Page 40 of The Last Heir of Elsewhere

My heart panged at the thought—as so often happened when I thought of my mother or my childhood, I wished Rosey was still here with me. Wished we were making this journey together, and wondered what she would’ve said about all that had come to pass in her absence.

Without warning, the first drops of rain touched my face, and I pushed them aside along with the sudden tears that burned at the backs of my eyes.Stop,I told myself firmly.There’s no time to wallow—not if I want to escape before anyone realizes I’m gone.

Making a quick decision, I swallowed my emotions and crept around the back of the inn. The rain kicked up as I stepped carefully through the mud, and in the distance a clap of thunder rattled through the wood. I groaned. Of all the times to be out of doors alone, the beginning of a storm was far from ideal. Although, with any luck, it would drive the creatures of the Waywoods into their homes, keeping them off my path.

One could always hope for small miracles.

I let out a sigh of relief as I reached the backside of the inn. Perhaps there were miracles to be had tonight, as I found myself looking at the wall of a rundown stable. I darted quickly inside, eager to avoid the rain.

The barn was dark, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust as the door swung shut behind me. The air in the barn was thick with the smell of wet hay and manure, mixed in with the musty aroma of old wood. There was an old mule in one of the first stalls, who couldn’t be bothered to even look up at me as I walked by. I cast it half a glance before moving on, making my way further down the rows.

If there was a horse worth stealing here in this miserable swamp town, I’d take it as a good omen.

As soon as the thought flitted through my mind, I spotted a strong chestnut mare on the far end of the right-hand row. The horse looked up at me with intelligent interest, and excitement flooded me.

“Hello there,” I breathed in hushed tones. “Who do you belong to?”

The horse stomped her hoof, as if in answer, and I grinned. It didn’t matter who she belonged to, she was mine now.

I practically skipped forward, only to stop short as a loud clang echoed behind me.

I froze, and glanced over my shoulder. I glared at the mule, and scanned the other dark shadowed stalls. Nothing jumped out at me, or even breathed aside from the sleeping mule. I let out a breath—it must have been nothing.

In any case, I kept forgetting that I did not have to be quite so vigilant anymore. I could protect myself now…at least, I hoped I could.

Taking a calming breath, I turned back toward the mare, and gasped. My eyes widened, and I took a staggering step back. Ambrose Dullahan leaned against a stall in a space I was positive had been empty only seconds before. His arms were crossed, his posture casual, as if he’d been waiting here for me for some time. Which, I supposed, he could’ve been.

“You…” I gasped, unable to form the words for anything else.

“Me,” the prince replied, flashing me a cocky grin. “Were you expecting someone else?”

I stuttered, words failing me entirely.

Ambrose looked every part the rebel king, in mahogany stained leather armor with a sword strapped to his back and another on his hip. His obsidian gaze seemed to swallow the light around him and his silver hair was wild, shaved short on one side and pulled into a tight braid on the other. He had dark, swirling tattoos climbing up his neck and wore several hoop earrings and what looked to be a small bone stabbed through one of his pointed ears.

He exuded a rougher, more rugged aura than his brother, Scion, so while their features were similar, no one would confuse the two. If Scion could be described as ‘intense,’ and Bael as ‘dangerous,’ then Ambrose was ‘aggressive.’

Like a bucket of ice-cold water poured over my head, fear fell over me. “What are you doing here?”

The rebel leader grinned wider, as if he’d been hoping I would ask that. “You can leave the horse,” he said, nodding to the mare. “You won’t need her where we’re going.”

“Excuse m?—”

I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence as a sharp pain cracked against the back of my skull, and everything went white.

17

AMBROSE

THE INN STABLES, VILLAGE OF FORLORN

“Was that really necessary?” my friend Riven asked, stepping forward out of a shadowed alcove.

I looked up at him, then down at the redheaded woman on the floor. “Absolutely.”

Riven was a large man—nearly as tall as I—with a hard, square face and hair cut so short it was possible to see the tattoos that crossed his skull. He’d been my primary companion for some years now, and was used to taking on unusual requests without question. He’d conducted my meetings at the brothel in Inbetwixt, and most recently, had shot Lonnie in the forest. This, however, was apparently beyond evenhisability not to question.

“If you’re sure,” he grumbled, sheathing his long sword in his belt.

---