I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: A jealous queen. An innocent boy. A life in peril.

Author’s Note: I enjoyed writing the last chapter! No real smut of note, but hey, bring on the angst and PG13 violence, my muses are having a good time. Okay, we’re kinda heading into Brothers Grimm territory here, but don’t expect cute Disney dwarves and singing animals. Well, maybe just one, but he’s a baritone.

N’Dare fumbled for a lantern in the near-darkness of her chamber and lit it, letting it guide her carefully into the corridor. She headed two doors down to Prince Remy’s suites and gently turned the knob. She heard him moaning and crying out in his sleep, and her heart went out to him. N’Dare noticed that his favorite sleep toy lay on the floor. She scooped it up and set the lantern on the side table. “Master Remy,” she murmured, “it’s all right. I’m here, you don’t have to be frightened.”

“No,” he whimpered in his sleep. “Make the monsters go ‘way…” He sobbed and struggled out of the covers, and N’Dare carefully patted his chest, rubbing it soothingly.

“Shhhhhhhh…” she urged. “It’s all right, dear heart. It was a nightmare.”

“The monsters’ll get me!” he insisted in a petulant whine. He struggled to sit up, and she collected him to her in a fierce hug. Remy breathed in her sweet, comforting scent and the soft warmth of her body. His fingers toyed with the fringes of N’Dare’s shawl. “Don’t let them take me away.”

“Never. Never, ever,” she promised. “No monsters are getting my baby.” She knew it was presumptuous of her, but the familiarity soothed him, and it was instinctive. “Where’s Sunshine?” he implored. “I need her!”

“She’s right here,” N’Dare assured him, handing him back the dollie. It always amused her that she liked it so much, and it seemed only fitting. The rag doll was growing worn from so much use, the closest thing Remy owned to a baby blanket. N’Dare made it with her own two hands from some scraps of brown muslin. The dollie’s hair was looped into curls and made from white wool yarn. She embroidered the doll’s features into a pleasing smile, and she stitched the eyes from robin’s egg blue thread.

N’Dare made the doll for her daughter while she still carried the child in her womb. During the day time, Remy favored all of the toys that rough little boys loved, such as trains and rocking horses, wagons and blocks, telescopes and his tiny magnifying glass, but the doll was special. “Sunshine” smelled like the woman he’d come to regard as his mother. The doll had her love sewn into it, and it was therefore cherished and precious.

The fading flames in the fireplace flickered, casting golden light over Remy’s face. He was a handsome child already at five; N’Dare couldn’t imagine how much his physical beauty would grow as he reached maturity. She noticed his stunning eyes slowly drooping, growing drowsy as she rocked him back and forth. He yawned and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder.

“You should go back to bed.”

“M’not…tired,” he lied sleepily, yawning again. “C’n I have a story?”

“Master Remy, it’s late.”

“Please?”

“You’ve heard all of mine already,” she pointed out.

“I can tell him one,” Jean-Luc suggested from the doorway. He’d crept inside quietly, drawn to his son’s low cries. Remy craned his neck to peek at his father from around his nanny’s shoulder and grinned.

“Papa! Can I have one of Papa’s stories?”

“I’m not the one you have to ask,” N’Dare chuckled. She patted his head before Jean-Luc knelt by the bed.

“How is he?”

“Frightened by monsters, but none the worse for wear.”

“No monsters get to nibble my son’s toes,” Jean-Luc agreed.

“Monsters don’t nibble toes,” Remy argued as his father pulled him from the bed, scooped him up and carried him to the rocking chair by the hearth. He took the blanket N’Dare offered him, as well as Remy’s doll and bundled his son up in his lap.

“Yours might have looked awfully tasty,” Jean-Luc mused.

“Because you’re such a sweet little boy,” N’Dare teased.

“You taste delicious,” Jean-Luc added, pretending to gobble his son’s neck. Remy giggled and pushed his father’s face away.

“PAPA!”

“Your father was just having fun with you. All right. Story time, then time for bed,” N’Dare suggested.

“You see that, Remy? Now you’re gotten both of us in trouble with Nanny.”

“No I didn’t,” Remy complained.

“That’s the thanks I get for my stories.”

“Are there monsters in it?”

“No. But there’s a little boy in it who likes to run with the wolves. He howls at the moon.”

“A little boy as big as me?”

“Just like you. But this is a wild little boy who’s fast and strong, and he’s not afraid of anything.” Jean-Luc spun him an elaborate tale that included forest creatures and mythical beasts, featuring a little boy who was afraid of nothing, not even monsters. Remy fought to stay awake, but his father’s low, rumbling voice and the vibrations of it through his broad chest where Remy rested his cheek lulled him to sleep.

“Still the master of bedtime stories,” N’Dare mused as Jean-Luc carefully laid Remy down, turning down the covers as he tucked his son in. He carefully folded the doll into the crook of Remy’s arm.

“That’s one of my most important jobs in the house,” Jean-Luc boasted. N’Dare chuckled.

“You do it well, sire.”

*


Five years later:


Raven rose from her table of guests, prompting all of them to stand at once. “My dear friends, I need a few minutes to refresh myself, so I must take my leave. Do have some more tea and cakes. Talk amongst yourselves.” It went without saying that they would gossip about her in spades the moment she left, but Raven appreciated the niceties and dealt with the little things.

She was growing bored again. The restlessness ate at her.

Her new life – her most RECENT life – was pleasant enough, certainly. Raven had “replaced” women of different stations throughout her life, for different reasons. She had been a baker’s wife, a thief, a nun, a whore. Women with higher stations held their own amusements, especially those who reveled in cuckoldry. With each marriage she usurped, Raven learned new skills both in an out of the sheets, taking new lovers and discarding them like old slippers. Raven was a cuckoo, stealing the nests and lives of other birds for herself and moving on when she had outgrown it, whenever she felt hemmed in.

But this life was different. She was a queen. One didn’t simply stop being a queen. Raven adored the disposable wealth and luxury, as well as the respect, something she craved from the cradle. But the most addictive aspect of her life was seeing the barest hint of fear in her subjects’ eyes whenever they bowed to her, not because she was hideous, but because she was full in charge and held immeasurable power over them. It was a drug, a rush.

Jean-Luc was pleasant enough. He was a strapping, virile man in his upper forties, ruggedly handsome, and a very capable lover. His only vices were his pipe and the occasional snifter of brandy, and unfortunately, his son.

Raven couldn’t stand the little brat. Her resentment of him grew the more he thrived. Whenever his accursed nanny brought him into the room, Jean-Luc dropped whatever he was doing, or in many instances, abandoned his conversations with his queen to attend to the boy. Remy was rowdy and uninhibited, leading half the staff in a merry chase at bedtimes, naptimes, mealtimes, and of course, bath times. He was sure-footed and nimble, giving Raven many near-scrapes as he just missed colliding with her in the corridor or in the garden. He developed a favorite hobby of jumping out at her kneecaps in the castle’s maze hedge outside.

But most of all, Raven seethed with envy every time she looked upon the boy. Remy was remarkably beautiful, so beautiful that you couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Sunlight seemed to love him and follow him throughout the castle. It made his long, cinnamon-brown hair gleam with hidden highlights of auburn and gold. His skin was fair and smooth as rich cream, and his cheeks and lips were rosy with good health. But the young prince’s most striking feature were his eyes.

They glowed. The prince was born with the most exotic eyes the kingdom ever saw, and no one could fathom figure out what made them look that way. Was it a blessing? A curse? A trick of the light? No one knew. But the irises were sparkling crimson, brighter and more marvelous than rubies. His pupils were surrounded by a narrow band of fiery gold that lent his eyes a warmth that drew you in when you stared into them, not unlike staring into a campfire on a cold night and watching the heat ripple as it diffused into the air. His schlera were black as obsidian; what should have been the whites of his eyes were anything but. They were fringed with long, thick, dark lashes, and Remy’s eyes always twinkled with mischief.

The villagers wondered if this child of Helios, god of the sun, rode down to the earth on a ray of sunshine to warm it with his light. Remy was good-natured, mischievous and lovable, and he was the light of his father’s life ever since he was widowed. Raven grumbled to herself. He was a child, for goodness sake. Babies brought nothing but misery, vomit and soiled pants. But children old enough to speak were the worst nuisance of all.

Raven felt a headache building in her temples as soon as Remy hurried into the room, refusing to walk in slowly, like a gentleman. Raven blamed N’Dare for coddling him. “Excuse me,” Raven pleaded, and everyone obediently bade her to take her time, that they would wait with bated breath until her return.

Raven kicked her chamber door shut behind her, heedless of her new, jewel-crusted slippers of silver satin. She sighed raggedly.

“I’m so…bored,” she said to no one in particular.

“What would make you happy, Mistress?”

Raven’s hand flew up to her breast. “Who said that?” she demanded, hurrying about the room, turning in a slow circle, wondering if a robber had broken into the castle.

“That would be me, Mistress. Over here.” Raven spun around and stared at the vanity. The voice beckoned to her patiently. “Up a little.” Raven gawked at the carved face atop the mirror, which was now beaming at her. BEAMING. “Hallo,” it offered her shyly. “You look lovely today, truly, Majesty.”

“What…how…am I going mad?”

“I surely hope not. My last mistress did, but I assure you, Majesty, that wasn’t my fault. There was something that perhaps…wasn’t quite right with her, my Queen. But you seem fit as a fiddle, don’t you?”

“Er…yes. So I’ve been told.” Raven approached the mirror slowly.

“I won’t bite. Please, relax. Have one of those sweets that your maid left. Irene, isn’t it?”

“Her name’s Irene, yes.”

“Stately thing. Cares about you a lot, doesn’t she?”

“It’s her station. She’s beholden to me.”

“Oh, no. She’s closer than that. You can tell. I heard you call her ‘sister’ once. I thought perhaps she was from a convent in the village when you said that. She dresses rather plainly, too, so that fed my assumption. But you know what they say about people who assume, right? So I won’t assume anymore.”

“I’d appreciate that. But perhaps, instead of assuming things…you would be nice enough to tell me how you BLOODY WELL TALK????”

“Oh. That. Well, it’s rather complicated. You wouldn’t prefer asking me something else?”

“That’s relative. I’m still reconciling myself to the fact that I’m talking to an inaminate object.”

“I’m actually quite animated,” the mirror boasted.

“Who made you?”

“A wizard in his final years. He had no family, so he created me to act as his contact with the outside world, and so he’d have someone to talk to everyday. His health was failing, but I couldn’t do anything about that, now could I?”

“So what did you do?” Raven sat and nibbled on one of the small white teacakes on a silver tray.

“Just stayed with him. And I showed him what was happening around town to amuse and inform him.”

“You showed him? How?”

“Like this. Tell me where you want me to take you.”

“What, like a ride somewhere?” Raven scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the mirror boasted. The head’s eyes glowed, brightening the room with radiance, and Raven nearly choked on the sweet as her own image in the mirror’s surface evaporated, replaced with an image of the front of the castle. “His Majesty is on his way out riding. He didn’t think you’d mind.” Raven did mind, since half the people who joined them for tea were Jean-Luc’s colleagues and wives, all of whom Raven found irredeemably dull. “He took Prince Remy along with him. Sweet little thing, isn’t he?”

“Nay,” Raven sniped.

“Oh. All right, then.” The image continued to shift, and Raven saw the activity inside of every room of the castle and in the surrounding woods and gardens. The mirror enjoyed this part, and the face began cheerfully narrating each scene, as though it was a story. “Here we have Wilfred polishing the silver in the study. He works so hard, but I heard him complaining to Clodagh that his back has been hurting him, and she makes a liniment for it that she said she’d let him try…oh, and there’s Irene, coming down the hall. I’ve been meaning to tell her hello…”

“No need,” Irene explained calmly as she entered the room without knocking. “Greetings, Cerebra.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I just have a way of knowing these things.”

“How lovely! Me, too!” the mirror chuckled. “Our lady Irene is a real corker, Mistress!”

“Thank you,” Irene said with a nod.

“If I’m not stark, raving mad by now, I should be,” Raven muttered.

“Madness is for peasants. Among royalty, it’s known as being ‘indisposed.’ Have another cookie, Raven,” Irene suggested, handing her the tray.

“Oh, there’s Emily in the kitchen. Split pea soup for dinner.”

“Yuck,” Raven muttered.

“Oh, Mistress, pray don’t tell her that; she’d be crushed.”

“She’ll get over it. Irene, send down word to the silly wretch that I plan on rarebit for supper, and to start with turtle soup instead.

“What’s going on outside?” Irene inquired. Her visions had only given her an inkling so far, and the images were hazy.

“A ride. They’re enjoying the countryside,” Cerebra shared. Raven saw Jean-Luc and Remy sharing a horse, and Jean-Luc looked delighted with his son’s company as Remy pointed to a scurrying fox in the brush. “Looks like they’ve saddled up half the royal stable, Mistress.”

“Bully for them.”

“Speaking of stables, let’s see what’s going on there…oh.” Raven looked up into the mirror’s surface after taking a fresh bite of her butter cookie, then spat it out in a fit of coughing. Irene pounded her on the back.

“What’s the matter?”

“You…*kaff*…don’t want…t’know,” Raven choked. The image in the mirror was detailed and clear as a bell, revealing a tall, naked Victor rutting into Charlie, the cook’s eldest son. He had him bent over a haystack, moaning and crying out how good the giant huntsmen felt.

“I can only imagine,” Irene quipped.

“Well, don’t,” Raven ordered. “It’s…unfit for polite eyes.” But Raven’s roved over the image of the two of them, admiring their hard, sculpted bodies slicked with sweat. Victor’s hair was pulled loose from its customary club, hanging in messy blond tendrils around his face. There was primitive satisfaction written across his features as he dominated his medium-sized, dark-haired partner, gripping his hips hard as he slammed into him. Victor was well-endowed, and his large, rosy manhood kept disappearing up to the hilt inside Charlie’s rounded, supple cheeks. The young chef’s apprentice was clearly enjoying it, if his sharp grunts and cries of Victor’s name were any indication. Victor swung his hand out and swatted his ass none too gently, leaving a rosy mark on his skin.

Heat rose up into Raven’s cheeks.

Victor was so masterful that Raven thought she would faint. She imagined what it would feel like to mount him herself, to feel his throbbing, solid girth plunging inside her, those rough, calloused hands groping her breasts, twisting and pulling at her nipples…

She grew wet. Victor finished with Charlie when the younger man came, his thick seed spurting out into the hay. He looked surprised but delighted when Victor flipped him onto his back and his face descended to his cock to lap up what was left, fingers already probing his hole to take him again.

“Er, Mirror…”

“Cerebra,” she corrected her.

“Let’s just stick with ‘Mirror,’ and make it easier for me. Er…no need to move from the stables just yet.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

“Irene, you may go.”

*


Remy and Jean-Luc dismounted at the stables, and Jean-Luc indulged his son in some more time outside, allowing him to help his footmen curry the horses. Remy enjoyed animals and he was good with them, even managing to charm beasts that were untamed. He watched his son with pride as Remy stroked the dappled mare’s nose, whispering to it and blowing gently into its nostrils. Over the past few years, Remy had grown several hands in height; he would only need a few more inches before he could look his father in the eye.

Remy noticed Charlie hurrying from the back of the shed, fumbling with the buttons on his white shirt. “The kitchen’s that way!” Remy crowed, pointing to the back of the castle. Charlie looked up, flushed bright red, and paused to duck into a hasty bow.

“How was your ride, your Highness?”

“We had fun! You look like you just got back from one, too!” Remy shouted. Charlie looked mortified, knowing the young prince couldn’t have meant anything by it, but Jean-Luc just looked at his apprentice chef with an odd gleam. Charlie bowed again, this time to his king, before he rushed off. From the back of the stables, Victor silently smoked his pipe, looking smug and pleased with himself.

“Hope he’s making tarts,” Remy muttered as he continued to brush the mare’s coat. At the age of ten, he had a hollow leg and loved food.

“Aye, Master Remy. I was helpin’ him make tarts a little while ago,” Victor teased.

“No you weren’t! You can’t even cook!” Remy argued, grinning at the huntsman.

“I always help Charlie heat things up in the kitchen. Ask him! Go on!”

“I will! I’ll ask him right now!” Remy challenged. Victor threw back his head and roared with laughter. Jean-Luc cleared his throat loudly. Victor contained himself, but he enjoyed the thought of torturing his current tryst with the boy’s innocent questions. Charlie was a good sport, in more ways than one.

“You do that, Master Remy.” He ruffled Remy’s shining hair fondly, then patted him on the back.

*


The spring progressed with bountiful harvests and a forest teeming with new litters of creatures that promised successful hunts in the autumn. As the seasons changed, Raven grew more and more fascinated with the mirror’s possibilities.

Cerebra knew of Raven’s gifts, being one of the only two beings in the castle who had ever witnessed her changes back to her true form. Cerebra was an excellent confidante, and she only spoke to Raven and Irene, since the queen was her mistress and as such, owned her loyalty. Cerebra could see anywhere in the world, transmitting her visions to Raven through her scrying glass. Raven could see or hear what anyone was doing, any time, and it entertained her no end. The queen spied on her counterparts in distant lands prior to their visits to their kingdom, sending word to her seamstresses that her gown needed more lace, had to be made from richer silk; she couldn’t be less exquisitely dressed than her guests; it just wasn’t acceptable.

She enjoyed the misfortunes of others most, whether it was Victor making excuses to poor Charlie that it wouldn’t work out and seeing him weep into his apron while he rolled out the pie crust, to watching a young boy sob in the street when his mongrel pup ran beneath a wagon’s wheels. She asked the mirror to show her hometown and her family’s old cottage in the woods. To her delight, it was rundown and derelict, its shingles falling off the roof and the garden a tangle of dead weeds. She knew her father had died of a heart attack not long after he drove Raven out; her mother passed away of consumption soon after. Raven would shed no tears over her parents who couldn’t accept her when it mattered most.

Raven began each day with a leisurely bath and her grooming regimen, which was extensive. Every time she sat before the vanity, she asked Cerebra, “Am I beautiful?”

“You are perfect, Mistress,” Cerebra would reply. “You are absolutely perfect.” Raven would smile at this, then nod to Irene with the clipped demand, “Proceed.” Irene would send for Clodagh to style her hair while Irene helped select her clothing for the day. She spent the rest of the day making occasional appearances for Jean-Luc, seeking him out while Remy went with his tutors for his lessons. Raven spent her time shopping in the village, sending orders to the shop vendors to close their doors for the day to allow her to make her selections in private. She attended court within her region and watched tennis games and jousting matches, satisfied that she was the ruler of all she surveyed, and that nothing could ruin it.

Except her own vanity.

*


Two years passed in an inkling. Raven’s stepson was a strapping twelve-year-old who threatened to tower over her if he continued to eat like a longshoreman at sea. She tolerated him, barely.

The staff adored him more than ever. The entire kitchen staff knew his favorites by rote, often superseding Raven’s menu choices and requests. Remy joined Victor and the other palace huntsmen on afternoon treks and went fishing with his father whenever Jean-Luc could spare his precious time. Jean-Luc began to ignore his wife more as his son proved to be a more suitable companion to pass his time with. They played chess, studied the spinning globe together while Remy took his geography lessons and Jean-Luc planned his business trips and trading expeditions, and took evening rides in the woods.

Irene’s mood swings and bouts of silence troubled Raven.

“I don’t trust you when you’re too quiet. You’re like a child planning mischief.”

“No. Just thinking of how best to avoid it.”

“Pah…” Raven muttered as she picked up her pot of rouge. She thought better of it, when with a blink of her blue eyes, urged more rosy color into her cheeks. There, much better… “Why avoid it, when it’s so much fun?”

“What do you think about, in regard to the future, sister?”

“I never do. That’s why I have you. And Cerebra,” Raven reminded her, smirking.

“Raven,” Irene told her, laying her hand over her sister’s shoulder. “One day, you won’t.”

All of Raven’s efforts with her powers were lost as she paled. Her blue eyes flashed an angry amber and a deep divot formed between her brows as she scowled for the first time in several decades. “Never say that. Never speak those words again.”

“I’m mortal, dear heart. I’m only human.”

“No. You’re special, and I need you, and you’re being foolish.” Raven took Irene’s hands and squeezed them. “You’ll never leave my side. Look at us now, Irene. We have everything! Anything your heart could desire is at our fingertips!”

“You’re still restless,” Irene told her with a sigh. “Raven…don’t step outside your means. Don’t want too much.” Raven shrank back from her, releasing her hands.

“What on earth does that mean?”

“It means what it means. You have a husband. You have a son, if you wish to treat him as such. You have a home. You have friends. Don’t throw that away on glory and power.”

“I don’t have to. I already have them!” Raven boasted, irritated with her sister. She turned back to the mirror and pressed her lips together, making them rosy.

“By marriage, yes,” Irene said.

“Not by birth, Mistress.” Cerebra blinked awake at the sounds of distress in the chamber. She could feel Raven’s tension and the hint of despair in Irene’s voice, and it saddened the sentient spirit inside her. “You hold power by marriage until Prince Remy turns twenty years old. Then the kingdom belongs to him. The prince will succeed King Jean-Luc upon his demise, not you.”

A crust of ice wrapped itself around Raven’s black heart.

*


Raven was oddly subdued over the next few days. Remy had no problem with this. He found his stepmother tiresome. Every time anyone in the castle brought a picnic, Queen Raven brought the rain.

He knew she glared at his retreating back whenever he left the room. Remy had good instincts, not unlike his aunt Irene, but in a different sense. Instead of the future, Remy could read people.

From infancy, he knew his stepmother didn’t love him. He wailed loudly the first time Jean-Luc attempted to place him in her arms, quieting only when his father collected him back and bounced him gently, singing to him. “He may need a nap,” Jean-Luc explained. “Or he might be teething.” Raven didn’t believe him for a moment. The brat knew she hated him.

The baby always chose just the right moment to soil his diapers or spit up, usually whenever Raven approached Jean-Luc while he held Remy. Remy always fidgeted and struggled away from her whenever she occupied his space for peremptory visits to the nursery.

The child sensed the jumble of dark emotions inside Raven’s heart, a maelstrom of simmering hurts, anger and resentment. He realized it wasn’t just directed at him; Raven had little affection for anyone, except Irene, her elderly maid. Irene occasionally smiled at him, and he sensed no malice in her, but Remy never felt entirely comfortable in her presence, either. Raven and Irene constantly whispered and conspired with each other, practically joined at the hip.

Remy’s gift began to slowly manifest itself in the form of charm that bewitched everyone he met. Women adored him; men admired him and immediately respected him. There was always a place at the gaming table or chess board for Remy, always a place at the hearth or in the stable, always a pipe to sneak him or a pint of ale for him to sample when no one was looking. Remy was benevolently spoiled, but he was a loving child who tried hard to please.

He fully realized his mother’s prayer that she offered up the night he was born, owning the beauty she bequeathed him. Skin pure, smooth and white as snow, with eyes that glowed like the most precious rubies against pitch-black velvet.

Like any other adolescent, Remy had his awkward moments. His voice began to crack at inconvenient times and sometimes, he felt clumsy. He was growing fast, too quickly for his long legs to keep up with his center of gravity, and his body began to realize he was a male of the species. Remy woke up to find more of the strange, wiry bits of auburn hair growing where it didn’t before. He had growing pains and grew frustrated with the stiffness between his legs whose source he couldn’t figure out, but it made his ears burn with embarrassment whenever Nanny stopped by to wake him for the day. She soon gave the task to Wilfred, Jean-Luc’s groom, out of a need to protect his dignity and to let her little prince grow up.

*


Raven woke up in a peevish mood that she shared freely with the entire staff.

“Emily, you call this porridge? I’ve tasted better bath water. Take it away!”

“Wilfred, don’t lie to me and tell me you picked those flowers this morning! They’re half-wilted,” she snapped, plucking a fresh white chrysanthemum from the vase and ruthlessly beheading it, shaking it at him. “Throw them out. Pick some fresh ones immediately.”

“Victor,” she snapped as she accosted him in the stables. “Take off your pants.”

Raven abused the huntsman the least frequently, or at least in a more favorable manner. Once Victor began picking up the queen’s signals, they began an “arrangement” that suited them both well. Victor had open preferences, enjoying men as much as female partners in his bed, but Raven was winsome and voluptuous, demanding and sensual, and something predatory in her blue eyes made him shiver. Sometimes they met in the stables. Some nights found her in his chamber well after midnight, when she’d conveniently taken sick and begged off sleeping in the same room with Jean-Luc.

But in the stables, they could be as loud as they pleased. Victor sat atop a haystack he’d covered with a saddle blanket, while Raven rode him astride, both of them naked and glistening with sweat. Raven’s kisses were hungry and nipping, scoring his lips until they were swollen. Victor groaned into her mouth with satisfaction as she took from him, plundering her mouth with his tongue before laving a heated path down her slender white neck. His greedy hands fondled her breasts, toying with her peaked, rosy pink nipples. Raven took him in to the hilt, rising and falling in hard thrusts against him.

Remy snuck downstairs for a glass of warm milk, troubled by an uncharacteristic bout of insomnia. Normally he begged off of bedtime but trudged to his chamber at Jean-Luc’s insistence while the adults enjoyed their evening port, and Remy inevitably fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But not tonight. There was something charged and tense in the air, something about the night that tasted and felt wrong.

Remy helped himself to a butter cookie and a handful of almonds when he reached the kitchen, then found the milk, pouring himself a tall glass. He was halfway through the creamy liquid when he heard what sounded like a high-pitched cry. Remy set down the glass gently and tiptoed out of the kitchen, sneaking out into the gardens.

There it was again. And again. Remy grunted under his breath. The voice sounded female, which puzzled him even more. What woman in her right mind would be outside at this time of night? Remy pondered whether he should wake the palace guard and have one of his father’s soldier’s investigate it…

Curiosity won out. Remy followed the source of the noise toward the stables.

*


Raven was on her back now, spent and limp from her first climax. Victor loomed over her now, with her legs hooked over his shoulders as he pounded into her. Gods, he felt incredible… she felt waves of pleasure radiate inside her in growing ripples, like raindrops striking the surface of a pond. Oh, there it was again, that keen, pitch-perfect throb of Victor’s manhood striking that sweet, secret spot within her body at just the right pace, just hard enough, just deeply enough…

“Fuck me, Victor,” she hissed.

“Damn you, woman,” he huffed, kissing her hard. There were no pleasantries or formalities between them when they made love; Raven was “milady” in the study but she was Victor’s woman in the stable, even though he didn’t lie to himself in regard to whom she belonged. Raven was her own woman, period. Raven’s long nails raked his back, leaving stinging welts, and he pounded into her harder, faster, losing himself in her slick heat. Raven fell over the edge a second time, and Victor only allowed himself his own fulfillment once Raven trembled and spasmed around his member.

Remy stopped twenty feet shy of the stable and felt the powerful lust rolling off of the two adults inside. He recoiled, and Remy felt shame and embarrassment when he realized who both sets of emotions belonged to. He clapped his hands over his mouth and spun, bolting for the safety of the kitchen once more.

Remy hurled himself up the stairs as quietly as he could manage. He made it all the way to his room before he wretched into a chamber pot.

Remy collapsed into his bed and huddled beneath the blankets, needing to feel secure, but his world had upended itself.

*


The changes in the royal household were subtle at first. Remy was more subdued in his stepmother’s presence, frequently abandoning conversations as soon as she entered the room. Raven was initially pleased to hear less of his smart aleck banter and boring accounts of the fish that he caught or the new tricks he taught Jean-Luc’s hunting hounds.

But Raven became concerned when the lad also began to ignore Victor. Remy and Victor were always fond of each other before; the huntsman enjoyed the young prince’s antics and cheerful disposition, but Remy’s demeanor grew sullen when Victor joined them on rides or expeditions. The change raised Victor’s hackles, and there was something in Remy’s eyes that seemed to burn right through him.

Jean-Luc noticed the difference and decided to investigate, starting with his wife.

“Enter,” Raven demanded at the brisk knock at her door. Jean-Luc’s expression surprised her, full of concern, telling her he was in no mood for nonsense or parlor tricks. She cleared her throat, and out of habit, increased the luminescence of her blue eyes, the sheen of her blonde hair, and the creaminess of her skin. Raven’s ability to enhance her own beauty was her weapon of choice when dealing with her husband.

Oh, she had no doubts that he loved her, but she had her own agenda, her own needs. Raven kept up the continual ruse of who she was through complex planning and subterfuge. They maintained separate quarters; when they shared a bed, it was a transient, brief stay for Raven. It didn’t take much effort on her part. A few honeyed words, a seductive peignoir and letting her hair fall gracefully down her back, and some of Jean-Luc’s beloved cognac, conveniently dosed with a sleeping sedative. She offered her husband the cup each night that he arrived at her door; he’d taken to drinking it every night before bed when Natalie had left his life to dull the pain. It served Raven’s purpose more effectively.

Jean-Luc never saw his wife’s early morning state of dishabille, because she ensured Irene woke her every day before he got his wits about him, particularly before the sleeping draught wore off. He knew nothing of his wife’s impoverished childhood or less than genteel manner. Raven shuddered at the thought of him discovering her true state; one look at her cobalt blue skin and yellow eyes, and he’d denounce her as a demon.

Still…what was the matter with the brat? Raven knew children went through moody phases, but Remy’s newfound silence was unsettling.


Raven sat at her mirror one afternoon, reviewing her jewelry choices. She held up the diamond choker at her throat, favoring it over the opals, even though they were a nice counterpoint to the wisteria green silk gown trimmed in cream-colored, scalloped lace.

“Mirror,” she mused, addressing her own reflection instead of the sentient, attentive face above the frame, “am I beautiful today?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she told her, dutifully and sincerely.

“Do I look perfect?”

“Yes, Mistress. You look perfect.” This pleased Raven, as usual.

She set aside the choker for a moment and told her, “Show me what’s happening in the castle.”

“Whom would you like to visit first?”

“Jean-Luc.”

“He’s in the study with the palace physician, Mistress.”

“Whatever for?”

“Here.” Cerebra’s surface clouded over, taking away Raven’s reflection and shifting to a scene of the study. Jean-Luc was pacing across the fine Oriental rug, demonstrative and upset, while the bearded doctor nodded and sought to placate him.

“…I don’t know what’s gotten into my son. He’s changed, and I know there’s something dreadfully wrong. Something’s happened to Remy, and he refuses to tell me.”

“Does he have any playmates? Any peers his own age?”

“No. None that he cares to spend any time with. My colleagues who have children indulge them so much that they’re spoiled and a horrible influence.”

“It wouldn’t do to shelter him so much, sire. The young prince is of an age where he’s still discovering who he is. He’s a prince, Majesty, but he’s also a young man. Boys his age have a lot on their minds, and they are still finding their identity.”

“He’s not sleeping,” Jean-Luc pronounced. “He has no energy for the things that he loves. There are shadows beneath his eyes.” Jean-Luc banged his fist on his desk. “I know something has happened, or he’s seen something, or heard something that’s affected him.”

“I can speak with him if you like, Majesty.”

“Can you help him sleep?”

“I can prescribe a potion, but finding out what upset him may help the most to restore his restful nights. Is he eating properly?”

“Well enough.” But with less enthusiasm, Jean-Luc considered. Remy ate perfunctory portions and toyed with the rest the night before, making it only halfway through the savory rabbit stew, his favorite, when he normally would have devoured a second helping. Remy seldom initiated conversations with his father anymore, but then something else occurred to him.

“He acts oddly around his mother.”

“Excuse me, sire?”

“He’s more standoffish around her.”

“How about when he’s with you? Still affectionate?” The physician was no stranger to the dynamic of the LeBeau royal family. He saw the queen curling her lip at the young prince when Jean-Luc’s back was turned often enough; she was nothing like Jean-Luc’s first wife, a benevolent, pleasant woman who treated the staff and her husband with the utmost respect.

“Just…odd. Fearful.”

“Afraid of you?”

“No…just…it’s as if he’s afraid FOR me. Does that make sense?”

“Unusual, indeed.” The physician made some notes with his quill, then set it back in the inkstand.

“When I go to hug him goodbye, or go anywhere, he won’t let go, even if he’s hardly said two words to me all day.”

“Sounds like he still loves his father, Majesty.” Jean-Luc allowed himself a brief smile.

“Aye. And I’m grateful for it.”

“He’s a kind young man, well-reared and well-adjusted, sire. I shall speak with him. But don’t hold back, discuss your concerns with your son. Don’t let him stay in his shell.”

“Thank you, doctor.” The physician bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Jean-Luc in peace.


When the scene before her vanished, Raven’s reflection showed a face gone pale. “Shit,” she breathed.

“What is the matter, Mistress?”

“Show me where the boy is,” Raven ordered. Cerebra obeyed, concerned with the queen’s seeming fit of pique.

Cerebra took Raven on a visual journey out to the stable, where Remy stood currying the mare. The footmen and stable boys stood dutifully outside, allowing him some privacy, another indication that something was wrong. Remy was normally gregarious with every member of the king’s staff, but there he stood, communicating only with the wretched animal. Raven despised animals, only tolerating their smell when she and Victor made use of their quarters for their extracurricular hobby.

She watched Remy with interest, listening to his low, almost musical voice. The sweet tones of childhood were breaking, deepening to a more manly timbre, sounding much more like his father’s. He thoughtfully brushed the mare’s mane in long, easy strokes; she whickered at him and swished her tail, butting his hand with her nose. “She’s gonna hurt Papa,” Remy told her. “I heard her out here, and I know you did, too. He’ll never believe me, Thistle. I wasn’t even supposed to be up, and out in the dark.”

Raven’s heart pounded in her chest and she broke out into a cold sweat.

“She hates me, Thistle. She acts all sweet with Papa all the time, but he didn’t hear what she did. I don’t think she loves him. I know my Mama’s dead, Thistle, but she doesn’t want to be my mama. I don’t know what to do.” He leaned into the animal’s graceful neck, breathing into it. “She’s gonna hurt Papa. I don’t know how to stop it.”

A tear dripped onto his tunic, darkening the soft brown fabric. He sniffled and dabbed at his cheeks with his sleeve, the picture of bleak, forlorn despair.

“Victor did wrong, too,” Remy explained, as though the horse could understand him. “I heard him in here. I don’t even want to know what they were doing. I bet it was disgusting.”

Raven felt rage bubbling up in her throat, making her taste bile. How dare he. How dare that insolent little shit.

She tightened her hand into a fist, so tightly that her nails dug into her palm, drawing blood.

“Something needs to be done,” Raven decided aloud. “And quickly, too.”

If Cerebra could shiver, she would have.

Instead, she suggested, “So will it be the diamonds, Mistress?”

“Yes. I believe it will.”

*


Months passed like quicksilver. Sunlight glancing over the snow with painful brilliance heralded Remy’s thirteenth birthday. The palace stirred with activity for his celebration. Rugs were beaten and pillows were fluffed; every room was stocked with fresh beeswax candles and fine linens. Silver was polished and tables were dressed with colorful clothes and fine crystal goblets.

Raven fussed over the preparations inside the palace, but Jean-Luc pleaded with his son for some insight on what the boy wanted. So far, he wasn’t being forthcoming. Jean-Luc fumed. What was the purpose of planning a party that his son didn’t seem to want? Raven tsked at her husband while she went to bend the cook’s ear over the menu. Jean-Luc tracked Remy down in the library.

His son pored over a large book of art prints. Jean-Luc smiled when he saw him bent studiously over the desk. Remy reminded him so much of his dead wife that it hurt; he had so much of her piquant physical beauty and sensitivity, her humor and inner light. For just a moment, in the sunlight streaming in through the window, Jean-Luc saw Natalie seated at the desk, focused on her needlework. He blinked, and his son turned and offered him a hesitant smile.

“Good morning, Papa.”

“Remy…would you sit with me?” Remy reluctantly closed the book and rose from the desk. Jean-Luc saw him swallow and stare uncomfortably down at his own feet. “Please?”

Jean-Luc felt an odd sense of dread come over him at his son’s slow gait as his son met him on the sofa. “Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Please, Papa…I can’t.” That made Jean-Luc’s stomach twist itself into a knot.

“You can tell me anything,” he told him, taking Remy’s hand. Remy squeezed it gratefully, drawing on his father’s strength.

“I can’t tell you this, Papa,” Remy insisted, voice breaking. His chin quivered, and Jean-Luc longed to wipe that look of despair from his beautiful eyes. “I can’t. It would hurt you. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You’re my son! I know you’d never lie to me! Don’t be ridiculous, Remy, I love you! I’m so worried about you!”

“I’m sorry,” Remy croaked. His throat felt tight and his vision blurred. “I don’t want you to hate me if I tell you.”

There was a loud, rapid knocking at the library door. Jean-Luc spun and roared, “WHAT? Who dares to interrupt my time with my son?” Wilfred’s voice greeted him, sounding worried and panicked.

“Sire! Please!” he beckoned. Jean-Luc made a sound of disgust under his breath and stood. Remy rose, too, but he turned to him and waggled his finger.

“This isn’t finished. I still need to discuss this with you.”

“Yes, Papa.” Remy’s insides roiled and curdled with fear and self-loathing. He needed more time to come up with a reason that would keep his father from worrying, but Remy had no answers. Jean-Luc kissed his son’s temple before he went to the door. When he opened it, Wilfred looked frazzled and sounded out of breath.

“Sire…it’s her majesty, she’s taken ill!”

Jean-Luc ran from the library, robes fanning out behind him. Remy trembled, ignoring the hot tears streaking down his cheeks.

*


Upstairs, Raven lay moaning on the floor while Clodagh came with cool cloths and a vial of smelling salts.

“Her Highness is burning up!” Emily bellowed. “Get the physician!” Irene knelt on the floor, cradling Raven’s head in her lap.

“Don’t just stand around nattering like a flock of magpies,” Irene scolded. She snapped out instructions left and right at the staff in her effort to see to Raven’s comfort. Raven’s face was pale and clammy, and she writhed in discomfort on the floor.

“So…weak,” Raven gasped.

“Perhaps she’s laced too snug into her corset,” Clodagh whispered.

“Nonsense,” Irene scolded. “Hush your foolish mouth. That gown’s custom made; the queen has a wasp waist! Why, the very thought!” Raven made a mental note to punish her chambermaid when she was back up and around. She heard a hidden note of amusement in Irene’s voice, just a spark, despite the indignant gall written across her features.

The queen was bustled upstairs, dressed in her sleeping robes and tucked into her sumptuous bed. Jean-Luc hovered outside her door until she was settled, then waited for Irene to allow him in.

“She’s delicate, sire. Don’t wear her out,” she suggested politely. Jean-Luc knelt by the bed and took her hand, kissing it.

“What happened? What ails you, wife?”

“Oh…Jean-Luc…forgive me,” she bade him. “I never meant to make such a scene…”

“Don’t be a goose,” he tutted, allowing himself to stroke her hair. Raven pretended that the gesture didn’t annoy her. “You’re the queen. You’re allowed to make a little fuss when the mood strikes you, love.”

“You’re too good for me, lionheart,” she assured him, smiling weakly. “I was fine this morning. I got so caught up in making the plans for the party…”

“There’s no need. That’s why we have servants, Raven. Let’s put them to good use.”

“But, Jean-Luc, don’t be ridiculous! There’s still so much to oversee!”

“It will be done. You, on the other hand, need rest. Remy will understand if you can’t put your special touches on every aspect of his celebration, Raven. He’s mature for his age, don’t you think?” He said it proudly, gently kissing her knuckles. Raven managed a sickly little smile.

“Sometimes a bit too mature, milord.”

“Your cheeks still seem a bit pale…”

“I’ll be right as rain in the morning,” she assured him. The day wasn’t even half over; Jean-Luc realized in dismay that he was being dismissed from her chamber.

“The sun won’t rise without you.” Jean-Luc smoothed the covers, tugging them up beneath her chin. She tolerated another light kiss and smiled for him as he left.

“The sun won’t rise for him again, dearest. This, I swear.”


*

The regents began to arrive shortly after two in lushly equipped carriages. Servants were on hand to relieve them of heavy coats and snow-crusted boots as they reached the doors, and they automatically partook of hot, spiced ciders and mulled wine. Even the children, heirs to dukes, counts and earls, appeared in the main parlor ridiculously overdressed. Remy favored simple clothing, but N’Dare insisted that he wear the elegantly tailored, crisp white shirt and a richly embroidered tunic with the family’s crest. His leggings were made of rich brown leather, practical in that they kept him warm, and Remy already wore his hunting boots, brand new and gleaming. N’Dare pulled his long hair back neatly from his face, emphasizing his handsome profile. She was so proud of him, but she wondered why he seemed so subdued, even sad, on his special day. She hugged him with enthusiasm, and his answering embrace was surprisingly needy. She drew back and felt his forehead out of instinct.

“Are you feeling all right, Master Remy?”

“Nanny…” He was unsure of what to say.

“You don’t feel warm,” she told him soothingly. “Still, don’t catch a chill.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Of course you do.” N’Dare handed him a cup of cider from where they lingered in the parlor’s ante room. “You should greet your guests.”

“I wish I didn’t have to. I want to start the hunt.”

“Don’t say such things! They’re here to see you, on your special day!”

“Belladonna’s a brat. So’s Anna Marie. Nathan used to pull my hair when Papa wasn’t looking at Sabbath services.” Remy ticked off each child’s ills on his fingers until N’Dare tutted at him, giving his arm a light swat.

“They’re your guests. This is YOUR home. You’re the one in charge of your birthday. And one of these days, Master Remy, you’ll be in charge of everything else. But in the meantime, let me fix your shirt.” N’Dare fussed with his collar and sleeve cuff; Remy suffered it with a low sigh.

“Nanny…have you ever felt…like something bad was going to happen, but you didn’t know what? Just that it would happen soon?”

“Remy…” She was struck speechless.

“Have you?”

“You shouldn’t say such things. Those aren’t fit thoughts for someone your age.”

She wouldn’t admit to him that yes, she had those feelings, a portent of misfortunes to come. Every time she looked at Remy, she saw the daughter she lost. Oh, how it still hurt.

“I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“Master Remy-“

“Never mind. Sorry.” He wandered away from her and reluctantly joined his party. N’Dare watched him with worry. What had she done? Was he about to share something important with her?

*


The next hour was unbearable for him. Dozens of children of varying ages were underfoot, barely held in check by their respective governesses. Jean-Luc made Raven’s excuses for her likely tardy entrance to the festivities, pleading the ague. Remy suffered boring accounts of Nathan’s last hunt on his father’s reserve.

“Father let me watch them strip and clean the boar when they were done. They let me take the first stab. I gutted its belly,” he bragged smugly, cruelty radiating from his eyes. Remy winced.

“That’s dreadful,” Anna Marie decreed. She toyed with the edge of lace trimming her cuff and eyed Nathan with disgust. The heir to the Essex estate always got on her nerves, if only because his parents held a higher station, but he was such a boor with his vile stories and pranks. During a previous visit to the Darkholme manor, Nathan left a huge beetle in Anna’s custard, enjoying her shrieks when she lifted the lid. “Remy, you’d never do something that nasty.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t?” Belladonna accused. “He’s a wretched boy. They always do disgusting things.”

“I like the chase best,” Remy explained. “I like going with Papa. He said to treat your prey with respect.”

“Who cares about respect? It’s just meat, you ninny!” Remy felt an angry haze sweep over him.

“My father’s right. Take back what you said.”

“Why? My father’s taking me on the hunt, anyway, LeBeau. What’re you gonna do, tell your Mama I was mean to you?”

“Nathan, be quiet!” Belladonna snapped. But she’d looked amused up til then; Remy knew her jumping in on his behalf wasn’t sincere.

“That’s right. She’s dead.” The dark-haired boy had gone too far again. Remy’s fists curled at his sides, and he truly saw red. “And your other mother isn’t even down here-“

“Don’t,” Remy ordered sharply. His voice was hard and brittle, and his eyes glowed eerily, instantly unnerving and terrible to behold. “You don’t want to keep going,” he explained. “Not here. Not today.”

“I…I didn’t…” Nathan looked petrified, as though he were about to wet himself.

“I think you meant to leave me alone. Your papa wants to talk with you.” There was something charged simmering in Remy’s voice. Belladonna and Anna Marie no longer looked amused. The girls shrank back, nearly clinging to each other in caution.

“I’ve…I’ve got to go see my father,” Nathan explained weakly, as though he were in a daze. He nearly tripped over the ottoman on his way out of the parlor. Anna Marie tittered uneasily at his departure.

“I always knew he was a sissy when he isn’t bragging all day long,” Belladonna claimed.

“So you’re proud of yourself?” Remy snapped. She looked put out, and deep spots of color rose in her cheeks. Anna was turning equally raspberry. Remy’s eyes bore into them with little regard, as though they were beneath his notice. Anna Marie and Belladonna immediately felt insignificant and petty, and their emotions fed back to him, puzzling him.

What was he feeling? Remy broke out in a sweat and backed away from them.

“This is the worst party I’ve ever been to,” Belladonna announced, but her heart wasn’t in the barb.

“Good,” Remy replied absently. He left the noisy parlor in search of his father. Remy needed to get outside and feel the wind in his ears, needed to feel the saddle beneath him and the reins in his hands. He needed to feel in control of something that afternoon, and the hunt provided just the solution to the problem.


*


On his way to the adults’ drawing room, Remy was stopped by a low, familiar growl.

“What’s this? A man gets too old on his birthday to say hi to his old friend, Victor?” scoffed the huntsman. “Where are you hurrying off to, Master Remy?”

Remy stiffened. “I want to see my father.”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying your party?” Remy shook his head. “Awwwww, c’mon now, lad, that’s not fitting for a prince to abandon his guests. Wouldn’t want to be impolite.”

“They aren’t my guests. I didn’t invite them. I just wanted to spend the day hunting with Papa.”

“Did you tell him that?” Victor inquired matter-of-factly. His smug look was gone.

“I tried.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘trying’ to tell someone something, young master. You either told him, or you didn’t.” Remy fumed with embarrassment. Victor was right, but that only made him resent him more. “Well?”

“Mother had other plans for my party,” Remy admitted. Victor chuckled, then came up and clapped him on the back.

“No doubt she did, lad. No doubt she did. Your father’s up to his ears in guests. Last I heard when I stepped out, he was discussing border patrols with the duke.”

“Nathan’s papa?”

“Aye.”

“Wonderful,” Remy muttered. “He’ll be there all day, then.”

“All night, too, more like,” Victor mused. He studied Remy carefully and felt the same odd buzz lately that the boy seemed to give off.

He was tall for his age, gaining inches on Victor and beginning to fill out. Long, coltish legs were rounding out with young, taut muscle, and his shoulder were broadening in promising ways, offering a glimpse of a stunning, virile man over the next handful of years. His eyes pierced Victor’s, probing them, and Victor felt strangely exposed, as though he had let something of himself slip.

He knew exactly what that was, and it pained him, what he’d been ordered to do. Victor tasted bitterness on his tongue. He forced down the urge to take Remy’s hand in any attempt to reassure him the way he had when he was a mite, knowing he wouldn’t tolerate it from him.

Damn Raven. Damn her to hell.

It was like having his own liver fed to him with a spoon when she ordered him to get rid of her stepson. Victor remembered the baffling disbelief at her words, how she had to be joking, but she’d stared up at him with those large, doelike, sapphire blue eyes, completely serious.

“The boy’s a liability. He knows. He knows about what you and I have done, Victor. He heard us, and he’ll tell your king. He’ll tell my husband,” she said carefully, rephrasing it to give him the full implication.

“What…would you have me do?” he grated out. “I couldn’t…my queen…surely you don’t mean for me to betray my liege so horribly? To do something so monstrous to… a child?”

“You’ve already betrayed him,” she snapped. “Grow up, Victor.”

Victor wallowed in frustration and heartache for several days.

In the meantime, Raven schemed. She pored over the library books and found recipes for potions, both a stronger sleeping tonic to spike Jean-Luc’s brandy, various poisons, and a tonic that allow herself to feign illness well enough to make the court physician pronounce her unwell. Using her own powers to emphasize her sorry state did the trick well enough, but creating a fever took effort and planning.

Irene was her confidant as she sat by the fire, knitting needles flying. “The boy will cost me everything.”

“Your own vices had something to do with it, sister.”

“Curse your disloyal tongue,” Raven hissed. “What do you see?”

“The threads are tangled, thanks to your own hands, sister. I see complications. Pursuit.” Irene paused as she tied off a knot of wool. “Blood.”

“Whose?”

“That’s uncertain.”

“What of Jean-Luc?”

“He’s weeping. But he’s wept before,” she said with irony. Then Irene froze. “Raven…there’s a box.”

“A gift?”

“No.” Irene clutched her chest and looked ill. “A token. A souvenir.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s…a heart.”

Irene couldn’t see Raven’s sinister smile, but she could feel it.

*


Victor reached into the pocket of his heavy trousers. He, too, was dressed to hunt, despite the expectations the queen had of everyone’s appearance that afternoon. Victor’s long blond hair was clubbed back from his face, no less severe than Remy’s plait that reached just between his shoulder blades. N’Dare never had the heart to cut such beautiful hair, and the look suited him. Victor wore a thick, fleece-lined coat made from brown leather and a green jerkin. Moss green trousers and black boots would easily allow him to blend in with the forest when they started their hunt.

He pulled out a small box and handed it to Remy. “A gift from your mother,” he explained. “Take it, lad, don’t be shy.”

“She doesn’t have to give me a present,” Remy sulked.

“She’s your mother, Master Remy; of course she has a gift for her boy!” Victor huffed, offering laughter he didn’t feel.

“She’s not my mother,” Remy corrected him, his tone clipped. But he opened the box, missing Victor’s dissolving smile and the look of panic in his eyes. Remy pulled out a rich, red cashmere scarf. He unfolded it and draped it around his neck.

“It’s your favorite color,” Victor pointed out. “She got that right, eh?”

“I guess,” Remy muttered. “I want to see Papa.”

“Well…all you wanted to do with your father was go out, right? For a ride?”

“We’re all going on the hunt, if he’ll ever let me!” Remy complained sullenly. He began to pace the hall. “He thinks I’m a child! I’m not! SHE thinks so, too, but I know things! I know-“ Remy stopped, instantly going pale. Victor cleared his throat. He recovered quickly.

“Sure you do! Big, strong man!” Victor stepped forward and led Remy to the mirror. “There’s a good lad.” He tied the scarf carefully around his neck, smoothing it.

The temptation to offer the boy a kinder death was strong; strangling him in the wardrobe, if he could silence him long enough; breaking his neck; taking him abovestairs and hurling him from the window.

Any of these were preferable. The boy knew of his indiscretion, but he was innocent in every other way, in no way to blame for what Victor had to do. Victor despised the scarf, wanted to yank it from his body.

It was evidence. Proof that the deed was done. Victor felt hell yawning open for him.

“No one will notice if we sneak out for a while,” Victor promised cheerfully. Remy’s face brightened.

“Papa won’t know where I am, I need to tell him!” But Remy looked so tempted, barely able to contain himself at the idea of escaping his boring peers and the annoyingly fancy clothing.

“Don’t worry about troubling your father, young master. Tell you what,” Victor said cheerfully, the picture of reassurance, “we’ll do this with a signal, like real men. We’ll head out to the stable. I’ll get your mother’s attention. We’ll hit her window with a pebble to get her to come. She’ll see us headed for the stables. We’ll wave up to her, and she’ll see you wearing that handsome scarf of hers, eh? Your mother knows that a man sometimes has to get away from fancy trappings, right?” Remy beamed. “Aye?”

“Aye,” Remy decided.

“You can even blow her a little kiss. She’ll let your father know where you are, and even if he gets a little bothered by it, we’ll be back soon enough. No harm done!”

Remy hardly heard him. He was already hurrying out through the kitchen, headed for the door that led into the gardens. Victor’s smile faded, replaced by a dark, resolute scowl.

*


Once they were out in the stable, Victor beckoned to him. “Lad, here. Those clothes are too nice for a ride out into the snow.”

“Nanny made me wear them.”

“I’m makin’ ya wear these,” Victor informed him. He held out the plainer brown shirt and beat-up jerkin, the black homespun pants and battered spare boots. “These are more suitable. Keep on the scarf. There’s a good lad. And here’s my extra coat. It’s warm and comfy,” he promised. Remy looked uncertain at first. “Try ‘em on. Go on. Use the empty stall,” he told him.

“It’s cold in here.”

“It’ll warm up soon enough.” Remy still looked unsure.

“Why couldn’t I just change inside?”

“Did you feel like running into any of the grownups who would demand to know why a certain young prince isn’t inside, entertaining his friends in the parlor, sipping cider?”

“Oh. Right.” Remy’s smile was sheepish, making Victor’s guts twist. The more the lad trusted him, the more deeply it drove the knife into his heart. He broke out in a sweat and his heart pounded.

Please, Raven…don’t make me do this. He’s just a boy. Just a sweet lamb. Why, damn you, WHY!

Remy happily took he proffered togs and headed into the empty stall. Victor turned his back and paced outside, lighting his pipe.

Remy shivered as he changed out of his finery, practically dancing in the icy snow as he drew off the leather trousers and boots. He stomped his feet and blew on his hands to warm himself. The mares whickered at him curiously from across the stable. Remy imitated their sputtering greetings with his lips, teasing them. It was his favorite game.

“What are you getting up to in there, young master?”

“Just playing,” Remy said, shrugging. Victor had wandered back into the stall and sucked in a breath.

The boy’s back was turned to him, but he was shirtless. There was so much promise in that young body, so much wiry strength and grace. Victor shook himself, loathing himself even more. He wouldn’t entertain such thoughts. Victor puffed on his pipe, giving himself something to do with his hands. He turned away once more, to preserve what he had left of his shame.

Victor looked odd to Remy when he came out of the stall. He allowed the giant huntsman to help him shrug into the heavy coat. It smelled like him, with a faint hint of Victor’s sweat and his ubiquitous pipe smoke when Remy buried his nose in the collar. Victor saddled Thistle for Remy, while he took Brutus, the temperamental black stallion. The horses whickered briefly as Victor and Remy coaxed them out of the stable and into the blinding snow. A light flurry stirred the air, and both men raised their scarves over their lips against the cold. Remy’s chest filled with brisk excitement and mischief. They’d done it! They were out!

He wondered about the sheathe that Victor had tied to his bridle. “Why did you bring that? Are we going to hunt?”

“Just in case,” Victor told him. “Never know what we might find, lad.” Remy nodded. They rode past the east side of the palace, away from the parlor wing. “Wait,” Victor reminded him. Victor dismounted from his horse and searched the ground, then found a handful of pebbles. He hurled one to the right window, just over the balcony. Remy barely heard the rapping sound over the wind. Victor waited, then threw another.

Raven stared into Cerebra’s surface, enjoying the look of impatience on her stepson’s face. Dutifully she rose from her vanity and approached the window. Victor waved. Remy copied him, even though he refused to smile.

“Ungrateful little shit,” Raven muttered. “Come now, little prince. Blow Mother a kiss.”

Raven waved down to them. As if on cue, Remy blew her a kiss. Her smile widened. Raven threw him one back, the picture of motherly love. Her lover then rode off into the forest with his burden. Raven returned to her vanity and waited.


*

They rode across Remy’s favorite path, even though the markers he usually recognized were obscured by fresh snow. The sky began to darken, and Remy heard clumps of snow hiss slightly as they slipped loose from bare, black branches. Thistle nearly tripped over a bare tree root. Victor cursed.

“Easy, now, lad, step lively! Your mount can only find her way as well as the hands that guide her!” he snapped inadvertently. Victor was jumpy and unsettled; Remy looked worried.

“I didn’t mean it. I was being careful.”

“You can never be too careful out in the woods, young master. Step lively,” Victor repeated. Remy’s cheeks looked rosy from the cold above the hem of his new scarf. Fresh flakes dotted his thick chestnut hair, catching on his lashes. He was the picture of fresh and youthful good health, a young man feeling his oats. The plain dark clothing was no richer than a peasant’s, making it difficult to distinguish him from any other boy his age within Jean-Luc’s realm. Raven planned it that way, to make him harder to recognize in the event that anyone unearthed his grave.

They scouted the tracks of a juvenile wolf cub; Victor could tell how old it was by its prints.

“Young one. Might be a little lame, looks like it was dragging the back foot.”

“We should leave it alone, then.” Remy looked doubtful. “There’s no sport in it. We need to respect it. That’s what Papa told me.”

“He’s…taught you well, lad,” Victor choked. His voice was muffled by his scarf and the wind that whipped their hair and snuck up beneath their coats, chilling them. “But let’s follow it. Might lead us to better game.” Remy was uncertain about it, but he obeyed, turning Thistle’s reins to follow Victor and Brutus.

They tracked the wolf at a distance to a clearing, and sure enough, it was a juvenile female, still too young to be in heat. “Beautiful,” Remy marveled. “It’d be a shame to hurt her.”

“They grow into menaces soon enough,” Victor growled. “Never trust beauty too much, lad. Take my advice. Aye, they use it against you, females do.” Remy watched the wolf, who had noticed them and hunkered down in the snow warily. She huffed and panted, licking her lips. Eerie yellow eyes bored into Remy, and he tasted her fear.

How?

It puzzled him, but Remy was sure of it; he felt the she-wolf’s emotions, felt her heart speed up in anticipation and fear. The cub growled low in her throat, ruff standing up around her neck. She yipped.

“She has a fine pelt,” Victor mused. “Sure you want to let this one go, lad?”

“Please,” Remy pleaded, “let’s leave her alone, Victor!”

“SCAT!” Victor called out. He imitated her growls, mimicking her too convincingly for Remy’s comfort. The wolf snarled a warning, but thought better of it. She took off into the endless snow. Remy felt the beast’s resentment at being sent out of her own nest.

Victor had dismounted and emptied something from his pockets onto the ground. “What is that?”

“Bait. She isn’t the only beastie in the woods that likes this spot, I’ll wager,” Victor called up to him. “She’ll come back, and so will bigger, meatier game.” Fear seized Remy.

“Victor…how long are we going to stay? I think we should go back. Papa’s going to be worried.”

“Bah!” Victor snorted. “Big men like you and I don’t worry about things like walking about in the dark. Every creature in this forest has more to fear from us, than we have of them.” He mounted Brutus once more, and they continued their ride.

They stopped at a thicket of pine trees. Victor offered Remy some sliced apples and raisins, since the lad had missed his supper. Remy ate a wedge of apple hungrily and a dribble of juice spurted down his chin. He caught it with his mittened hand and watched the giant light his pipe. Victor was watching him oddly.

“Happy birthday, young master.”

“Victor…can’t you just call me Remy?”

“It wouldn’t be fitting.”

“Why? You always call me lad.”

“That’s different. You are a lad, but your name is Prince Remy. Or Master Remy. It’s all a matter of your station in life, lad. You can call me Victor. There’s no ‘sir’ or ‘milord’ or ‘mister’ about it, understand? I’m a servant, and one of the people I serve is you. And your mother.”

“You care about serving her the most,” Remy said quietly.

Victor’s eyes narrowed and he tossed aside his pipe, letting the orange embers extinguish themselves and turn black in the pristine snow. He was up in a flash and he came at Remy, grasping the collar of his coat. Remy’s eyes widened with horror as Victor stood him up and bashed him back against the trunk of a towering pine. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“Victor…what are you doing? Please, let me go,” Remy stammered. Victor’s hands tightened around him, and his knuckles dug into Remy’s jaw. Victor’s pupils were dilated with madness, and his voice was paranoid and hard.

“What did you see? What did you hear, young master? Tell your friend Victor what you heard! TELL ME!”

“No! I can’t! You want to hurt my PAPA! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!”

A few meters away, the young she-wolf witnessed the blond giant snarling at the man-cub, threatening him. She growled again, displeased at this turn of events. She hunkered down and began to slink through the brush, following their scent, sucking it deep into her chest and memory.

“You’re making me do this,” Victor hissed. “Damn you! You should have just kept your mouth shut,” Victor accused. “Don’t you see. Don’t you see what I have to do. It’s my station. I serve my queen. She has all the power. And YOU, you have all the power, too, lad. That’s why she wants you out. That’s why THIS needs to be done, and why I HAVE to do this.”

“What do you have to do!” Remy cried. His eyes were blurring hotly and the cold air was biting his cheeks and chapping his lips, now that his scarf had fallen free. He regretted the apple, since he now felt sick. Remy saw Victor reach down and draw a small, mean-looking knife from the sheathe around his ankle.

“Meant to give this to you, lad. This…this was going to be my present for you. A man should have a real man’s knife, don’t you think? It would have served you well. And I…I wanted to serve you well, too.” Victor’s voice shook, and there was such damning contrition in his face, that craggy, rugged face that Remy never feared, even when Victor jokingly tried to scare him, again and again with his stories. Remy felt his hot breath flaring from his nostrils, steaming his lips as he spoke. Remy’s heart was skipping and pounding and he felt dizzy from the giant’s regard and the effect of his words. Victor was crushing the air from him; he wanted to tell him that, but he knew in his heart that it wouldn’t help.

“You want to be a man like your father, but you’re just a boy. You can’t do anything now, don’t you see? This is out of your hands.”

“No!” Remy sobbed, hating his voice that chose to break, revealing how terrified he was. His bladder threatened to release, and he wanted to vomit, but he couldn’t shame himself.

“If I don’t do this…she’ll have my head. She’ll tell your father that…I defiled her. That I committed treason against the kingdom, and that I committed rape. And if I tell your father the truth, it’s my death anyway. It almost doesn’t matter, lad. I won’t be able to live with myself, anyway…”

“Then run away!” Remy cried. “Why can’t you just leave?”

“Where would I go!” Victor shouted at him. Remy winced and closed his eyes against that voice and the rage boiling in those blue eyes. Remy felt the cold prick of something sharp probing the tender skin of his jaw. He pitched slightly, fighting the bile that rose up in his throat.

“Please…Victor, PLEASE!” Remy’s eyes snapped open just as Victor drew back his arm. The fading sunlight glanced off the silver blade, signaling the end of all Remy knew. Remy heard the caw of a blackbird in the trees and wished that he, too, were a bird and could fly away.

“PLEASE, VICTOR!”

Suddenly, Remy was seized by Victor’s flaring emotions that flooded into his mind in a mad jumble. Victor stared into those eyes, captivating as fire and smoke and felt the pull the lad had on him, probing him, pleading with him.

He had his hands wrapped around the throat of an innocent boy, who was staring up at him in confusion and betrayal, looking so hurt. Worse, the boy felt everything pent up inside him, all of his shame, all of the remembered lust and abandon he felt in Raven’s bed, all of the misgivings and the knowledge that he was indeed committing a grievous sin, worse than the ones already on his head.

He felt the boy’s disappointment that one of his friends and someone his father trusted, that Remy himself trusted, would do him such wrong. He felt Victor’s memories of his as a child, tickling his consciousness, of how it felt to hold Remy as a toddler and smell his sweet skin and hair, to tickle the plump belly and chase him around in the yard. Remy leaned back from him, craning his face back toward the tree in an effort to skirt around Victor’s grip on his neck. But he still stared at him warily, expecting the worse. He refused to scream, but he sniffled and gulped.

Remy projected his emotions, not realizing he was doing it. “She’ll hurt my papa if you do this.”

“Aye,” Victor grunted, voice strained. His eyes still held the giant in thrall, and he couldn’t break free. Or perhaps, he didn’t want to.

“I love Papa. I didn’t tell. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“He doesn’t, lad!” Victor finally cried. He shuddered and heaved deep, starved breaths, then sobbed. Victor hurled away the knife and went limp, supporting himself on the heels of his hands against the pine. He bowed his head over Remy and sobbed, then slowly enveloped the trembling boy.

They both sobbed. Remy no longer concerned himself with trying to free himself. He was afraid, cold and shivering, and Victor’s bulk offered shelter. He still felt his emotions, and he was still so flooded with shame and rage, but this time, it was with himself, that he had the gall to hurt someone innocent and trusting, someone that he adored from the moment of his birth.

“It’s all right, lad. I won’t. I won’t. Not a hair on your head, I won’t.” Victor’s low babble did little to comfort Remy, but he clung to him, having nothing else to reassure him.

“I. Want. My. Papa.” Remy chanted it like a litany into his coat, showing Victor with clarity just how young he truly was, yet. His sniffles were getting louder.

“It’s getting dark,” Victor said dully. “And you’re cold. Much too cold.” He led Remy back to his horse. “You were right, lad.”

“What?”

“I could leave. It’s the coward’s way out, but…I have nothing else to lose. I don’t deserve my station, in your father’s house.” He was completely chastened, and the giant looked smaller to Remy, no longer brash and proud, all of his puckish humor gone. “Get back up. Thistle will lead you home. I’ll be along in a moment, Remy.”

“Victor-“

“GO!” he shouted, and Remy recoiled at the return of his temper. He fumbled with the reins and gave Thistle’s sides a kick, and the horse broke into an unsteady canter toward the palace.

Victor watched him leave, and he let the snow assault him, dripping from his hair and chilling his neck. He spied the boy’s fine scarf on the ground where he’d whipped it free to access his vulnerable throat.

He picked it up and coiled it around his hand. “It’s the coward’s way out, lad.”

He didn’t hear the booted feet rush up behind him, and Victor grunted as a slender black club clouted the back of his head. He went down with a low thud; the snow crunched under his cheek, stained by the red trickle of blood.

“Get the boy,” a harsh voice ordered. “Take that, too. Looks like it’s worth something.”

*

Victor woke in a haze of pain. Above him, the sky had already gone dark. His head throbbed and his cheek was numb from lying in the snow. He rolled up groggily, rubbing his eyes to clear them. What the hell?

Brutus whickered at him, dancing skittishly on his front feet. Thistle and Remy were gone. He couldn’t see the mare’s tracks or the boy’s footprints; they were covered by fresh snow. Victor’s heart hammered and he began to hyperventilate.

The scarf was gone. “Shit,” Victor spat. He gazed down and saw blood in the snow, then realized it was his own.

Bandits. Poachers. That was the only possibility that came to him. That was one of the concerns Essex brought up at his last visit with Jean-Luc, a nuisance that affected both of their estates.

“REMY!” Victor choked. “REMY!” he called out, running frantically through the brush. Brutus whinnied after him. “REMY! REMYYYY!”

Behind him, a wolf growled threateningly, warning him away from the fresh meat he’d scattered before. Victor spied the gleam of his discarded knife. He made a dash for it, just as the wolf pounced. He knew how this had to play out. This wasn’t the shy she-wolf Remy had spotted; this one was fair game, something that comforted Victor as he wrested the beast to the ground and drove his blade into his heart.

Victor didn’t bother stripping the pelt. He dragged the beast’s carcass up onto Brutus’s saddle and mounted him, then rode deep into the woods. Victor dumped it into a fast-flowing river. No one would know where the beast came from when it reached its final stop; and no one would ponder the death of a predator.

The only thing that would prove puzzling was that its heart was missing.