King for a Day (The King Trilogy #2)(18)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Tonight, the gods have finally answered my prayers. Callias has realized that we are supposed to be together. It was yet another day of outdoor celebrations and festivities to honor the gods before the harvest when Callias cornered me in the storeroom and kissed me. It was everything I had ever dreamed of. And when I held his manhood in my hand and stroked him, I knew it would be fast for him. “Yes,” I told him. “Do it. Plant your seed in my belly before your brother has a chance.” My words ignited him—oh, he is such a fiercely competitive man—and he took me quickly right there. He told me that it was his mistake for not fighting for me. He told me that he would make things right.

Tonight, I will sneak away and meet him again under the stars. I will savor every moment with him, of his ruthless strength, of the fierceness in his pale gray eyes when he takes me. I will make him swear his words tonight, swear before the gods that he will make things right. I will not spend my life tethered to Draco. Weak, disgusting Draco. I don’t care if he is ruler. There can only be one king. King of my heart. King of my soul. King of me. Callias.

“King?” My eyes lifted from the thick beige pages, and a cold chill pounded its way through my body. Was this the story of King and his Seer?

I flipped the book over and looked at the back page, then at the front. But this book had to be over a hundred years old.

My brain began to itch, once again looking toward the impossible to make sense of it all. If Talia and Anna were over one hundred years old, and King provided them with serums to stay young, then could it be possible…?

I remembered that King once said he was “too old” for pretenses. But the man didn’t look a day over thirty-five. And he certainly didn’t look like Talia or Anna, who both mutilated what I imagined were once beautiful faces with excessive plastic surgery. But if King had gifts, ones that no normal person had, and he’d spent his life in pursuit of powerful “tools,” as he liked to call them, then it could be possible. He could be much older than he appeared. It would explain so much about him—his apparent lack of modern-day civility, his enormous collection of art and artifacts.

“What are you King? What is this book?” I whispered aloud, scratching my head.

“Enjoying the story?” said King, who sat next to me.

I jumped in my seat. “Holy shit!” I screamed.

Arno came back into the cabin in a hurry. “What happened?”

“He can’t see me.” King looked amused and popped an unlit cigar in his mouth. An unknotted black bowtie hung loose around his neck, and he had his white shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone, exposing a bit of his collar-like tattoo. “Tell him to go back to flying the plane.”

I blinked and looked at King, unable to believe my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

“I am wondering why you screamed,” grumbled Arno, thinking my question had been directed at him.

“Tell Arno to go back to flying the plane,” King repeated and crossed his thick arms.

I looked up at Arno. “Sorry. I thought I saw a spider, but it was just a ball of lint.”

Arno shook his head and went back to the cockpit.

I turned to King. “How are you here, King?”

He smiled. “I’m not.” He took my hand into his lap. His skin was warm and firm, so real. “You are simply very talented at imagining me.”

“This is crazy. I’m crazy.”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe you might be. Then again, most Seers are.”

“I need this to end. I need you to go away.” Because the clock was ticking, and the real King was going to need me to find him—if he was still alive—just as soon as I got myself out of hot water, obviously.

“I’ll go,” he said, “just as soon as I talk you out of going to see Miranda.”

“I’m not doing this. I’m not debating with you. Leave.” If I was making him up, why couldn’t I make him go away?

“She is more ruthless and disturbed than Vaughn,” King argued. “She’ll smell your fear from a mile away.”

It was a chance I had to take. “Either I try, or I lose everything.”

“I realize you’re doing this because you think you’ll save your family, but ask yourself this: Why hasn’t Vaughn come after your brother, Mia? Or your parents, for that matter? And if you ran, what makes you think Vaughn would go after them then?”

“I don’t know.” It was a good question, actually.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why Vaughn never came after you or your parents to begin with, when Justin was on the run?”

“Vaughn had his men attack me,” I pointed out. “And Justin said that Vaughn threatened all of us, which is why he agreed to help Vaughn trap you.”

King shook his beautiful head. “No, Mia. You were attacked. But you do not know by whom.” He was right, actually. When Justin had supposedly gone missing with his crew, I went to Mexico City to find out what the people at the embassy knew. From there, I’d planned to go to Palenque to meet with the local police. I never made it that far. Some men threatened me in my hotel room within one hour of arriving in that city. They told me to go home. Even the woman at the embassy, Jamie Henshaw, had been pushing for me not to come to Mexico. They’d all wanted me to stay away, not to come looking for Justin.

But who sent them? I was never really sure.

“As for Vaughn threatening your family,” King scratched his scruffy black whiskers, “this is what Justin said. Are you so certain your brother is telling the truth?”

Of course I was! I turned my head to say something, but King was gone. His vibe, however, stuck in the air, and I swore I could smell him even in my hair.

Holy crap, King. Was that you? I was certainly beginning to think it was. If that was the case, then why wouldn’t he just say so? Why all the mystery?

I shook my aching head. Maybe it wasn’t real. King wouldn’t just pop in and out like that, knowing your life is in danger.

Or would he?

Whatever the case, I prayed King wasn’t dead. We were all screwed without him.

~~

Arno and I stood on the doorstep to Miranda’s large Tuscany-style home overlooking the Hollywood hills, waiting for someone to answer the door. Fearing that I’d look like a coward, I’d insisted that Arno stay in the SUV—yes, he’d had one waiting for us at the airport, and he’d made me sit in the back—however, he wasn’t having it.