SHADOW

When the Count Breaks

The night was full of sound—too loud, too much light, too much of everything—for Count Ambrosio's liking.

"Hello, my lovely Luka," whispered a woman's voice in his ear.

The hair on the nape of his neck rose. It was Princess Iolanda. Her dress was so transparent it left nothing to the imagination, her mask the only thing covering her. She was too thin, too bony, too masculine for his taste. Her face was beautiful, but cold. And he was tired of pretending he liked her.

Even so, he had to—for the sake of business, for the sake of his plans.

"Hello, my beautiful lady," he replied and kissed the bejeweled hand she extended toward his lips.

This woman enjoyed herself far too much in his company. Every time he touched her, her eyes sparkled with ecstasy and joy. It was strange to witness the change from the disgust and cruelty she usually wore on her face. Maybe she did like him. Or maybe he was just a prize she hadn't yet claimed.

Still, he knew she fancied other men, too. He wasn't stupid.

"Come dance with me and my friends," she chimed, dragging him into a cohort of people dressed as decadently and opulently as she was.

The fairy wine flowed in rivers. Around him, people seemed to lose their minds, prancing and tangling with each other between trees and into the shadows. She pushed glass after glass of fairy wine into his hands.

"Let's drink to the king!"

"Hooray! Long live the king!" shouted the entire company.

"You can't deny a toast to the king's health, my lord," whispered another courtesan into his ear.

No, he couldn't indeed, thought Count Ambrosio, and drank the odious liquor. It smelled divine, tasted even better, and with every sip, his worries faded. If he drank one, he drank more.

He could smell the princess's perfume clinging to him. She pressed herself against him constantly, her dance disorienting. He was a man, after all.

"You seem to like what you see," whispered the princess with a giggle.

Well, he wasn't made of stone. After four or five glasses of fairy wine, everything seemed possible.

Everything was fine—until he spotted the green dress and Sonya in panic, yelling:

"My lady! Lady! My lady... Where are you? Oh my God, I lost her... I lost her!"

Through the haze and debauchery around him, he shoved the princess aside—she now lay tangled in the grass with other courtesans, all merry from the wine—and strode toward Sonya.

"Where is your lady? I told you to always stay by her side!" Ambrosio yelled. His words spun as Sonya grabbed him by the arm.

He had to act.

"Slap me!" he shouted at her.

"Slap you? How could I slap you, sir? I can't!" the girl stumbled back in fear.

"I command you to slap me—or you'll be in trouble for disobeying!" roared the Count.

The world spun again as he steadied himself by clinging to a nearby tree. They had definitely put something in his drink. He had to get sober.

"All right—you asked for it," said Sonya, and slapped him hard.

The woman had strength in her hands—all those hours of labor around the estate. He could appreciate a strong woman. The pain sobered him a bit, and he bit his tongue too. The sharper the pain, the better.

She handed him a jug of cold water from one of the tables, and he drenched himself in it.

"Now... better," he mumbled. "Let's find Sha. Hurry."

They strode through the gardens—no, he ran more than he strode. His heart was in his throat. Had the princess gotten to her? Had some drunken courtier dragged her off somewhere?

He had to find her.

And there she was—smashed against a tree, a large shadow crushing her against it.

He grabbed the man and flung him away from the girl with all his might.

"You bastard! What are you doing?" he roared, grabbing the man's shirt, ready to punch—

Only to freeze.

"I'll be damned," thought Count Luka Ambrosio at the sight of the king's flushed face.