Chapter 22
Kingsley
The sun felt different as a man.
The rays brushed his bare skin, his changed body singing in response, suddenly much larger than it was seconds ago.
Larger and stronger. Staring down at the frightened woman looking back up at him, he watched as her eyes darted low and then went back up, her pink lips parted, her green eyes wider than any he’d ever seen, the tops of her cheeks turning the color of poppies… or blood.
Alexander found that much had been altered in him since he’d last been fully human. The chivalry he would’ve displayed, the pride at saving a pretty girl, just wasn’t there. Instead, there was a hollow feeling, perhaps a small amount of relief that the young enchantress hadn’t been squished.
Even though he found her a little more than rude. And insufferably observant.
Note to self: do not save damsels who have attempted extermination by broom.
With a straining rasp that was meant to be a yell, he pushed every muscle he’d forgotten he possessed to the limits, shoving the piece of what he assumed was a rotted section of roof until it slammed onto the ground and crumpled.
Fitting, since the world as they all knew it seemed to be doing the same.
“Alexander?” Trystan Maverine, his best friend, his partner in crime. The one who’d kept him safe and sane over the years, a prince in his own right, said his name the way one would call to a spirit with unfinished business, the way one spoke at a grave.
Alexander Kingsley was not yet dead.
But his business was certainly unfinished.
“Deadlands take me now,” Clare lamented hopelessly into her hands, much in the manner she’d done as a child when any task became too difficult.
Alexander wanted to respond. Desperately.
Every obnoxiously long sentence he’d been unable to say, every quip he couldn’t complete, every time his rebuttal was so good it was near criminal he couldn’t vocalize it threatened to spill out of him.
But his vocal cords were just as unused as the muscles in his arms, and when the adrenaline faded, he couldn’t speak—or stand.
Winnifred, however, could speak. And judging by the expletives and the hands covering her face, she was less than pleased with the situation.
Could be because a roof had almost crushed her to death.
Or because Alexander was standing over her—nude.
It didn’t matter. He would never land atop a woman who hadn’t enthusiastically requested he do so, so instead, he flopped on his side, splayed out like a mangled starfish.
Because he was a damned gentleman.
“What in the deadlands!” Tatianna’s melodic voice called out like a hymn, a blur of pink darting for him. “Look at me.” Her fingers closed over his cheeks, holding him in place, hands aglow, feeling for illness beneath the freshly human skin.
Was he not currently looking at Tatianna?
No, prince of fools, you’re still staring at the enchantress frog hater.
Oops. Was he glaring?
You have eyebrows now. Mind them, oaf.
The depth of feeling within him seemed blown to an improbable size. Everything was too big, too bright, too loud. His hands wrapped around his ears, the sun forcing his eyes shut. Then there was something soft draped over him, and murmurs of voices he knew well.
Evie Sage whispered, “Did he pass out?”
Clare coughed and asked tentatively, “Is he dead?”
“By the gods, Clare! Is he dead?” Trystan wheezed.
“It’s a valid question! He’s so still!”
Clare’s defiant response gave Alexander the jolt he needed to exert considerable effort to get his eyes to open, and to his shock, he was no longer flat on the ground of Massacre Manor’s courtyard because his head was cradled by a cushion.
The softness was not familiar, but the face hovering over him was one he recognized enough to scowl back.
Winnifred flinched when his eyes found hers, looking ready to disappear into the wall.
Moving to sit up, Alexander gripped his ribs as he spied Trystan standing in the corner, watching him with a careful gaze. And then there was Evie, her expression at war, her eyes darting between Trystan and Alexander with anticipation one typically found on a child in a circus tent.
Then Trystan was walking toward him, and Alexander was suddenly bothered that he was not standing, wanting for once to meet his best friend on equal footing.
As he stood, he found his legs were steadier, clad in pants someone had put on him while he’d been unconscious, a loose white shirt hanging from his shoulders to cover his long frame.
Long frame.
He had a long frame.
Unbelievable development, really.
When they stood near toe to toe, Trystan shook his head in wonder. “How?”
It was unclear what finally gave. What within Alexander snapped back into place enough for him to point at Winnifred Erodina and speak his first clear word in a decade.
It was rasped, and raw, so brutally difficult he almost didn’t get it out. But he did.
“Her.”
Winnifred blinked and stared at him like he’d accused her of stealing food from orphans. “Me?” She pointed at herself, startled in unfortunately endearing confusion, then waved her hands like that would change his revelation. “What I did didn’t work.”
“I found him like this two days ago,” Clare blurted out in a rushed confession.
“You what?” Trystan asked, his tone quiet with warning.
“I’m sure she had a good reason!” Evie soothed.
Clare winced. “I did not think you could handle it yet.”
Evie sighed and saluted. “You’re on your own, soldier.”
Alexander shook his head, grabbing Trystan’s shoulder, looking at him with a pinch of regret. But the man had never been particularly adept at emotion.
So naturally, it surprised Alexander when Trystan was the one to hug him first.
Alexander froze. The sensation of being hugged was so unfamiliar, he nearly forgot what to do with his arms. Until he did, hugging him back.
“Aww!” Evie jumped. “This is so sweet. I’m going to cry.”
“Don’t,” Trystan responded flatly, separating from Alexander and pointing at her in a threat. “I can’t handle any more emotional distress today.”
“Is that what you’re calling me now?” Evie deadpanned. “My crowning achievement. Dub me royalty—” She halted, turning to him with an arched brow. “I’m sorry. Is the word ‘royalty’ triggering?”
“I’m triggered all right,” Trystan responded flatly, then turned to Clare. “I can’t believe you kept this from me.”
Clare stepped forward, shame hanging her head. “I can explain.”
Clare recounted Alexander approaching her, the time he’d spent as a human walking about the manor, disappearing and reappearing—often pantsless—and his very confusing transformation back into a frog at unpredictable times.
“What is the common denominator here? What changed him back?” Tatianna contemplated.
“It’s him. It’s his own fault,” Winnifred whispered, and Alexander whipped around to look at her so fast she stumbled back. He should really endeavor to stop scaring the mites out of the poor girl. But he had the distinct feeling she wasn’t really intimidated by him in the slightest.
“Wonderful,” Alexander rasped. His throat felt like knives were doing cartwheels from each syllable. “Why?”
Winnifred wrung out her hands. “I just know. It’s like someone’s whispering answers in my ear but they’re usually vague and a little…
” She trailed off when she realized the entire crowd was looking at her and wilted like a deadened weed.
“I just have a feeling that the reason for the change is within your own self,” she mumbled.
Alexander had a feeling, too. It was a cross between perplexed and endeared.
“We tell no one he’s been transformed,” Trystan ordered with an authority he’d earned, one that had nearly everyone in the room straightening—all but Evie, who listened like the command had been delivered by a fly buzzing about her head. “Something to add?”
“Even more reason we should get Lionel here as soon as possible,” Evie said.
“Shall we send for a plague next?” Trystan grumbled.
“Lionel is the leading Curse Consultant in Rennedawn,” Evie pointed out. “He’ll be able to give us more definitive answers than us throwing guesses into the void.”
“I’m afraid if Lionel is within ten feet of my home I will be throwing him into the void,” Trystan argued.
Evie shrugged. “You may do that, too. Just wait until we’re done with him.”
Trystan’s lips parted in hapless wonder. “That’s a tad ruthless.”
Evie pouted. “Only a tad?”
It was surreal to Kingsley, watching these two spar head-on, after having spent what felt like a lifetime observing them from the bottoms of their chins.
Tatianna finally interrupted. “We keep Alexander a secret until we’ve sorted out the rest of the prophecy,” the healer urged, handing Alexander a tonic. “For any muscle soreness.”
Alexander took it gratefully, downing every drop with a wince. Better than flies. But not by much.
At that moment, Blade busted onto the scene so abruptly that everyone jumped, including Alexander, who had not jumped—hopping notwithstanding—in a very long time. The dragon trainer was panting, hands on his knees as he delivered an alarmed plea.
“I was putting Fluffy’s saddle on outside the grove and a man—he jumped on his back and—” Blade clutched his heart like someone had ripped it out. “The bastard is taking an innocent animal for a joyride. Help me!”
“Who would do such a thing?” Winnifred inquired quietly, folding her lips inward. Alexander tracked it, unsure why it was notable.
Clare broke into a wide grin when said man flew past the group’s picnic blanket. “That would be the best of the Maverine children.”
Trystan exhaled before stalking for the dragon, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Malcolm! Get the fuck off that dragon—now!”