And then she was there. Thank the gods. Penelope was waiting for her quietly in the murky shadows.
She reached for the halter, her fingers shaking so badly that she almost couldn’t undo the knots.
She took a breath and tugged again, working her finger in between the leather. At last, it opened. Penelope was free.
She took a step forward, about to fling herself onto Penelope’s back. They would make a noise, but there was no alternative; speed meant everything now.
But before she could even fully process what was happening, the Tarasque man stepped out of the shadows and grabbed Penelope’s halter.
“Going somewhere, darlin’?” he asked in a deep, rumbling voice.
She whirled, ready to run the other way, and stopped dead. The Apollyon was standing right behind her.
“Fuck it all.” The big Apollyon glared at the Tarasque. “Now you’ll be bloody insufferable.”
Lucilla shrank back against Penelope, turning her head between them. There was nowhere to run, no escape. She’d heard horrendous stories of mercenaries. And even more horrific rumors about the savagery of the beast-like Tarasque.
And now she was their prisoner. Out here in the darkness. Far from any kind of help. Gods. What would they do to her? She didn’t even want to imagine.
She pulled the letter opener out of her belt and held it up defensively, trying—but failing—to get the trembling in her hands under control. The small blade wavered in front of her hopelessly as she prepared herself to fight.
“Hell.” The Tarasque slowly lifted his hands, as if to show that he held no weapons.
Lucilla pushed herself back into Penelope’s warm flank, blade still high, not trusting him for a moment.
“Tor, show her you’re unarmed.”
The Apollyon grunted in response, but he took a step back and also lifted his empty hands.
“Here, darlin’, sorry, we didn’t mean to frighten you,” the Tarasque said, easing back a small step, but, tellingly, keeping a tight grip on Penelope’s halter. “My name’s Mathos, and that great big ugly brute is Tor.”
Tor rolled his eyes but didn’t reply. Nor did Lucilla.
Mathos gave her a lopsided grin. “We won’t hurt you. I promise. You look thirsty… maybe hungry too? We can help.”
Finally, Lucilla found her voice. “Just let me go. Please.”
“Ah, I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. I know we look frightening, but we’re on your side. We’ve spent weeks looking for Queen Lucilla, and I think we might have found her in the nick of time.”
Lucilla wiped the back of her free hand across her damp forehead. Nothing that he said made any sense. Why would anyone other than the Blue Guards be looking for her? How had they even heard of her? Especially since whatever they’d heard was wrong—she was a princess, not a queen. And what would they do with her if they knew who she really was?
Lucilla cleared her throat and tried to keep her voice from shaking as badly as her hands. “Please. I’m no one important, and I don’t have anything for you to steal. I just want to be allowed to go.”
Mathos chuckled, although she noticed he didn’t sound amused. “Come on, darlin’, we can see that isn’t true. And now I know you’re royalty—only a woman who has always had everything would think that a beautiful, purebred mare and thick cloak aren’t worth stealing. Never mind that satchel you were about to leave behind.”
Lucilla felt her cheeks flush, but she kept her chin up, working hard to keep her face set and unreadable. Striving for the “demure princess” look that would hide her thoughts. She didn’t want them to know how terrified she was. Or how desperate she was to escape. Or how much she hated being called darlin’.
His eyes ran slowly down her face. “You look just like the portrait we saw, you’re exactly where I expected you to be, and you speak like the women at court. How about we stop this little game of pretend. Your lips are dry, which tells me you’re thirsty, and after three days out here, I’m sure you’re hungry. Come and have something to eat and drink and we’ll explain why we’re looking for you… Your Majesty.”
He stepped back and waved an arm forward, as if to lead her back to the camp. It was her opportunity. Lucilla took off as fast as she could.
She made it about three steps before a heavy arm circled her waist and she was dragged back into his hard chest. The Tarasque had her. Mathos. Gods.
She threw her head back, screaming and thrashing in a frenzy, trying desperately to stab him in the thigh. But the letter opener glanced off the heavy leather of his breeches. He grunted, clearly annoyed, and a second later he had her wrist gripped tightly in his free hand.
He used his arm around her waist to lift her fully, her body pulled tight in against his chest while her legs dangled uselessly. He held her easily, most of his attention on the letter opener as he extended her knife arm out, away from them both. “Tor, do me a favor and take that nasty little blade.”
Tor laughed. “You’re on your own, my friend. I remember how well getting involved worked out for me with Nim.” The Apollyon turned away and started walking back toward the fire.
