Viori there. He’d been sick from yet another brush with poisonvine when he’d collapsed near the water.
Upon glimpsing his reflection—seeing Viori’s eyes hidden within his own—he’d sung himself to health, exactly as he’d sung himself to health in the tower. The way he’d sung to Viori each night. The melody had quickly turned into a scream of pain and misery, and he’d broken into sobs. It was here, on this very bank however long later, that he’d decided to halt his search for his sister. To cease splitting his focus. To fixate on the only thing he could give his precious Viori—proper vengeance.
“Once we go through the water,” he told Chantel, “I won’t be able to flitter. No one can flitter in the Dusklands. The ability is neutralized by a mineral in the ground. However far we travel, remember we must travel it all over again to return.”
“Ten-four. I’m happy to report the same is true in The Forest of Good and Evil.” She nodded, her excitement seeming to catch fire, burning through the charming shyness the dress had highlighted. The clothes might influence her, but they didn’t control her. “Don’t worry. I won’t be an anchor dragging you down anymore. I’ll be an asset. You’ll see.”
Her ability to torment the prince outside of Kaysar’s bed remained unconfirmed. Her ability to aid Kaysar in other ways did not. An asset to him? Shockingly yes.
Danger approaches. Almost upon you.
Even with the crash of the water, Kaysar caught the prince’s footfalls. Jareth had quickened his pace.
He considered his next move, tossing a glance over his shoulder. His only goal at the moment? Keeping Chantel, his key, safe.
In a sprint, the prince burst through a wall of foliage before vanishing, reappearing halfway to the waterfall. Still sprinting, seeming to fly over the rocky path, already swinging his sword.
Kaysar flittered in front of Chantel, a dagger clutched in each clawed hand. He lifted and crossed the weapons, creating a metal V. His gaze clashed with Jareth’s as the male’s sword tip grazed a straight, shallow cut from the end of his nose to the underside of his chin before meeting the daggers. A clink and a sting registered.
Blood trickled into his mouth, coating his teeth and tongue.
Chantel gasped and clutched his tunic from behind, fueling the rage directed at Jareth. The prince dares to frighten my princess?
A single punch dislocated Jareth’s jaw. A kick sent him careening into the pond with a splash. Jareth flittered to land, materializing on the other side of the pond, where he dripped water and violently forced his jaw into place.
Behind him, pixies darted through trees, landing on limbs to witness the festivities.
Kaysar and Jareth glared at each other from their respective sides. This intrusion grated. Kaysar hadn’t yet secured Chantel’s affections, and he resented the prince’s interference. He didn’t want the male looking at her. Much less speaking to her, reminding her of a past she hadn’t lived and didn’t wish to remember. Lusting for her mere minutes after Kaysar had kissed her—perhaps an hour before he kissed her again.
He flicked his tongue behind his teeth. Jareth had been unable to keep his hands off Lulundria. How much less would he control himself around Chantel? The woman whose touch had elicited indescribable pleasure in Kaysar. The man who’d never before known passion. If she affected him, how much more must she affect those like the prince?
How much more would the prince affect her?
Foreboding choked him. The odds were stacked against him. One way or another, Chantel would learn the truth about Lulundria’s murder. How would she react then? She hadn’t forgiven him for his other misdirections, but she’d agreed to help him anyway. He sensed she didn’t offer such clemency often or easily. Now he...feared. Could she ever pardon him for his part in the death?
Would the truth propel the prince and princess back together?
A risk Kaysar might have to take. Not knowing was a burden he couldn’t bear. Like the rocks, he needed Chantel to know what he’d done—to understand and stay with him anyway. He required this as much as air.
“Did you come to say goodbye to your wife, Jareth?” He threw the words across the water, unwilling to back down.
“I’m not his wife,” Chantel retorted behind him. “If I’m ever eager for another ice dagger stabbing, though, I’ll be sure to give the prince a call.”
First she had denied being Lulundria. Now she claimed the woman’s injuries as her own? Were the females merging? Cold