Rise of the Lost Prince (15 page)

“Not yet.”

She watched as the camera angle
changed, scanning the area. Then the next, and the next. “I don’t see
anything.”

“There,” said Byte, his voice not
quite as controlled and smooth as it usually was.

“What?”
Wyndi
asked, eyes narrowing on the monitors.

“I see it,” Tera said.

“See what?”

Panic was starting in the pit of
her stomach, and she didn’t like the way the twins looked over the top of her
head and stared at each other, brows furrowed into deep grooves, their full
lips pressed into a thin line.

She heard the electronic
deedle-deet.
The phone program on one of
the computer screens popped up followed by another set of bleeps. She knew they
had access to phones in here.

“Yeah? Talk to me.”

Petúr.
She was
listening to Petúr’s honey toned voice over the computer connection which the
twins were controlling with their mind. They must have called…. Hang on.
That’s my cell phone number flashing across
the screen.
Petúr had her phone again.

“We’ve got incoming at
Neverland,” she heard Byte say. “A lot of incoming.”

As
in incoming horde?

Heart hammering, Wyndi glanced
back up at the monitors, and that’s when she saw the wall of darkness.

“We’re headed back. Guard Wyndi.”

The line went dead.

She’d never seen the twins move
so fast. Byte was up and out of his chair, followed by Tera who said, “They’ll
come through the easiest access point.”

Easy?
There was
nothing easy about getting into the castle.

Byte shoved the desk up against
the far wall with his thigh, as if the big piece of oak office furniture
weighed nothing, then tapped something on the floor. That wall turned to reveal
a secret room gleaming with swords, guns, and things she had no clue what they
were.

Byte took two Chinese broad
swords down from the display wall, turned and threw them. They
whooshed
through the air. Tera caught
them by their hilts with ease. Then Byte weaponed up, strapping thin blades to
his arms before palming one wickedly curved blade, fitting his fingers through
the handle holes.

With determination plastered
across his face, he left the weapons room and tapped the floor, closing off the
space. Two heartbeats later, he was at Wyndi’s side.

“Here,” he said, handing her a
thin knife. “This is like the one you trained with.”

She gripped it, recalling the
feel in her palm.

“We’ll pray you don’t need to use
it,” said Tera.

****

Kros stood back, Atalos at his
side, wearing a new human body, watching the darkness move toward the castle.
In their mist form, the darkling horde would soon be inside, and once they
were, they’d occupy the two lost boys left behind, maybe even kill them. After
all, two against many…. He smirked. The odds weren’t on the twins’ side
tonight.

Glancing over to Atalos he said,
“Your new meat suit may be disturbing to gaze upon. But, brilliantly done.”

Atalos
shrugged one
shoulder.

Pleased with himself and his
earlier recon mission, Kros strolled through the amusement park as though on a
sightseeing trip, the castle to become his final destination. But he was
fighting tonight—or not if the others did their jobs—without the use of shadows
and mist. He would be walking inside, in his Fae form.

Chapter Fourteen

Petur
raced through
the night sky, Bell keeping pace with him, translucent wings flapping. How in
the hell did the darklings find out about Neverland? He didn’t have time to
contemplate that now. Wyndi, and getting to her, was his main focus.

His stomach twisted into a tight
ball, and something insidious seemed to wrap around his spine.
Fear,
he realized. For the first time in
his life, he was terrified. Not for himself, but for his mate. The mate he’d
failed to fully claim. God, he was stupid. As soon as this night was over, and
Wyndi was safe in his arms, he would be rectifying his mistake of not taking
her the moment he knew who she was to him.

“She’ll be okay,” Bell said.

“Yeah, she will,” he replied,
hoping to convince himself.

No. Screw hope. Wyndi would be
okay. Tera and Byte were excellent fighters. They’d keep Wyndi safe. And Dash
would be back at the castle in an instant. Followed by Vapor. Even though Vibe
and Firefox traveled on foot, they ran like the wind, and wouldn’t be too far
behind. Or, Vibe might commandeer a vehicle and be there before Petúr, too.
This was one time he wished Dash was able to teleport them, but none of the
lost boys were able to hitch a ride that way. He didn’t know why.

I’ve
got to get to her
,
became the chant inside his mind, as the wind whistled past his ears.

****

Wyndi was shaking like a tender
leaf, watching dark mist roll in from under the castle doors, pluming up the
walls, sifting across the ceiling….

She screamed and spun, blade
ready when something akin to wind fluttered along her skin.

Hands up, Dash said, “It’s me.”

Obviously he’d teleported.
“Where’s Petúr?” she asked.

“On his way.”

A shape formed out of the mist,
darkening into shadow. Tera spun, swords twirling with lethal precision, and
sliced through the dark. Blood arced high. And, then, it was on. Darklings
started forming all around the foyer, making the oversized space seem small.

Byte took another being out, he
and Tera back-to-back, fighting in liquid fluidity—together. Dash threw a
dagger, hitting another in the throat. Wyndi couldn’t afford to be a spectator
and watch this. She swallowed back her fear, blade in hand, and took her
fighting stance.

She didn’t have to wait long. Two
of those dark bastards were coming in her direction. One broke off to her left.
A misty arm came at her from the front. She ducked, but took a blow to her side
by the other. Pain danced over her ribs. She had to push away the hurt. If she
felt the blow, part of the darkling had to be solid. She chopped down and back
with the blade, feeling it sink into flesh, followed by a howl of pain.

Wyndi spun. Slashed. Spun back
around. Slashed again. Blood, and not hers, splattered across her face and
neck. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Following the dance Petúr taught
her, she chopped. Slashed. Dug her weapon in and tore. With a decapitating blow
to the monster, she became the motion and part of the macabre music of the
fight. Of the night.

The shadows intensified, more,
and more darklings surrounding them, some dropping from the ceiling. There were
too many of them. Ash flitted through the air, coming to rest on her cheeks.
The castle doors burst open. More darkness.

Wyndi lunged. Ducked. Stabbed.
She could see Tera and Byte, blood soaked, killing one, two, three of the
ghouls. Dash taking out two more. Vapor.
Yes.
It was Vapor in the mix, removing the head from another monster.

Glancing up, she sliced at the
mist, then froze.

“Daddy?” she heard herself say,
seeing her father walk through the haze—tendrils of darkness swirling around
him. He was beside another man with long silver-white hair and the face of an
angel.

Bam!

Someone took her down hard. When
she hit the floor, air whizzed from her lungs, and the back of her head felt as
though she’d been hit by a shovel.

With the room spinning, she saw
her father, and the beautiful one, leaning over her the instant she felt
something sharp impale her to the floor.

****

“NO!” Petúr roared, seeing
Cromwell Darlingheart put a sword through his daughter’s chest.

Cobwebs of hate and midnight
streaked through his vision as he slashed his way through the horde, head after
head rolling at his feet.

Wyndi,
Wyndi. No. She won’t die. Not her.

“It’s too late,” he heard,
spinning to see the man alongside Cromwell. His pale as milk skin was shimmering
in Wyndi’s blood. “You shall never claim her now.”

Even in Petúr’s rage-filled
brain, he knew the voice.
Kros.
He
slashed the blade he gripped in his hand, hitting nothing. Kros had flashed.
The darkness of shadows and mist blinked out too, as if Grappling’s minions
never existed.

Cromwell screamed, falling to his
knees. Black smog rolled from his body, dissipating into nothing. Tears and
laments of agony left him. He scrambled on his hands and knees to Wyndi’s side.
“What have I done? Wyndi! Oh God!”

Petúr pushed him aside and
glanced down into his woman’s blood smeared face. “I’m here, Wyndi,” he said,
touching her cheek. “Everything’s going to be alright.”
Please, let her be alright.

“Petúr,” she whispered.

His battered brothers-in-arms
surrounded them. Bell, holding Wyndi’s hand, knelt by her other side.

“Byte. Tera. Can the nanos fix
this?” he asked, glancing up to see the broken expressions on their faces.

“When we remove the sword, she’ll
bleed out faster than the nanos can work,” said Byte.

“No!” Petúr shook his head. This
wasn’t happening. He couldn’t lose her. She was his. His other half. His mate. “I
can’t lose her.”

“Petúr,” Wyndi said.

“Shh…” He placed her cold hand to
his cheek. “Save your strength.”

“Petúr. I’m dying.”

“No. No you’re not. You’re not
going to leave me.”

“I don’t have a choice,” she said
in a soft murmur, tears streaming down her cheek.

Inside, he was dying. “Yes you
do. Stay with me.”

“Bind yourself to her,” said
Bell. “It’s the only way.” Petúr glanced at her with questions. He didn’t know
how to do what Bell was suggesting. “You are of the line of the Delphi.
Grandson to the fallen King. His blood runs through your veins. You can bind
your magic and your life-force to hers.”

“I don’t have magic,” he said.

“You do. How do you think you fly
without wings?”

Petúr looked down into the face
of his woman, his darling woman. His heart, and felt the symbol on his chest
start to burn, pulling forth the power of his love.

“I,” he said, locking his gaze
with Wyndi’s, “am Petúr the Just. First born and only son of Illia the Fair.
Prince and rightful heir to the Seelie Sidhe
Fae throne.” The outer ring on his chest caught
fire, lighting as if it were a fuse, moving on to the next ring, and the next,
giving him reserves of strength he’d never known before. “I bind myself, giving
all that I am to the only woman I will ever love, Wyndi, my darling woman of
heart.” The stylized sun, which sat atop his heart, in the middle of the three
rings, exploded into bright light and radiated out into the room, causing an
orange tint to overtake everything.

“Now. Do it, now,” Bell said as
she pulled the sword free of Wyndi’s chest.

Petúr placed his palm over the bloody
gash. “I give you my life,” he said. “You will not die.”

Heat enveloped him, ran down his
arm, and rushed out of his palm, connecting with Wyndi’s chest. She gasped. Her
body arched, then lifted off the ground.

“Don’t break the connection,”
Bell said in a rush. “No matter what.”

Keeping his hand in place, he
felt the same wrenching pain he experienced as a boy when the symbol was
branded into his chest. He gritted his teeth—the veins in his neck and forehead
showed the strain. Wyndi moaned. Her eyelids closed. Her skin was so pale; he
could see the light tracery of her veins.
Frail.
So frail.
He steeled his will. Inside, he kept chanting the words,
you will not die.

Wyndi levitated off the ground.
He stood, going with her, hand planted firmly on her. Up, up, they floated.
Wind swirled around them. Strands of pure gold streaked through her autumn
colored hair, highlighting the temples. Light erupted from her chest and rushed
through his spread fingers, causing a kaleidoscope of colors to dance around
them.

He felt her heart stop. “No!” he
screamed.

A sensation struck—an electrical
jolt.
Thump-thump.
Relief almost
pulled him under in a maelstrom of powerful emotion when he felt the beat once
more. The wound beneath his palm vibrated, as if the flesh were knitting
together. Wyndi pulled air into her lungs, her chest expanding with the effort.
Then, blessedly, thankfully, her eyelids fluttered open.

Petúr stared into the most
extraordinary blue-gold eyes he would ever see. Her liquid blue irises were swirling
close around the dark disc of her pulsating pupils, graduating out into shades
of golden sun.

“Petúr,” she said, staring up
into his face. “I love you.”