The prince was so drawn to the taste of wine that he didn’t care what would happen if anyone recognized his royal face. He loved to drink so much that he was willing to risk getting killed in the midst of a stormy brew of Paelsians. And what a truly stupid way to die that would be, she thought.
“I’ve heard of this place,” Enzo said, looking up at the entrance. “Nerissa once worked here as a barmaid.”
She raised a brow at him. “Really?”
He nodded. “She said it was an interesting experience.”
“I had no idea she’d lived in Paelsia.”
“She’s lived everywhere, it seems. So unlike me, who has never ventured beyond Limeros until now. How boring she must find me.”
“I assure you she finds you anything but boring.” To hear Enzo speak of her friend made Cleo’s heart ache. She had no doubt Nerissa could look after herself, better than any other girl—and possibly boy—she’d ever known, but . . . Cleo couldn’t help but worry for her safety. She hated the thought that she might be in danger while being forced to work close to Amara.
Cleo took a deep breath as she and Enzo pushed through the front doors. Inside the tavern were at least two hundred smelly, dirty patrons.
She scanned the faces, searching for Magnus in the crowd.
This tavern was unlike anything she’d experienced during her two previous visits to Paelsia. Her knowledge of the area was limited to poor markets, decrepit villages, and wide expanses of wasteland.
And the locked sheds of angry, vengeful rebels, she reminded herself.
This place, despite its rather rough and shabby interior, looked like it could exist in Hawk’s Brow, the largest city in Auranos. Lighting the large room were dozens upon dozens of candles and lanterns set up along the bar and tables. Hanging on the high ceiling above were several large wooden wheels, each one set with candles on the spokes. The floors were nothing more than hard-packed earth; the tables and chairs were made of roughly chiseled wood.
To Cleo’s left was a small stage upon which a young woman with black hair and golden streaks painted upon her tanned skin writhed around rather explicitly. Around her neck was a large white boa constrictor, the likes of which Cleo had only ever seen in illustrated books.
“Enzo, please, just help me look for Magnus. Start with the areas with the most wine.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Cleo drew the hood of her cloak closer to cover her hair and tried to ignore the leering glances of many of the brutish-looking men who passed her. When she felt someone cup her buttocks from behind, she spun around to punch the offender, but her swinging fist connected only with air.
Furious, she tried to spot whoever had touched her in the crowd, but she froze in place when she heard a familiar name shouted out.
“Jonas!” It was the painted snake-woman, pausing her performance to run to a young man in the audience. “Jonas, is that really you?”
Cleo, eyes wide, looked toward the stage.
Jonas had returned from Kraeshia. And of all the places in Mytica he could have turned up, he was here!
How could this be?
She turned to look at Enzo, but another face caught her attention instead. A young man strode through the crowd, moving in opposition to the sea of faces turned toward the stage
Bronze hair, tanned skin, tall, and leanly muscled . . .
All she could do was stare, certain that her eyes deceived her.
“Theon,” she whispered, the name catching in her throat.
The memory slammed into her then of a moment when everything seemed clear—she loved him, and nothing else mattered. Not his station, not the disapproval of her father, not the stern look that Theon had given her before he kissed her, tinged with fear at the thought that he’d lost her forever.
And then the sound of hoof beats when Magnus and his soldiers arrived.
The pride in her heart as Theon faced Magnus’s men and won.
And the horror as she watched the life leave Theon’s eyes forever as Magnus stabbed him in the back.
“If your guard had backed off when I told him to, this wouldn’t have happened,” the son of the King of Blood had said.
“He’s not just a guard,” she’d whispered in reply. “Not to me.”
Often, it felt as if it had happened a thousand years ago. Other times, it was as if he’d died only yesterday.
Yet here he was.
“Princess?” Enzo asked, frowning at her look of absolute shock.
Cleo didn’t answer him. Her legs were numb as she began to move without thinking, wending her way through the crowd toward him.
Hot tears splashed her cheeks, and she viciously wiped them away.
The crowd thinned this far from the stage, which allowed her to keep her murdered bodyguard in sight. Tight in his grip flashed the glint of a sharp blade.
And then she saw Magnus.
This apparition of the young man she’d loved and lost approached Magnus, who stood at the bar, eyeing Theon with as much disbelief as Cleo did. Then, so quickly she almost didn’t see it, Theon grabbed Magnus, hard, and pressed the blade to his throat.
She screamed inwardly, her entire body turned to coldest ice in an instant. She looked now to Magnus, his expression resolute, his jaw tight, his dark eyes void of emotion.
“Cleo?” Someone was blocking her path—a boy with freckles and red hair. “Oh, Cleo! You’re here! You’re alive!”
“Nic?” She spared him a moment’s glance before grabbing his shoulder and digging her fingers in. Behind him, she watched as blood trickled down Magnus’s throat from where this ghost from the past dug his dagger into his flesh. “What’s going on? Why is this happening?”