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Chapter Thirteen
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Istill felt a lot like the stupid wind-up toy, despite the travertine tiles beneath my feet instead of a muddy hillside. Though there was an inch of warm slipper foam cushioning my toes instead of soaked sand, I’d refused to change the rest of my clothes. I’d also shunned the cup of hot tea brought by the Palais rescue center volunteers. It sat on the floor next to where I’d positioned myself three hours ago, in the hallway reserved for people brought in by the search and rescue teams.
A couple of hours ago, they’d carried in a soaked and scared Forryst, reunited with his sister in a flood of tears and cheers from all—but my manic stares down the hall in their wake, expecting to see Shiraz drag in with Crista any moment, were answered only by a grubby trio of rescue guys, trying to be tactful about the story they relayed.
His Highness passed the child up to us…
Rotor wash caused waves…
Woman was unable to hang on…
Shiraz swam after her…
Refused to come with us…
The worst part about the memory gutted me all over again. The way they’d finished the story, assuring me other crews were out combing the river upon orders from Prince Samsyn, and that none of them would give up until Shiraz and Crista were found…
All of it meant to be reassuring.
None of it easing my agony at all.
None of it helping the damn confusion that flowed in right after, gobbling my sanity exactly as the river had eaten that whole park.
You are keeping vigil for a man who was barely a client. Who isn’t even a full lover.
Who sure as hell will never be yours.
I hitched an elbow on a knee and slammed my forehead into my palm.
Like that was going to jar the insanity free from my mind.
Or even budge me one inch from this wet, hard lookout.
Maybe logic would be appeased if I bargained with it. “Only long enough to know he and Crista are okay,” I reasoned in a whisper. “Then I’ll pack up and get the hell out of here.”
As soon as I could get out of here. Though heavy wooden doors guarded the end of the hall, they were opened and closed enough to give elemental updates about the storm. The worst had seemed to pass, though the weather was still damp and blustery. Now the cleanup would begin, and God only knew what that meant for the strip of asphalt Arcadia called an airport. If the runway was even there anymore…
That track of thought looped my memory back to the disappearance of the park. Then the surge that had toppled the buoy—and set all the horror into motion.
I flattened my palm against my temple. Squeezed my eyes shut, fighting and losing against the recall of those moments. Twisting fingers into my hair as winces escaped me and the images assaulted me. Children toppled into the water. Screaming along with Crista. Watching her tear into the water.
Watching Shiraz go after her…
An explosion of shrieks blasted my eyes back open. Jolted fully back to the present, all senses firing, I shot to my feet. One of them had fallen asleep, making me stumble a little—a blessing in disguise, for it gave the seconds needed to identify the joy beneath the cries, and the exact source of that jubilance.
The Queen Mother Xaria appeared in the hall. I recognized her from the wedding research. She was a petite but regal woman, even without makeup or formalwear, reminding me of an older Audrey Hepburn mixed with one of the Kennedys, even in a basic black turtleneck paired with burgundy pencil capris and black kitten heels. (Yeah, kitten heels. Here. But she was the damn queen.)
While many in the hall bowed to her, she clearly wasn’t paying attention. Like anyone blamed her, with her son stomping in, wet and weary, from the opposite end of the hall.
“Merderim va Créacu,” the woman cried.
“Thanks be to the Creator!” yelled Jayd, rushing in behind her.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” The cheer came from the man behind them, inciting my dorky grin in lieu of what I should’ve been doing: bowing to His Majesty Ardent, Arcadia’s king father. But if the angels had shit on their manners today, so could I—and the occasion needed some unscripted joy.
Shiraz was back.
