Мэри Дэвидсон - Canis Royal Bridefight

“I told you,” he said simply. “You are beautiful, and so they stare.”

“Uh-huh.” She changed the subject. “So, are you going to give me the nickel tour, or what? After you get dressed,” she added in a mutter.

His brow wrinkled. “Uh…yes. Might I first have your name, good lady?”

“Right! I can’t believe I forgot about that.”

“You are increasingly forgetful, it seems,” he teased.

She grinned back. As long as he was standing here, talking to her, she didn’t mind the stares so much. “Today, yes. I’m Lois Commoner.”

She stuck out her hand. He looked at it and didn’t say anything.

“Helloooooo?” She waved her hand in front of his face. “And you are?”

“Please forgive; I was waiting to hear your rank and affiliations.”

“Oh, as to that—well, up ‘til yesterday, it was Detective Lois Commoner, Minneapolis Police Department.”

“That is an odd affiliation.”

“Well, it worked for me, once upon a time.”

He took her still-proffered hand, and seemed unsure of what to do with it. Finally he patted it. “I am Damon.”

“Is that Demon or Damien? ‘Cuz I got problems with both.”

“Day-MAWN.”

“Oh.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it firmly. He watched their hands pump up and down, bemused. “It’s nice to meet you. Thanks again for the ride.”

“You have but to ask if you desire another one. Come, I would like you to meet my father.”

He hadn’t let go of her hand; instead he pulled her through the gigantic doorway, into the castle’s—er, yard, or whatever it was called. But before they could get very far, a short blonde woman wearing what looked like a leather tunic and pants came racing toward them. Lois didn’t have a chance to see what she looked like before she skidded in the dirt before them, then hit the ground with her arms stretched over her head. “Forgive my impertinence, Prince Damon!” she cried into the dirt. “His Majesty the King has been asking for you all morning.”

Damon charged for the inner door, pulling Lois so hard she actually lost her footing. “Whoa! Slow down. Or leggo and I’ll follow you.”

“Forgive—I will be right back. Remain here, if you please.” With that he dropped her hand and was through the door in a half second.

She rubbed her wrist—he hadn’t meant to hurt her, but the marks of his fingers remained—and stared at everyone staring at her.

Two choices: hang out here and be gawked at, or follow Damon. Prince Damon. Did she say Prince?

She followed.

* * * * *

It wasn’t difficult to track Damon down. She followed the shouting. Two floors and five halls later, she figured out what the problem was. It seemed the king—Damon’s dad?—was as sick as a dog, and everybody was yelling at everybody else about what to do about it. From the fuss, these guys didn’t get sick very often.

She peeked through the doorway—no doors that she had seen, just large archways that led from one room to another. The archways were tall—at least seven feet high— and so wide, four of her could have gone through it at once.

She could see Damon and two other men standing around yelling. Well, they weren’t exactly yelling—they were sort of politely disagreeing with each other very loudly. At least Damon had put some clothes on—he was wearing a robe several shades lighter than his hair, with a blazing sun embroidered on the front.

“—all respect to my good lordly brother—”

“—helping our good Father the King by—” “—turn a slops bucket o’er my good lordly brother’s tiny head—”

“—try it, my good tiny brother—”

“—both of you should grow headfirst in a pile of Stinkweed, beloved Princes—”

Others—she assumed they worked in the castle, as they weren’t dressed nearly as nicely as Damon’s brothers—were surrounding Damon and the men, and occasionally trying to get a word in edgewise.

She walked down to the next room and peeked inside. And gasped—what a room!

She’d seen a picture of the queen’s chambers at Buckingham Palace once. This room put Queen Elizabeth’s digs to shame.

It was enormous—the ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and the room itself was as big as the entire Homicide department. Windows had been cut into the stone near the top of each wall, and the floor was splashed with pale lavender sunlight.

A professional football team could have comfortably slept in the bed, but there was only one person in it now—a man whose blonde hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He looked to be in his late fifties, and his complexion had a definite greenish tinge. He was huddled under richly embroidered blankets—only his head was showing—and looked as unhappy as a junkie in withdrawal.

He groaned in abject misery, which made up her mind. She cautiously approached the bed and cleared her throat.

“Hi there,” she said. His eyes—the same pale purple as Damon’s—opened wide and he stared at her, stunned. “Can I get you something? Some Pepto Bismol? A bucket? You look like you’re gonna—”

He groaned again, lurched upright, and threw up all over her.

“—be sick,” she finished. She stood there, dripping, and contemplated him. “Something you ate?” she asked at last.

He nodded and slumped back against the filthy bedclothes. “That I should so dishonor a lady, and one who came to me out of a need to lend aid!”

“Chill out, I’ll live. You know, you’d be a lot more comfortable with clean sheets. And wouldn’t you like some soup? Like—uh—chicken broth? Do they have chickens here? Never mind, I’ll find out. And aren’t you thirsty? If you’re gonna be this sick, you should drink a lot. Don’t go away,” she added.

She turned, and saw several people—Damon among them—standing in the huge doorway. “Yeah, there you are—listen, I’m going to need clean sheets, and some cold water—can you do ice water?—and some broth. Light stuff, nothing heavy. Maybe a little bread, if you have some. Oh, and someone better find me an old shirt or something to run around in. Don’t suppose there’s a washing machine in the basement?”

Nobody moved.

“Hey! I’m talking to you people!” She marched up to the doorway and made shooing gestures. “Get your asses in gear, the old guy’s pretty miserable.”

“You cannot be here,” one of the servants finally ventured, eyes rolling like a scared horse. “This area is for royalty and the servants of same. You—”

“—seem to be the only one doing something.”

“Do as she commands,” Damon said suddenly. Beside him, two other muscular blondes—his prince brothers?—were smiling at her.

“Well, thank you.”

“But ‘the old guy’ is His Majesty the King! She cannot—”

“I don’t give a shit if he’s the Pope. He’s hurting, and you dildos are just standing around. Now move .” She put her hand on the nearest chest—it was Damon’s—and shoved. Then she noticed the heavy curtain beside the doorway, and tugged on it. It fell into place, obscuring everyone from sight, with a satisfying flap.

From behind the heavy curtain, she heard a plaintive, “What is a dildo?”, and then many retreating footsteps.

“Come here,” the king said weakly.

She turned and stomped back to the bed. “Sorry about that, but Jesus! Someone had to light a fire under those guys.”

“My name is not Jesus. But you do such things very well. Sit here beside me. Ah— your clothing will be tended to, and I must again humbly implore your forgiveness for my foul and coarse behavior—”

“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been puked on, spit on, had shit flung at my head, not to mention bullets—this is nothing. Shoot, I’ve had dates that weren’t this pleasant.”