Crausin nodded. “The circumstances were extreme. You did what had to be done to survive. But just tell me one thing,” he said, eyeing Comron. “You still hate all Bastionlis don’t you?”
“Does Van Laven blood still run through my veins?” he replied without hesitation.
The questioning look in Crausin’s eyes sent a wave of alarm through Comron. He could feel the subtle mental probing, the hidden doors opening and closing.
But then Crausin smiled broadly. “Gods, let’s get you cleaned up. We’ve less than six hours to make the banking conference.”
CHAPTER 24
In the low lights of the night watch, Prince Comron Van Laven crossed the meadow below the south wing of Northridge Castle. His legs carried him as if they had a mind of their own and his head reeled from the whirlwind of financial dealings and heavy negotiations orchestrated to offset the impending loss of the Eskridge deposits. Every detail had been carefully coordinated and every piece had been put into place. All that he awaited was Crausin’s consent to release him from the betrothal contract.
He groaned aloud and balled his fists at the prospect. He knew no matter how meticulously he planned the alternative, Crausin would not easily surrender the Eskridge deal. It was his brainchild carefully crafted over the years. Lady Spira had been duly compromised and was Crausin’s willing tool, designed to keep Comron in check. And now Spira—the unabashed tart—sought an audience with him tomorrow morning, no doubt to insist that their lewd bedroom antics resume. The notion of it sickened him and the thought of Vaush learning of it petrified him.
In all his frustration and angst, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself standing before the military combat training facility. It was the perfect place to vent his anger and emerge from his dark moods. He entered the building and ran his hand past the sensor; the lights popped on and flooded the gymnasium. Comron’s fingers danced across the control panel to call up the fighting drones lining the walls. He set them at the highest attack mode for maximum aggression, walked over to the weapons cache, and selected a heavy flanged mace.
The silver, mechanical humanoids came to life. Each one lifted its head with eyes glowing orange. In unison, they stepped down from their holding mounts. Orange eyes shimmered at Comron as the droids mustered into a circle around him.
Comron raised the mace, struck a fighting stance, and growled, “Attack!”
As they charged, he leapt into the air and drove the weapon down, smashing the arm off the nearest drone. He spun and hit the next one in the gut, doubling it over before he bludgeoned its head. A drone struck him in the back, knocking him to the ground, but Comron rolled forward with the momentum and swept his leg out to knock the drone off its feet. The second it hit the ground, he drove the flanged end of the mace through the drone’s chest, impaling it. Springing to his feet, Comron swung the mace up and connected with the closest drone’s head, knocking it off its shoulders. A metal foot caught him in the mid-section, he groaned as he stumbled back, but then ducked as a drone swung a battle-axe at his head. His foot shot out and hit the drone in the chest. Instantly, another one flew at him and bashed Comron’s face with the butt of its club. The pain only fueled his rage as he moved more rapidly to strike crippling blows and take them in turn. He battled through, working out his aggression and frustration, until there were no more combatants left standing. His chest heaved and perspiration trickled down his face as he stood in the midst of the shattered combat drones.
Let this war begin.
On his way to the drawing room, Comron spotted his mother at the bottom of the staircase.
“Ah, there you are, my darling,” Queen Sheally said cheerfully as Comron descended. “You know that it is not polite to keep your fiancée waiting, even if you look as dashingly handsome as you do,” she said examining his attire. He wore a white linen dress shirt with a cravat at the neck underneath a hip-length, well-tailored burgundy doublet with gold buttons down the center. Fitted black breeches and a pair of finely polished knee-high boots accented the cut of his thigh and the length of his legs. A three-quarter length black jerkin served as a sleeveless coat over his attire.
He tried not to resent his mother for being swept up in all the pageantry that Spira had created around their upcoming nuptials. Sheally had no idea what sort of depraved creature Spira was, Comron thought. But how could his mother see it when she’d grown so adept at turning a blind eye to all of Crausin’s indiscretions?
She touched his cheek affectionately. “What is it my darling, what has you troubled?”
He silently berated himself for letting his emotions show so readily.
“I’m fine, mother.” Before she could say another word, he kissed her cheek. “Now, I believe my fiancée is waiting for me.”
“Oh, yes. Come along, my dear.” She took his arm and led him down the hall and through the double doors of the great room. The place was an informal entertaining hall with high ceilings, polished wood floors, and an enormous fireplace.
In the center of the room, a couple of meters from the fireplace, was an antique divan flanked by two matching arm chairs. Sitting ever so gracefully upon the divan, with her back to the doors, was Lady Spira Eskridge. Upon hearing the doors open, she turned to peer over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled like blue diamonds as they caught sight of Comron.
“Hello, sweet darling,” she said, as she gracefully rose from the divan like a great swan about to take flight.
To any other man, she was a vision from their fondest adolescent dreams. The neckline of her form-fitting gown was tastefully cut, revealing an ample bosom and the bodice tapered around her slender waist. A full mane of flaxen hair fell abundantly over her bare shoulders, framing a beautiful face graced with delicate features.
Comron was unmoved.
“Hello, Spira.” He approached her in the most detached, formal manner. For his mother’s benefit, he lifted Spira’s hand, kissed it, and let it go. He glanced up to see his mother smile and close the doors.
Spira gave him a playful pout that would have broken the will of the most puritanical of men. “Is that the best you can do when you haven’t seen me in nearly two weeks?”
“No, but I’m afraid it’ll have to do,” he replied unapologetically. “What do you want, Spira?”
She tossed her head causing her flaxen locks to bounce. “I wanted to check on the health of my betrothed. What is so suspect about that?”
“I have already informed you that I’m well.”
“Then you and your father will take dinner with me this evening?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s only mid-morning,” she said, hiding her impatience behind a practiced smile. “I’m certain that you will have worked up an appetite by the dinner hour.”
“I’m equally certain that I won’t,” he said, folding his arms resolutely across his chest. “My father should be suitable enough dining company for you.”
She looked away, but not before he glimpsed the pained look in her eyes. Most curious, he thought.
“It’s been almost two weeks, Comron. It isn’t like you at all to be such a stoic in the face of certain depravations,” she stepped closer, in complete seductress mode. “Crausin assures me that you haven’t gone elsewhere to sate your desire since your return, therefore, you should be positively randy by now.”
I am, but not for you, he wanted to tell her. But instead he replied, “Don’t humiliate yourself any further, I’ve already told you that I’ll not be joining you for dinner this evening.”
Her shoulders set rigidly as she glared at him. “Your father won’t be pleased at all when I inform him of how reprehensibly you’ve treated me. I’m to be your wife!”
Her words choked him like a noose around the neck. Needing to be away from her, he headed to the bar and prepared himself a strong drink.
“I will have a glass of markana,” she said, pulling up alongside him.
“You know where the bottles are,” h
e said stiffly, never taking his eyes off his drink.
She huffed, but took the invitation to pour herself a glass, hoping that joining him for a drink might prove more effective in thawing her reluctant fiancé.
“So, Patheis,” she said, a smile in her tone as she sipped her markana. “It must’ve been a dreadful ordeal. No doubt it explains your lingering dark mood. You know that I’m an excellent listener and comforter … why don’t you tell me about it.”
It took all his self-control not to throw her out of the room for her vulgar duplicity. She only cared about alleviating his misery to the extent that it would draw him, and Crausin, back into her bed.
“I’d sooner set your headboard banging against the wall all night before I’d deign to discuss Patheis with you,” he said, the disdain dripping in his voice. “And I assure you, neither of those things is going to happen.”
Her azure eyes fixed upon him with a penetrating gaze. “My patience with your impertinence is wearing dangerously thin. A word to Crausin, and I could make life rather difficult for you. So let’s start again, shall we?” She took a deep breath and an arrogant smile touched her lips. “We’ll be expected at the studio tomorrow for the refinishing of the bride and groom hologram stills, and then we’ll—”
“We did those weeks ago,” he said tersely.
Her lips pulled taut across her teeth. “Well, we’re doing them again because you were in a cross mood and it showed. I’ll not have our wedding guests leaving with visuals of my groom looking anything less than euphoric.”
“The hell I will. Just edit a damn smile on my face, that way it’ll be just as fake as the one I would’ve given you.”
“Need I remind you that your attendance at these functions has been stipulated by the betrothal contract? Your failure to show will result in steep fines and penalties. So you might want to rethink your position … you contemptuous ass.”
He rose from the bar and glared down at her. “I don’t care if it costs me a Duke’s ransom. I won’t be at the studio nor will I be present for any of the other stupid shite you have planned.”
“Crausin will force you, even if he has to drag you there kicking and screaming!”
“He’ll have to kill me first.” He laughed at her. “But then you’d simply prop up my lifeless corpse and go through with the wedding anyway just to save face. Anything to keep them from realizing that you’re nothing but a high-born, well-primped whore that I’m being forced to marry!”
She leaned in close and grinned in his face. “Crausin satisfies me in ways you never will and you can’t stand it.”
He sniffed her and recoiled. “Crausin’s right; you do smell like cod fish.”
She gasped. “He never said … you … vile, disgusting liar!” She flew at him with clawed hands, but he caught her arms before she could sink her nails into his face. “I’ve already warned you about this, haven’t I? The next time you attempt to strike me, I will hit back. Hard.” He thrust her away and turned to leave. “Go home, Spira. Nobody wants you here,” he said over his shoulder and then ducked as a glass vase flew past him and crashed against the door.
“You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with! You insufferable, arrogant, little prick!” she raged, throwing anything she could get her hands on at him. “You’ll pay for this. I’m going to make your life a living hell!” she screamed after him with such vitriol all of Northridge Castle must have learned that the picture perfect couple was anything but.
CHAPTER 25
For a moment, there was nothing but silence between the two men, so similar in appearance—more like twin brothers displaced by time, than father and son. It was not surprising considering that Crausin fathered Comron when he himself was merely a young teenager. It had amused Comron to think that looking at his father was like looking at himself in perhaps five to ten years’ time. And it pleased him greatly to know that he inherited the same genes that kept the signs of age at bay so well.
“The specialists have assured me that you’re well in both mind and body, despite your ordeal on Patheis, and yet you hardly seem yourself since your return,” Crausin said from across the great mahogany desk that had been in their family for five generations. His expression was earnest and unusually paternal. “I’m worried about you, Com.”
Relieved that Crausin hadn’t launched into a lecture over his recent treatment of Spira, Comron relaxed a smidgen in the large high-backed chair.
“Doctor Brewsmen was quite thorough in the psychological assessment,” Comron answered evenly. “You should trust his findings.”
His father fixed him with a marked look of skepticism. “I do to the extent that they don’t conflict with my own instincts. Doctor Brewsmen doesn’t have the advantage of our history.”
Comron held up under the scrutiny of his father’s gaze, maintaining the mental barrier that would keep Vaush walled off from Crausin’s penetrating mind sweep. Even now, Comron felt him diligently searching for answers.
“Have you received word from the governance council?” Comron asked, attempting to deflect the duke’s path when he veered too close to Patheis.
The smile the question produced failed to reach Crausin’s eyes. “The official word came, but you know it was a mere formality to initiate the vetting process.”
“Still, no Nethicaen monarch has ever accomplished such a feat.” His ingratiating tone sounded nauseating even to his own ears.
“Yes … you said as much when we left the banking conference assured of the bid,” Crausin replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. “Comron, something is obviously troubling you. Level with me so I might help you.”
With Crausin too impatient to wait for his reply, Comron could feel the inner recesses of his mind being violated as the doors opened and closed one after the other, moving inexorably closer to Vaush. Only one thing would be powerful enough to throw him off the trail.
“I don’t want to marry Spira Eskridge,” he announced boldly.
Crausin sighed heavily but otherwise betrayed little emotion as Spira had likely wasted no time informing him of Comron’s stinging affront. “You state the obvious,” he said evenly, “Why?”
“Because I want you to consider a new path in our pursuit of a board seat.”
Crausin looked askance. “We should be discussing the latest intelligence we’ve gathered on Lugen’s covert activities and my plan to trap him. But please, by all means, let’s discuss your wedding instead.”
“Lugen has made three attempts on my life, Crausin. Nobody wants to nail his carcass to the wall more than I do. But the wedding takes place in a week and therefore demands immediate attention.” Comron produced a comp-pad from his pocket and tapped the glossy surface. The visuals sprang to life hovering just above it. “In the Reyal Baddel sector, we could acquire Gelmere Inter-planetary Bank, Casraq Consortium, and Zeriston Reliant, which would increase our deposit holdings by more than 30%. And we could acquire them at the same price we’re offering Eskridge.”
Crausin listened with a mild look of astonishment on his face as the holographic visuals moved around at Comron’s bidding.
But Comron was undeterred. “All three of these entities possess a shared desire to expand into new markets but lack the capital requirements to fund their interests abroad. I know which of them would be willing to sell outright, as opposed to requesting a leadership role in the new organization. I’ve run all the numbers; I can put them before the principal barrister by the close of business, and we could have a deal before them tomorrow.”
Crausin turned away with a disheartened look as if greatly disappointed in how Comron had spent his time since returning from Patheis. “Com, your wedding is one week away, and we have an ironclad contract with house Eskridge.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time a wedding was called off at the last hour.”
“Just how hard did you hit your head in the crash?” Crausin chuckled. “We are not having this conversation.”
Comron’s
green eyes grew dark and his jaw set firmly. “I am not going through with this wedding. The sooner we inform the Duchess of Garonne, the less pain there’ll be.”
“This is madness, Com. We’ll do no such thing.” He rose from his chair and came from behind the desk to stand next to Comron. “Now when did this bloody notion pop into your head?”
Comron looked him dead in the eyes. “The idea has been steadily forming ever since the day I found you jousting Spira’s throat with your cock.”
Crausin’s expression soured. “You would have preferred discovering she was a whore after the wedding?”
“I’d prefer it if you weren’t the one she’d been whoring with.”
Crausin scoffed. “We’ve shared most of our women, why should she be any different?”
“We don’t share our wives!”
“Only because my wife happens to be your mother,” Crausin said with only a hint of judgment. “But if she were not, I wouldn’t withhold her from you. So tell me truthfully, why are we rehashing ancient history?”
“You’d be amazed at how much clarity and perspective one gains when plunging toward the ground in a busted transport.”
Crausin pushed off the desk and headed toward the bar. “Did your little epiphany overlook the fact that we need Eskridge?”
“Haven’t you heard a word that I’ve said?” Comron demanded, following him over. “I’ve laid out a new strategy that doesn’t include their holdings.”
“At this late hour, your proposal is untenably risky.” Crausin poured a glass of brandy. “Why are you trying to derail our plans when we’re so close to achieving our goals?”
“Why are you forcing me into this wretched marriage when there is a viable alternative?”
“I won’t allow you to gamble on Nethic’s future with this half-baked plan of yours.”
“The deal is ready to be placed before the respective parties. All I need is your consent to move forward.”