The Demon Prince

  Because Ded was insisting, he sat near the fire and stared at the crackling flames for a few, hypnotic moments. The next thing he knew, someone was pressing a thermos into his hands. Alastor glanced up to find Rowena hovering.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  She was half-caste, reviled in Golgerra as a ‘stain’, born from a union between a guard and one of the prisoners. Based on her silvery hair and fey features, her mother had probably been Eldritch. Early on, it’d seemed as if she would never learn to shift, but once she finally did, she was beautiful and ferocious in a way utterly unlike the other Golgoth, for she had wings.

  “Not yet. Thank you, lovely.” It was fun to make her blush, though he shouldn’t.

  She perched beside him, watching with anxious eyes as he downed the soup. It was the same stuff they’d been given for days on end, but from what he’d seen, the cats weren’t hoarding better provisions. When he finished it, she traded the empty thermos for one full of herbal-smelling tea. Alastor wanted that as much as a kick in the face, but when she poured some, he drank all of it.

  “How long are we staying?”

  Sometimes, their faith humbled him. No matter how often he denied it, no Exile ever accepted that he didn’t have a master plan—that he wasn’t biding his time. He’d come on this assignment because direct rebellion was impossible. At least this way, he got out of Golgerra and he’d brought a good number of his people to safety as well. When Tycho heard of his defection—that the cats had offered sanctuary—the followers who had remained in the city would likely be put to death.

  “It depends,” he said at length.

  Rowena didn’t ask; her eyes said she wanted to. In the end, she got up and returned to work. Not before he noticed that her knuckles were chapped and cracking, blood seeping from the broken skin. Her fingertips were scraped raw as well. When he looked closer, he noticed that his entire honor guard was visibly thinner. They all looked as if they’d gone to war, and that was what decided him.

  If they’re willing to work like this for me, I can’t do less.

  For the rest of the day, he mixed the mortar and wheeled it around. By sunset, his men had completely rebuilt the north wall. Everyone was tired and sore when they retreated to the apartments they had been allotted. Still no hot water, but a cold shower was better than nothing. Alastor shivered as he stepped out of the stall, silently relieved not to find Ded or Rowena waiting for him. If they appeared, he would need to keep up the pretense that he was holding together just fine.

  With a muffled groan, he collapsed near the bed, shivers wracking him from head to toe. His chest tightened and he tried not to panic because that only made things worse. The constriction climbed to his throat, choking his air so that he went lightheaded. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he curled onto his side clinging to consciousness by a thread. Whispers of oxygen came in through his nose, not enough to keep him from familiar, visceral terror. In time, the episode passed. It had been years since it hit him so hard, proof that the medicine from the cat doctor wasn’t working as it should.

  That’s why Tycho let me live. He figured time would take care of me.

  Alastor was struggling to his feet when somebody knocked. Briefly, he contemplated ignoring the caller in hopes he went away, but a louder thump followed, definite impatience, there. Exhausted beyond bearing, he got to door, opened it with his best off-putting expression.

  To his astonishment, Dr. Halek pushed past him into the apartment. “You lied to me. About a number of things. How am I supposed to treat you this way?”

  “How do you know?” He stared in utter bemusement, as she looked… odd, outside of her usual setting, dark hair spangled with snow like a diadem of stars.

  “I left a sensor to monitor your condition.” In an efficient motion, she plucked a tiny, transparent patch from the back of his neck, a cunning gadget immune to hard labor and bathing. “And it’s given me some fascinating insights.”

  Probably, he should be angry about this invasion of his privacy. “Now you know my secrets,” he said lightly, though he wasn’t sure what the device had revealed. “How thrilling. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for someone who insists on absolute truth.”

  2.

  “That isn’t funny,” Sheyla snapped. “You might take your life as a joke, but if I fail, I need to know I did my level best to save your ass.”

  “Your failure means my death. Yet you’re the one who’s angry?”

  Ignoring the question, she kicked the door shut behind her and surveyed the apartment for signs that his retainers might be lurking. They’d probably take offense to her chewing out the crown prince of derision. But he seemed to be alone.

  “Damn right I am. You didn’t even tell me you suffer from bronchial distress.”

  With a faint sigh, Prince Alastor stumbled to the sofa and collapsed on it. “I suppose there’s no point in asking you to come back tomorrow?”

  “None. You can sleep after you answer my questions.”

  “I collect you want the full description of my symptoms?”

  Sheyla nodded and sat down on the chair opposite him, her notebook ready. While the monitor had given her some good data, his candor would be priceless, second only to consulting with his primary physician in Golgerra. In the artificial light, he was wan with exhaustion, green eyes glittering with a fevered light. Long black hair arranged in intricate braids only made him seem more delicate, like a strong word could break him. Yet appearances were deceptive, because surviving with a condition like the prince’s was no easy task.

  “Go on,” she prompted.

  “Intermittent—shortness of breath, chest pain, dizziness. Constant—joint pain, fatigue, body aches, an overall miasma of misery. Is that helpful?”

  “Somewhat. Tell me about your condition. Tell me everything.” Sheyla had the sense that the amused irony of his tone hid a much greater pain than he routinely displayed.

  “I was born with a genetic anomaly, normally found in females. There is no cure. My mother begged the doctors to find some treatment to extend my life.”

  “Obviously, they did,” she said. “And you know damn well that isn’t what I’m asking.”

  “To put it simply, tumors grow inside me, particularly in my lungs, kidneys, and lymph nodes. Not just tumors, though, but also smooth muscle tissue that shouldn’t be present. To deter that growth, the best physicians in Golgerra devised the serum.”

  “It would help if you had the formula they used,” she said.

  He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Tycho would never permit it. My mother is dead, and the doctors work for my brother now. It was only a matter of time until they poisoned me.”

  Sheyla suspected her expression must be speaking of her horror. “They would do that?” No matter how she felt about this Golgoth prince, if the pride leader came with a kill order, she’d boot him so fast, his head would spin. She might not believe in much, but she’d sworn her healing oath with complete sincerity.

  “Of course. Following Tycho’s commands is the only way to survive in Golgerra.”

  “We need to depose him,” she said through clenched teeth.

  The wave of ire startled her. Sheyla wasn’t political. Her participation in the patrol roster was minimal, no more than what she had to do to maintain good status in the pride. Sometimes she went days without leaving the hospital, without talking about anything but medical issues and procedures. It was best when she could retreat to the lab and not talk to anyone at all.

  That conviction felt foreign—but not wrong. If the would-be Golgoth King was ordering doctors to kill people, he had to go. No matter how bloody the battle became.

  His smile was gentle; it didn’t reach his eyes. They were green and hard, like the statue of a dragon handed down in Sheyla’s family for five generations. “That’s why I must survive.”

  “I’ll help you,” she promised.

  This time it was more than a favor to the pride matron, mor
e than reluctant acquiescence. She’d heard about the issue—Prince Alastor needed more medicine to manage his condition, but he didn’t have the prescription, so she needed to analyze what he was taking and manufacture it. Otherwise, the war effort—and therefore all Animari—would suffer. A tall, damn order, considering her ruined equipment, and she’d synthesized an imperfect facsimile, but his welfare hadn’t truly felt like her responsibility before.

  I’ll need more blood and tissue samples. I wonder if he’d permit a biopsy. While she’d lectured him earlier about the full complement of tests, her heart hadn’t been in the work. It was now. To ensure she did no harm, she also needed a full body scan, so she could chart and study the physiological differences between the Golgoth and the Animari.

  “You are unexpectedly kind.”

  Sheyla waved that away with a half-frown. “I’m sure you have more to say on your condition. Please, continue.”

  “If you insist. There’s nothing I like better than expounding on my ailments. It makes me feel geriatric in the best possible way.”

  She bit her lip to keep from smiling. He’s not funny, dammit. “The serum…?”

  “There are side effects. My lungs are weak, as is my heart. Transplantation would lead to the new organs being damaged, so that’s not a solution. In addition to controlling tumor and cyst growth, the medicine also suppresses my immune system, which means I’m prone to viral illnesses and quick fevers. My stamina is…” Here, he paused. One heartbeat. Two. “Not good. Otherwise, I can’t think of anything more that would be helpful.”

  “Do you take anything for the pain?” she asked.

  “I did for a while. But it interfered with the serum and I required surgery to remove tumors from my lungs and kidneys.”

  “Benign?”

  “They don’t seem so to me, but apparently yes. This is like cancer, but not cancer.”

  “That, I could cure,” she muttered.

  “Truly?”

  “Certain types, provided they haven’t progressed too far.” She doubted he wanted to talk about the point when cancer cells metastasized. “But this isn’t something we’ve seen here.”

  “It’s apparently rare, even among females, and almost unknown in males.” Something in the way he said those words, so carefully, as if sipping from the rim of a broken glass, told her that some great wound accompanied this truth.

  “I suppose your brother made much of that,” she said, studying his face.

  The urge to comfort surprised her, almost as much as her words startled him. He sat forward as if he’d grab her and shake some answers loose, but he retreated at the last second without making contact. She was almost sorry about that—and she shouldn’t be. As his doctor, she could only care so much about his emotional state, only insofar as it affected his prognosis.

  He tried to play it off. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “That you’re weak, not a man, dying by millimeters of a lady disease. Does that about cover it?” Probably she shouldn’t have spoken; it was past honesty, on toward cruelty.

  A little tremor shook through him, along with a hiccup of a breath. “How odd. You sound just like him. I didn’t realize you were acquainted.”

  She ignored the faltering attempt at humor. “You know that isn’t true, right? Illness isn’t a fault and certainly doesn’t make you less of a man. It’s just part of who you are, like green eyes or black hair.”

  “So, you did learn some comforting words in medical school.”

  “That was not meant as consolation,” she said. “It is merely the truth.”

  “You cannot stop me if I take solace in it regardless.”

  “True. Well… I think that’s it for now. Come to the hospital in the morning, first thing. We have a lot to do.”

  “Would you stay a little longer?”

  Since Sheyla was already halfway to the door, the question tripped her up, both physically and mentally. She stumbled on a wrinkle in the rug and turned to face him, cocking her head. “Why? I don’t have any other questions.”

  The prince didn’t smile. For a few seconds, it seemed as if he wouldn’t even answer. And then he said, “I want to listen to you breathe.”

  Um, what?

  “That… is really strange.”

  “Not so much. I thought I wanted to be alone, but what I actually want is not to be with anyone who needs me. Do you need me, Dr. Halek?”

  “No,” she said.

  At last, his eyes lit from within and they were luminous. “Search the cupboards. I think there’s tea. Make a cup and review your notes or take a fifteen-minute nap. Please.”

  No matter what he claimed, it was such an odd request that she didn’t have the heart to deny it. In an emergency, her phone would already be ringing, so she followed his instructions, only she brewed two cups and sat with him while he drank it in pensive silence. The quiet between two strangers should have been tense and awkward.

  It wasn’t.

  The prickly doctor would doubtless be mortified when she realized she had drifted off in Alastor’s apartment. For the moment, he enjoyed exactly what he’d requested—listening to her breathe. But there was also a certain clandestine pleasure in learning the lines of her face as well. She had lovely cheekbones, prominent beneath tawny gold skin. Her mouth was wide, fuller than he’d realized, because she normally compressed her lips in disapproval. Delicate jaw, pointed chin, and defiantly arched brows. Her hair was thick and curly, likely longer than anyone suspected, but she wore it pinned up in a style that wanted to be prim and efficient but wasn’t because it revealed her lovely jaw and the sensual curve of her bare neck.

  Dispassionately, he decided she was beautiful and would become more so with time. The fifteen minutes he’d asked for had been up for a while, and he no longer felt quite as shaky. Alastor rose, covered her with the couch throw and then retreated to the bedroom. With the door ajar, he could still hear her even breathing in the other room, and it was more comforting than he’d imagined. In time, he slept.

  Dr. Halek was gone when he woke, of course. But she had left him a sternly worded note, in case he was likely to disregard her words. COME TO THE HOSPITAL AS SOON AS YOU READ THIS. He cheated a bit by showering first, delaying by drying his hair and redoing the braids that spoke of his status, not that he expected anyone here to understand. In truth, the prospect of a “full battery of tests” left him queasy. He’d spent much of his childhood being prodded while his mother stood guard, ready to change and disembowel anyone who threatened him. Of his father and his other siblings, he’d seen little, apart from his sister, Caia, the closest to him in age, and the one whose loss he grieved most.

  When he finally emerged from seclusion, he heard it so often: You don’t look ill. As if his medical history ought to be etched in his skin. He developed the sharp smile and a smooth retort, perfect defense against encroaching questions. It was one thing to pretend to be impervious; the effort left him tired. And the prospect of starting this battle all over again… Alastor let out a breath and let the soft pain dissipate. There was always some tightness in his chest, so he’d learned to compensate. His expression in the misty bathroom mirror looked none too hopeful, so he touched the names inked on his inner arm for fortitude.

  Caia.

  Efren.

  Leander.

  Those were the two brothers and one sister who died, causalities of Tycho’s drive to power. In their memory and for those who followed him, he would climb this mountain all over again, submit to tests and experiments. If he succeeded in deposing his brother, even if he only led the Golgoth for a year or two after, that would be enough. He would put safeguards in place to ensure that whoever followed him to the throne could not continue the devastation.

  He dressed simply and then followed Dr. Halek’s orders. Dedrick showed up as he stepped out of the residential building but Alastor waved him away. “I don’t require an escort. I’ll head to the work site when I’m finished.”

  “A
re you sure?”

  “Assuredly sure. This will take quite a while.”

  “Understood.” Ded didn’t salute but there was an unnerving focus about him, the sort of single-minded devotion that would get him killed, sooner rather than later.

  This morning, the hospital was quiet and fifteen rooms had cleared out. Alastor counted as he went to Dr. Halek’s office. His people lacked the Animari’s rapid-healing ability, compensating with greater strength and skin that became incredibly dense after transformation. Thus, he’d lost four men during the initial blast and two more succumbed to their injuries before rescue teams reached them.

  Not an auspicious start.

  “Good, you’re here.”

  She led him past her office to the lab, which had taken some damage in the bombing. A couple of machines were broken entirely, likely making her life difficult. There was no sign of the woman who had dozed off in his flat the night before. No, today, she was all brusque business as she handed him a gown to change into, then a small cup with a capsule in it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Biodegradable medibots. They’ll help me with the biopsies I need and chart your systems for me. I have some studying to do.”

  “Your workload is less now?”

  Pausing, she looked as if the question surprised her. “Why?”

  “Because you seem less infuriated by dealing with my needs.”

  “That… well. Sorry. And yes, Dr. Bohalian is taking over the rest of my patients for the time being. I can devote myself to you, guilt-free.”

  “The past weeks have been difficult. It’s understandable that you would resent an outsider for stealing care your people need as well.”