Birth of a Queen Jessica Wayne

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Birth of a Queen
BLADE OF ICE
BOOK THREE
JESSICA WAYNE
 Contents

1. Carleah
2. Fort
3. Carleah
4. Fort
5. Carleah
6. Fort
7. Carleah
8. Fort
9. Carleah
10. Fort
11. Carleah
12. Fort
13. Carleah
14. Fort
15. Carleah
16. Fort
17. Carleah
18. Carleah
19. Fort
20. Carleah
21. Fort
22. Carleah
23. Carleah
24. Carleah
Fort
Savvee

A note from Jess:

Deleted Scenes
Also By Jessica Wayne
About Jessica Wayne
 Blade of Ice, book 3
By Jessica Wayne
Copyright © 2023. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, places, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Dawn Y
E-Book & Hardcover Design by Triff Cover Design
Paperback Design by Covers by Christian
This one is for Nic and Jennifer N. You ladies are amazing!
 Blurb

Our choices define us.

Unsure where else to turn, we leaned on the wrong ally, and it nearly cost us everything.
Now, my allies are on the run, and my realm has been claimed by our greatest enemy. A man who used my blood to release
the giants upon us.
Merciless.
Monstrous.
They hunt for me, tearing apart the realm I vowed to protect.
But I am no longer the princess they are determined to find.
I am the slayer they won't see coming.
The queen who will lay waste to all they've built against us.
Chapter 1
 Carleah

“F ort, you have to get up.” I pull at him, trying to tug him to his feet. There’s not an inch of my body that doesn’t ache, and
the blood from my cheek has frozen to the side of my face, only to pull my skin every time I speak.
At least, it’s not bleeding anymore. Though, even if it were, that would be the least of my problems.
Fort took the fall for both of us, and he’s yet to move. The minutes have felt like hours since the giants escaped, shattering a
hole in the side of the ice cavern. They lay waste to my friends outside. To the army that marched at my side, ready to take back
a realm that I just cost them.
Bowman. I shove thoughts of my brother aside. He is strong. Fast. Resilient. He will survive.
He has to survive. I cannot be the only Rossingol remaining.
“I can’t,” he manages. Head leaned back against the boulder behind him, he looks weaker than I’ve ever seen him. Pale.
Small. Two words that I never would have attributed to a man with giant blood running through his veins. “I think I might have
broken some things,” he says.
Outside, war rages.
People scream.
Giants roar.
As soon as they were gone, I retrieved my blade and brought it over, though after seeing the creatures of legend, I’m not
entirely sure what good it will do me to use it. They are far larger than even my nightmare showed me. And now they’re free.
Tearing apart the realm I swore I’d protect.
Grief wages its own battle within me, but I shove it back down. The time for grieving will come. Right now, the only thing I
can think about is getting Fort up off the ground. There’s no telling if the giants will return. I have no intention of being here if
they do.
“You broke more than a few things, you idiot.” Tears burn in my eyes, and I sit still beside him. “Why did you come after
me? Why would you jump in after me like that? You had to know you wouldn’t survive!”
“Did you think I would just watch you fall?” he asks, unable to turn his head to look at me. “You know me better than that,
Carleah.” He groans.
“Please don’t leave me, Fort. I cannot do this alone.”
“You can,” he replies. “But I won’t. I’ve told you, I’m rather hard to kill.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out in a ragged
gasp.
Footsteps above pull my attention, so I lift my sword then remain hidden from view, tucked at Fort’s side, ready to fight till
the death if that’s what protecting him means. Adrenaline pumping through my system, I lie in wait, tracking the footsteps of
whoever has found us.
“Carleah!”
Bowman! At the sound of my brother’s voice, I rush out into the opening. He breathes a sigh of relief and slides down into
the cavern, using the opening the giants made to come down safely. Lacrae is just behind him.
The two of them rush over, and my brother crushes me against his chest. He’s covered in blood. It’s splattered across his
clothes, his face, and mats his white hair, but thankfully, it doesn’t look like any of it belongs to him.
“Your face,” he says as he pulls me away enough to study me.
“I’m fine. But Fort—” I cannot even finish the sentence.
Lacrae moves around the boulder first, and my brother follows. Fort still sits in the same place, completely still.
“He dove in after me and broke my fall,” I tell them.
“You wonderful bastard,” Bowman says as he sinks to his knees. “Are you going to survive?"
"If the blood in my veins does what it’s supposed to, yes. But it’s certainly taking a long time.”
“You broke your back,” Lacrae tells him. He lifts his gaze to Bowman. “He can’t walk.”
“Then we’ll have to carry him,” my brother replies.
“The giants,” I say quickly. “The others, are they⁠—”
 Bowman looks up at me. “Those remaining have retreated. They were given orders to regroup just outside of Navalis.
Harmonica is swimming straight to Soreno to warn Alastair.”
The siren will get there in time, of that I’m certain. But the rest of the realm— “It’s all my fault. If I’d moved faster—” I
choke on a sob as I imagine all of that loss. All of those who will now perish because I failed in my destiny.
“We will fix this,” Bowman assures me. “I swear it, Carleah.”
“We need something to carry him on. Something flat. Otherwise, we risk his back healing poorly,” Lacrae says, switching
the conversation back to Fort.
“There has to be something down here.” I turn toward the cavern, daring to venture a bit deeper inside. It’s massive, far
larger than it appears on the outside, and the stench is one that will be burned into my nose for all of eternity.
Urine. Feces. All of it clings to the walls of the cavern.
And unfortunately, no matter where I look, I find nothing but more soiled ground.
“Shit.”
“We’re going to have to carry him,” Bowman tells Lacrae. “See if we can find something along the way.”
“Then we need to at least brace his spine. I apologize for this. Know that it hurts me more than it hurts you.” The elf rolls
Fort over onto his belly and withdraws his sword. He tears part of his tunic and wraps the tip then lays it on Fort’s back as a
brace.
Fort hisses through clenched teeth, and I cringe, hating that he’s in pain and wishing that he’d not seen me fall. I would be
dead, sure, but Fort wouldn’t be injured.
Bowman and I both tear strips of cloth from our clothes, and Lacrae bandages it around Fort’s body with us rolling him to
the side to ensure it gets tied securely.
“That will have to do for now.” Lacrae and Bowman move to either side of Fort and wrap his arms around their shoulders.
Together, they lift him.
Once again, Fort hisses. “You both are determined to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Hardly,” Bowman replies.
I gather my sword, and the four of us leave the cavern behind. Reaching the top is a difficulty all in itself, and it takes me
walking behind and helping push Fort to get everyone out onto the snow.
Once we do, I freeze. Bile rises, burning my throat, and I cover my mouth to keep it down. Bodies litter the ground. Pieces
of what were once our people scattered around like fallen leaves. Crimson stains the white blanket, and I choke on a sob.
So much carnage.
So much death.
“Don’t focus on it,” Bowman tells me. “See the tracks? They lead down the mountain. With any luck, they will have
abandoned Navalis for the time being.”
“Luck hasn’t exactly been on our side lately,” I remind him.
“No,” he agrees. “But we can hope for a little now. We need shelter, and it’s the closest place.”
The idea of going home is both devastating and alluring. But as we set off into the snow, we’re moving slowly enough that I
honestly doubt we’ll reach the kingdom before freezing to death.
A horse whinnies in the distance.
I whirl, raising my blade as an entire herd of Pegasus soar down to the ground around us. My heart thunders, hope warming
my chest despite the chill. Elven warriors sit on their backs, high and proud, their white armor gleaming.
But it’s the elf on Shadow that pulls my full attention. Affree climbs down, her hair braided in a halo around her head.
She’s adorned in armor as well, looking every bit a warrior and nothing like the aristocrat I’ve come to expect.
“Brother,” she greets Lacrae.
“You dare call me that after what you did to Salma?” he demands, referring to the elven woman Affree abandoned in Dead
Man’s Land all those centuries ago.
Salma and the other elves had set out to imprison the beasts created by the Tenebris soldiers—men infected with giant
blood—and been captured themselves, trapped in a prison of obsidian.
Affree and the other council members had known about it and left them there to die.
The elven woman’s expression falters, but only for a moment. “We can discuss all of that later. I bring you warriors now.”
“You’re late,” I snap. “The giants have been freed already.”
Anger flashes in her gaze. “Yes, I know as much. But Navalis is empty and awaiting your arrival.”
I stiffen. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes. Once we realized what happened, it was the first place we looked for you. We can be allies, Carleah, and it is what I
hope for. Please allow me to make right all of the wrongs I have carried out.” She drops to her knee and bows her head. “Let
me be the one to take you home. Let me be a blade that helps you save the realm.”
Chapter 2
 Fort

T here’s not an inch of my body that doesn’t ache, but as I lie here in bed, it’s the uselessness that bothers me most. Pain, I
can manage. Pain, I understand. But being unable to stand beside Carleah as she faces her home for the first time since
her family was killed is devastating.
I lie in my bed, flat and unmoving, waiting for her to make her way up to me. The healer applied salve to the wounds he
could see, but my back will take a day to fully heal—maybe longer. Shit, hopefully not longer.
I can’t remain like this for long, or I’ll lose my damned mind.
The door opens, and Carleah comes inside. Her eyes are clear, her cheeks flush with color. “How are you feeling?” She
crosses over toward me and sits on the edge of the bed, taking my hand in hers. Her palm is cold, and I long to wrap her in my
arms and fight back the chill.
“Alive,” I say.
She lets out a breath, and her eyes fill with tears. “You scared me, Fort. You keep doing that, and I need you to stop.”
“I scared you?” I arch a brow. “I watched you plummet into the top of a mountain, unsure if you had been fatally injured.”
“And yet, you jumped in after me. Not knowing whether I’d live or die.”
“I’ll always catch you, Carleah. You fall, I fall. That’s the deal.”
“I fall, you fall,” she repeats as a tear slips down her cheek. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such loyalty.”
“Everything,” I reply.
Carleah leans down and presses her lips to mine. I want so badly to pull her against me, to deepen the kiss, but since I’m
unable to raise my arms as of yet, all I can do is take what she offers, soft kisses in my darkening room.
“You have no idea how badly I want to wrap my arms around you,” I whisper against her lips. “How badly I want to ease
all of the grief you’re feeling right now.”
“Probably just as badly as I want you to.” Carleah sits up and stares at the fire crackling in my hearth. An elven woman I
don’t recognize started it shortly after Lacrae and an elven soldier, who’d been here when we arrived, brought me inside.
She hadn’t spoken a word to me. Hadn’t answered any of my questions.
“Have any of the others gotten back?” I ask, my thoughts on the dwarven king Alastair, the elven tribal leader Salma, and
all of the others we’d been forced to leave behind.
“No word yet. Affree left scouts in the village just outside of the city gates. They’ll intercept them if they show up.”
“Affree. That was a surprise.” The fact that the elven elder, Lacrae’s sister or not, decided to offer us any aid was
shocking, given that she hasn’t made her distaste of Carleah a secret.
Carleah laughs softly, but it lacks nearly all humor. “That was quite a surprise,” she agrees then falls into silence, her hand
still holding mine. “She pulled the bodies of my family down.”
I inwardly curse. They’d been removing the king’s body from the gate when Lacrae and I touched down. While I’m beyond
grateful she didn’t see it, I wish she hadn’t even known they’d still been hanging. The image of his partially decayed headless
corpse, somewhat preserved by Navalis’ perpetual winter, is one I will never forget. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I
am so sorry for all you’ve lost.”
“It’s not your fault.” She takes a deep breath. “And it’s in the past now. We need to re-group and figure out just how we’re
going to handle things going forward.”
So much strength in a woman who’d been sheltered from the moment she was born. Then again, I suppose watching your
family be slaughtered right before your very eyes will rip away every shred of innocence. “Do you have any idea how you
want to handle things?”
She turns to face me, revealing crystal blue eyes that have captivated me since the very first moment we met. “I want to get
married.”
“Married?”
“Soon. You asked. I said yes, and I want to get married here in Navalis. Just in case⁠—”
We never come back. I know that’s what she’s thinking. “Carleah⁠—”
 “No. I don’t want to wait, Fort. If you’ve changed your mind, fine, we can deal with that. But I want to get married in the
place my parents stood. My brothers. So, in some way, I can feel like they’re there with us.” Another tear rolls down her cheek,
and I try to raise my arm to wipe it away.
Unfortunately, I make it no more than an inch before my body gives out, and it falls back to the bed. I groan with frustration.
“I want to comfort you.”
“You do. By just being here. Breathing,” she replies softly.
I swallow back my frustration and focus fully on her. “I have not changed my mind. If you want to get married while we’re
here, then we’ll get married.”
Carleah smiles, and my entire world brightens. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Fort.” She sniffles and leans down to kiss me, lingering just above my lips.
“This is torture. Me not being able to touch you.”
“You’ll be better soon enough.”
“Yes. And I’ll be making up for lost time.” Need for her runs hot through my veins. A primal fire that only burns for her.
Carleah grins as she pulls away. “I’m going to hold you to that.” Before I can respond, a soft knock sounds on the door.
“Come in,” Carleah calls out.
The wooden door swings open, and Bowman steps inside, Lacrae at his side. Both men look as exhausted as I feel, and
both are still crusted with blood from the battle we lost mere hours ago.
“You look pale,” Bowman comments.
“Complained the entire time we brought him up here,” Lacrae adds.
“Glad I was delayed and couldn’t help,” Bowman replies.
I roll my eyes. “Are you sure mocking me is wise? I won’t be off my feet long.”
“Have to take advantage where we can,” Bowman says. The now-king of Navalis looks less than pleased at being home.
His own complexion is pale, his eyes full of the same grief I see in Carleah’s.
My oldest friend and the woman I love are suffering.
And I’m trapped in this fucking bed.
“Are you feeling any better?” Bowman asks as he takes a seat in one of two chairs flanking a table in my room.
“I’m in pain. Which is progress.”
“Pain is progress?” Carleah asks, looking instantly worried. “We can get you some⁠—”
“No, my love. I’m fine.” I hold her hand tighter so she can’t leave my side. “Pain means my body is healing.”
“You don’t need anything?”
“Just you.”
Where I expected Bowman would undoubtedly mock our display of affection or, at the very least, look turned off by it, he
merely sits in silence, staring straight out the window. “It feels strange to be back here. Like we’re doing something we
shouldn’t.”
“This is our home,” Carleah says, tone sharp. “I refuse to feel unwelcome.”
Bowman nods, mouth flattened in a tight line. “Just feels off without—” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence because it’s
the same thing we’re all thinking.
I’d half expected the queen to come rushing in with blankets and tea as she’d done when I’d first been brought here. She’d
cared for me as a mother did her own child, and honestly—it was that kindness that solidified me remaining here to protect
Carleah.
I may have been young, but in that moment, I had found my purpose.
Carleah doesn’t speak, but I see her jaw clench. I tighten my hold on her hand.
“Carleah and I want to get married. Soon.”
Bowman’s eyes widen. “How soon?”
“As soon as Fort is on his feet,” Carleah replies. “I want to get married here in Navalis, and since we have no idea what
the future holds for us—” She trails off.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Bowman says as he pushes to his feet.
“Really?” Carleah questions. “You’re okay with it?”
“You never needed my blessing, sister,” he says softly. “I’ve only ever wanted what was best for you.”
I don’t bring up the fact that he’d nearly forced her to marry Patrick—the very man who betrayed us—because doing so
would dampen the light in Carleah’s eyes. And I so badly want to see her happy.
“Even if I’d been shit at showing it before,” Bowman adds. “Fort dove into a cave and broke your fall when it could have
killed him. No man will ever be worthy of you, but I suppose that makes him close.”
I smile up at her, and she squeezes my hand before releasing me and rushing over to wrap her arms around her brother. He
returns her embrace, and the two of them remain that way for a few seconds, reminding me just how close they’d once been.
 Bowman was the only one of her brothers who ever bothered to teach Carleah how to be more than someone’s wife. He
taught her to use a bow, instructed her in self-defense—both of which saved her life when their castle had been attacked.
I hate to think what would have happened to her had she been unable to protect herself when the Tenebris soldiers came for
her.
“Thank you, Brother.”
Bowman kisses her on the forehead and releases her. “Anything for you, Primrose.” He turns back to me. “Heal, Fort. And
then it will be my honor to grant you my sister’s hand in marriage.”
“Give me a few days,” I reply with complete confidence. “And I’ll be back at my full strength.”
Chapter 3
 Carleah

O ne week later.

I HAVEN ’ T BEEN to many funerals.

In fact, my brother Alex’s was one of the first I’ve ever attended. I’d been beyond distraught then. A naïve girl who lost her
eldest brother in a war she hadn’t even realized was happening.
I don’t even recognize who I was back then.
Even still, the day we lost him is branded into my mind. Fort rushing in, Alex’s limp body in his arms, blood smeared all
over them both, my wedding dress stained with crimson…it had been my first true taste of death.
And as I stand here beside Bowman and Fort, staring at the coffins that contain the bodies of our father, mother, and three
brothers, I cannot fight the feeling that this is only the beginning of what’s to come. That, before this is all over, we’ll lose far
more.
I try not to let my thoughts linger on Alastair and Saffree. The dwarven king and elven tribe leader are still nowhere to be
seen. Along with Griffin, the once head of Soreno’s guard. They, and countless others, have been missing since two weeks ago
when I failed and the giants were freed.
“Are you okay?” Fort asks, threading his fingers through mine. His voice is barely above a whisper, and I lean into him.
“No,” I reply. My throat burns with grief, but I do not cry. Any tears I would have shed are long dried up. Even as I look
over the caskets containing those I loved most in this world, all I feel is anger.
Affree, Lacrae, and some elves I don’t know by name stand directly across from us, prepared to carry the bodies of my
family into the royal tomb.
Fort clears his throat. “The Rossingol family ruled Navalis with love. Kindness. Generosity. They took me in when I’d had
nowhere else to go. Knowing nothing about me, other than I’d been a child on the verge of starvation. They gave me a room in
the castle, food, clothes, and let me train alongside their army before granting me a position as the head of their guard. I will
miss them in all the days to come, and I vow to use my blade to avenge their deaths.” He bows his head then releases my hand
and steps forward, pressing his palm to the top of Alex’s coffin. “Goodbye, my friend.”
Bowman moves forward. “My father used to tell me that, if the day came when I would be king, I would know exactly what
to do.” He takes a deep breath and rests his hand on the top of our father’s casket, identifiable thanks to his name carved into
the wood by the elves. “I would roll my eyes and ignore everything he said because, if I were king, then it meant I lost both he
and my brother, Alex.” Bowman’s voice cracks, so I reach down and take his hand with my free one. “I never thought I would
be standing here, never imagined that I’d be saying goodbye—not just to my father and the brother I looked up to—but to nearly
every member of my family.” He looks at me, and a tear rolls down his cheek.
Still, I do not cry.
“Deidrick and Ethan had such vast plans.” He pulls away from me and places one hand on each of our brothers’ coffins.
“They wanted to travel. See the world. Deidrick longed to fight in our army while Ethan wanted to write a book.” His
shoulders shake as he lets loose a sob, so I release Fort, cross over to him, and put my hand on his back. “Our mother had been
elated for the day one of us would grant her grandchildren. She’d been prepared to seek out Alex’s future bride herself.”
Fort and I both chuckle softly.
“As painful as burying our family is, they are not the only lives that were lost,” Bowman says as he straightens. “We lost an
entire household of staff. An entire village of innocent people, slain where they stood because of one man’s hunger for power.”
His grief turns angry now. “My sister and I have returned because we want to reclaim our home. But not just so we might
remain here. No, we are going to take back the entire fucking realm.”
The elves in front of us murmur in response as the air around us shifts. The pain shifts to fury. To a thirst for vengeance.
 “We will not allow evil to destroy all that is good and right in this realm,” he says. “We will fight. And we will win. The
lives lost here all those nights ago—and those lost since—will not be in vain.” Bowman looks at me then to Fort. “Today, we
bury the dead…” He trails off and smiles at me. “Tonight, my sister marries the only man in this realm good enough for her.”
His gaze drifts to Fort. “Then tomorrow, we prepare for war.”

DRESSED IN RIDING PANTS , boots, and an ice-blue tunic, I stare into my parents’ bedroom. The bed is perfectly made, the
surfaces of their bedside tables coated in a thin layer of dust. It smells musty in here even though I cannot help but imagine my
parents coming in after a long day.
I move in farther, running the tips of my fingers over my mother’s dresses. She’d been so careful when she chose one each
morning. Oftentimes setting one out the night before. It was something she never allowed her handmaiden to help with.
They could lace up the back, but my mother always chose the dress.
I reach for my father’s pipe and small wooden box of tobacco. Opening it, I lean down and inhale the scent. It used to be
one I despised, but now, it feels like home.
“I thought I might find you in here.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I take in the sight of Fort. He’s dressed similar to me, though his tunic is a deep green, his face
clean-shaven. “I wanted to see it before we left.”
“I’m sorry we can’t stay.” His expression twists to remorse, so I set my father’s tobacco and pipe aside before crossing
over to cup his cheek.
“We’ll be back,” I tell him even as merely thinking about leaving shreds my already tattered heart. Staying is too risky. We
might have gained some ground by returning, but if we remain, Patrick will know exactly where to find us.
And right now, the element of surprise is all we have.
“We will,” he agrees then leans down and presses his lips to mine. “Are you sure you want to do this now?” he questions
as he pulls away and crosses toward the window. Fort looks out, and I know he’s scanning the horizon for any semblance of
danger.
He can’t even enjoy being home again for this brief moment because it would mean letting his guard down. Will Fort ever
know what it’s like to live an unburdened life? Or will the weight of his past experiences always drag him back into the pit?
“I want to marry you, Fort.”
He turns toward me, copper eyes full of sympathy. “I know you do, but there’s still so much uncertainty.”
“I want to marry you, Fort,” I repeat as I cross toward him. “I want to take our vows in the place my parents lived. In the
home we were both loved in. Even if we never return to Navalis, we will have today.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes, and he nods. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
I stretch up on my tiptoes and kiss him gently on the cheek then head for the door. “I’ll see you at the altar, Fort.”
“I’ll be there,” he replies, though the darkness still lingers in his eyes.
Chapter 4
 Fort

B ody slick with sweat, I jump up and grip the wooden beam above my head. Using my abdominal strength, I draw my legs
up then lower them back down again, pushing my body to its limits.
There have been quite a few times I’ve been grateful for the giant blood in my veins, but breaking my back by
jumping into that cavern after Carleah tops them all. Being unable to move for nearly a week, barely able to breathe through the
pain, I’d never felt so vulnerable. And yet, I’d do it over and over again without hesitation.
“Looking pretty damn good for a man who had a broken back not too long ago,” Lacrae comments.
I don’t spare him a glance as I continue raising and lowering my legs. When I’m done, I drop down then face the elf who’s
leaning against the fence just outside of the training ring. “Amazing what a little giant blood will do.”
“Even more amazing what a lot will do,” he retorts.
Since I nearly died as a child, I was injected twice—once more than any other Tenebris child. The extra dose gave me
faster reflexes and an even quicker healing rate than the others of my faction.
“Is there a purpose to this visit?” I question. “Or are you just trying to piss me off?”
“I simply want to ensure you understand what your marriage to the Queen of the Third Realm will mean.”
“I’m marrying Carleah Rossingol. Not her title,” I reply. The elf and I have a tremulous relationship at best. Neither one of
us can stand the other, but there’s mutual respect in knowing we both serve a purpose in this war.
“You are marrying both the woman and her destiny, Fort.”
“And you’re here to tell me I’m not good enough?” Anger sparks deep within me, and I clench both of my hands into fists.
Lacrae’s golden gaze holds mine. He’s clearly unafraid that I could tear him apart in a matter of a second. “I’m not telling
you that you aren’t good enough. I truly believe you are the only man alive who stands a chance at protecting her.”
“Then what the hell are you saying?”
“That you will be king of this realm, Fort. King of the Third Realm. Or perhaps you already knew that.” The tone he uses
sparks another wave of fury, and I charge forward, prepared to bury the damned elf for what he is insinuating.
I stop just short. I am not fit to be king. Not in this—or any—realm. But if marrying Carleah means carrying the aristocratic
title, then so be it. “If you are suggesting I am only with Carleah because of her title let me remind you, that I had no idea who
she would become when I fell in love with her.”
“Except you always knew she was the Princess of Navalis. And you are a low-born Tenebris soldier sent to kidnap her.”
I rear back and slam my fist into Lacrae’s cheek. He falls back, splintering the wooden fence behind him. But he doesn’t get
up to fight back. The elf runs his hand over his cheek, brushing away blood from his split lip, then grins at me.
“Anger suits you, warrior.”
“And it’s going to get you killed.”
Lacrae presses his palms to the ground behind him and flips up onto his feet. “Men have been trying to kill me for centuries;
none have succeeded.” He brushes his hands on his riding pants. “It is not my intention to insult you, but we all have a lot
riding on Carleah—and your marriage to her will either be a strength or a hindrance. I merely needed to determine which it
would be.”
“There is nothing I won’t do for Carleah. Nothing I won’t sacrifice.”
“It’s good to hear you acknowledge that, Fort.” There’s something behind the elf’s eyes, knowledge he’s clearly not
sharing. Whether it be out of self-preservation, fear, or something else—I’m not entirely sure.
I step forward, hands clenched at my sides to keep from strangling it out of him. “What are you keeping from us?”
“I—” A horn blares, cutting him off. We exchange a worried look then both begin sprinting toward the front of the castle.
By the time I reach it, I note Carleah and Bowman are both standing on the steps as both massive gates swing open and a dozen
men and women march through, flanked by elves.
At the head of the group walks a bruised, beaten, dwarven king. Alastair looks beyond exhausted, and Carleah doesn’t let
him get two steps in before she’s sprinting toward him. I rush forward, meeting her as she reaches the man.
“Alastair!” she exclaims.
 He looks genuinely relieved to see her, a large feat for a man who wears a permanent scowl. “You are a sight for sore eyes,
girl,” he replies as he sways on his feet.
Griffin, Soreno’s head of the guard prior to Patrick revealing that he was the Son of Flame, reaches out and steadies him
with a hand on his shoulder. The man looks just as worn down, his other arm in a makeshift sling. “We’ve been moving
constantly for the last two weeks,” he says. “Got lost in the snow. It wasn’t until the elven scouts found us that we realized we
were so close to Navalis.” He gestures toward the two elves flanking either side of the small group.
Hundreds set out to defeat the giants.
And only twelve remain.
It makes my stomach churn. Briefly, I glance to Lacrae, who is doing everything he can not to meet my gaze. What does the
elf know?
“Come in and get warm,” Carleah says as she steps to the dwarven king’s side. He loops an arm through hers, and together,
they make their way up the steps past Bowman.
A man with stark white hair, who was not previously with us, is at the back of the group. As he tries to move past me, I step
into his path and stare down at him. Only a few inches shorter than I am, he’s far larger than any normal human.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“MacKenna Umbra,” he replies.
“Umbra. That’s not a name I know.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“And why is that?” I cross my arms.
The man does the same. He’s dressed in riding pants and a long-sleeved tunic, though he wears no furs despite the cold.
While my body runs at a much higher temperature than most, it’s a Tenebris trait thanks to the giant blood.
“Because I’m not from here.”
“Where are you from?” Bowman questions, coming to stand beside me.
“Cambrexian Realm. Across the Cerulean Seas. Before that, I resided in the Shadow Lands.”
“No one crosses the Cerulean Seas.” Carleah’s presence directly behind me warms my soul, but the way the stranger’s
golden gaze travels over her makes my blood boil.
“I do.” He grins, a smile that is more animal than man.
“MacKenna is the only reason we’re standing here,” one of the dwarven soldiers—Halbrook—grumbles. “He took on
seven Tenebris without so much as breaking a sweat. Saved our asses given most of us still weren’t at full strength.”
My gaze never leaves MacKenna’s face. “A single man against seven Tenebris.”
“I’m more than a man,” he replies with another grin in Carleah’s direction.
Jealousy saturates my soul, so I step in front of her. “Why are you here? Why aid people you do not know?”
“Because I have nothing else to do,” he replies. “And Griffin invited me along. Figured you could use all the swords you
can get.”
“You have no interest in this war?”
“Not a single shred.”
“I don’t trust men who fight for nothing,” I retort.
“Can’t one simply take up their sword and stand for the greater good?”
I start to respond, but Carleah tugs on my arm. “Thank you for bringing our friends back to us. I am Carleah Rossingol.” She
extends her hand.
“MacKenna Umbra.” He takes it then leans down to press his lips against the top of her slender hand.
I let loose a growl I barely even recognize.
MacKenna completely ignores me. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Your Highness. So much so that I think I likely would have
recognized you even without the introduction.” Releasing her hand, he straightens. “Your beauty truly is breathtaking.”
“You’re going to want to watch your mouth if you wish to keep your head,” I growl, my tone laced with warning.
The stranger’s gaze lifts to me. “You’re the fiancé then? The legendary Fort?”
“Yes.”
MacKenna nods. “Then I suppose it is good to meet you after all.” He turns to Bowman. “You must be Bowman Rossingol.
King of Navalis.”
“I am.”
MacKenna bows his head. “My oldest brother, Merrick, is King of the Shadow Lands. And my other brother, Maynard, is
King of Aurum.”
“I’ve heard of Aurum,” Bowman replies. “I thought the king who resided there went by the name of Julius.”
“He did,” MacKenna replies. “Until my brother and his wife put him down like the rabid animal he was.”
They overthrew a kingdom already. What if he’s here to do the same to Navalis?
“I’m not here for a title,” MacKenna tells us as though he can read my thoughts.
 “Then why are you here? You’ve yet to answer that,” Carleah replies.
“Let’s just say I found myself changed after the war back home was over and needed a change of scenery. I was tracking
game through the forest and smelled the blood of your people. When the Tenebris attacked, I happened to be in the right place at
the right time and, given my heritage, was able to get rid of them.”
“What heritage is that?” I ask.
MacKenna smiles, showing off sharp canines, his eyes turning a deeper gold. “The kind that makes me a deadly ally.”
Chapter 5
 Carleah

W ith a fire crackling in the hearth, I sit, engulfed in fragrant bath water. It warms my flesh, though my bones still feel
ice-cold.
With the return of Alastair, Griffin, and so few of the others, we decided to postpone the wedding until tomorrow
morning, right before we leave Navalis for what will hopefully not be the final time.
Though, even as I hate to leave, I’m finding it hard to breathe within the walls where my family once lived and loved.
We’ve been home for weeks now, dreading the sound of the horn that would signify Patrick is marching his army over the hills
to take our kingdom once more.
So far, he has seemed to be preoccupied, but that doesn’t mean he won’t come soon. Closing my eyes, I slip beneath the
surface of the water. I can still see him in my mind—the Son of Flame—coming to torment me every single time I try to sleep.
He’s always there, a relentless monster prepared to rip my throat out.
He taunts me.
Fort will never marry you.
You’re a silly little princess who dreams of being a warrior.
Those dreams will kill you all.
Just as you caused the death of your family.
You can see them now, can’t you? Eyes unblinking. Expressions frozen in fear.
You did this.
You will kill Bowman.
You will kill Fort.
You will kill them all.
And if you don’t…I will.
I break through the surface of the water with a gasp and wipe my eyes, breathing hard through the grief that threatens to
consume me. It hits me out of nowhere, in moments like this when I’m alone. No one to distract me, no one to pretend in front
of.
If I could sleep, I imagine I’d feel better, but whenever I close my eyes, the Son of Flame is there. Taunting me with images
of Fort diving into that cavern after me. I can see his expression—the set of his mouth, the hardness of his eyes. He’d been
prepared to die for me in that moment, ready to sacrifice his life.
Why?
What have I done to aid in this fight? It was my blood that freed the giants. My foolish plan that drove us right into Patrick’s
trap.
“There room for one more in there?”
I jump, pressing a hand to my heart when I see Fort standing just inside the room. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He crosses over toward the tub and kneels beside it. Reaching out, he grips my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I was just lost in thought, that’s all.”
“Carleah.”
I meet his gaze. “I’m okay, Fort.”
“No, you’re not.”
Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
Fort gestures to the table beside my bed. A mug sits atop it, steam climbing from the rim. “I brought you something for that.
Affree’s special blend of tea. She noticed you looked tired, too.”
Jealousy snakes up out of nowhere. “You were with Affree?” I can’t help it. It doesn’t seem that long ago that the female elf
was trying to get Fort into bed.
“She and Bowman, yes. We were talking about which route we were going to take tomorrow.”
 “Why was I not there?”
“Because you’re exhausted,” Fort replies. “Bowman thought it best⁠—”
“I may not be the queen of Navalis, but I am Queen of this realm,” I snap. “I thought we were past keeping me in the dark?”
“We are.” Fort narrows his gaze on me. “What is going on with you?”
“I’m just⁠—”
“I thought you’d be relieved that Alastair is home.”
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and nod. “I am. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Then come to bed.” Fort reaches out and retrieves a towel from the shelf beside the tub. I stand, and he wraps it around
my body then lifts me off my feet before I have time to step out of the copper tub.
With one hand he holds me; with the other, he pulls back the blankets and sets me on top of the mattress then kicks off his
boots and climbs in beside me. We pull the furs up and settle against the headboard.
“Talk to me,” he whispers as he lifts the mug from the table.
I take the offered mug and sip generously. The herbal blend dances on my tongue, a mixture of sweet and spice. “I still see
him.”
“Who?”
“The Son of Flame.”
Fort stiffens beside me, so I drink more of the tea then offer him the mug. He sets it aside without another word, so I settle
back on his chest.
“Not like before. I don’t think he’s actively speaking to me now, it’s more of a nightmare. Remnants of him lingering in my
mind.” My mind begins to grow hazy—thanks to the tea, but still, my thoughts do not cease.
“What does he say to you?”
“He tells me I’m going to kill everyone,” I reply candidly with a yawn as my eyes grow heavy.
“He lies,” Fort replies.
“I used to think so. But, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I’m destined to watch everyone I love die.”

“CARLEAH.”
My stomach twists with nausea as I’m shaken awake. Still dazed, it takes me a few seconds for my vision to focus enough
to see who’s shaking me. And even when it clears and I look upon a face I never thought I’d see again, my first thought is that
I’m hallucinating.
“Saffree?” I whisper as the elven tribal leader leans down and smiles at me.
“It is good to see you, Carleah,” she replies.
I sit up then have to steady myself on the nightstand as the tea continues to wreak havoc on my nervous system. “Are you
really here? How did you get here? When did you get here?” I look around the room, noting that Fort’s sword and boots are
gone. “Where is Fort?”
“I arrived not long ago. And with news of Soreno. I relayed it to Fort, and he’s gathering Bowman and the others just
outside so they can meet the others I brought with me.” She pulls the covers back. “Come. I offered to retrieve you myself since
I was so grateful to hear you survived the giants.”
“I’m so happy to see you.” The tea is making me even more emotional than usual, and I tear up as I swing my legs over the
side.
Saffree kneels and slips my boots over my feet.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“For the Queen of the Third Realm? I most certainly do.” She smiles and helps me to my feet.
I sway. “Elven tea,” I explain. “It’s even stronger now it seems.” I can barely keep my eyes open.
Saffree chuckles. “Affree knows how to make her tea. She was known for that even before the giants were freed the first
time. Come.”
I reach for my sword and nearly fall on it before my hand can even close around the hilt. Saffree steadies me. “Thank you,
Saffree.” I stop, an absolutely ridiculous realization dawning on me. “Hey. Your name is almost the same as hers.” I let out a
laugh. “How did I never notice that before?”
“I’m not sure,” she says with a smile then retrieves the Blade of Ice for me. She starts to hand it to me then pauses. “Maybe
I should hold onto this until you’re steady.”
“Probably,” I reply with a laugh then nearly fall over as my vision swims again. “That tea is⁠—”
“As I said, Affree is known for it,” Saffree replies as she wraps an arm around my waist and guides me to the door. “A few
hours and you’ll be back to normal.”
We head out into the hall, and I’m surprised at how quiet it seems to be. The elves that were placed as guards on the stairs
are gone, likely out with the others. “How many came back with you?” I question.
“Five survived the giant attack. But I found more on my way here.”
“Only five?” I look at her, but she continues staring straight ahead as we walk down the hall.
“We were massacred when the giants came out. I watched—” She closes her eyes and sucks in a breath. “It doesn’t matter
now because it will be over soon. We have you.” She smiles softly then guides me away from the front door and toward the
rear entrance. “Everyone is out here.”
So dazed by the tea, it’s not until we get out the back door that a trickle of unease prickles up my spine. The moon is high
tonight, glistening off the icy ground. Ahead, I can hear muted voices, but they sound worried—hushed.
“Fort?” I call out.
Saffree covers my mouth. “Not a word, Your Highness.” The tip of a blade presses into my spine. “I’d rather not have to
carry you, but if you don’t do exactly what I say, I will make what remains of your life very painful.”
She removes her hand. “What are you doing?” I demand as I stumble forward.
Saffree keeps me standing. “You were supposed to keep the giants from getting out,” she snarls. “Not let them free! I
watched my friends die because of you! And I will not go back to that obsidian prison. Not when there’s something I can do
about it.”
“You’re my friend.” Betrayal stings even through the herbal haze. I trusted her with my life. With Fort’s life. My brother’s.
How could she do this?
“I have a duty to my people,” she replies. “And that duty supersedes everything else.” Something slams into the back of my
head, and I fall forward, darkness invading my vision as a chill settles deep within my bones.
Chapter 6
 Fort

S treaked with blood and pissed off, I step into the castle beside Bowman and MacKenna Umbra.
Both men had gone with me when we’d received word that a small band of Tenebris were marching on Navalis. We’d
gone ahead to scout, hoping to formulate a plan while the dwarven king and those who had arrived here injured earlier
today got a well-needed evening of sleep. I’d been wary of leaving Carleah alone, but since she was finally sleeping, I’d left
elven guards to watch over her room and made the decision not to wake her.
After all, it was supposed to be a quick scouting mission, nothing more.
However, when we arrived where the elven scout said we’d find the soldiers—there were twice as many as we’d been
told—and they’d somehow known we were coming.
The three of us barely managed to get out of there alive, and after seeing him in action, I’m damn glad MacKenna was with
us. He fights like a Tenebris. Fast, precise.
Hard to kill.
He wields his blade as though it’s a part of him. An extension of his body. And that is a skill you cannot teach. It must be
something you’re born with. And even though I asked all of those questions, he’d evaded every one of them.
The snow falls thick now, coating the ground in a fresh blanket, which doesn’t bode well for us leaving tomorrow. The
thicker the snow, the slower we’ll move.
Fuck, I can’t wait for all of this to be over.
“I need to bathe, and⁠—”
Bowman is cut short when Griffin comes rushing down the hall, arm still in a sling. The man looks relieved, his expression
softening. “There you are! Where have you been? Where’s Carleah?”
“We were out tracking Tenebris soldiers,” Bowman replies.
“Carleah is sleeping as she should be,” I reply, though even as I speak the words, unease seeps into my gut.
“No.” Griffin pales. “She’s not in her room. And the guards that were on the stairs are gone.”
I shove past him and sprint toward the stairs, my heart slamming against my ribs with such force I’m sure it will break right
out of my chest. The bed is empty, the covers pulled back. Her clothes are gone, as is the Blade of Ice. “Carleah?” I call out,
rushing back out and down the hall. I check the rooms of her brothers—Alex, Deidrick, and Ethan—but she’s not there.
Her parents’ room is empty as well as her father’s study.
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have left her alone after what she’d told me? The Son of Flame tells her
she’s going to get all those she cares about killed, and I set out less than an hour later? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Carleah!” I bellow, frantic now.
Affree rushes into the room, Lacrae at her side.
“Where is she?” I demand, gripping the front of the elf’s tunic and slamming him into the wall. He looks shocked, his eyes
wide with fear.
“I don’t know!” he yells back.
“We weren’t in the castle,” Affree says. “We’d been looking for Shadow and the other Pegasus; they’re gone.” As always,
her tone is cool. Unfeeling.
“Gone? What the hell does that mean? Why would they leave?” Bowman demands.
“It’s not unusual,” Affree replies. “You mustn’t forget that Shadow is a king in his own right. It’s entirely possible he left to
return home.”
“I don’t give a shit about the horse,” I growl as dread burns in my stomach. Did she leave? Did she take Shadow?
“Where were the guards that were supposed to be watching over her?” I snarl. “They had one fucking job!”
“I will find out,” Affree replies, annoyance lacing her tone.
“She couldn’t have gotten far,” Bowman says. “You gave her that tea, right?”
“What the hell do you mean she couldn’t have gotten far?” I snarl. “Shadow is gone! The other Pegasus are gone! She could
have easily taken off with all of them to keep us from following!” I sprint out into the snow, racing around the castle, scanning
for any sign of footprints, but there are none.
Then again, even if she’d left prints, the fresh snowfall would have covered any tracks. My mind drifts back to our
conversation before.
“He tells me I’m going to kill everyone.”
“He lies,” I remind her.
“I used to think so. But, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I’m not destined to watch everyone I love die.”
What if she did leave to keep us out of the fight?
“What are you thinking?” Bowman questions. When I turn to face him, I see the same worry reflected in his icy gaze.
“She’s been seeing Patrick again. Said he’s been telling her she’s going to end up killing everyone.”
Bowman’s face flushes with anger. “Do you think she went after him alone?”
“Wouldn’t you?” I question then head for the trees, but MacKenna steps in my path. The man is a near match to my size and
just as lethal.
“Let me go, Umbra, or I will put you down.”
“After seeing you fight tonight, I’ve no doubt you’d get close,” he says. “But it’s not necessary.” He releases me. “Because
I can track her.”
“How? There are no footprints in the snow.”
“And how are you planning to follow her? Let your anger lead you like a beacon of assholery?” He snorts. “Sheer will?
Because no man has ever been led astray by his love of a woman who finds herself in mortal danger.”
I growl, clenching my hands into fists. “You’d better have a damned good reason for being in my way, Umbra.”
“Allow me to show you.” He steps back and strips out of his tunic, riding pants, and boots, tossing them to the side.
“Are you seriously getting fucking naked right now?” Bowman demands. “In the snow?”
“Watch and be amazed,” MacKenna replies. Then, in a horrific display of cracking bones and tearing flesh, the man is gone
—replaced by a larger-than-life white wolf.
I stare at it in complete and utter shock.
“What the hell just happened?” Bowman demands.
I look over my shoulder to see him standing beside me; Affree and Lacrae even look surprised.
“A shifter? In the Third Realm?” Lacrae shakes his head. “I’ve never seen one before.” He reaches forward to touch
MacKenna’s fur, and the wolf growls. He quickly withdraws his hand.
“Shifter?” Bowman questions.
“A man with the soul of a wolf. They have the ability to shift between forms.” Lacrae stares at the wolf in fascination. “But
I’ve never actually met one.”
“Drool over him later,” I snap. Turning to MacKenna, I glare at him. “You can find her?”
The thing nods then turns toward the trees and drops his nose to the ground. Seconds later, he begins running. I retrieve his
sword from the ground and sprint after him, taking larger-than-normal steps to account for the snow blanket.
Breath coming out in puffs of smoke, I run until my body is slick with sweat. Until my muscles are warm with the
movement. MacKenna is fast as he races through trees, changing direction as needed, until he stops just outside a clearing. He
shifts, turning human once more, naked in the snow, and we both lean in to get a closer look.
In the center of a clearing, a pyre has been built, and lying atop it, unconscious, is Carleah. My stomach churns with fear
even as rage pummels me. I’m going to fucking kill everyone who touched her.
Every single one of them.
I start toward her, but MacKenna rips me back. He shakes his head and gestures to the side as Saffree and two dozen elves
step from the trees.
They place the wood they’d been carrying down, and Saffree turns to address the people.
I choke on a growl, ready to rip her head off but knowing the number of elves versus the two of us—even as skilled as we
are—would more than likely lead to our defeat.
“She’s alive,” he whispers. “I can hear her breathing.”
I don’t ask him how because I don’t care. All I can focus on is the image of Carleah lying there, unaware that a woman
she’d once called a friend is prepared to burn her alive.
“Carleah Rossingol was a pure soul until she was corrupted by her Tenebris lover.”
I stiffen.
“Given her failure to slaughter the giants while they slept, despite prophecy stating otherwise, all we can imagine is that the
Tenebris called Fort convinced her to allow the giants to awaken. After all, given his title as the Nemoregno tribal leader by
birth, he would have the most to gain should the Son of Flame be successful in awaking the creatures.”
“Tenebris, huh?” MacKenna whispers, arching a brow.
“We are not what we’re born,” I reply.
Bowman, Lacrae, and Affree rush to our sides. When Bowman sees his sister, he lunges forward, but Lacrae rips him back
and slams a hand over his mouth. “Not yet,” he growls.
“Then when? After she’s burnt to a crisp?”
“We need numbers. Placements,” Affree replies as she tosses MacKenna’s clothes at his feet. He dresses quickly.
“There are thirteen,” I tell them. “Saffree is closest to Carleah.”
“More in the trees,” MacKenna replies, kneeling once more now that he’s fully dressed. “On that side. I can hear their
heartbeats.”
“Let her death be the death of the giants,” Saffree calls out then turns toward the altar and raises a sword.
“I’m not fucking waiting for numbers,” I rush out of the trees, blade raised, beside me, a wolf races out. MacKenna goes
straight for the throat of an elf, ripping it out and spitting it to the side. My attention is solely on getting to Carleah, but someone
slams into me, knocking the wind from my lungs.
I jolt up off the ground and swing my blade, but the elf ducks, driving his dagger into my calf muscle. Pain shoots up my leg,
but I shove it into the back of my mind and spin, kicking out with my other leg. He falls, and I pin him with a knee to his chest.
MacKenna lets loose a furious growl.
“You cannot save her!” Saffree cries out as she tosses a torch at the base of the pyre.
“No!” I roar, driving my blade down into the squirming elf beneath me. He falls still, and I leap up, scanning the fire for
any route in. Carleah screams and struggles against the ropes binding her.
Smoke fills my lungs.
“Fort!” she cries out.
Fuck it. For her, I’ll burn. Not seeing any way but through the fire, I sprint forward and leap through the flames, landing on
the pyre. Heat sears the skin of my calf muscles.
“I’m here, love,” I tell her then rip the dagger from the top of my boot and slice through the ropes binding her to the board
atop the pyre, though I don’t spare time for the ones around her wrists and legs. Gathering her in my arms, I jump, curling my
body around her as we hit the ground.
Pain radiates up my body, but I set Carleah aside and turn just in time to see an elven warrior rushing me, his teeth bared in
a snarl. I sprint forward, dropping my shoulder and slamming into him. We hit the ground, and I roll, bringing my dagger down
into his throat.
He sputters and falls silent.
I rush back to Carleah as MacKenna, Lacrae, Bowman, and Affree finish the fight.
“I’m sorry. I thought—behind you!”
I turn, prepared for another attack, but MacKenna’s wolf leaps through the air and slams the elf to the ground.
“What is that?” Carleah asks, eyes wide as she stares at MacKenna.
“I’ll explain later.” Quickly, I undo the ties binding her ankles and wrists. Carleah throws her arms around me, and I crush
her against my chest, relief easing the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“Shit, Carleah.” Bowman drops his sword and pulls his sister away from me and into his arms while Affree sets
MacKenna’s clothes down. He shifts, completely unashamed to be naked.
“Cover yourself,” I growl.
“Afraid your soon-to-be-bride might get ideas?” he asks with a grin, though he dresses quickly.
I cup Carleah’s cheeks. “Are you okay?”
“Still a little dizzy,” she replies then runs a hand over the back of her head. “And my head hurts. Someone hit me.”
I lift her and start back toward Navalis. Someone groans, so I turn, surprised to see that Saffree—blood staining the front of
her tunic—leans back against a tree. “You’re making a mistake,” she replies. “Her death could have saved—” Affree drives
her blade into Saffree’s chest.
Lacrae’s expression twists into visible pain, though even as he’d once loved the elven woman, he says nothing to his sister
for killing her.
“We need to get back to the castle, let the others know what happened,” Affree says as she straightens. “There are things to
discuss.” She glares at Lacrae as she passes, though neither of them exchanges a word.

AFTER TEARING myself away from Carleah’s bedside in the guise of getting food, I go in search of Lacrae. The elf’s earlier
conversation with me on the training field—if you can call it that—coupled with what Saffree just said is one massive red flag
that something is being kept from me.
And I’m fucking tired of not knowing the whole truth.
Thankfully, I find the elf in the first place I look. Lacrae is staring into the kitchen hearth, watching the flames lick the
bottom of a pot. “What the hell did Saffree mean?” I demand.
He turns to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his expression says otherwise.
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appearance which gives to the beholder a pleasurable sensation.”
“Something of the sort.”
“Ah.... Then, what causes it? It is intangible. Let us examine concrete
examples. Let us stand side by side Mary Jenkins, who is said to
possess this quality, and—shall we say?—Mrs. Bogardus, who is
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“What?”
He opened his eyes in mild surprise at the force of her exclamation.
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notice of any individual woman.... As to this matter of prettiness—
what constitutes it? What assembling of features and contours
create a pleasant sensation in the beholder, and why?... Perhaps
you noted how I have been scrutinizing you this morning?”
“I most certainly did.”
“Um!... It was for the purpose of determining if your appearance
aroused pleasant sensations in myself.”
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He wrinked his eyes behind his glasses and pushed stiff fingers
through his hair. “It is difficult to determine with accuracy, or to state
in terms the degree of pleasure derived, but I am almost certain that
I derive a mild satisfaction from regarding you.”
“I—I am overwhelmed,” said Carmel, and with abruptness she
passed through the wicket and out into the composing room, where
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“The Prof.?”
She nodded weakly.
“H’m.... The Prof.’s a kind of cabbage that never headed up,” said
Tubal, with finality. “He’s got all the roots and leaves, like that kind of
a cabbage, and, sim’lar, he hain’t no idee how to fold ’em up, or why
he’s a cabbage, nor that cabbages is the chief ingredient of
sauerkraut.”
“Yes,” said Carmel, “that’s it.” And for a long time after that she
continued to think of Evan Pell as a cabbage which had grown to
maturity without fulfilling a cabbage’s chief object in life, which is to
head. “Only,” she said, “he’s really just the opposite. He’s never done
anything but come to head. He’s comatose from his eyebrows to his
toes.”
The second issue of the Free Press had brought faint
encouragement. There had been a slight increase in advertising, due
to Carmel’s solicitations, but her pleasure in this growth was
somewhat dimmed by a guilty feeling that it was not due to any merit
of the paper, or of her solicitations, but to a sort of rudimentary
gallantry on the part of a few merchants.... Perhaps half a dozen
men had lounged in to subscribe, investing a dollar and a half in
curiosity.... But, to put the worst face on it, she had held her own.
She really felt she had improved the paper. The columns of
personals, which had been intrusted to Evan Pell, were full of items.
He had shown an unusual aptitude for observing the minutiæ of the
community. Having observed, he would have reported in the
language of a treatise on sociology, but Carmel referred him to the
files, and admonished him to study the style of the late Uncle Nupley.
This he had done grimly, ironically, and the result was a parrotlike
faithfulness.... He had also read and corrected all the proofs, to the
end that the sensibilities of the community be not offended by
grammatical gaucheries.
He had been offended close to resignation when Carmel insisted
upon running, in inch-tall, wooden type—across the top of the first
page—this query:
WHO IS THE HANDSOMEST MAN IN GIBEON
That was her great idea, born of her interview with Lancelot Bangs.
“If papers run beauty contests for women,” she said, “why not run
handsome contests for men?... Anyhow, it’ll be fun, and I’m entitled
to a little pleasure. Men are vain. It will make talk, and talk is
advertising, and advertising pays.”
Evan inveighed against the scheme as undignified, stultifying, and
belittling to a dignified profession.
“If it brings in subscriptions—and dollars,” said Carmel, “we should
worry!”
Evan closed his eyes in pain. “We should worry!... I beg of you....
That barbaric phrase! The basest argot. Our newspapers should be
the palladium of the purity of the language. If such expressions are
tolerated——” He stopped abruptly because his mind could not
encompass the horrors which would result from their toleration.
“Anyhow, I’m going to do it—and you’ll see. A regular voting.
Coupons and everything. We’ll have a six months’ subscription worth
fifty votes, a year’s subscription worth a hundred votes.”
“But—er—who will they vote for?”
“Just wait,” she said.
Following which she proceeded with enthusiasm. First she printed
the rules of the contest in the Free Press, and then she went to
Tubal.
“I want to stick things up all over the township,” she said, “telling
about it.”
“We got a mess of yaller stock,” he said. “You write it out and I’ll print
it, and we’ll make the Prof. go and paste ’em up.”
So it was done, and on a day Gibeon awoke to find itself placarded
with large yellow notices making it know that the Free Press was in a
fever to discover who was considered the handsomest man in town,
and to read the paper for particulars. Carmel was right—it caused
talk....
In other matters she was feeling her way, and the way was not plain
to her. Of petty news there was aplenty, and this she printed. She
also printed a trifling item about a traveling salesman who had been
“making” the territory for years in a buggy, and who had been
detected in the act of smuggling a few bottles of liquor over the
border in his sample case, thus adding to a meager income.
“There’s your vast liquor traffic,” she said to Evan Pell, “a poor, fat
little drummer with six bottles of whisky.”
“Um!... Who arrested him?”
“Deputy Jenney,” she said.
“There is,” said Evan, “a phrase which I have noted in the public
prints. It is, ‘strangling competition.’”
“What do you mean?”
“Why—er—if you were engaged in a—profitable enterprise, and
some individual—er—encroached, you would abate him, would you
not? That is the ethics of business.”
“Do you infer this drummer was abated as a competitor?”
“Oh, not in the least—not in the least!” He spoke airily, as one who
disposes of a troublesome child.
The incident, small as it was, troubled her. Evan Pell, by his cryptic
utterances, set her thinking.... If her imagination had not tricked her
wholly there was a reticence about Gibeon; there was something
Gibeon hid away from her.... A thing was transpiring which Gibeon
did not wish to be known—at least the powerful in Gibeon.... She
had encountered whisperings and slynesses.... She laughed at
herself. She would be seeing specters presently, she told herself....
But there was the disappearance of Sheriff Churchill. There was the
warning note to herself. There were many petty incidents such as the
one in Lancelot Bangs’s studio. But why connect them with illicit
traffic in intoxicants?... It was absurd to imagine an entire town
debauched by the gainfulness of whisky running.... It were a matter
best left alone.
And so, pursuing her policy of feeling her way, the current issue of
the Free Press was quite innocuous—save for what is known
technically as a “follow-up” on the subject of Sheriff Churchill, and an
editorial in which was pointed out the lethargy of official Gibeon in
assailing the mystery.
As she was leaving the hotel after luncheon that day, she
encountered Abner Fownes making his progress down the street. It
was a slow, majestic progress, and quite impressive. Mr. Fownes
carried himself with an air. He realized his responsibilities as a
personage, and proceeded with the air of a statesman riding in a
victoria through a cheering crowd. He spoke affably and
ostentatiously to everyone, but when he met Carmel face to face, he
paused.
“Um!... A hum!... I have read the paper—read it all.”
“I hope it pleased you.”
“It did not,” said Mr. Fownes.
“Indeed! What fault did you find?”
“You didn’t consult with me.... Told you to consult with me.... Number
of things shouldn’t have been mentioned. Editorial on Churchill—bad
business.... Young woman, you can see past the end of your nose.”
“I hope so.”
“Didn’t I make myself plain?”
“You did.”
“Um!... Hem!... No time for nonsense. After this—want to see every
line goes in that paper.”
“Before it is published?” Carmel was stirred to antagonism, but
forced herself to speak without heat.
“Before it’s published.... I’ll tell you what to print and what not to
print.”
“Oh,” she said, softly, “you will!”
“I own that paper—practically.... I let it live. You’re dependent on me.”
Carmel’s eyes snapped now; she was angry. “I fancied I owned the
Free Press,” she said.
“Just so long as I let you—and I’ll let you as long as you—edit it—er
—conservatively.”
“And conservatively means so long as I print what you want printed,
and omit what you wish omitted?”
“Exactly,” he said. “You’ve kept that schoolteaching fellow after I told
you not to.”
She paused a moment, and then she said, very quietly and slowly, “I
think, Mr. Fownes, that you and I have got to come to an
understanding.”
“Exactly what I’m getting at.”
“Very well, now please listen carefully, and I’m sure you’ll
understand.... At this moment I own the Free Press. Until your
chattel mortgage falls due—and that is two months away—I shall
continue to own it.... During that time I shall edit it as I see fit. I think
that is clear.... I shall ask no advice from you. I shall take no dictation
from you. What I believe should be printed, I shall print.... Good
afternoon, Mr. Fownes.”
She brushed past him and walked rapidly toward the office; Mr.
Fownes stood for a moment frowning; then he turned his round head
upon his shoulders—apparently there was no neck to assist in the
process—and stared after her. It was not an angry stare, nor a
threatening stare. Rather it was appraising. If Carmel could have
studied his face, and especially his eyes, at that moment, she would
have wondered if he were so fatuous as she supposed. She might
even have asked herself if he were really, as certain people in
Gibeon maintained, nothing but a bumptious figurehead, used by
stronger men who worked in his shadow.... There was something in
Abner Fownes’s eyes which was quite worthy of remark; but perhaps
the matter most worthy of consideration was that he manifested no
anger whatever—as a vain man, a little man, bearded as he had
been by a mere girl, might have done....
He peered after her briefly, then, by a series of maneuvers, set his
face again in the direction he had been traveling, and proceeded
magnificently on his way.... Carmel would have been more disturbed,
and differently disturbed, could she have seen into the man’s mind
and read what was passing in its depths. His thoughts had not so
much to do with Carmel as an editor as with Carmel as a woman.
 CHAPTER VII
CARMEL entered the office of the Free Press, after her encounter
with Abner Fownes, in a temper which her most lenient friend could
not describe as amiable. It was no small part of Carmel’s charm that
she could be unamiable interestingly. Her tempers were not set
pieces, like the Niagara Falls display at a fireworks celebration. They
did not glow and pour and smoke until the spectators were tired of
them and wanted to see something else. Rather they were like
gorgeous aërial bombs which rent the remote clouds with a
detonation and lighted the heavens with a multitude of colored stars.
Sometimes her choicest tempers were like those progressive bombs
which keep on detonating a half a dozen times and illuminating with
different colored stars after each explosion. This particular temper
was one of her best.
“From now on,” she said to nobody in particular, and not at all for the
purpose of giving information, “this paper is going to be run for one
single purpose. It’s going to do everything that pompous little fat
man, with his ears growing out of his shoulders, doesn’t want it to.
It’s going to hunt for things he doesn’t like. It is going to annoy and
plague and prod him. If a paper like this can make a man like him
uncomfortable, he’ll never know another peaceful moment....”
Evan Pell looked up from his table—over the rims of his spectacles
—and regarded her with interest.
“Indeed!” he said. “And what, if I may ask, has caused this—er—
declaration of policy?”
“He looked at me,” Carmel said, “and he—he wiggled all his chins at
me.”
Tubal thrust his head through the doorway. “What’d he do?” he
demanded, belligerently. “If he done anythin’ a gent shouldn’t do to a
lady I’ll jest ca’mly walk over there and twist three-four of them chins
clean off’n him.”
“I wish you would.... I wish you would.... But you mustn’t.... He gave
me orders. He told me I was to let him read every bit of copy which
went into this paper. He said I must have his O. K. on everything I
print.”
“Ah!” said Evan Pell. “And what did you rejoin?”
“I told him this was my paper, and so long as it was mine, I should do
exactly what I wanted with it, and then I turned my back and walked
away leaving him looking like a dressed-up mushroom—a fatuous
mushroom.”
“A new variety,” said Pell.
“I—I’ll make his life miserable for sixty days anyhow.”
“If,” said Pell, “he permits you to continue for sixty days.”
“I’ll continue, not for sixty days, but for years and years and years—
till I’m an old, gray-headed woman—just to spite him. I’ll make this
paper pay! I’ll show him he can’t threaten me. I’ll——”
“Now, Lady,” said Tubal, “if I was you I’d set down and cool off. If
you’re spoilin’ fer a fight you better go into it level-headed and not
jest jump in flailin’ your arms like a Frenchy cook in a tantrum. Abner
Fownes hain’t no infant to be spanked and put to bed. If you calc’late
to go after his scalp, you better find out how you kin git a grip onto
his hair.”
“And,” said Pell, “how you can prevent his—er—getting a grip on
yours.”
“I don’t believe he’s as big a man as he thinks he is,” said Carmel.
“I have read somewhere—I do not recall the author at the moment—
a word of advice which might apply to this situation. It is to the effect
that one should never underestimate an antagonist.”
“Oh, I shan’t. I’ll cool down presently, and then I’ll be as cold-blooded
and calculating as anybody. But right now I—I want to—stamp on his
pudgy toes.”
The telephone interrupted and Evan Pell put the receiver to his ear.
“... Yes, this is the Free Press.... Please repeat that.... In Boston last
night?... Who saw him? Who is speaking?” Then his face assumed
that blank, exasperated look which nothing can bring in such
perfection as to have the receiver at the other end of the line hung
up in one’s ear. He turned to Carmel.
“The person”—he waggled his thumb toward the instrument—“who
was on the wire says Sheriff Churchill was seen in Boston last
night?”
“Alive?”
“Alive.”
“Who was it? Who saw him?”
“When I asked that—he hung up the receiver in my ear.”
“Do you suppose it is true?”
“Um!... Let us scrutinize the matter in the light of logic—which it is
your custom to ridicule. First, we have an anonymous
communication. Anonymity is always open to suspicion. Second, it is
the newspaper which is informed—not the authorities. Third, it is the
newspaper which has been showing a curiosity as to the sheriff’s
whereabouts—er—contrary to the wishes of certain people....”
“Yes....”
“From these premises I would reason: first, that the anonymous
informer wishes the fact to be made public; second, that he wishes
this paper to believe it; third, that, if the paper does believe it, it will
cease asking where the sheriff is and why; and fourth, that if this
report is credited, there will be no search by anybody for a corpus
delicti.”
“A corpus delicti! And what might that be?”
Evan Pell sighed with that impatient tolerance which one exhibits
toward children asking questions about the obvious.
“It has been suggested,” he said, “that Sheriff Churchill has been
murdered. The first requisite in the establishment of the commission
of a murder is the production of the corpus delicti—the body of the
victim. If the body cannot be produced, or its disposal established,
there can be no conviction for the crime. In short, a murder requires
the fact of a dead man, and until the law can be shown a veritable
body it is compelled, I imagine, to presume the victim still alive. Here,
you will perceive, the effort is to raise a presumption that Sheriff
Churchill is not a corpus delicti.”
“Then you don’t believe it?”
“Do you?”
“I—I don’t know. Poor Mrs. Churchill! For her sake I hope it is true.”
“H’m!... If I were you, Miss Lee, I would not inform Mrs. Churchill of
this—without substantiation.”
“You are right. Nor shall I print it in the paper. You believe some one
is deliberately imposing upon us?”
“My mind,” said Evan Pell, “has been trained for years to seek the
truth. I am an observer of facts, trained to separate the true from the
false. That is the business of science and research. I think I have
made plain my reasons for doubting the truth of this message.”
“So much so,” said Carmel, “that I agree with you.”
Evan smiled complacently. “I fancied you could not do otherwise,” he
said. “Perhaps you will be further convinced if I tell you I am quite
certain I recognized the voice which gave the message.”
“Are you sure? Who was it?”
“I am certain in my own mind, but I could not take my oath in a court
of law.... I believe the voice was that of the little hunchback known
locally as Peewee Bangs.”
“The proprietor of the Lakeside Hotel?”
Evan nodded.
“What is this Lakeside Hotel?” Carmel asked. “I’ve heard it
mentioned, and somehow I’ve gotten the idea that it was—peculiar.”
Tubal interjected an answer before Evan Pell could speak. “It’s a
good place for sich as you be to keep away from. Folks drives out
there in automobiles from the big town twenty-thirty mile off, and has
high jinks. Before prohibition come in folks said Peewee run a blind
pig.”
“He seems very friendly with the local politicians.”
“Huh!” snorted Tubal.
“I don’t understand Gibeon,” Carmel said. “Of course I haven’t been
here long enough to know it and to know the people, but there’s
something about it which seems different from other little towns I’ve
known. The people look the same and talk the same. There are the
same churches and lodges and the reading club and its auxiliaries,
and I suppose there is the woman’s club which is exclusive, and all
that. But, somehow, those things, the normal life of the place, affect
me as being all on the surface, with something secret going on
underneath.... If there is anything hidden, it must be hidden from
most of the people, too. The folks must be decent, honest,
hardworking. Whatever it is, they don’t know.”
“What gives you such an idea?” Evan Pell asked, with interest.
“It’s a feeling—instinct, maybe. Possibly it’s because I’m trying to find
something, and imagine it all. Maybe I’ve magnified little,
inconsequential things.”
“What has all this to do with Abner Fownes?”
“Why—nothing. He seems to be a rather typical small-town magnate.
He’s egotistical, bumptious, small-minded. He loves importance—
and he’s rich. The professional politicians know him and his
weaknesses and use him. He’s a figurehead—so far as actual things
go, with a lot of petty power which he loves to exercise.... He’s a
bubble, and, oh, how I’d love to prick him!”
Evan bowed to her with ironical deference. “Remarkable,” he said. “A
clean-cut, searching analysis. Doubtless correct. You have been
studying him cursorily for a matter of days, but you comprehend him
to the innermost workings of his mind.... I, a trained observer, have
watched and scrutinized Abner Fownes for a year—and have not yet
reached a conclusion. May I compliment you, Miss Lee?”
Carmel’s eyes snapped. “You may,” she said, and then closed her
lips determinedly.
“You were going to say?” Evan asked, in his most irritating,
pedagogical tone.
“I was going to say that you have mighty little to be supercilious
about. You don’t know any more about this man than I do, and
you’ve been here a year. You don’t like him because he hurt your
vanity, and you’re so crusted over with vanity that whatever is inside
of it is quite lost to sight.... He had you discharged as superintendent
of schools, and it rankles.... It’s childish, like that letter of yours....
Oh, you irritate me.”
“Er—at any rate you have the quality of making yourself clear,” he
said, dryly, not offended, she was surprised to note, but rather
amused and tolerant. He was so cocksure, so wrapped up in himself
and his abilities, so egotistical, that no word of criticism could reach
and wound him. Carmel wanted to wound him, to see him wince.
She was sorry for him because she could perceive the smallness,
the narrowness, the poverty of his life; yet, because she felt,
somehow, that his character was of his own planning and
constructing, and because it was so eminently satisfactory to her,
that it was a duty to goad him into a realization of his deficiencies.
Evan Pell did not seem to her a human being, a man, so much as a
dry-as-dust mechanism—an irritating little pedant lacking in all
moving emotions except boundless vanity.
She had taken him into the office, half from sympathy, half because
somebody was needed and he was the only help available. At times
she regretted it. Now she leaned forward to challenge him.
“You’ve boasted about your abilities as a trained investigator,” she
said. “Very well, then, investigate. That’s the business of a reporter.
Gibeon is your laboratory. You’ll find it somewhat different to get at
facts hidden in human brains than to discover the hidden properties
of a chemical or to classify some rare plant or animal.... I haven’t a
trained mind. I wasn’t an infant prodigy. I haven’t spent my lifetime in
educating my brain out of all usefulness, but I can see there’s
something wrong here. Now, Mr. Pell, take your trained faculties out
and discover what it is. There’s investigation worth while.”
“Are you sure,” said Evan, “you will have the courage to publish what
I find?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “There’s no use talking about that,” she
said, “until you find something.”
“What,” he said, provocatively, “do you want me to investigate first?”
“The one thing that cries out for investigation. Find out why nothing is
done to discover what happened to Sheriff Churchill. Find out why he
disappeared and who made him disappear and what has become of
him. Fetch me the answers to these questions and I’ll take back all
I’ve said—and apologize.”
“Has it—er—occurred to you that perhaps Sheriff Churchill
disappeared because he—investigated too much?”
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
He wrinkled his brows and peered at her through his spectacles, and
then, nonplused her by answering, calmly, “I rather fancy I am. Yes,
now I come to give consideration to my emotions, I find I am
apprehensive.”
“Then,” she said, with a shrug, “we will forget about it.”
“You are trying,” he said, “to make me feel ashamed because I am
afraid. It is useless. I shall not be ashamed. It is natural I should be
afraid. Self-preservation dictates fear. The emotion of fear was
implanted in man and animals as a—er—safety device to prevent
them from incurring dangers. No, I am not in the least ashamed....
Fortunately, reason has been provided as well as fear, and,
consequently, if reason counsels a course of action which fear would
veto, it is only natural that intelligence should govern.... Reason
should always control emotion. Therefore, apprehensive as I am of
unpleasant consequences to myself, I shall proceed with the
investigation as indicated.” His tone was final. There was no
boasting in his statement, only the logical presentation of a fact. He
was afraid, but his reason indicated to him that it was worth his while
to subject himself to the hazards of the situation. Therefore he
subordinated fear.
But Carmel—responsibility sat upon her heavily in that moment. She
had ordered or goaded a human being into risking his person,
perhaps his life. That phase of it had not presented itself to her. She
was sending a man into danger, and the responsibility of her doing
so arose stark before her.
“I—I have no right,” she said, hesitatingly. “I was wrong. I cannot
allow you to put yourself in danger.”
“Unfortunately,” said Evan Pell, “you have no vote in the matter. I
have made the decision.... Of course, you may dispense with my
services, but that will not affect my conduct. I shall find out what
became of Sheriff Churchill and put myself in a position to lay before
the proper authorities substantiated facts covering all phases of his
disappearance.”
“But——”
He raised his hand, palm toward her. “My decision is final,” he said,
with asperity.
 CHAPTER VIII
GIBEON was so accustomed to Abner Fownes that it took him for
granted, as if he were a spell of weather, or the Opera House which
had been erected in 1881, or the river which flowed through the
town, tumultuously in spring and parsimoniously in the heat of
summer when its moisture was most sorely needed. On the whole,
Abner bore more resemblance to the river than to either weather or
Opera House. He was tumultuous when he could do most damage,
and ran in a sort of trickle when such genius as he had might be of
greater service. On the whole, the village was glad it possessed
Abner. He was its show piece, and they compared him with the show
citizens of adjacent centers of population.
Your remote villages are conscious of their outstanding personalities,
and, however much they may dislike them personally and quarrel
with them in the family, they flaunt them in the faces of outsiders and
boast of their eccentricities and take pride in their mannerisms. So
Gibeon fancied it knew Abner Fownes from the meticulous crust in
which his tailor incased him inward to his exact geometrical center; it
was positive it comprehended his every thought and perceived the
motive for his every action. For the most part its attitude was
tolerant. Gibeon fancied it allowed Abner to function, and that it could
put a stop to his functioning whenever it desired. The power of his
money was appraised and appreciated; but it was more than a little
inclined to laugh at his bumptious pretense of arbitrary power.
George Bogardus, furniture dealer and undertaker, embalmed the
public estimate in words and phrases.
“Abner,” said Bogardus, “figgers himself out to be a hell of a feller,
and it does him a sight of good and keeps his appetite hearty—and,
so fur’s I kin see, ’tain’t no detriment to nobody else.”
Gibeon had its moments of irritation when Abner seemed to take too
much for granted or when he drove with too tight a check rein, but
these were ephemeral. On the whole, the town’s attitude was to let
Abner do it, and then to call him a fool for his pains.
He was a native of Gibeon. His father before him had moved to the
town when it was only a four corners in the woods, and had
acquired, little by little, timber and mills, which increased in size from
year to year. Gibeon had grown with the mills and with the coming of
the railroad. Old Man Fownes had been instrumental in elevating it to
the dignity of county seat. He had vanished from the scene of his
activities when Abner was a young man, leaving his son
extraordinarily well off for that day.
Abner, as a youth, had belonged to that short, stout class of men
who are made fun of by the girls. He was never able to increase his
stature, but his girth responded to excellent cookery. No man denied
him the attribute of industry in those early days, and, as Gibeon
judged, it was more by doggedness and stodgy determination that
he was enabled to increase his inherited fortune than it was by the
possession of keen mental faculties.
For ten years Abner was satisfied to devote himself to the
husbanding and increasing of his resources. At the end of that time,
his wife having died, he discovered to Gibeon an ambition to rule
and a predilection for county politics. It was made apparent how he
realized himself a figure in the world, and tried to live up to the best
traditions of such personages as his narrow vision had enabled him
to catch glimpses of. He seemed, of a sudden, to cease taking
satisfaction in his moderate possessions and to desire to become a
man of commanding wealth. He bought himself garments and
caused himself to become impressive. He never allowed himself an
unimpressive moment. Always he was before the public and
conducting himself as he judged the public desired to see a
personage conduct himself. By word and act he asserted himself to
be a personage, and as the years went by the mere force of
reiterated assertion caused Gibeon to accept him at his own
valuation.... He was patient.
The fact that fifty of every hundred male inhabitants were on his
payroll gave him a definite power to start with. He used this power to
its limit. It is true that Gibeon laughed up its sleeve and said that
smarter men than Abner used him as an implement in the political
workshop; but if this were true, Abner seemed unconscious of it.
What he seemed to desire was the appearance rather than the
substance. It seemed to matter little to him who actually made
decisions so long as he was publicly credited with making them. Yet,
with all this, with all Gibeon’s sure knowledge of his inner workings, it
was a little afraid of him because—well, because he might possess
some of the power he claimed.
So, gradually, patiently, year by year, he had reached out farther and
farther for money and for political power until he was credited with
being a millionaire, and had at least the outward seeming of a not
inconsiderable Pooh-Bah in the councils of his party.
The word “fatuous” did not occur in the vocabulary of Gibeon. If it
had seen the word in print it could not have guessed its meaning, but
it owned colloquial equivalents for the adjective, and with these it
summed up Abner. He possessed other attributes of the fatuous
man; he was vindictive where his vanity was touched; he was
stubborn; he followed little quarrels as if they had been blood feuds.
In all the ramifications of his life there was nothing large, nothing
daring, nothing worthy of the comment of an intelligent mind. He was
simply a commonplace, pompous, inflated little man who seemed to
have found exactly what he wanted and to be determined to squeeze
the last drop of the juice of personal satisfaction out of the realization
of his ambitions.
His home was indicative of his personality. It was a square, red-brick
house with an octagonal cupola on its top. It boasted a drive and
evergreens, and on the lawn stood an alert iron buck. The cupola
was painted white and there was a lightning rod which projected
glitteringly from the top of it. You knew the lightning rod was not
intended to function as a protection against electrical storms as soon
as you looked at it. It was not an active lightning rod in any sense. It
was a bumptious lightning rod which flaunted itself and its
ornamental brass ball, and looked upon itself as quite capping the
climax of Abner Fownes’s displayful life. The whole house impressed
one as not being intended as a dwelling, but as a display. It was not
to live in, but to inform passers-by that here was an edifice, erected
at great expense, by a personage. Abner lived there after a fashion,
and derived satisfaction from the house and its cupola, but
particularly from its lightning rod. An elderly woman kept house for
him.
Abner never came out of his house—he emerged from it. The act
was a ceremony, and one could imagine he visualized himself as
issuing forth between rows of bowing servitors, or through a lane of
household troops in wonderful uniforms. Always he drove to his
office in a surrey, occupying the back seat, erect and conscious,
while his unliveried coachman sagged down in the front seat, sitting
on his shoulder blades, and quite destroying the effect of solemn
state. Abner, however, was not particular about lack of state except
in his own person. Perhaps he had arrived at the conclusion that his
own person was so impressive as to render negligible the
appearance of any contiguous externals.
It was his office, however, which, to his mind, perfectly set him off. It
was the setting for the jewel which was himself, and it was a perfect
setting. The office knew it. It oozed self-importance. It realized its
responsibilities in being the daily container for Abner Fownes. It was
an overbearing office, a patronizing office. It was quite the most
bumptious place of business imaginable; and when Abner was in
place behind his flat-topped mahogany desk the room took on an air
of complacency which would be maddening to an irritated proletariat.
It was an impossible office for a lumberman. It might have been the
office of a grand duke. Gibeon poked fun at the office, but boasted to
strangers about it. It had on its walls two pictures in shadow boxes
which were believed to be old masters rifled from some European
gallery. What the pictures thought about themselves is not known,
but they put the best possible face on the matter and pretended they
had not been painted in a studio in the loft of a furniture store in
Boston. Their frames were expensive. The walls were paneled with
some wood of a golden tone which Abner was reputed to have
imported for the purpose from South America. The sole furniture was
that occupied by Abner Fownes—his desk and chair. There was no
resting place for visitors—they remained standing when admitted to
the presence.
If Abner Fownes, for some purpose of his own, with Machiavellian
intelligence, had set out to create for himself a personality which
could be described only by the word fatuous, he could not have done
better. Every detail seemed to have been planned for the purpose of
impressing the world with the fact that he was a man with illusions of
grandeur, motivated by obstinate folly, blind to his silliness; perfectly
contented in the belief that he was a human being who quite
overshadowed his contemporaries. If he had possessed a strong,
determined, rapacious, keen mind, determined upon surreptitious
depredations upon finance and morals, he could not have chosen
better. If he wished to set up a dummy Abner which would assert
itself so loudly and foolishly as to render the real, mole-digging
Abner invisible to the human eye, he could not have wrought more
skillfully. He was a perfect thing; his life was a perfect thing.... Many
men, possessing real, malevolent power, erect up clothes-horses to
function in their names. It was quite unthinkable that such a man
should set himself up as his own stalking horse.
Abner sat before his desk, examining a sheaf of tally sheets. They
were not the tally sheets of his own lumber yard, but figures showing
the amount of spruce and pine and birch and maple piled in
numerous mill yards throughout the state. Abner owned this lumber.
In the fall he had watched the price of lumber decline until he
calculated it had reached a price from which it could only rise. Others
had disagreed with him. Nevertheless, he had bought and bought
and bought, intent upon one coup which should make him indeed the
power in the lumber industry of the country, which was his objective.
He had used all available funds and then had carried his credit into
the market, stretching it until it cried for mercy. Now he owned
enough cut lumber to build a small city—and the price had continued
to drop. That morning’s market prices continued the decline. Abner’s
state of mind was not one to arouse envy.
The sum of money he must lose if he sold at the market represented
something more than the total of his possessions. Gibeon rated him
as a millionaire. That he was in difficulties was a secret which he had