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She tossed the branches. They scattered over the casket with the springy sound of living flora. But they were no longer alive. Cut from the tree of life, they would soon grow brittle and dry and wither to dust.
Such was life.
Kneeling, Mirie reached into the pit and broke away a clump of frozen dirt. She tossed a fistful into the grave.
“Godspeed, Bunică. Take our leave now and rest.”
You will be missed, she added silently as the priest reached for the hoe.
The church bell tolled, a hollow sound that echoed over snow-tipped trees covering mountain peaks in every direction. Mirie retreated as a group of young men came to fill the grave.
The tolling filtered through her as if she stood naked in the wind. She had learned restraint through the years, but she had also learned that the past was a ghost and the future beyond her grasp. Right now was all she had. If she could only endure this moment, she would find her strength again, even though her insides felt frail. As if the wind might sweep away all ability to feel and she would never know anything but weakness again.
And loneliness.
Bunică was free of this life. Bunică of the quick hugs and practical wisdom, who brooked no disobedience or rebellion, yet understood the need for kindness and confidence. Only Bunică’s belief in Mirie had helped her learn to believe in herself.
This simple, solid woman, who had been chosen by Mirie’s grandfather to rear her beloved Papa, had lived all the stories with her lost family. Bunică had witnessed the first steps and last breaths of two generations. Weddings and coronations. Life and laughter. Fear and murder. How many moments and memories had not yet been told, tiny minutes in the lives of Mirie’s family that were now being buried in this grave?
The church bell withered to silence. The priest gave a blessing, and the women gathered to sing the burial song. Mirie joined the circle and raised her voice in a melody that rained sorrow down the mountain.
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.
Powerful engines reverberated through the gorge, the rhythmic swoop-swoop-swoop of the blades, the grumbling heartbeat of a conveyance that carried death. The sound was deafening, yet not loud enough to drown out the eruption of gunfire that stunned the morning.
Drei dragged her inside and pulled the door shut, but not before Mirie heard the familiar thuds of bullets pounding flesh.
No warning bells would sound the alarm in Alba Luncă today.
CHAPTER TWO
“IS HER ROYAL HIGHNESS to safety?” General Bogdanovich demanded over the audio device. “Secure her. Repeat. Secure her. We’ve eliminated three of the enemy on the road, but a team of six has entered the churchyard. We’re surrounding the perimeter, but we’re drawing fire from the copter.”
Drew could not respond. The doors of the church slammed open as if on cue, and footsteps pounded over stone.
Mirie stared up from beneath her hat, features drawn and eyes wide. She had pulled on her courage as she might her coat, but he saw the fear in her tight expression, in the dilation of pupils turning blue-gray eyes almost black.
He questioned her without words, and she inclined her head, confirming she was unharmed and functioning. She knew the drill, and she was no longer a terrified eight-year-old.
Drew reevaluated, unsure if they could make the escape route undetected. Their pursuers appeared to be well-funded paramilitaries, seizing the opportunity to eliminate the last royal of the House of Selskala, who had made herself an easy target for the first time in six years.
Raising his pistol, he cased the stairwell before leading Mirie down the steps to the crypt. There were no windows down here, only the dank cold of frozen ground. They moved quickly, sound buffered by stone. But the impenetrable dark finally forced him to lower his pistol and feel his way with a hand along the wall.
Their attackers would break into pairs. One team would head into the loft that ran along the back of the church and the bell tower. Another team would make its way to the sacristy and vesting room, which would lead them here to the crypt entry. The remaining team would canvass the nave with the rows of pews and alcoves of small side altars.
“Major Timko,” General Bogdanovich demanded in his ear. “Sit-rep. Is Her Royal Highness alive?”
The general wouldn’t be getting a situation report any time soon, so Drew tapped once against the audio device.
Affirmative.
She was alive for the moment, anyway.
Mirie pressed against his back, following the drill they had practiced time and again to prepare for this emergency situation.
She needed to pace her breathing, but he could risk no warning. Their feet echoed, the sound amplified by the quiet.
Doors led to mausoleums and a chapel, and an escape route that had been excavated during World War I. Drew could make out the faint glow of the sanctuary lamp in the distance, coming from the second door on the right.
His pistol scratched stone, a noise that made Mirie gasp. He pressed his fingers against her lips, and her soft mouth yielded beneath his touch. Her eyes widened, a flash of white in the darkness. Drew wasn’t sure if he had surprised her, or if she was reacting to the low exchange of conversation that filtered down the stairs, but his fingers tingled as he drew his hand away.
Drew pulled her through the second doorway as the voices erupted again, louder this time, nearer. Luck was with them, though. The sanctuary lamp illuminated the obstacle course of furnishings. Chairs. Candle stands. Icons.
The entrance to the tunnel was concealed behind the tabernacle, recessed into the wall behind the altar. But Drew couldn’t enter the passage yet, couldn’t risk any noise that would jeopardize the only escape route they had. They needed to hide until he had a lock on the enemy’s location.
He considered whether they should make a run for the mausoleums. Then Mirie motioned him to the altar, and he learned there were more secrets to this chapel than even he’d known.
The marble altar had a decoration of inlaid mosaic tiles, which turned out to conceal a panel to a hideaway.
Slipping the pistol into his waistband, Drew helped Mirie inside, ensuring that every inch of white fur was hidden. He backed away to shut the panel, but Mirie grasped at his coat, urging him down beside her. The last thing he saw was light slicing beyond the door, and then he was on his knees, curling around her.
She began to shake. Drew could feel her against him, as she struggled to control her chattering teeth. Tightening his arms around her, he held her close until he could almost feel the slim outline of her body through the outerwear already making him sweat.
This was when normal people came unglued, lost their heads and did something stupid that led them to get caught. People who weren’t trained to handle the time-bomb pressure of managing fear and waiting to see if luck was with them or if life would get ugly.
Mirie had already witnessed more ugliness than most people. Her family had been slain in military-style executions while she had hidden beneath mock flooring. She had been spared one horror, only to live another, with her nanny’s hands pressed over her face to contain her screams and spare her the brutality of her family’s last minutes of life.
Boots scuffed over rough stone so close that Mirie inhaled an audible breath. Drew tightened his arms around her and maneuvered his face until he could press his cheek against hers, share the warmth of his skin, use their nearness as distraction.
His heart throbbed dully in his chest, his entire body an insane tangle of nerves and awareness. For two people who had spent every minute of every day together for so many years, for two people who knew so much about each other’s lives and intimate habits, they really knew nothing about each other.
Mirie didn’t know his true identity.
And Drew had no idea she would feel as if she belonged in his arms.
“Hovno!” A gravelly voice spat out the curse.
A Czech or Slovak curse, and a clue to the identity of their enemy.
The footsteps marked the perimeter of the room. Drew could make out the path, hear the intruder searching behind the chairs that ran the periphery of the chapel beneath the icons adorning the walls in all their Orthodox glory.
The resurrection of Christ.
The Blessed Mother.
Michael the archangel.
A buffet of saints, all of whom Drew sincerely hoped were praying for their escape right now.
Mirie shuddered, but Drew pressed his lips to her cool cheek, the only reassurance he could offer as seconds ticked by, each one stretching into another, protracted and tense. He inhaled fur from her ushanka until he was forced to knock the hat from her head with his chin before he sneezed.
Then he was treated to the full impact of her hair, a crisp, clean scent that filtered through his consciousness, made him aware of each strand against his skin.
“Any luck?” the Slovak speaker asked.
