The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (29 page)

Across the taproom, the door to the street opened. A man and woman entered, pushing wet hoods back from their faces.

The woman drew Harkeld’s attention. Tall, with coal-black hair and dark eyes. Definitely beddable. But already in the company of a man. Harkeld returned his attention to the board game. He’d just won the third round when a contralto voice said, “May I join you?”

He glanced up. The black-haired woman stood there. She was even more handsome in close proximity, eyes bold, lips red and sultry. “May I join you?” she asked again. “You look like you have the right idea for such an evening.”

“Please do.” Harkeld shifted along the bench.

The woman sat beside him. “My name is Broushka.”

“Flin,” he said. “And Justen.”

Justen nodded and set the board up again.

“Would you like some ale?”

“No, thank you. My brother came here to get drunk. I came for the company.” She glanced at him sideways. Was that an invitation in her smile?

They played another round. Harkeld was intensely aware of the warmth of Broushka’s thigh against his. Several times her fingers brushed his when they both reached for the same piece. Her laugh each time was low and rich.

Justen jumped down the board, capturing two pieces.

“I think we should play that one.” Broushka reached across him. Her breast pressed, soft and full, against Harkeld’s arm. His throat went dry. He thought about the wide bed upstairs.

Justen won that round.

“You have a room here?” Broushka asked, while the armsman reset the board.

“Yes.”

Her lips tilted in a smile. “Shall we?”

“Uh... your brother? Won’t he mind...?”

“My brother is not my keeper,” Broushka said, standing. “Shall we?”

“Excuse us, Justen.”

The armsman didn’t look disapproving. He did roll his eyes though, as Harkeld slid out from the bench.

He guided Broushka across the taproom, his hand lightly on her waist. They climbed the stairs to the bedchambers. Hew followed, his claws making small
clack clack
sounds on the wooden risers. Broushka looked back and frowned. “Is that your dog?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like dogs.”

“He’s old,” Harkeld said, opening the door to his bedchamber. “Toothless. He’ll just lie out in the corridor and sleep.”

He ushered Broushka into the room and shut the door.

“P
ETRUS,
” C
ORA SAID.

Petrus sighed.
Rut it
. Just how he wanted to spend his evening. He stood. Across the table he met Justen’s—Ebril’s—eyes and got a rueful grimace in return.

He left the taproom, climbed the stairs, and stripped off his clothes in his bedchamber. He shifted into a lizard and scuttled under the door and back along the corridor. Hew, his ears at a disgruntled angle, lay in front of Prince Harkeld’s room. He shifted his tail, letting Petrus squeeze beneath the door.

The prince and Broushka stood beside one of the beds. Broushka laughingly fended off Prince Harkeld’s attempt to unlace her bodice. “No, no, you first.”

Prince Harkeld yielded to her request. He shrugged out of his jerkin and pulled his shirt over his head.

Petrus heaved a lizard-sized sigh and climbed one of the walls while the prince stripped, Broushka helping, murmuring, laughing.

By the time he found a good vantage point, the prince was naked and Broushka’s bodice was unlaced. Broushka ran her hands up the prince’s chest, then slid them low, to his groin. She began to tease him with her fingers, stroking, caressing.

Petrus looked away.
Great. Just rutting great
. How long would this take? It clearly wasn’t going to be a quick five minute tup. The woman wasn’t even undressed yet.

Prince Harkeld uttered a choked scream.

Petrus jerked his head around. He saw Broushka take a half-step back, saw the prince collapse to the floor.

Broushka reached beneath her skirt. She knelt swiftly at the prince’s side, thrusting a knife under his jaw, the blade piercing his skin. “Your money. Where is it?”

Petrus launched himself from the wall, grabbed his magic, shifted into himself. He landed hard on hands and knees behind Broushka.

Her head snapped round. She uttered a hoarse shriek.

Petrus hauled her away from the prince, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her knife arm. The woman fought with the ferocity of a wild animal, kicking, biting, slashing with her knife. Petrus released her hair and hooked his arm around her throat. By the All-Mother, she was going to slice him with that knife if he couldn’t choke her into submission—

The door burst open.

Petrus spun around, struggling to overpower Broushka.

Frane and Gerit barreled into the room, wrestling with a huge black-bearded man. Behind them, Rand seized the man’s neck, concentration fierce on his face.

The man kicked, his teeth bared in rage, and collapsed.

“Murderer!” Broushka shrieked. Her struggles intensified.

Rand strode forward, his expression implacable, almost frightening, and reached for Broushka’s neck. The woman fought with panicked strength to free herself. Petrus hung on grimly. Broushka gave a final desperate kick and went limp in his arms.

“Did you kill her?” Petrus asked, shocked.

Rand shook his head. He pushed past Petrus and knelt beside the prince.

Their whole party was crammed into the bedchamber. “Hew, stay outside,” Cora ordered.

The dog backed out of the room. Innis, white-faced, closed the door. “What happened?”

“Did he attack her?” Katlen demanded.

“
She
attacked
him
.” Petrus lowered Broushka to the ground.

“For the bounty?” Cora said sharply. “She knew who he was?”

Petrus shook his head. “Robbery. She was after money.” He turned and crouched alongside Rand. The healer’s hands were at the prince’s throat, stemming the flow of blood.

“What did she do to him?” Rand asked. “He’s in a lot of pain.”

“I didn’t see, but at a guess... grabbed his balls and twisted.”

Rand grunted. He released Prince Harkeld’s throat and began to examine his groin. “Innis, the throat’s yours.”

Innis knelt by the prince’s head. Her fingers pressed the wound closed.

Petrus glanced back. The black-bearded man lay face-down on the floor. Gerit and Frane were belting his arms together behind his back while Katlen searched him. She pulled a skewer-sharp knife from one of his boots. Justen was holding Broushka’s body to the floor. Cora bound the woman’s hands together. “I’d check her for more weapons,” Petrus said.

Cora nodded.

Petrus looked back at the prince. The pallor of his face was frightening. He seemed barely conscious. Each breath he took was wheezing, agonized.
He’s hurt badly
.

“One of his testicles is ruptured,” Rand said.

The muscles in Petrus’s stomach clenched. No wonder the prince had screamed.

“Help me get him on the bed.”

Prince Harkeld roused as they lifted him. He made an animal-like sound of agony. His body convulsed. “He’s going to vomit!” Innis cried.

Vomit the prince did, emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor. Petrus grimaced and stood back.

The sound of the prince’s retching was uncomfortably like sobbing. Petrus’s revulsion became pity.
Poor bastard,
he thought, helping to pick the prince up and lay him on the bed. Prince Harkeld was shivering, sweating, bloodlessly pale. Now that he’d vomited, he’d slipped back into semi-consciousness.

“Can I help?” Petrus asked. “I’m not much of a healer, but I have a little skill.”

Rand shook his head.

Petrus turned to Cora. “How did you know we needed help? Did you hear us?”

“Through that din downstairs? No.” Cora fished a knife from Broushka’s boot. “When that one left the taproom”—a jerk of her thumb indicated the black-bearded man—“Rand was worried something was wrong. It seemed prudent to check.”

Petrus looked down at Broushka. “How long will they stay unconscious?”

“Not long,” Rand said. “Frane, come here.” He yielded his place at the bed to Frane and crouched alongside Broushka. His fingers probed the woman’s throat, paused, pressed. An expression of concentration furrowed his brow.

“What did you do?” Petrus asked when Rand removed his fingers.

“Slowed the flow of blood to the brain.”

“I didn’t know healers could do that,” Petrus said, disturbed.

“It’s misuse of healing magic,” Rand said flatly. “It’s dangerous. You can kill someone this way.” He raised his voice. “If I ever catch Frane or Innis trying this, I’ll flay them.”

At the bed, Frane’s gaze flicked to Rand. His expression was sober. He nodded.

Rand crouched alongside the black-bearded man and took a grip on his neck. The man stirred, then subsided into unconsciousness again.

“There. They’re both out for a few more minutes.”

“What made you think something was wrong?” Petrus asked.

“A nod and a smirk.” Rand nudged the man with the toe of his boot. “Between the tapster and this one, just before he headed up the stairs. I’d say our two friends are here on the tapster’s say-so. He probably thought we looked like good targets for this ruse.”

“He was correct,” Katlen said dryly.

Rand shrugged. “A nasty trick, but as old as the oceans. I saw it done once in Piestany. Sweetmeats with a hook in ’em, they call it over there.”

Petrus frowned down at Broushka. “Do you think the tapster will show up here? Will we have to deal with him too?”

“I doubt it,” Rand said. “I imagine he’ll think these two have taken the stairs down to the stableyard and slipped out that way. But I could be wrong.”

“Should we go to the municipal guards?” Katlen asked. “Lay charges?”

Cora shook her head. “We can’t afford the delay—or the attention.” She turned to Petrus. “Did she see you change shape?”

“No. I was behind her.”

“Then...” Her eyebrows drew together as she thought. “Then we take these two down to the stables and dump them in an empty stall.”

“Let them wake up and walk away?” Petrus frowned. That hardly seemed fair, after what Broushka had done to the prince.

Gerit grunted. “Dump ’em outside in the mud, I say.”

Rand shook his head. “Unconscious, no. They could suffocate.” He went back to the bed and bent over Prince Harkeld.

“The stables,” Cora said. “But I’d like a shapeshifter there all night, just in case. We don’t want to lose a horse or any supplies.”

Gerit and Justen hoisted the man between them and staggered down the corridor, Katlen leading the way and Hew trotting at their heels. Petrus glanced at Cora. “I’ll be a dog up here?”

Cora nodded. “Please.”

Petrus lay out in the corridor and watched Gerit and Justen return, panting, and then depart again carrying Broushka’s limp body.

Katlen came back with them and they vanished into the bedchamber. Voices murmured and then the door opened again. Justen headed downstairs. He returned with a pail of water and some cloths. “You’re lucky,” he told Petrus.

Five minutes later Justen emerged with the pail, accompanied by the smell of vomit. He returned shortly, empty-handed.

Gerit, Frane, and Katlen went to bed. Petrus lay down with his chin on his paws, bored.

Justen came out of the bedchamber. “Flin’s conscious. Cora told him what happened. He wants to speak to you.” He leaned his shoulders against the wall and jerked a thumb at the open door. “I’ll stand guard.”

Petrus went into the bedchamber. He shifted into his own shape and closed the door. Did the prince want to thank him?

Prince Harkeld lay in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. He was still extremely pale, but his eyes were open and alert. Rand stood beside the bed. Cora and Innis were at the fireplace.

Petrus crossed to the prince. “You wanted to talk with me?”

Prince Harkeld reached out and gripped his wrist. “You...” His voice was hoarse, edged with pain. “Spying on me.”

“Not spying,” Petrus said, stung. “Protecting you.”

The prince’s grip tightened, pinching skin against bone, making Petrus wince. “If I could stand upright, I’d kill you.”

So much for being thanked. Petrus twisted his wrist free and rubbed it. “Then I guess I’m lucky you can’t.”

Rand’s lips twitched.

Petrus went out to the corridor, massaging his wrist. Innis followed. “I thought he was going to thank you, not threaten you!” She sounded distressed.

Justen’s eyebrows rose.

Petrus shrugged. “If I was him, I’d be angry too. I’d want to rip me limb from limb.”

Justen nodded.

“But you saved him!”

“I was also in his bedchamber about to watch him tup someone.”