Page 43 of Drama Queen

I can’t quite take the full sting out of my words, but I hope they are neutral enough to serve their purpose.

“I see a night in the cells has dulled that sharp tongue of yours a little.”

I clamp my mouth shut against a snide reply, practically hearing my teeth cracking under the pressure.

“Good. You’re teachable, and a fast learner. Mr Cleave spoke quite highly of your intelligence, but I was a little concerned about your biddability, given yesterday’s outbursts. It seems there’s hope in making you worthy of your title yet, child.”

Still I don’t reply, but dart my eyes to Anders, where he skulks just inside the doorway. His eyes lift to mine.

“I am informed that you are put out by Mr Cleave’s association with me, and the false pretences under which you met. You are right to mistrust him, of course.” Both Anders’s and my gaze go to my father in confusion. Anders opens his mouth like he is going to say something, but clearly thinks better of it. “But then again, I may have also misled him in return.”

“I don’t understand . . .”

“Sire?”

“You see, Aria,” my father starts, walking to stand beside me and facing Anders, “when you understand what motivates a person, you know what buttons to push to get them to willingly do your bidding. This is your first important lesson as my heir.” I turn to look at him, but he is still focussed on Anders. “Mr Cleave here was born to a powerful bloodline. His family has been loyal to the crown for centuries. But sadly, he never manifested power himself when he was awakened.”

“Awakened?”

My father turns his head to face me, and his eyes flash that glowing green again.

“Yes, awakened. I will get to that momentarily. All was not lost for our Mr Cleave though, as he still had some potential as breeding stock, likely being a carrier, and he has shown some promise in his legal career, I’m told.”

I look over at Anders, who is staring at the floor again. Clearly, my father’s words have stung him.

“Pity,” says my father.

As I bring my gaze back to my father, a glint from his raised hand catches my eye, followed by a flash and a loud crack. Movement in my peripheral vision breaks my shock, and I look over to see Anders falling backwards into the hallway beyond. Lifting my eyes to where he stood, I’m confronted with blood and other matter splattered on the hallway wall.

My ears are ringing. Or maybe it is the sound of the gunfire echoing in the concrete cell. My father is saying something, but his words are muffled, like we’re underwater.

“What?” I ask, shaking my head a little to try to clear it.

“Pardon.”

“WHAT?!” I repeat louder.

“No, the question is pardon, notwhat. Really, Aria. Maybe I should get you a tutor for some speech and elocution lessons before your coronation.”

My head is spinning. Too much. This is all too much.

“This is your second important lesson. Know when it is time to cut your losses. I will have Morven come by shortly to dispose of that,” he says, gesturing with the gun still in his hand towards Anders’s dead body.

“I have a meeting, but I will be back to collect you in a couple of hours. We can get you all cleaned up and start the debrief. I want to know everything about The Den. Your mother’s work with them, the synthetic life-force formula they are working on, all of it. Then we can get you straight into intensive lessons, and fittings, so you can be ready for the big day next month.”

Stepping over Anders’s body, my father leaves without a backward glance, his phone already to his ear. I stand there, completely stunned.

I can’t look away when Morven and another lackey arrive shortly after. The lackey grabs Anders by his wrists and starts dragging him up the hallway, leaving a red smear in his wake.

Morven brings a tray into the room, placing it on the frame just next to me. “Your father ordered breakfast be brought to you, Highness. He will return in a little while to collect you.”

I don’t react to his words; I can’t stop staring at the red stains on the floor of the hallway.

Morven sighs loudly, but doesn’t speak again. He leaves and pulls the door closed behind him, blocking the gruesome sight from my view. I stand in place and listen to the hoses and brushes outside the door, presumably cleaning away the evidence of my father’s crime, my eyes still trained on the same spot long after they leave again.

Eighteen

I don’t touchthe food. I know I won’t be able to keep it down even if I try. Instead, I pace, and I think, trying to process everything that has happened and digest the information overload.

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