The King's mansion loomed over him. For a moment, Dante's step faltered. There were men in scarlet suits stationed outside. He could step out into the light of the courtyard and command the men to take him inside to his father, to bring all of this to an end in a single, easy instant. He could become Prince Dante again. He could have it all back.
He didn't step out into the light. He crept around the side of the mansion to the servant's doors. There were no guards there. He'd used the entrance before, on nights when he'd slipped his bodyguards or spent the night somewhere he shouldn't have and didn't want his father's watchdogs to rat him out.
The entrance wasn't locked. It was never locked. Dante didn't think his father and his people even remembered the servant's entrance. No one had used it in years. In fact, he couldn't remember a time anyone had used it. There were enough guards watching the perimeter around the house to keep any ill-intentioned citizens from even wandering close enough to find the unattended entrance.
Dante wasn't a wandering citizen. He knew exactly how to sneak inside through the chinks in the guards' armor. It was dark, but he'd navigated the steep, narrow stairs many times, usually drunk. He could find his room and slip inside before anyone noticed. He could probably hide in there for days without anyone realizing he'd ever come home. He didn't know how long he'd been gone. Perhaps he could claim to have been there the entire time and simply gone unnoticed.
Yeah, right. He would have to answer to his father. He wasn't sure what he was going to tell him. He could tell him the truth. He could have Petra and the innocent kids from the compound tossed in prison without a trial. He knew exactly where they were. He knew how to find them. They had committed a crime. They had kidnapped him. They'd lied to him. Petra had committed a crime. Kidnapped him. Lied to him.
But she and her people had protected him, too. They hadn't given him to the hunters. They'd suffered terribly for it, but they hadn't given him up. He didn't know what to do. He hadn't been telling the truth when he'd promised not to turn them in, but he wasn't sure he meant to do it, either. He needed time to think. He needed time to decide who to trust. He needed time to understand what Petra and her people had meant to him in those few, blissfully ignorant days. He needed to know what they still meant to him.
He sensed movement in the dark; heard the faintest rustle of fabric. His eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness, but he felt the air change as something moved toward him. It was big, and it was fast. It hit him squarely in the chest. Dante staggered back down several stairs, but he didn't fall. He caught the railing before he tumbled down to the stone floor below. He didn't have to see the man to know who he was. He knew.
He felt rather than saw the man in black—the man from the alley and the compound--bracing for another attack. Tension crackled in the air. He heard the faintest intake of breath. Dante reached into his pocket. He hadn't needed it in the streets. He hadn't met any outlaws or muggers in the outlands or the city center, but he still carried the jagged rock that he'd picked up amongst the rubble in case trouble found him on his way to the palace. He wasn't a match for a man who killed for a living, but he knew these stairs, and he had the home team advantage.
When his assailant rushed him again, Dante lifted the rock and struck out blindly at him. He made contact. The man in black grunted. The blow was only glancing, but it must have been startled him or stolen his breath because the assassin stopped moving.
Dante didn't waste the brief seconds he had before the man came back to his senses. He rushed forward grabbed hold of his long, black coat to shove him toward the chilly stone floor. He heard the man hit the stairs as he fell. His attacker didn't fall far; he must have caught himself on the rail. Dante heard him scrambling to regain his feet, his shoes scraping against the stone floor. He didn't say a word.
Dante ran. He could hear the man struggling to his feet behind him, but Dante was fast, and he knew the King's land better than anyone. He didn't look back. He slipped past the Marshals the way he had come and hurtled into the dark, sinister streets around the city center.
He only had one place to go. He prayed he could remember the path back to Petra's safe house. He prayed that when he got there she would take him back. He couldn't go home again, not until he knew who the man was and why he was waiting for him in his father's house. How had he known where Dante would go? How had he known he would return? Who had sent him, and how had he gotten past the Marshals. Unless...unless he had been placed there on purpose. Unless he'd been sent by King.
He couldn't focus on that now. He didn't stop running. His lungs burned, but he reached the edge of the city in mere minutes. He'd been careful to pay attention when he'd left the safe house. He'd thought he'd meant to tell his father and their people where it was, to get back at the people who had tricked him and lied to him and kept him prisoner. But perhaps...perhaps he had really known all along there might be a time when he needed somewhere to run. Perhaps he'd suspected all along he'd need a way back.
The outlands, though, were a twisted, dirty, dilapidated maze. He'd only been there once on his own, and the streets all had the same sinister look to them. He wished he'd left a trail of bread crumbs or tied a string to something. He was hopelessly out of his element here. A gang of outlaws rushed through the streets, shouting and laughing. He ducked into an alley to avoid them. He clutched the rock in his hands. It was slick with blood. He grimaced and tossed it away.
When the outlaws were gone, things got worse. He was hopelessly lost. He didn't recognize the streets around him, even if he had traversed them mere hours ago. He cursed. It was dark. He couldn't possibly find his way to the safe house now, even as the fires burned around him and illuminated the streets and shadowed the back always. He would have to find a place to camp for the night.