The Prince

“Nora, please. What—”

“Yes.” She looked up at him as she wrenched the diamond off her thumb and shoved it onto her ring finger. “Yes, I love you. I’ll marry you. Let’s go tell your parents so they can start the freaking out immediately.”

Wesley nearly collapsed into the straw. His relief trumped even his happiness.

“Thank God.” He started to drag her into his arms, but Nora pulled away.

“Now. Let’s go tell the fam. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and started to yank him forward.

“I don’t even get to kiss you—”

And the world went black and stayed black for a long time. A few minutes, a few hours, he didn’t know and couldn’t tell. When he woke up, all he knew was pain.

Pain, such pain…he’d never known pain like this before. Wesley slowly forced his eyes open and found himself facedown in the straw, still in the stall. Everything hurt…maybe. His head ached so violently he couldn’t even be certain the rest of his body still existed.

“Nora?” Her name came out with the force of a cough. Wesley heard no answer. Pulling himself to his hands and knees, he looked around and found the usually flat, trampled down straw a mess, as though someone had wrestled in it.

He called Nora’s name again as he lifted his hand to the back of his head. His fingers came away red and sticky with blood.

“Oh, shit…” Wesley nearly vomited at the sight of his own blood. Someone…someone had hit him in the head. But where was Nora?

Two parallel lines in the straw led from Nickity’s stall to the stable door. Someone had been dragged, the heels of their boots cutting through the bedding.

Dragged…blood…the fear in Nora’s eyes…

Wesley half ran, half stumbled toward the door. He had to get out, get his parents, call the police...

He had to find Nora.

But he stopped before he touched the door. In the wood someone had carved five words—the five most terrible words Wesley had ever read, even though he couldn’t read them. And he knew he couldn’t tell his parents, couldn’t call the police, could do nothing but pull his cell phone out of his pocket and dial a number he wished he didn’t know. His instincts, however, told him this was the only number he should call.

The phone answered on the first ring.

“Søren…it’s Wesley.” He choked on the words. He’d throw up any minute now. But he had to get it out. He stared at the words carved on the stall door.

“Wesley? What is it? Where’s Eleanor?”

“Je vais tuer la salope. What does that mean?”

“It’s French,” Søren said, sounding both furious and deadly. “It means ‘I will kill the bitch.’ Wesley…where is Eleanor?”

“I don’t know. Someone has her.”

“What do you mean, someone has Eleanor?”

As a small child Wesley had heard the phrase “the wrath of God” in church, and sat and wondered what that meant, what that sounded like.

Now he knew.

“Søren…she’s gone.”