Crown of Cinders (Imdalind #7)(132)

“I got you!” he said in hysterics, stomping his feet in the sand.

“Oh! You think you got me, did you?” I teased, moving to my hands and feet as I faced him, seeing his humor fade almost immediately. “We’ll see about that.”

With a squeal from my adorable nephew, I tackled him to the ground, pinning him in the hot sand and tickling him. The boy squealed for mercy between his adorable, squeaky laughs.

“Aunt Jos,” he panted, barely able to get the words out between giggles. “Please!” More laughs. “Stop!”

“Stop?” I teased, only tickling him more. “You want me to stop, Cail? What is this nonsense?”

Cail giggled further, now desperate to wiggle away from me, his continued pleas only becoming more jumbled from his laughter.

“Aunt Jos!” he practically screamed between laughs. “Please!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, moving back to a sitting position, finally freeing the kid from the torture of tickling. “If you insist.”

Cail only rolled his eyes, his lips twitching into a smile as his dark eyes twinkled mischievously. I knew that look. At five years old, he was already hungry for more. He was too much like his father.

“Do you really want to go again?” I asked, leaning forward and wiggling my fingers toward him menacingly. “Because I can go all day.”

“No!” Cail cried, wiggling across the sand away from me.

“Okay, I guess I’ll let you off the hook … this time.” I smiled at him, moving to lie down, but Cail jumped back to his feet, grabbing my arm and pulling.

“You can’t keep being a mopey loner, Aunt Joclyn!”

“Did you hear that from your mom?” I asked, affronted.

He ignored me.

“You have to come with me.”

“And why would I? I like being a mopey loner.” Ignoring his violent pulls against my shoulder, I lay back down, closing my eyes, content to stay here for the rest of the day.

“But you can’t,” Cail continued, whining now like the true five-year-old he was. “The king is here.”

Now my eyes snapped open—well, just one of them—as I peered at the kid from where I lay, his tiny frame all shadowed black from the sun behind him.

“You mean Uncle Ryland?” I asked, trying to retain the laugh at hearing Cail refer to his favorite uncle as “the king.” Even though he was, that was far too out of character for this kid.

“No, the king. Daddy says I have to call him king now, and that, if I don’t, Uncle Ryland … I mean … The king will get really mad and might even order his guard to cut off my head.”

This time, I couldn’t help laughing.

“First,” I said, standing to face Cail as I wiped the sand off my T-shirt and jeans, “your dad is just messing with you, as he does,” I added under my breath. “If you call Ryland the king, he might not be too happy.” I smiled at him before turning toward the large estate that was now home while Cail stood still, looking affronted for a moment before he ran to catch up to me.

“But he is the king …” he protested, obviously scared of what Ryland would do. I just ruffled his hair and kept walking, glad he was keeping up.

“He is, but his brother didn’t like being called king, either.” My heart tensed . I had said the sentence so simply I hadn’t even realized what I was saying until it was too late.

“The great Ilyan?” he asked.

I could only nod.

I hated that title. I had a feeling he would, too.

Cue more chest palpitations.

“Second,” I began, desperate to move the conversation away from that topic, “Míra isn’t going to cut off your head. And you better be nice to her …” I had a feeling she was going to become more than his guard before the end of the year. I never could have seen that coming.

“So …” Cail started to ask as we approached the towering manor, the old home set atop a stone ledge, just as Ilyan had built it, “if I call him Uncle Ryland, I won’t die?”

“You won’t die,” I promised, crossing a finger over my heart for good measure.

Cail looked up at me, pressing his lips into a tight line as he contemplated that before coming to a very stoic and difficult, judging by the look on his face, decision. A single nod of agreement was his lone sign of understanding.

After I returned his nod, we both turned toward the house to see Frain and Chyline, who stood near the base of the stone steps that led up it, the pair happily chatting with Míra. The beautiful woman stood in shorts, combat boots, and a tank top, looking more like a punk teenager than the badass guard she was. She laughed at something the Firsts said, her sheet of blonde hair shimmering with the movement.

“See?” I said, smiling at Míra as she turned and waved at us enthusiastically. The beautiful woman she had grown into certainly was one I was proud of. “Míra is not scary. Now get. And go bug your grandmothers. I am sure they have presents for you.”

Cail made a face at me before he took off to where the two older women welcomed him eagerly. They were always spoiling him a bit more than they should. Sometimes, I was worried he was too pampered. I guessed it was a good thing he had Thom as a dad.

That ought to keep him grounded.

“Hey, Míra,” I greeted as she walked up to me, her large boots slipping awkwardly in the sand. “Ryland’s already inside, I take it?”