King and Kingdom (16 page)

This, then, was what a death row inmate must feel on his final leg to the executioner's chair.

Escorted into the back of a Hummer, Chey buckled in and fidgeted with the edge of the seat. She sent prayer after prayer that this wasn't her end, unable to wrap her mind around the torture of the unknown. Would she make it to the airport alive?

Intrigued as she had once been with Ahtissari castle, Chey discovered she didn't want to so much as glance at it upon her departure. She didn't care to have a last view of its impressive turrets and decorative arches. Natalia was probably staring down from on high, a smirk on her petulant mouth, counting the seconds until Chey was forever banished from her life.

Tense the entire drive, expecting a crash, or explosion or some other horror, Chey watched the shoreline whip by out the window. How different this trip turned out than how she imagined. Just now, all she wanted was the relative safety of her Seattle apartment and a year or two to recover from her inadvertent misery.

They passed through one small town and approached Vogeva from the north. Surprised when the Hummer pulled up in front of the quaint hotel on the main strip, she sat forward and reached for her belt.

The guard in the seat in front reached back to stay her motion. Moments later, a harried looking Wynn rushed out the front door with two guards carrying their luggage at her flank. She made her way around to the passenger side door and climbed in.

“Chey! Oh my god, you're all right. I wasn't sure what to think when they separated us. What happened? Did you get--” Wynn's immediate questions got cut off when Chey shook her head.
Not now. Ask later.

Wynn's mouth shaped an 'oh' of understanding. She reached across the Hummer once she was in to embrace Chey anyway.

Holding tight to her best friend, Chey saw this as a good sign that perhaps Aksel had decided to let them both go home instead of the alternative. She wouldn't ever be so glad to see Seattle again.

The Hummer made good time from Vogeva to Kalev. Chey and Wynn said little on the way. When the vehicle approached the airport, Chey closed her eyes with relief. Her shoulders were tight with tension, her head aching from stress.

On the sidewalk, the guards passed the girls their luggage, which seemed to be intact and accounted for. One handed each a fresh ticket with their name printed on the front.

Chey glanced beyond the guards after taking her envelope with a murmur of thanks, and silently bid Latvala—and Sander—goodbye. It just wasn't meant to be.

An hour later the girls were in the air on their way back to Seattle.

Chapter Eleven

Chey stared at her reflection in the mirror and halfheartedly applied a thin layer of peach lipstick to her mouth. Three and a half weeks had gone by since arriving back in the states, and Chey was listless as ever. Tonight, Wynn intended on dragging her to a Halloween party in an upscale neighborhood, where the promise of mystery and surprise awaited. The masked ball was invite only, catering to a select group of people, one of which happened to be an acquaintance of Wynn.

To combat her gloomy mood, Chey had chosen a frail ballerina costume, whimsical and white, with tiny crystals sewn around the low neckline and the hem of the tulle skirt. Ballerina shoes with ribbons wrapping her ankles and calves added character, as well as the sheer white stockings Chey encased her legs in. Little pearl pins dotted the riot of dark curls she'd styled her hair into. A bun was too much work, and she knew her hair would likely spring free of the bobby pins and hair spray anyway.

The mask was the crowning jewel. Made of white porcelain, the maudlin, almost sorrowful expression cast a sharp contrast to the whimsy of the outfit. Only Chey's lips, jaw and chin could be seen. The rest of her face was hidden away. Cut outs allowed a person to view the dramatic make up Chey applied that accentuated her long lashes and blue eyes. White feathers created a fringe around the forehead.

Exhaling once she was through with the finishing touches, Chey snapped off the bathroom light on her way to the kitchen to collect the white cloak that she swirled around her shoulders. It was chilly out and the extra layer a necessity with such a revealing outfit.

Gathering her keys, Chey exited the apartment, locking the door behind her. The night sky was rife with rainclouds and Chey sent up a silent plea that they wait to downpour until she was safe in Wynn's car.

In the parking lot, it wasn't Wynn's Cadillac waiting, but a limousine with Wynn standing beside it, glancing at the sky as if she too were pleading for the deluge to wait. Wynn, decked out as a Steampunk Girl, wore clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era with slight deviations, like suspenders and bits of metal adornments that accented the machine built construction of her mask. It appeared as if gears and gadgets from a large watch had been what the mask was made out of, topped by a tall hat with a small machinery crafted buckle. Wynn wore goggles over her eyes and gloves on her hands.

“What's with the limousine?” Chey asked when she arrived.

“I didn't want us to have to worry about drinking and driving, so I rented it for the evening.” Wynn cut Chey a smile below the edge of the mask and climbed in when the driver opened the back door.

“You're so excessive sometimes,” Chey said, and followed suit. Being inside the limousine reminded Chey of Latvala, of the Royals, and of Sander. It put a fresh pang in her heart that she tried to stifle as the driver got them under way.

“You have to admit, it's a relief not to worry about it.” Wynn pried the goggles up far enough to expose her eyes. “Are you still brooding?”

“What? No.” Chey glanced aside, met Wynn's eyes, then looked forward again. The limousine sped up to get on the freeway.

“Yes you are. After all these weeks. At some point, you're going to have to move on, you know?” Wynn patted Chey's knee with sisterly affection. She had been horrified to learn what happened to Chey in the dungeons on the flight back to Seattle. Since then, Wynn had done her best to take Chey's mind off Sander and the fiasco in Latvala.

“I've moved on,”Chey said, protesting. But she hadn't. Her days were filled with crying jags or indifference. She wasn't up to looking for a job yet, although she knew she needed to. The other half of the photography money wouldn't be coming in after all this.

“You're languishing and thinking 'what if'. I expected it for a week, maybe a week and a half. I'm kind of surprised you're still here almost four weeks later, though,” Wynn said. “You dodged a bullet where the King and Queen are concerned. I'm not sure the greatest guy in the world is worth all that.”

Chey glanced out the window. “I'm sure you're probably right. If he'd just been a regular guy...”

“There you go again with the what ifs. C'mon. Let's look forward to the party.”

Chey tried. Her mind kept veering back to the same place it had for the last three or so weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, distraction came whether she wanted it to or not. The limousine pulled in past a modest gate toward a good sized mansion nestled on its own five acre lot. Lamps lined the curving driveway toward the broad front steps leading to the doors. Trees dotted the dark landscape to the side of the mansion, in front beyond the wide drive, and off in the back.

Bringing the limousine to a stop, the driver let the engine idle while guests unloaded from a vehicle in front of them.

“There are supposed to be like a hundred and fifty people here tonight,” Wynn said, positioning her goggles back over her eyes.

“That's a big crowd.” Chey wished she was looking forward to the party.

“Very. Okay, it's our turn.” Wynn disembarked after the limo pulled up and the driver got out to open their door.

Chey followed, flicking the edge of her cloak to release wrinkles. She tucked the key to her apartment into a small pocket on the inside of the skirt at the waist. Otherwise, she had no purse, no phone, nothing to worry about leaving behind or losing.

Four white, tall columns marched along the porch on either side of the steps. To the side of the double doors sat a coffin with half the lid propped up. Inside lay a vampire, hands folded neatly over his double breasted coat. Pale skin offset ink black hair and bloodless looking lips. As the girls approached, the vampire sat up and smiled just enough to expose the glimmer of sharp eye-teeth.

Wynn laughed and hurried Chey along, giving her name to another vampire just inside the foyer. One had to be on the list to get in.

The mansion spread out in three directions, with a dining hall to the right, an enormous living area to the left, and a double staircase straight ahead leading to the second floor. Spider webs, caldrons and dry ice were just a few of the decorations that transformed the mansion into a scary haunt. Purple lights replaced regular bulbs in a high chandelier and a ghost greeted them at the archway to the living area. Any and all regular furniture had been removed; in its place, tables with chairs lined the walls and a glossy dance floor made up the middle. Two more chandeliers sat over the dance floor, replete with purple lights. Swags of purple silk draped the walls and candles in tall floor holders flickered in four corners. Sheer panels of silk and gauze hung from the ceiling, creating floating wisps of material that added mystery to the overall décor.

Already, the party was in full swing.

Every type of costume was represented, from zombies, to Dorothy and Toto, to the Creature From the Black Lagoon.

A zombie took possession of Chey's cloak just before they entered the room, and also discreetly took her name so she could retrieve it at the end of the night.

Wynn glanced back with a broad smile on her mouth, and led the way deeper into the throng.

Chey returned the smile, even if hers felt hollow and forced. She stuck on Wynn's heels, catching glimpses of herself in gilded mirrors situated every so often among the swags. Once, she saw how haunted her own eyes looked. Even make up couldn't hide the veil of sorrow she had existed in for the last three weeks.

When a ghoul in flowing robes swept Wynn out onto the dance floor, Chey diverted to a bubbling cauldron for a glass of neon green punch. The first sip told her it was heavily spiked. It didn't stop her from consuming the entire thing and going back for seconds. Walking away from the cauldron lest she be tempted to drown all her sorrows in liquor, Chey wove in and out of the costumed guests, admiring an elaborate get up now and then. Some had gone to extremes, including none other than the Headless Horseman, replete with a pumpkin tucked under his arm. A fake flicker of fire showed through the cut out eyes and jagged mouth.

She was halfway through her second glass when someone touched her on the shoulder. Chey twisted a look back—and up. A man in an elaborate gold mask, red cape draping from his shoulders to the floor, gestured toward the dancers with a gloved hand. The mask was full faced, giving her no glimpse of his nose, mouth or jaw.

Chey hesitated, glancing toward the swirling bodies, about to deny him. She wasn't in the mood, just wasn't ready to pretend like all this was okay. Like
she
was okay. Where she should be was home, out of the limelight, licking her proverbial wounds. They were many.

He touched her elbow with gentle encouragement. Chey set down her glass and allowed him to escort her onto the floor. She didn't care that her hesitance was obvious, nor that her eyes past the mask probably expressed her desire to be elsewhere. Swung into his arms, Chey picked up the steps to the waltz easy enough. Of course it just reminded her of the dance she had with Sander in Monte Carlo, which did nothing for her desire to be out here now.

With spare tolerance, Chey followed his excellent lead, ignoring the prick of pleasant masculine cologne and the weight of his hand at the small of her back. When she glanced up into his eyes, she found she couldn't easily see them for the shadows cast by the mask. He twirled her, instinctively threading through other dancers without having to wrench looks over his shoulder.

She was loathe to admit how good he was. Which mattered here nor there in the grand scheme of things. Many men were decent dancers.

“You could at least pretend to enjoy this,” the man said. His velvety accent was only slightly muffled by the mask.

Chey snapped her gaze up to the shadowy holes for eyes and gasped. “Sander?”

“Shh. Say my name too loudly, and you'll tip someone off.”

Breathless, shocked, Chey couldn't unscramble her mind. How could he be here? How had he known? Her steps faltered for the first time. Sander guided her into recovery with smooth hands and swift feet. Elegant, the cape swirling around his ankles, he followed the rotation of the couples until he could easily guide her off the floor without interrupting the rest.

Assaulted by all manner of emotions, Chey allowed him to lead her by the hand through the room and around a corner into a shady niche. He turned her toward the wall and crowded close, blocking her in with his body. Only then did he push the mask up to expose his face.

Reaching for hers, he inched it up until her face was as bare as his.

Chey experienced a spike of lust and passion so sharp that she didn't think twice before sliding her hand around the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss. A kiss he was already leaning down to claim. From the get go it was electric and hot, the taste of his mouth familiar and heady. Her tongue tangled with his, dipping into the hollows, and a groan escaped her throat when he returned the same.