Cursed by Diamonds (A Dance with Destiny Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 2

Alastyn

(ah-LASS-tin)

The slick black pants fit her well, melted over her curves. Her tailored coat was
just
long enough to touch the tops of her booted thighs. Those long golden locks hung over her shoulders and down her back, bouncing along to her womanly sway. Not exactly the look you should be going for if you wanted to remain unnoticed. But the shopping had been so much better on her last mission, she just couldn’t help herself. She was already looking forward to the next time she could make her way back to the place they called New York.

Yet, it was
this
particular job that truly made her mouth water. She savored the bittersweet delicious taste of satisfaction.
This
was what she lived for now. The much anticipated end to her weary quest was finally at hand. And it painted a lethally cold expression across her porcelain face.

A gust of stale smoke and the sour scent of ale filled her nostrils as she pushed open the battered wooden doors.

Ahh, and I have been told there is no heaven in Ashgard
, she thought.

Picking a table in the corner—closest to the main door—she sat with her back against the wall, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Old habits die hard. She scanned the dingy room, carefully surveying the dusty interior. Her sharp eyes meticulously catalogued everything.

She hadn’t been back to this tiny village for well over ten years now. Much had changed, but much had remained the same.

The tavern was shabby and dark, severely unkempt. The walls were without paint. Floors, covered with dirt and grime. What little light there was came from the huge fireplace all but covering the wall opposite the bar. Every table had a candle burning openly, dripping hot wax onto the worn, wooden planks. There were several oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling and a few dusty rays of sunlight tried desperately to sneak through the filthy windowpanes. At its best, the tavern was grimy, gloomy, and reeked with the stench of the unwashed masses huddled within.

At the round table nearest the bar sat some local hunters gambling away what little money they had and arguing incessantly. The long table in front of the fireplace was occupied by obvious newcomers brandishing loud accented voices much too jovial for such a dank place. All the other mundane tables were sprinkled about with loners or drifters. Some she may have even known once upon a time. Others she only recalled in passing.

The barkeep’s young son brought over her first pint. She watched as a slow trickle of foam slid down the chipped mug, disappearing into the dry, thirsty planks. Still staring at the fast-fading wet spot, she ordered some warm bread with honey.

Aye, the bread will keep ye from getting too tipsy on the ale, Lass. An’ the honey will help keep some fight in yer gut. Cannae be getting drunk whilst on a summons, tiny warrior.
She remembered her lessons well.

Her black-clad form sank further into the shadows as she made another quick scan of the tavern occupants. She was anxious to finally face the man she had spent her entire adult life hating. The secretly received cryptic word of his whereabouts had caused her to return to the very birth place of her immense pain. An infinite quest was finally coming to its deserved end. She relished the thought.

As the ale warmed her body, easing her built-up tension, she allowed herself the luxury of spending a few precious moments in quiet remembrance. She tried hard to recall her childhood, her friends, her loved ones. That joy-filled life had been sadistically stolen the day she was forced upon the path she now trod. Sadly, no matter how hard she tried, Jenevier had long ago purged even the fondest memories of her forgotten life. The happiness she had once known here would have mixed too bitterly with the person she had been forced to become.

The boy soon returned with the warm bread and another pint.

So many things had irrevocably changed. Her dearest childhood friend was now considered a black witch of the worst kind, and Jenevier had personally shed more blood than most armies could even boast.

Alas, no matter how hard she fought, all that she had once loved… had been methodically wiped away. She now sat in this place, a mere stranger. This little village had unwittingly spawned the very birth of evil and vengeance. The man responsible for her current darkness was returning today, and she was prepared.

The bread wasn’t delicious, just adequate. She ate, drank, and remembered. The boy came once more with fresh ale accompanied by a note he quietly slid under the plate holding her remaining bread crumbs. It simply read… “Not much longer now.”

Jenevier scanned the tavern’s patrons once more. She saw none that even gave notice to her. No one that is, except for the hooded man sitting in the opposite corner. She couldn’t see his eyes, not clearly, but she felt them upon her. She studied him, took special notice of the blue-black locks now escaping their cloaked hiding place.

Where have I seen those dark curls before?

Her guard went up, but it was now useless. Something was fast claiming her consciousness. Jenevier silently cursed her negligence, too little far too late. She was getting so tired, so miserably tired. As her eyes began to betray her, flitting closed, her mind wandered back to Jezreel.

Jezreel had once been as beautiful and fair as Jenevier herself. They were beloved friends from their youth. But cruel Fate had flung them down the treacherous paths they now trod. The once young and carefree maidens were forever, horribly changed.

Her groggy mind searched desperately, urgently. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall even one happy moment.

There were happy times… I used to remember… I loved to smile… Perhaps… At least, I believe I did.

Then, she slept.

But Alastyn could remember, and remember well. As he sat in the tavern watching over her now, he could remember exactly how she had once looked. He loved to think about her beautiful smile, her lovely hair, her dainty little bare feet. It warmed his heart to go back in time and see Jenevier and Jezreel in the village square together. He remembered how they sang, how they giggled, and how they danced barefoot in the grass. These memories made him long desperately for the coming day when their stolen lives would be returned to them, and their untarnished happiness right along with it.

Alastyn grew up in this village, the village of Tamar Broden. It lay just east of Jenevier and Jezreel’s childhood home of Moorglen. He had tirelessly searched over these last ten years just for the chance to look upon her beauty once more, to finally pick up where they’d left off that blissful, dreadful night.

He had stumbled upon her by chance only a couple days past—covered in blood and (strangely enough) humming. He’d spoken her name before she disappeared. Yet her fierce red eyes gave no hint of recognition. Whoever or whatever she had become, he was certain she did not know the danger she now faced by returning to Tamar Broden.

Alastyn was but a couple months younger than Jenevier and Jezreel. He remembered their first meeting as if it were yesterday. He had fallen hopelessly in love the first moment he’d laid eyes upon her. That was the summer the two lighthearted maidens had come to Tamar Broden to care for Jenevier’s ailing aunt, Marlise. It was also the last summer he had seen Jenevier’s magical smile. It had vanished the same fated day her aunt had passed… and Prince Merodach had appeared.

Being so close to her
now
, after tirelessly searching through the mangled and forgotten places of this world, was intoxicating to Alastyn. The sheer closeness was almost unbearable. She was in the same room with him at last. He was shaking uncontrollably inside. It took every ounce of concentration just to keep the
visible
proof of his frenzied nerves at bay. He desperately longed to smell her lovely rose-scented hair, touch those silken ringlets, feel her gentle hands upon his face once more.

Alastyn finally caved, gave himself over to the potent moment. He allowed the luxury of his vivid memory to take him away, meticulously recounting their last few hours together. It felt
amazing
when all those butterflies began warring within his gut, the same as they had done that first night. The night he fell in love with a dream…

*****

Marlise was dying from an illness known only as The Quickening. Jenevier knew all too well what happened to the unfortunate women in her family as they slowly suffered and died from this horrid affliction. It had cursed many of her ancestors. This vile disease made the body reject its own blood, forcing it to seep from the eyes as tears.

Fated to cry out your own heart and soul daily, The Quickening could last for weeks, months, or even years. There was no known cure. And the sorrowful journey came to its bitter end only after the very last precious drop of life-force trickled down your hollow cheeks. Blessedly, the spirit would be released from its tormented home, freed to travel to the beyond places of the Otherworld. Then, the celebration would begin. The whole village joined the grand festivity. It was a sacred gathering to honor a blessed life, a cherished love, and the glorious end of an immeasurable suffering. It was a great tribute—a truly fond farewell for another amazing woman.

It was at the celebration of Marlise’s life that Alastyn had first laid eyes upon Jenevier and Jezreel. The two were in the center of the dance circle, twirling around one another and laughing gaily. He would have sworn they were sisters. They both had long, golden hair with ribbons and flowers tied throughout. Jenevier had on a flowing purple and turquoise dress. It swayed freely with every enchanting move she made. She was barefoot, with beads laced around her ankles. Jezreel matched her perfectly, except all in pink.

To Alastyn, it was Jenevier’s smile that truly set the two maidens apart. Hers was filled with a pure innocence, a blissful glee.

Her soul must sparkle as brightly as that glorious grin
, he thought.
She seems so young, yet… ethereal at the same time.

And he was right. That wonder-filled smile remained vibrant at all times—when she danced, when she spoke, even when she cried. It was her angelic smile that entranced Alastyn upon sight. It seized his noble heart, captured it forever.

The two girls dancing in the center of that tiny village were like a magical vision of ancient Elven Princesses. Carefree Fairies—stepping down from their hiding place within the forest canopy to grace the multitude with their laughter and beauty. It seemed they were present only to lift the crowd’s weary hearts, raise their collective spirits to the level of joy and awe Marlise truly deserved.
This
they accomplished, and so much more.

Alastyn not only noticed her hidden internal beauty, he also noticed what it was the fair maiden had yet to realize. Jenevier was oblivious to the fact she had not only caught the eye of an admiring young man, but also that of the malicious Prince of Wrothdem.

The city of Wrothdem was much farther north than any at this party cared to travel. But the future King and Queen of Wrothdem often came to Tamar Broden to purchase rare silks and odd trinkets.

These exceptional treasures were mysteriously acquired by the village’s own market keeper, Clive. He made at least two trips per year to parts unknown. And of course, Wrothdem’s royals were always granted a private showing before the wares were displayed on the open market in the village square.

Alastyn also saw clearly… with Jezreel’s first glimpse of the majestically handsome Prince, she was wholly lost to this man’s darkest of charms.

They knew it not. At least, they didn’t realize during the joyous celebration. But this same night, the night rejoicing Marlise’s end of suffering, this night would mark the beginning of the end of all happiness for Jezreel, Jenevier, and Alastyn.

*****

Prince Merodach was granted an honorable seat at the head of the feast table beside Marlise’s only niece, Jenevier. Lady Margareet was seated at her husband’s right hand, Jezreel upon Jenevier’s left. With the ringing of the memorial bells and eloquent toasts all around, the feast for Marlise began.

Alastyn wasn’t the only one to notice how entranced his new love’s dear friend was with the handsome, uninvited guest. The Prince knew all too well the look in Jezreel’s lovely eyes. He had seen it many times from many different women. It pleased his ego greatly, yes. Alas, he couldn’t manage to draw his attention away from Jenevier. It was her laughter, her smile, her naïve gaiety that seemed to taunt and tease his twisted mind.

He tried desperately to catch her gaze, hold it for more than just a fleeting glance. He could not. Why had the same spell he had so effortlessly cast upon so many other women, not worked on her? The thought tormented him.

She seems more interested in the many trinkets tied about her tiny wrists, the baubles draped around her dainty neck… than she does in my presence. How can this be? Is she simple?

He tried in vain many times throughout the evening to gently take her hand, draw her attention only to him. But she would casually remove it, reaching for her wine glass whilst laughing at another story being told about her beloved aunt. Jenevier gave the haughty Prince of Wrothdem not a single glance or a moment’s notice all evening. Her deviant behavior and obvious dismissal tore through Merodach’s blackened soul.