The Wrath of the King (8 page)

Halfway down the hall, the muffled crack of a gunshot changed the entire dynamic of the night. She automatically ducked, tucking her chin, arms over her head. Before she knew what happened, Leander scooped her up like she weighed nothing and bulled into the nearest room. A bedroom, one of the many suites lining the corridor. He took her straight to a closet and set her down in the darkness.

“Don't leave this closet until I come and get you, understand?” He didn't wait for an answer. Turning around, he closed her inside. The sound of his footfalls receded.

Wynn couldn't even see her hand in front of her face but questioned the wisdom of finding a light switch. That might only draw an unwanted visitor into the room and straight to her hiding place. What the hell was going on out there? Had a shooter made it past the layers of security to target one of the royals? Pressing her palms against her flushed cheeks, she regulated her breathing and tried to concentrate. Her thoughts were scattered.

She hated not knowing what lurked beyond the closet door. Anyone could be stalking the hallways. Somewhere, someone shouted. Another voice, male, responded. No shots followed. Wynn thought she heard running feet.

After ten minutes of listening to what sounded like half the house tramping up and down the hallway, Wynn cracked the closet door open. Moonlight falling through a window in the bedroom left shadows in the corners but as far as she could see, no one had taken refuge in the suite. Crossing to the next door, she opened it a hair. A body ran past. Opening it a little more, she saw two guards enter a bedroom all the way at the end, not far from her own borrowed suite. Men spoke in terse voices and another two guards raced along the corridor, weapons drawn.

If they were entering the room, then surely they had the perpetrator trapped. Too curious to stay put, she darted into the hallway just as Leander exited the far end bedroom.

He pointed a finger at her, as if that might halt her where she stood.

And it did. Caught red-handed, she stopped and pleaded for information. “What's going on? Who got shot? Did you capture the shooter?”

Leander jogged the rest of the way, gun held down at his side. Scooping an arm around her waist, he bodily lifted her straight off the ground and walked her the opposite direction. “You don't listen. As soon as we know more, you'll know more.”

“But my room is down there--”

“Too bad. You'll have to find another in a different wing tonight.” He carried her past more guards to the staircase. When another guard came up from the lower floor, Leander spoke quickly—in the Latvala tongue.

Wynn translated the important parts, surprised at what she heard.
Apparent suicide. One of the councilmen. Cover the back stairs and don't go anywhere unless you're in pairs.

“Suicide? Someone committed suicide?” Breathless, Wynn hung on with her arms around Leander's neck.

“
Apparent
suicide.” He stalked past running waitstaff and other guards coming and going through the halls. Turning into one of the empty conference rooms, he set her on her feet and made strict eye contact. “Listen this time. You can't go back upstairs tonight. Wait for Urmas or someone like that to tell you where you need to sleep.”

“But--”

“No buts.” Leander pointed a finger at her again and exited the room.

Exasperated, Wynn slumped into a chair, lamenting the lack of her cell phone. She couldn't even call Chey.

All she could do was sit there while she waited, wondering if the suicide was really a suicide and if not, who might have been the one to pull the trigger.

. . .

“I said, I want to see the body.” Gunnar, in a stare down with Ingvar, refused to relent. “If you're so sure it's suicide, then there's no danger letting me on the scene.”

Ingvar, resplendent in his military uniform, was an immovable wall between the Prince and the hallway. “I'm sorry, your Highness--”

“Don't placate me, Ingvar. Just let me by. The castle's on lockdown, no one is going in or out and we both know it.” Gunnar ground his molars together. The news that Belmar had committed suicide tonight of all nights set off alarm bells. Earlier, when Belmar confessed the contents of the meeting, he'd been overly paranoid about being found out. Now he was dead. The math didn't add up in Gunnar's mind and he wanted answers. A few had already presented themselves, ones Gunnar didn't want to acknowledge. Paavo wouldn't stoop to murder. Would he?

“I can't. The scene is still being investigated--”

Impatient, Gunnar shoved Ingvar's shoulder. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been able to move the soldier. Tonight, the General back-stepped, raising his hands, and allowed Gunnar past.

Striding out of his suite, Gunnar headed for the stairs and the next floor down. Guards were everywhere; two flanked him once he departed the royal level and followed him through the corridors toward the room where Belmar apparently ended his life. Disregarding more guards stationed outside, Gunnar stepped across the threshold. A coppery, metallic scent hit his nose first, before the scene distracted him from the smell. Adjacent to a sitting area was the kingsized, four poster bed. Across it, sprawled with his arms akimbo, lay Belmar. Once pristine covers in light blue were now drenched with dark red blood, the spray dotting material all the way up to the pillows. It appeared the councilman had perched on the very edge of the mattress and put the gun in his mouth. The gore looked especially harsh surrounded by such rich luxury.

Far from a forensics expert, Gunnar observed a handful of men in suits and gloves, taking pictures, taking samples. They handled everything with utmost care, tiptoeing through the room while bagging a tiny piece of this and sliding a bit of that into a clear glass vial.

“Which one of you is in charge?” Gunnar asked. Everyone stopped and looked his way. One man stood straighter, then picked his way over to the door.

“I am, your Highness. Larss Hansen.” He did not offer to shake hands.

“What are the findings?” Gunnar did not offer to shake hands, either. He studied Larss' blue eyes, searching for evasiveness or shifty nerves. Larss met his gaze head on.

“Suicide, your Highness. Has no one told you--”

“With absolute, one-hundred percent certainty? You're positive there could have been no foul play?”

Larss stiffened. “We have found no evidence to remotely suggest that, your Highness.”

“It doesn't matter what you
think
you've found.
I
know this wasn't suicide, so start examining the evidence more closely. Report directly to me when you find clues as to who might have done this.” Gunnar left a surprised Larss standing there. Leaving the room, angrier than he'd been in some time, Gunnar stalked the hallways until he hit the royal floor. He went to Paavo's bedroom door and banged three times with a fist.

“Paavo!”

The door swung open. Paavo, in casual nightwear of solid black, frowned at Gunnar. He appeared studiously groomed, hair combed away from his face, jaw clean shaven.

Gunnar's fist came around, aiming for his brother's chin.

“Gunnar! What are you doing?” Natalia shouted from her room across the hall.

Paavo's head snapped aside at the contact. He staggered back one step and snarled. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“
You
ordered that hit. We both know it. I want to know what you're up to, because it can't be anything good. Murder in your own house, Paavo? Is that what you'll stoop to?” Breathing hard, hands in fists at his side, Gunnar ignored the guards crowding close at his back in favor of staring his brother down.

“Gunnar!” Natalia ran across the hall, peach silk robe flapping against her ankles.

“Watch yourself, Gunnar,” Paavo said, with clear warning in his tone. “You're blindly throwing accusations around, and may I remind you that
I
am your King now.”

“Don't throw your title at me when a man lies dead one floor down, caused by your own order. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you killed him as surely as if you had. This is not the way Ahtissari men take care of business.” Infuriated beyond good reason, Gunnar tugged his arm out of Natalia's hands.

“What are you saying? Gunnar, Belmar committed suicide. It wasn't murder,” Natalia said.

“You speak ignorantly, sister, because you don't know what I know. Belmar came to me earlier today, frantic and nervous, to tell--”

“Gunnar,” Paavo said, taking a step forward. “Do not speak of those things.”

“Why?” Gunnar shouted. “So no one else will hear the truth for what it is? So they'll look at you and know your hands are bloodied?”

Without warning, Paavo snatched Gunnar by the front of his clothes and yanked him into the room. The door closed on Natalia's surprised face with a hard bang. Paavo threw the lock, then bulled Gunnar deeper into the elaborately decorated chamber.

Gunnar knocked Paavo's hand from his person. “You killed him.”

“Not true. Belmar took his own life for reasons I can only guess at. Now then, you need to calm down.” Paavo stopped within inches of Gunnar, face to face.

“He wanted very badly to live earlier this afternoon, and now he draws breath no longer.
You
were the one who told them not to say anything to anyone, and now Belmar is dead. I am not so big a fool, Paavo, to overlook the obvious.” Not quite as tall as his brother, Gunnar was nevertheless unbothered by it. He did not allow Paavo's aggressive stature to diminish his righteous indignation nor his belief that Paavo ordered the strike. The longer he thought about it, the more positive he became of the truth.

“You have two choices,” Paavo said, voice gone low and persuasive. “You can stand with me and take control of
your
empire, the land I will give you to rule, or you can find yourself in the
other
camp, the one where I make your life as difficult as possible until you see reason. There can be no other way going forward, brother.”

“That is as good as an admission of guilt.” Gunnar clipped the words out, furious all over again. Belmar, a decent man with a family, hadn't deserved to die.

“I think you fail to understand the seriousness of the situation, Gunnar. You're young, with the least experience of us all. Trust me when I say—you
want
to be on my side right now.” Paavo slid his hands into the pockets of his silk pajama pants.

Gunnar spun away, not trusting himself or his actions. He paced the room, oblivious to the splash of masculine colors, all in browns, reds and cream. Gleaming gilt accents flashed by in periphery as he faced Paavo from a different vantage.

“Tell me, Paavo. Were you behind Dare's 'accident', too? Have you planned this the whole time? During the months of summer, pretending to be over your ideas for dividing the country? Hm?” A muscle flexed in Gunnar's jaw. He didn't know what he might do if the answer was yes. It was too nefarious, too treasonous.

“I'll caution you once more, Gunnar, to have a care with the accusations you're flinging around. My tolerance, even for beloved siblings, has limits.” Paavo's expression shifted from cajoling to stony.

“Or what?” Gunnar had a fleeting thought that he should heed Paavo's warnings. His anger was getting the better of his judgment. Dare would be playing the game right along, he reminded himself, hiding any fury he felt in favor of not allowing his adversary—and that's what Paavo was at this moment—to be privy to his emotions.

Paavo looked at the ground, then at different points in the bedroom. When his gaze landed on Gunnar again, something cold and hard lurked in his eyes. “Things we hold precious cease to be.”

Rocked by the implication, Gunnar opened his mouth to blast Paavo for the mere thought of bringing harm to Krislin. But he closed it again, swallowing down the anger. This
was
more serious than he realized. He needed time to think, to plan. To get Mattias back in Latvala. He needed to wake Dare from the coma. Taking an extra moment to get control, he crossed the room. Standing before Paavo, Gunnar pretended to think about the threat and the 'offer'. He made a big show of it, too, careful to make it appear an agonizing decision.

“You give me no choice,” he finally said. “But don't think for a second that I approve, or that I like it. I'll do my duty, I'll take over my territory. You keep your hands off what's mine, and everything will be fine.” Gunnar didn't grovel or plead. He knew Paavo wouldn't believe a total change of heart in that short amount of time. Chances were, Paavo still might not believe him, and knew the game for what it was.

Right now, Gunnar just wanted to get out of the room and away.

Paavo regarded him, contemplative and assessing. “Very well. I'm glad you've come to your senses. For a few minutes there, I started to wonder if you'd learned nothing your whole life about situations like these. I'll be in touch tomorrow. As it stands, I'm not ready to break the news of the division until the day after, so do not mention it to anyone.”

And so, the evening had come full circle. Those were the words Belmar likely heard at his last meeting with Paavo.

Gunnar inclined his head and stepped on for the door, letting himself into the hallway. Pacing past lingering guards, Natalia swerved his direction.

“Not now, Natalia. I have things to see to,” Gunnar said. He locked gazes with her. “Go back in your room and stay there till morning.”

Natalia stumbled over a reply, then gathered the robe and disappeared into her chamber.

Gunnar, relieved that Natalia hadn't argued and made a scene for once, ignored the guards and paced away toward his own room. He withdrew his cell phone and shot Krislin a text.

Watch your back. Tell Chey the same. Things are not what they seem.

Chapter Eight

“There's no change at all? Nothing? When should we start to really worry?” Chey stared across Sander's body at the doctor. In his middle fifties, the capable physician with his white lab coat and clipboard was the epitome of professional. He made a note, then glanced up.