“What is the role of the American man here?”
“He brings weapons. They said something about selling drugs. He didn’t explain it to me. I don’t know any more than that. He left us to be sold or killed. He was going to leave us here.”
It spills out of me with a sudden intensity, until I start to shake.
“I want to go home.”
“I will decide that. I saved your life. Now your life belongs to me.”
I freeze.
Brad laughs. “I told you.”
“I have heard enough to pass judgement,” the prince says, rising to tower over all of us. He turns and barks a single word in Kosztylan.
It means sword.
One of his men marches forward stiffly, like this is some kind of ritual. At the same time, two others drag the bearded general to the center of the room and force him to his knees, kicking him forward until his chest lands on a crate, his head hanging over the side.
Oh my God.
The prince draws the sword from the scabbard. The blade is five feet long and as wide as a man’s hand, the grip big enough for him to hold two-handed in his huge gauntlets.
There’s some kind of connector on the grip. It touches a plate on his gauntlet and the sword starts humming, crackling like a high-tension wire. He steps beside the bearded general.
“I, Prince Kristoff of the House Kosztyla, Crown Prince, sentence you to death by beheading. Speak your last words, have you any.”
The general bellows out a string of profanities, accusing the prince of fornicating with apes and insinuating that his mother is a whore who lies with pigs, among other obscenities.
The prince listens to him for a good thirty seconds then looks at me like he’s noticing me for the first time. The blade hovers over the general’s neck.
“Take the women out,” the prince commands. “They need not see this.”
Walking outside feels like floating, even limping on a sore ankle. Once I’m outside the tent, I hear it. The general lets loose a string of obscenities, his last words, as it were. Then they cut off.
I giggle. Cut off. Good one, Penny. My laughter breaks down into sobs.
I can hear Brad.
“You can’t do this!” he shrieks, high and thin. “I’m a fucking American! I’m with the CIA! Do you know who I am?”
I turn back and look.
They push him down, and the prince brings the sword close to his face. The very tip touches Brad’s cheek with a hissing pop and I can smell him burning.
“Oh God, please don’t…”
“You plea to God for help now that you reap what you have sown, American?”
Brad just stares at him.
“God will tire of your pleas by the time I am done with you. I, Prince Kristoff of the House Kosztyla, Crown prince, sentence you to death by torment. Take him to the castle.”
Brad is silent for a moment, puffing as the prince takes his sword and sheathes it. Then he screams, his pleas turning into wails and sobs as they pick him up, bind his hands and feet, and carry him out.
“Hang the rest,” the prince says, as casually as he might tell his men to throw out a bag of garbage. “Leave them for the crows.”
Then he turns to me.
“You,” then to Melissa, “and you. Come.”
Melissa stands up, shaking like a leaf.
Surrounded by his men, we walk. He keeps pace with us, moving with ponderous, careful slowness, as if the armor suddenly weighs him down.
He looks at Melissa.
“You will be taken to a hospital. There you will be examined and treated for any injuries.”
Melissa starts to cry.
He looks at me.
“You’re scaring her. Take off your helmet.”
Those black eye slits study me hard, and then he gives the slightest of nods, a movement so tiny I wouldn’t have noticed it if I didn’t hear the tiny whirr his suit makes when it moves. He reaches up and sinks his clawed fingertips into notches at the base of the helmet, and it pops open with a soft hiss.
He lifts it off and hands it to one of his guards, who struggles to bear the weight. I hardly notice. I’m too busy staring at him.
He’s gorgeous. He has a long and severe face with dark-blue eyes that study me hungrily, like they’re going to swallow me up. His dark, straight hair is pulled back and bound into a knot behind his head. His jaw looks carved from stone, and his high, angular cheekbones give him an austere, lean look.
“You said your name is Penny.”
I swallow hard and try not to let my voice crack. “Yes, that’s right.”
“A penny is a coin.”
“Yes.”
“The coin of lowest value.”
I blink. “Yes, but—”
“I don’t like this name, Penny. This is a diminutive, yes? A…” he searches for the word, “nickname.”
“Yes. My real name is Persephone.”
He’s quiet for a moment that stretches until I swallow, hard.
“It would be.”
He turns and speaks to his men. His command is given slowly, clearly, so that I can understand it.
“Take this one directly to the castle. See that she has a change of clothes and a chance to bathe. She will dine with me.”