Jeanie London - Her Last Protector

The song might have been beautiful but for the sadness. And she remembered this feeling, heartache that wrung every ounce of her strength as if her insides were made of sponge.

But she couldn’t take Bunică from this mountain. Nor could she leave any part of herself here. She had already given away everything, kept only what she needed to survive.

When the song faded to silence, the feeling lingered, loss cast on the wind, across frosty trees, rebounding through her.

Mirie might never see this place again.

Alba Luncă had been home when she had needed one most. When she had been robbed of love and identity, she had found joy again running through the dirt streets of the village, through leaf-strewn forests, over sunlit meadows.

This place had become everything to her. Shelter. Safety. Solace. But hope most of all. Mirie had learned life would go on here, like it or not. Whether that life was joyous or miserable was a choice that was hers to make and hers alone.

She had clung to that knowledge during these past six years, knowing life in all its simplicity was exactly where she had left it—in the mountains with Bunică. The knowledge had given her strength during never-ending council sessions, consolation when the palace she had been born in felt like an alien planet. Alba Luncă had given her purpose. She worked for Ninsele, fought to preserve a way of life she believed in.

Stay in the present, she reminded herself. Just focus on this moment.

The mourners began to move and whisper. It was time to leave. Perhaps forever.

Inhaling deeply, Mirie memorized the taste of the sharp wind in her lungs, of spruce and snow, of hope when all had felt hopeless, of life that filled her with possibilities the way the wind whistled through trees and filled this valley.

There was a path nearby that led to a hidden grove with a spring and a waterfall, one of the many secret places of this harsh yet heavenly country. Secret from strangers, at any rate. Teenagers had long ago designated the place as a rendezvous point. Mirie had kissed her first boyfriend there after escaping from her bodyguard.

Of course she had been caught long before youthful exploration had much of a chance to heat up. She had never been able to lose her tail for long.

That thought only made her sigh.

The fresh earth over Bunică’s grave looked like a dirty scar marring the snowy ground, but even in death Bunică’s nearness made Mirie long for that simpler time. She could not tear herself away even though she could hear people retreating. Bunică was her connection to Alba Luncă, to her life of eventual peace after everyone she loved had been taken.

Mama, Papa, Alexi, Petre, Stefan...

There had been only Bunică. This tiny mountain village. And these people.

A slight touch on her arm brought her back to the moment.

Drei.

He was there as he always was. The man who had long ago replaced Bunică as Mirie’s protector, such a constant presence he had practically vanished. How could she notice her shadow or be surprised by the sight of her reflection in a mirror?

He was a blond bear of a man, hard from every angle—big body, chiseled expression, gemstone eyes. But his gaze was soft now as he watched her with eyes so startlingly green they seemed out of place on a granite face. He waited for her cue, an exchange that had become as natural as breathing to them.

She inclined her head, and he led her away.

They rounded the front of the church, following the procession that was fast losing its formation and reverent demeanor. People joined friends and family for the walk back to the village. They greeted each other. Someone laughed.

Mirie followed with Drei a step behind, feeling the wind sting, more bitter somehow as they left the churchyard. Once these people would have welcomed her easily among them. The women would have ordered her to refill buckets from the well and the men would have asked her to fetch glasses of ţuică. Now they had receded from her as silently as snow in the spring.

She was no longer the girl they had known. More important, she no longer felt like that girl. And that knowledge made her mood grow as leaden as the clouds that promised snow.

“The storm’s coming,” she said.

Drei glanced up. “Are you thinking about going back early?”

She nodded.

“What about the charity? The priest is behind us. He’ll expect you to say something to kick off the celebration.”

Mirie met his gaze, as green as the meadows for those few glorious weeks during summer. She could think of nothing she would rather do less right now than celebrate. “We may risk getting snowed in.”

There were no plows to clear the roads. Trans-Alps highways did not traverse the gorges of these steep passes. Not close enough for convenience, anyway. Not until Mirie could find some way of bridging the distance between opposing parties and get a majority to agree on what Ninsele’s future looked like.

If she ever got everyone to agree.

Drei only nodded. He would do whatever she decided, no matter how much effort it cost to rearrange their plans. But Mirie glanced into the storm clouds and knew she would have to take her chances. Tradition must be upheld. She may feel like a stranger right now, but her quick exit would be noticed. She was a conversation piece. Alba Luncă would tell tales of the princess who had hidden among them for generations to come.

She would leave no one disappointed with Bunică’s send-off. Especially since she wouldn’t be back to host the series of charity meals that would commemorate Bunică’s passing for the next year. Mirie would rely on others to host those. Today she would honor the woman who had given her life.

“We’ll cross our fing—” She broke off when she saw Drei.

He cocked his head to the side, his grip tightening on her elbow, bringing them to a sudden stop. Mirie knew he was receiving a report through his earpiece. Then he was in motion, pulling her hard against him, his arms like a vise as he spun her around.

“Go, go, go!” he yelled over his shoulder at the villagers. “We have gunfire. Get to the village. Quickly.”

Chaos erupted among those who had been nearest the grave site. Plaintive demands and fearful questions discharged into confusion. But none drowned out the sudden growl of an engine in the distance, unseen, yet swelling quickly, churning through the mountain stillness like the roar of an avalanche.

“The village,” Drei commanded. “Not the church. Get safely behind the gates.”

People started running, shouting, “To the village. To the village.”

“Quickly, Your Royal Highness,” Drei hissed while spurring her into a run.

Toward the church.

The priest broke away, vestments whipping around him as he bolted in the opposite direction. “I will sound the alarm.”

“Get the people to the gates, Father!” Drei shouted.

But the priest followed them to the church, following her when he should have been running in the opposite direction.

She tried to keep up with Drei, but the way he surrounded her with his big body kept her blind and off balance. His thighs rammed into the backs of hers with each step, forcing her to keep his pace and nearly sweeping her off her feet as he slammed into the churchyard gate, throwing it open.

The church steps proved her undoing, and she stumbled. Drei lifted her against him as though she weighed no more than air and dragged her up the remaining steps and across the threshold.

He spun around with practiced skill, using the building to shield her as he pulled open the door.

And in that instant, she glimpsed the priest flying through the open gate, and a military transport helicopter riding low just above the treetops, armed men bulging from the open sides.