“All right, why don’t we calm down?” Jackson held up his hands. “What else can you tell me about the vision, Elijah? Anything?”
Ryleigh backed off.
“Not much, I’m afraid. There is a small military team. Eight men. They are flying on an aircraft and must be retrieved.” Elijah rubbed his hands over his face. “Look, Jackson.”
Surprise slammed through Ryleigh. He never addressed Jackson by his first name. At least, she couldn’t remember him doing so since Jackson had taken his father’s place as king.
“You must move quickly.” He turned to Ryleigh. “If it makes you feel any better, My Princess, these men are going to die anyway.”
“How can you know that?” She choked back the anger, struggled for control. “There’s no way you could know that.”
Elijah gripped her ice-cold hands in his, sending a flow of warmth through her. “I promise you I am quite certain of that. I’m sorry, Miss Ryleigh. If there were any other way, I would take it. I can’t tell you why, but we will need these men. They are to play a crucial role in our kingdom’s future.” He held her gaze, his eyes stormy, turbulent, troubled. Then he released her hands and returned his attention to Jackson.
“If you do not intervene in time, the plane will be brought down in enemy territory. The men will be captured, tortured severely, and killed. Their bodies will be…displayed…as a warning. We won’t be able to retrieve them once any of that happens. That plane must be brought down, its occupants retrieved and transferred to Cymmera, before it reaches its destiny. You must hurry, Jackson. We’re running out of time.”
“Very well, Elijah. Thank you.”
“What?” Ryleigh gripped Jackson’s arm. “You’re not seriously thinking about doing this.” Ryleigh held her tongue while Elijah bowed before quietly retreating and leaving Ryleigh alone with Jackson. With the prophet gone, surely she could talk some sense into Jackson. Maybe he was just humoring the seer, didn’t really plan on following through with the plan. She took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Waited.
When Jackson turned to face her, she searched for the good humor, or the sarcastic grin she’d gotten used to. His expression was rock hard, deep lines bracketing his mouth. He was every bit the warrior. Her hopes fell.
“I must go.”
“What? Aren’t we going to talk about this?”
“No.”
She had to stop him. “I thought I was the queen, and we were supposed to rule together.” Even she had to cringe at that statement.
Jackson’s posture remained rigid as he simply lifted a brow. “Look, Ryleigh. I have to go. Now. It was a huge concession for Elijah to offer as much information as he did. His visions are…private, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t share them. He either can’t or won’t for fear of negatively affecting the intended outcomes. Fate, if you will. We can discuss it more when I return.” He turned and walked away, effectively ending their conversation.
Oh no. He did not just dismiss her. She rushed after him. “Don’t you walk away from me, Jackson.”
He kept walking.
“Get back here. We are not done with this.”
He reached for the elaborate iron door handle.
“If you walk out that door without finishing this conversation, I’ll…I’ll…” She lowered her voice as he pulled the door open. “I won’t be here when you get back.”
He paused, door held open wide.
“And I won’t return. Ever.”
He straightened his shoulders, strode purposefully from the chamber, and let the door fall shut behind him.
* * * *
Jackson shoved his feelings ruthlessly aside. He’d spent hundreds of years without emotions, he’d be damned if he’d let them rule him now. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the empty hallway, beating at him, reminded him of what it was to be truly alone. His heart ached to return to Ryleigh. To beg for her understanding and forgiveness. To plead with her to wait for him to return so they could talk.
Urgency pushed him forward. Whether it was his own sense of foreboding, or the stern warning from Elijah to hurry, he had no idea. He wished fleetingly his father was still there to make this decision, but he didn’t let the thought linger. King Maynard—the true King Maynard—was gone, and no amount of wishing would bring him back. Too bad Jackson was such a poor substitute. He shook off the self-pity as he shoved the door open and stormed toward the stable. What choice did he have?
“Hey, Jackson. Wait up.” Dakota Knight jogged to catch up, then fell into place beside Jackson as he continued on his way to the stable. “What’s happening?”
Obviously Elijah had called the Death Dealer team to order but hadn’t told them what to expect. Great. Jackson would have to bring them up to speed before they could leave. “I’ll go over it once we all meet. No sense repeating it twice.” He pulled open the door and held it for Dakota to precede him.
“I heard Mia’s back?”
Jackson shot him a grin.
Dakota’s cheeks, already ruddy from running in the cold, reddened even more. “Uh…and Ryleigh, I mean.”
“Sure you did.” He punched his best friend in the arm. “I’ll meet you at the pens.” Jackson pulled aside the curtain to his dressing cubicle and took a lit lantern from a hook beside the entrance. He let the curtain fall shut behind him.
After hanging the lantern beside the long table against the back wall where his equipment was laid out, Jackson ran a hand along the smooth black breastplate he’d worn so many times, had worn into battle the day his father was killed. Only then, there had been no symbol covering the breastplate. It had simply been the smooth black armor of a novice, even though the Death Dealer ceremony had been completed in private, and he’d already worn the mark of the Death Dealer and the future king on his arm.
He traced the pattern now adorning the breastplate. The primitive, tribal design surrounded two crossed swords set in the exact center. The mark of the Death Dealer, the warrior he’d trained for hundreds of years to become. Similar to the tattoo covering his upper right arm and shoulder. Only the breastplate didn’t bear the red slash through the center that would tell the world he was the future King of Cymmera. A pang of grief shot through him. No. Not the future king. The king.
He tamped down the insecurities threatening to drown him. Regardless of Ryleigh’s feelings, this was the right choice. The only choice. He stripped off his jacket and sweatshirt and hastily pulled on a thin, long sleeved, black shirt before pulling his long hair back into a tail at his nape and tying it with a thin leather band. He strapped the breastplate into place, secured the arm-guard to his left forearm, and slid the finger tab onto his right hand. Once the high, armor plated, black boots were fitted over his black jeans, he slung the bow and quiver onto his back, shoved a dagger into each of the casings on his boots, and sheathed his sword at his hip.
At the sound of the alert calling the Death Dealer team to action, he tucked the ornate black helmet beneath his arm and strode resolutely toward the pens. There would be no turning back.
Elijah met him before he reached the others, acknowledging him with the traditional greeting before his expression softened. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.” He lowered his gaze, hoping Elijah didn’t catch the lie.
“Very well, sir.” He only hesitated another moment before dropping the subject and moving on. “Would you like me to brief the men directly, or give you the necessary information?”
“Nah. You can do it. No sense wasting time.” Jackson clamped his teeth tightly together as