The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(86)

He conducts a few more rounds through the party but there is no sign of her. The sound of booming cannons signals the start of the fireworks, and he follows the crowd out to the balcony. He bumps into the earl that she was dancing with earlier, but he is alone.

“Have you seen Lady Lila?” he asks.

The earl looks mortified. “Did she tell you what happened?”

“What happened?!” asks Cal, alarmed.

“Oh, nothing, nothing! I only meant to help with her broken heel,” the earl says. “It was innocent!”

Cal pats the man on the back. “Of course, of course. A broken heel, did you say? She must have gone back to her room to change.”

“Yes, she went off that way,” the earl tells him as he points to the south wing of the house instead of the stairs.

Cal narrows his eyes as he heads toward the south hallway. These are the duke’s private quarters. What is Shadow doing here? He is starting to really worry. If the duke is the conspirator, then no one is safe, not just the princess, but Shadow as well.

He runs to the door that leads to the duke’s bedchamber and opens it. Nothing. No one. Just the bed, tapestries, and a roaring fire. Cal is about to leave when he sees movement out on the balcony.

The duke has his back turned. He is wearing a gray evening suit with a black cape around his shoulders. Gray and black, the traditional colors of the Aphrasians, a code indicating his allegiances. Cal has been a fool, more concerned with romance than conspiracy.

But now his mind works overtime. The duke is an Aphrasian conspirator. Grand Prince Alast was definitely in Montrice with the duke a few months before he was killed . . . so he was conspiring against the queen, his sister-in-law. The truth is a bitter pill, even though there is no alternative.

Except Cal is thinking of the papers they found in the duke’s study. The bill of mortality. The deaths of the real duke and duchess. The letter from King Esban thanking the duke for hosting his brother. King Almon died here during a hunt, and Grand Prince Alast visited the duke for a hunt before being killed himself.

The duke loathes hunting but finds it a useful hobby . . .



* * *





CAL STORMS OUT TO the balcony and opens the patio doors, but the duke does not even turn around. Instead he removes a silver cigar case from his inside coat pocket and flips it open. “Ah, just the man I was looking for,” he says. The inky ring on his finger shines in the dark, and when it catches the moonlight, Cal notices that its stone is made from the same liquid glass as the fragment the aunts showed him and Shadow the other evening. Obsidian. The duke wears an obsidian ring.

The duke addresses him, his back still turned. “So, Lord Holton, if that’s what you’re calling yourself these days, you have come to confront me at last?”

“Your Grace?”

The duke steps away from the railing and turns to face Cal.

Cal can’t believe what he’s seeing. He blinks a few times. Alast? It’s the grand prince, the one he killed at Baer Abbey. Alive. But how? And why is he here?

“What have you done with the duke?” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, but he does so without thinking.

“I am the duke,” the man with Alast’s face says. “Or do you prefer this face?” he asks, and shifts again, so that it changes to that of the leader of the group of monks who ambushed them in the forest.

The truth hits Cal like a flash of lightning. Grand Prince Alast was a guest of the Duke of Girt a month before he died. The duke killed him on a hunt and took his form. The grand prince was never a traitor; instead, he came too close to discovering the truth of the Aphrasians and died for it. But Alast was no longer useful after Cal killed “him” at Baer Abbey. So the duke went back to this form, the one that wears the face of the Duke of Girt.

“Who are you? Who do you work for? The king?” Cal demands.

“King Hansen?” the duke sneers. “The king is a shallow, stupid boy, nothing more.” Now the duke laughs. “Oh, my young assassin, you are very young indeed. The better question is, what am I?”

“A shapeshifter,” says Cal. With the obsidian ring and the blood of his victims, the duke can take on any form he chooses.

“At last we understand each other,” says the duke.

Enough is enough. Cal must act now, while he still has a chance. Cal slips the dagger from his sleeve into his hand. But before he can strike, the duke shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The duke motions to the far side of the balcony. Cal turns to see Shadow standing in the corner. She is bound by an invisible force, trapped by a collar she wears around her neck—one made of pure obsidian.

“A wave of my fingers and the collar will slice right through her pretty neck. A pity, don’t you think? But then it also stops her from talking, which is an advantage if you ask me,” the duke drawls.

Shadow’s eyes are wide with fear. She cannot move. He can almost hear her thoughts in his head. If only he could make out what she’s trying to tell him.

“Let her go,” says Cal, his mind racing. All is not lost, not yet.

What is Shadow trying to tell him? He can’t quite make out the words.

The duke laughs. “It’s over, Holt. By tomorrow Renovia will be mine again. I tire of this conversation. Jander, take care of him.”