C.J. Miller - The Secret King

Too bad one of the kings would die tonight by Casimir’s hand. He hated to ruin the party for the king of Acacia, but attacking the king of Rizari away from his palace made the logistics much simpler.

With the president of Icarus’s help, Casimir had smuggled his weapons into the room. He was ready. He had mentally run the plan dozens of times. He had trained. He would do what needed to be done, shed his fake identity for good and he would disappear, taking asylum in Icarus.

Casimir was careful not to touch the gun at his side, a habit he’d formed in the military to ensure it was in place. The knife in its sheath at his hip brushed against his pants. He did nothing to call attention to himself. In addition to the three leaders, the room was filled with security—each of the king’s guards and the president’s servicemen, all armed to the teeth.

Danae, the eldest princess of Acacia had her guards close as well. She was the heir to the throne, and watching her, Casimir understood why she was being courted by the king of Rizari. Princess Danae looked like a woman who liked to have fun, but who couldn’t organize her closet, much less a country. Her brunette curls bounced as she laughed and threw her head back in delight.

The younger princess of Acacia, Serena, was standing alone on the perimeter of the party. Unlike her sister’s vibrant, fanciful energy, Serena had a quiet, serious beauty about her. Her blond hair hung around her shoulders and she looked almost ethereal in a light blue gown. She sipped her glass of wine and watched the party with little change in her expression. No one spoke to her. She had to be bored. Casimir had been studying King Warrington’s social circles, and he found her behavior curious, very different from what he had experienced in Rizari. To blend in to the royal social circle, extraversion was critical.

Why was the princess so removed? He knew little about the king and princesses of Acacia. They didn’t factor into his plan, except that he was using their castle to exact his revenge. He would send an anonymous note of apology once he’d returned to Icarus and was safe in his new life, revenge complete. Perhaps then his soul would be quiet and peaceful.

“She is beautiful, no?” Demetrius DeSante said. The president of Icarus, and his good friend, spoke softly. Though DeSante and Casimir were careful not to give away how close they were, especially in regard to this conspiracy, DeSante had been making the rounds through the ballroom, talking to everyone with a title or a fortune. Casimir was pretending to have the latter.

Though DeSante had been accused of many bad things, he was a good leader and one of his best qualities was his charisma. He could talk anyone into doing what he wanted. It was another way he was dangerous.

The lights flickered and then went out.

“Is this your plan? You’re doing this now?” DeSante’s voice in his ear.

The blackout was not part of his plan. Casimir was nowhere near King Warrington of Rizari. Casimir could only see by candlelight in the darkened room. Acacia was plagued by energy distribution problems. “Not my plan. Rolling blackouts—”

The sentence died in his mouth. At the sound of gunfire, Casimir dove for the floor, instinctively dragging President DeSante with him. The ceramic tile was cold against his hands, but his body broke out into a sweat and adrenaline charged through him. Gunfire had that effect on him. He had already been keyed up, waiting for his chance to kill Warrington and now, he was all systems go and on full alert.

The music died. More gunfire and the room was filled with screaming and shouting. Glass was breaking and objects hit the floor. A woman’s heel pierced his hand. Damn stiletto shoes. Shaking off the pain, Casimir belly crawled toward the darkness, away from the windows. If an active gunman was peppering the area with shots, he was safer in the darkest corner of the room. Once there, he would take stock of his position and kill whomever had decided to ruin his revenge.

Casimir assessed the area. Though his eyesight was compromised, his hearing was sharp and his nose searching. As if his senses had been attuned to violence, he peered through the candlelit glow of the room. The king of Acacia was slumped on the floor, the older princess next to him. In the dimness, it was impossible to know if the king was dead or injured. The sound of gunfire was elsewhere in the castle. Seeing no one guarding the king, Casimir filled in the blanks. Security had fled in the direction of the shooting, leaving the bodies of the king and princess alone. Were they already dead?

Dread consumed him when Princess Serena’s face came into view. She was moving toward her father and sister. Was she trying to get herself killed? Wasn’t she aware she should run away from bullets, not toward them?

Forgetting his own safety, Casimir rose to his feet and sprinted toward her. Princess Serena was pulling her father behind a table. For protection? Her face was grief-stricken and her eyes met his. They screamed for help, pleaded with someone to come to her aid.

Women in need were a soft spot for him. He could have used the darkness to search for King Warrington and kill him. But the probability of finding him unguarded was slim. More pressing was the beautiful woman who needed his help.

* * *

Serena shouldn’t have come to the capital tonight. She had decided at the last minute to forgo her usual excuses and instead had driven to the castle for her father’s birthday.

Serena’s face felt sticky and her feet slid on the floor. She had to drag her father and sister to safety. Someone was shooting into the ballroom. No answers came to mind as to why.

She couldn’t find her father’s security. She had commanded her cousin and personal secretary Iliana to hide in the coat closet. But Serena couldn’t leave her father and sister exposed. She had no medical training, but she could be with them until help arrived.

Pulling her father’s weight was nearly impossible. Why was the floor so slippery? Her shoes slid out from under her again. Her dress tangled around her ankles as she fought to stand. A shadow blotted out the little light shining in her direction. Help had arrived! She lifted her head to welcome whomever had come to assist her.

Instead, she came face to face with the muzzle of a gun.

Before she could scream, not that screaming would have made a difference in the current environment, a hot and wet liquid hit her face. She closed her eyes and when she opened them, the lights were on again. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the scene.

The man who’d been holding a gun at her was slumped in the arms of a stranger. A very dashing stranger, with reddish-brown hair, hazel eyes, a mustache and goatee, pronounced cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose. Serena was sure she had never met this man before and yet he seemed so familiar.

He threw the body to the side. She winced at the sound it made hitting the porcelain tile. The man slid his knife into a sheath beneath his black suit coat. A knife-wielding stranger had saved her life.

He extended his arms to her. On the heels of a violent attack, she should be more wary of him, but her instincts told her he wouldn’t harm her. He had saved her life. If he wanted her dead, he could have allowed the gunman to kill her.

She took his hand. Her feet slid beneath her. Blood. It was blood she’d been slipping in. In stark contrast to the gruesome scene, the stranger was watching her with the kindest eyes she had ever known. She turned her head to look at her father and sister, to see what help they needed.

The man put his hand on her cheek. “Do not look, Princess. This is not what you should remember.” He took a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped her face. Blood smeared the material.