesitate. He already knew
who was behind this. No one else would dare or be so cowardly as to hire
someone to kill him.

“Patrick Gaines. The duke.”

Lyle chuckled as he tossed back a gulp
of wine. “Eh, he wants my job. I’d sign it over to him if I didn’t think he’d
ruin the kingdom. And perhaps if I didn’t hate him. He wants the pomp, but not
all the work involved. Besides, he’s not king. I am.”

Ryon sensed there was more to the story
than that. But he wouldn’t press his friend.

“I’m happy you’re enjoying this so much,
however, I’ve been shot and am currently bleeding to death.”

“Ah, speaking off.” A rapt knock at the
door and Lyle called out for the person to enter. A medic stepped forward and
started with ordering Ryon to lie on the ground.

“Pull up your shirt,” the medic ordered,
her eyes busy and professional. She was older with a head full of graying hair
and sharp eyes and steady hands. She got to work on the wound. “I’ll have to
pull the bullet out. It’s stuck near the back.”

So that’s what I’ve been feeling.

“Of course you do,” he said instead. He
grimaced, the pain boiling in his gut like acid.
Damn
.

Lyle stood over him smoking another
cigarette, a goblet of wine in his other hand. He looked like a regular
debaucher. Bastard.

“Want me to bring ole’ Patrick in for
questioning?” Lyle asked casually.

Questioning probably meant something
closer to interrogation to Lyle. “No.”

“And why not? You think he’s conspiring
to kill you, right?”

The medic kept her expression neutral as
they debated.

“If I’m correct, then he’ll be at the
Claiming tomorrow. I’ll defeat him in the ring.”

Lyle looked skeptical. “Even after
getting shot?”

Ryon steeled his face, hardened inside.
“Especially after getting shot.” That bastard was his.

Chapter 11

The day of Penelope’s Claiming was
finally here.

If all went according to plan, she and
Ryon would be embracing by nightfall, as intimate as a man and woman could be.
They stood to pass far more than a physical barrier that lie between them. The
Claiming would further establish the bond that had been growing between. No
matter how fervently she’d tried to deny it.

She thought she’d feel excitement,
refreshed and ready to watch Ryon challenge others for her hand in marriage. If
there were any others. The Duke of Gaines had made his intentions more than
clear on one occasion, but still, the duke seemed fickle. Who knew what was on
his mind. Ryon, on the other hand, loved her. There was little doubt in
Penelope’s mind that before the night was over, she would be claimed by Ryon,
and fall asleep in his wonderful arms.

Sleeping in his arms? She could roll her
eyes at her wistfulness. Already she was romanticizing the event. She couldn’t
help it. She felt love-sick. Drunk on passion and thoughts of Ryon, and of
their future. For the first time, she was beginning to see more to Ryon than
she had thought, which made her respect and admiration for him and what he did
for their people, expand by the minute. Like a sprouting weed that refused to
die.

The time was here for her to go to the
arena where the Claiming ceremony would take place. She would stand at a podium
near the king as the contest began. Any contestants wishing to fight for the
right to claim her as wife would come forth.

Ryon would be one of those stepping
forward. For her. The anxious nerves that fretted around in her belly did
nothing to ease her anxiety. What if he lost? What if other spectators tried to
fight for her? There was so much that could happen, so much out of her control.
She could do nothing but play her part today. Like a role that must be filled.

One thing she knew perfectly. Ryon would
fight for her, and Ryon would not lose. Tonight she would be his and he would
be hers. Tonight they became one. Years of passion and quarreling combusting
during one magnificent event.

Penelope followed the written
instructions given to her by the king’s steward, searching for her room at the
arena. The whole kingdom seemed to be in attendance, their cheers and shouts of
celebration rang through the hallways.

Her sisters, Priscilla and Phoebe, were
of great help that morning, dressing her in the ceremonial snowy, linen gown.
She looked beautiful in it. Along with that she wore a braid of baby’s breath
flowers around the crown of her head, and, strapped to her thigh was the
ceremonial, silver dagger that had been her mothers. The woman always wore it
during the Claiming, in an act of submission, after the male fought for her,
she would hand him her blade. An act of trust.

“You’ll be turning heads in this!”
Phoebe gushed.

Priscilla, watching from nearby, nodded
hauntingly. “You look like mom.”

Their parents had perished in an Avagarian
attack years ago. The pain still lingered in her heart thinking about her
mother and father.

“You should smile,” Phoebe was saying.
“You’re going to be the first of the Farris sisters to settle down and marry.”

“Yes, well excuse me for not leaping for
joy. I didn’t think I’d be the first,” Penelope admitted, fiddling with the
soft material of her gown.

No, she wasn’t leaping for joy, but she
was looking forward to the Claiming far more than she’d expected.

But something bigger had been nagging her.

She had yet to see or hear from Ryon.

Why’d he have to leave in such a rush
last night? Something had to be wrong. In fact, something
was
wrong. She
could feel it in her gut as certain as she knew
s
he loved Ryon Ward.

She slept fretfully last night after
Ryon left with that messenger in such a rush. She’d flopped side to side for
most of the night, drifting in and out of dreams of her running from a beastly
creature she couldn’t see. It’d shaken her up. In fact, she still didn’t feel
fully back to her senses. Some niggling warning lingered in the back of her
mind like poison.

She didn’t know what it was, but she
knew one thing for certain.

Something was wrong and it had to do
with Ryon.

*  *  *

The Duke of Gaines marched down the
stone corridor of the arena with determined strides. Peasants and the like
rushed to move out of his way, lest he shove them aside with his hurried pace.