Lost Destinies

↳ 37: How To Explain That You Kidnapped A Baby (You Don't)

"She's dead, Your Majesty."

Photographs flashed, the king ducking through caution tape to reach his wife's quarters. Officials were repeating that which he already knew.

Another lifted a pen. "Your Majesty, I am terribly sorry, but this is a crime scene—"

"Mind your mouth," he said, quite calmly. "I am your king."

"Right." There was no protesting after that.

"No sign of the child," someone was muttering.

"What are we going to do about this mess?" someone else whispered, looking up with apprehension at the gaping red wound in the air. Nothing had emerged from it—yet.

"I want the footage of everything that happened in this room examined from top to bottom," Charles told the detective. "If our security is as good as my advisors claim, the perpetrators should be identifiable."

The man next to the detective, a palace official, held up a finger. "Ah—Your Majesty. A, ah, a problem."

"Good grief, fool, spit it out."

"The shield on the door. Everything was blacked out. We've already run the footage. It's blank."

Teeth grinding against one another, Charles swept across the room. His son's crib, devastatingly empty. Anything could've happened to him—the portal, the assassins, anything. He pushed past the churning in his stomach to examine the rest of the scene. There was something waiting on the dresser. The forensics team had already moved on from photographing this area, tagging and labeling something that hadn't been there before. A note.

Slipping on a pair of latex gloves from the box of them sitting nearby, Charles picked up the note with steady hands, his eyes refusing to wander toward his wife. Sheets of red hair cascaded loosely over his shoulders—amidst it all, only one shock of white.

We tried to stop them.

— Dolos

He crushed it in his fist. "Bring me the Fairy Godmother Council." There was a moment of hesitation, and he shut his eyes, exhaling. "Now!"

🙤 ˖ ࣪⭑ ┈┈┈┈ · ✦ · ┈┈┈┈ ˖ ࣪⭑ 🙦

The van pulled into a parking garage at approximately noon, and the baby wouldn't stop screaming.

Lindsay clamped her hands over her ears. "There's whiskey in the back, just give him that!"

"You can't give a baby whiskey!"

"You're right, that's probably how they turn out like you!"

"Well, what do you feed babies?" Penny groaned, rubbing her forehead.

"Milk," Claude said exasperatedly, like it was obvious. "It's like none of you have ever taken care of a kid."

"Well, obviously. The oldest of us is Bear, and he's, like, twenty-five."

Minerva held up a jug. "We have orange juice," she suggested. "No bottles, though."

"Like hell we don't have bottles," said Penny, "the floor's littered with 'em. Pick one."

"Baby bottles."

"Just feed him straight outta the jug," Ramona muttered, climbing out from the front seat. She peeled off the gloves she'd been wearing, fingers bruised red underneath. Minerva glanced at her, alarmed.

"You're freezing."

She forced her fingers to flex, bringing them to her face, trying to feel anything again. "It's—it's the prince," she mumbled. "He's got magic now. And he's with them."