Lost Princess (5 page)

“I must go.”

“What? Aren’t we going to talk about this?”

“No.”

She had to stop him. “I thought I was the queen, and we were supposed to rule together.” Even she had to cringe at that statement.

Jackson’s posture remained rigid as he simply lifted a brow. “Look, Ryleigh. I have to go. Now. It was a huge concession for Elijah to offer as much information as he did. His visions are…private, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t share them. He either can’t or won’t for fear of negatively affecting the intended outcomes. Fate, if you will. We can discuss it more when I return.” He turned and walked away, effectively ending their conversation.

Oh no. He did not just dismiss her. She rushed after him. “Don’t you walk away from me, Jackson.”

He kept walking.

“Get back here. We are not done with this.”

He reached for the elaborate iron door handle.

“If you walk out that door without finishing this conversation, I’ll…I’ll…” She lowered her voice as he pulled the door open. “I won’t be here when you get back.”

He paused, door held open wide.

“And I won’t return. Ever.”

He straightened his shoulders, strode purposefully from the chamber, and let the door fall shut behind him.

* * * *

Jackson shoved his feelings ruthlessly aside. He’d spent hundreds of years without emotions, he’d be damned if he’d let them rule him now. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the empty hallway, beating at him, reminded him of what it was to be truly alone. His heart ached to return to Ryleigh. To beg for her understanding and forgiveness. To plead with her to wait for him to return so they could talk.

Urgency pushed him forward. Whether it was his own sense of foreboding, or the stern warning from Elijah to hurry, he had no idea. He wished fleetingly his father was still there to make this decision, but he didn’t let the thought linger. King Maynard—the true King Maynard—was gone, and no amount of wishing would bring him back. Too bad Jackson was such a poor substitute. He shook off the self-pity as he shoved the door open and stormed toward the stable. What choice did he have?

“Hey, Jackson. Wait up.” Dakota Knight jogged to catch up, then fell into place beside Jackson as he continued on his way to the stable. “What’s happening?”

Obviously Elijah had called the Death Dealer team to order but hadn’t told them what to expect. Great. Jackson would have to bring them up to speed before they could leave. “I’ll go over it once we all meet. No sense repeating it twice.” He pulled open the door and held it for Dakota to precede him.

“I heard Mia’s back?”

Jackson shot him a grin.

Dakota’s cheeks, already ruddy from running in the cold, reddened even more. “Uh…and Ryleigh, I mean.”

“Sure you did.” He punched his best friend in the arm. “I’ll meet you at the pens.” Jackson pulled aside the curtain to his dressing cubicle and took a lit lantern from a hook beside the entrance. He let the curtain fall shut behind him.

After hanging the lantern beside the long table against the back wall where his equipment was laid out, Jackson ran a hand along the smooth black breastplate he’d worn so many times, had worn into battle the day his father was killed. Only then, there had been no symbol covering the breastplate. It had simply been the smooth black armor of a novice, even though the Death Dealer ceremony had been completed in private, and he’d already worn the mark of the Death Dealer and the future king on his arm.

He traced the pattern now adorning the breastplate. The primitive, tribal design surrounded two crossed swords set in the exact center. The mark of the Death Dealer, the warrior he’d trained for hundreds of years to become. Similar to the tattoo covering his upper right arm and shoulder. Only the breastplate didn’t bear the red slash through the center that would tell the world he was the future King of Cymmera. A pang of grief shot through him. No. Not the future king. The king.

He tamped down the insecurities threatening to drown him. Regardless of Ryleigh’s feelings, this was the right choice. The only choice. He stripped off his jacket and sweatshirt and hastily pulled on a thin, long sleeved, black shirt before pulling his long hair back into a tail at his nape and tying it with a thin leather band. He strapped the breastplate into place, secured the arm-guard to his left forearm, and slid the finger tab onto his right hand. Once the high, armor plated, black boots were fitted over his black jeans, he slung the bow and quiver onto his back, shoved a dagger into each of the casings on his boots, and sheathed his sword at his hip.

At the sound of the alert calling the Death Dealer team to action, he tucked the ornate black helmet beneath his arm and strode resolutely toward the pens. There would be no turning back.

Elijah met him before he reached the others, acknowledging him with the traditional greeting before his expression softened. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” He lowered his gaze, hoping Elijah didn’t catch the lie.

“Very well, sir.” He only hesitated another moment before dropping the subject and moving on. “Would you like me to brief the men directly, or give you the necessary information?”

“Nah. You can do it. No sense wasting time.” Jackson clamped his teeth tightly together as the two covered the remaining distance to the pens, checking the urge to ask Elijah if he was sure about retrieving these men. If he wasn’t absolutely certain, he would never have come to Jackson. Especially after he was mistaken about Ryleigh. Questioning his vision would serve no purpose but to hurt the sensitive man.

Dakota spotted them coming and ran toward them. With the loss of Kai, Dakota had moved up to train as a Death Dealer, at Jackson’s request. He now served as Jackson’s partner and protégé. The younger boy vibrated with energy. This would be his first retrieval, and his dark eyes shone with excitement. “Hey, Jackson.”

Elijah shot Dakota a quick frown of disapproval at the familiar greeting.

Jackson bit back a smile.

Dakota had been his best friend since they were kids, hundreds of years. There was no way he was going to bow or address Jackson as King Maynard in any other than the most formal of circumstances. Nor did Jackson expect him to.

Elijah on the other hand…Well, Elijah stood firmly on tradition.

The men came to attention at his arrival. They stood, helmets in hand, and awaited their orders. Twelve men all together. Twelve Death Dealers. His team. All of them had more experience than him, though none had trained harder or for more situations, and yet he would lead them. He would be responsible for them. Success or failure would fall squarely on Jackson’s shoulders. It was a heavy burden in addition to the responsibility for every inhabitant of the kingdom he now ruled. A small throb started at the back of his eyes. He struggled to ignore it and focus on Elijah’s words.

“You will intercept a small military plane, force it down, and return with its occupants. There should be eight men all together. The plane is equipped with guns, which shouldn’t be a problem for you to avoid. Once you have the plane on the ground, I’ll be able to tear it open so you may retrieve the men. They will also be armed.” He studied each of their faces, his gaze lingering for a moment on Dakota. “Any questions?”

When they shook their heads, Jackson nodded, and they dispersed and headed for the pens. He approached Dakota. “You know what to do?”

Eagerness lit his eyes. “I’m good.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “I do have a question, though. If Elijah can rip the plane open, why can’t he just crash it and…well…you know…the occupants would perish in the crash?”

It was a good question, and it pleased Jackson he’d thought to ask. No one outside of the Death Dealer squad knew anything about what they did or how they worked. Dakota had received his battle training with the Cymmeran Guard—and he was an exceptional soldier—but he had no specialized training to be a Death Dealer. That knowledge would all come from first-hand experience and training with his squad.

“When we retrieve subjects—” People. “—from the human realm, their bodies must be intact for them to be re-born in our realm.”

Dakota frowned. “So how do we…you know.”

How do we what? Jackson pressed a thumb and forefinger to his eyes. Commit murder? He let his hand drop to his side. “Ideally, a straight shot through the heart, but if that’s not possible a head shot will suffice as well.”

An image came unbidden. Ryleigh, hidden beneath a chair, her hand clamped over Mia’s mouth, flames and smoke surrounding them. Her eyes filled with fierce determination to keep her sister safe. She should have been nothing more than a target. Yet he’d been unable to take the shot. Had failed to achieve his goal.

What if the same thing happened again? He’d been alone last time, able to make the choice to abort the mission at the last second and face the consequences. This time his entire team would be standing behind him. What if he choked? Couldn’t complete the mission? Again.

“Jackson.”

Startled by the volume of his demand, Jackson turned to face Dakota. He hadn’t even realized they’d stopped walking.

The other boy stood staring at him, scowl firmly in place.

“I’m sorry. I guess my mind wandered. Did you ask me something?”

“I said, will I be expected to make a retrieval this time?”

“No. Probably not for a while yet. You will observe and watch our backs. You may engage in battle if there is one, just make sure you stay at my side no matter what. Even during the simplest mission things can go wrong.”

Dakota nodded, his expression serious. Good. He wasn’t taking it lightly. Even though retrievals were fairly routine—the thought of Ryleigh laying into him for thinking so casually about ending eight men’s lives battered him—you never knew what would happen.

“Ride safely, my friend.” He clapped Dakota on the back before they separated and walked to their pens.

Jackson approached cautiously, making sure Ophidian knew it was him.

The dragon snorted. A puff of black smoke shot from each nostril.

“Hello, boy. Are you ready to ride?”

When he lowered his head in invitation, Jackson climbed the black scales and swung onto the dragon’s back. He slid carefully between the two large, curved spikes protruding from the back of Ophidian’s neck and secured the strap behind his back. With a firm grip on the spikes, he squeezed his legs together until the slim, sleek dragon lifted into the air. His smooth undulations maneuvered them through the stable and into the night sky.

Dakota took his place slightly behind him. The remainder of the Death Dealer squad followed in pairs in their traditional formation with Jackson now at the point.

At least this was a role he was prepared for, a role he had trained his entire existence for. Light poured down from the multicolored stars, but none of it reflected from the black dragon or his rider. The dragon’s scales and the Death Dealer’s armor absorbed the light, assuring a glint at an inopportune moment wouldn’t give them away. Jackson shifted his weight to the right.

Ophidian’s response was immediate, as if man and beast were one.

The compact, solid muscles flexing beneath Jackson lent him confidence. Energy flowed through him. The thrill of the hunt charged through his veins. A pang of guilt followed. Jackson cursed. His role as a Death Dealer was the only absolute certainty he had amid a sea of confusion, insecurity, and fear. Damn Ryleigh for taking that from him. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t from his world. How dare she judge him?

A space of intense blackness opened before them. Jackson’s heart rate kicked up as he embraced the jolt of adrenaline that rushed through him. He leaned forward, laying his upper body against the dragon’s neck. They tore through the portal at lightning speed.

Once through, when the stars around them all shone white, he lifted his head. His gaze met the pilot’s look of sheer terror. He jerked Ophidian hard to the left, barely avoiding a head on collision with the aircraft.
He’d overshot the target, had opened the portal a few seconds too late. His mind had been too pre-occupied, thoughts of Ryleigh consuming him. He circled around, a tight loop to be sure his team had all avoided catastrophe. He knew better, had been trained to go into battle fully focused. No matter what. He blanked his mind, shoving everything but the mission at hand brutally aside. His men were once again perfectly aligned. They circled the aircraft.

Flashes of gunfire lit the night. The dragons easily avoided the shots. Human limitations were no match for the speed and agility of the dragons. The Death Dealers dove directly toward the windows. Retreated. Dove again. Pulled back. Several of his men rose above the plane.

The soldiers pressed their faces against the windows, trying desperately to keep track of the strange creatures they wouldn’t understand.

Jackson and his team worked methodically to force the plane toward the ground.

The pilot resisted.

A huge gust of air slammed downward, and the plane lurched and dropped. Jackson smiled. With Elijah helping them force the plane down, it shouldn’t take long. Jackson rounded the front of the plane.

The co-pilot held a handset against his mouth, his lips moving frantically as his eyes darted everywhere.

No matter. Elijah was one of the most powerful sorcerers in existence. There would be no back-up. Nor would there be a mayday call. Or any other sort of communication.

Another blast of air hit the plane. It tilted on its side, but the pilot recovered before it rolled over. Elijah had to take it easy. They needed the plane intact.

The pilot dove. He landed smoothly on a paved but pot-holed road through the desert. Apparently he’d decided to give up the fight. At least in the air.

Jackson doubted these men would just go willingly, but they were smart enough to realize they couldn’t outmaneuver dragons in the bulky aircraft.

The small group of men came out shooting.

Ophidian dove toward a man at the front of the group.

The soldier sprayed the entire area with gunfire. A few shots hit Jackson’s leg. No big deal. No way could bullets penetrate Ophidian’s scales or Death Dealer helmets and breastplates. His heart and head were protected. Any other injury would begin to heal on its own long before Jackson ever returned to Cymmera.