Really Unusual Bad Boys. MaryJanice Davidson
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it, my good tiny brother—”
“—both of you should grow headfirst in a pile of Stinkweed, beloved princes—”
Others—she assumed they worked in the castle, as they weren’t dressed nearly as nicely as Damon’s brothers—were surrounding Damon and the men, and occasionally trying to get a word in edgewise.
She walked down to the next room and peeked inside. And gasped—what a room!
She’d seen a picture of the queen’s chambers at Buckingham Palace once. This room put Queen Elizabeth’s digs to shame.
It was enormous—the ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and the room itself was as big as the entire Homicide Department. Windows had been cut into the stone near the top of each wall, and the floor was splashed with pale lavender sunlight.
A professional football team could have comfortably slept in the bed, but there was only one person in it now—a man whose blond hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He looked to be in his late fifties, and his complexion had a definite greenish tinge. He was huddled under richly embroidered blankets—only his head was showing—and looked as unhappy as a junkie in withdrawal.
He groaned in abject misery, which made up her mind. She cautiously approached the bed and cleared her throat.
“Hi there,” she said. His eyes—the same pale purple as Damon’s—opened wide and he stared at her, stunned. “Can I get you something? Some Pepto-Bismol? A bucket? You look like you’re gonna—”
He groaned again, lurched upright, and threw up all over her.
“—be sick,” she finished. She stood there, dripping, and contemplated him. “Something you ate?” she asked at last.
He nodded and slumped back against the filthy bedclothes. “That I should so dishonor a lady, and one who came to me out of a need to lend aid!”
“Chill out, I’ll live. You know, you’d be a lot more comfortable with clean sheets. And wouldn’t you like some soup? Like—uh—chicken broth? Do they have chickens here? Do they have broth, even? Never mind, I’ll find out. And aren’t you thirsty? If you’re gonna be this sick, you should drink a lot. Don’t go away,” she added.
She turned, and saw several people—Damon among them—standing in the huge doorway. “Yeah, there you are—listen, I’m going to need clean sheets, and some cold water—can you do ice water?—and some broth. Light stuff, nothing heavy. Maybe a little bread, if you have some. No butter…no dairy products at all. Oh, and someone better find me an old shirt or something to run around in. Don’t suppose there’s a washing machine in the basement?”
Nobody moved.
“Hey! I’m talking to you people!” She marched up to the doorway and made shooing gestures. “Get your asses in gear, the old guy’s pretty miserable.”
“You cannot be here,” one of the servants finally ventured, eyes rolling like a scared horse. “This area is for royalty and the servants of same. You—”
“—seem to be the only one doing something.”
“Do as she commands,” Damon said suddenly. Beside him, two other muscular blonds—his princely brothers?—were smiling at her.
“Well, thank you.”
“But ‘the old guy’ is His Majesty the King! She cannot—”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s the Pope. He’s hurting, and you dildos are just standing around. Now move.” She put her hand on the nearest chest—it was Damon’s—and shoved. Then she noticed the heavy curtain beside the doorway, and tugged on it. It fell into place, obscuring everyone from sight, with a satisfying flap.
From behind the heavy curtain, she heard a plaintive, “What is a dildo?,” and then many retreating footsteps.
“Come here,” the king said weakly.
She turned and stomped back to the bed. “Sorry about that, but Jesus! Someone had to light a fire under those guys.”
“My name is not Jesus. But you do such things very well. Sit here beside me. Ah—your clothing will be tended to, and I must again humbly implore your forgiveness for my foul and coarse behavior—”
“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been puked on, spit on, had shit flung at my head, not to mention bullets—seriously, this is nothing. Shoot, I’ve had dates that weren’t this pleasant.”
“The lady is too kind. If you will permit a bold query, does your striking coloring come from your sire or your dam?”
“Um…my mom’s Black Irish, if that’s what you mean.”
“I do not know that tribe. I would know all about how you came to my home.” He leaned back against the pillows and wriggled to get comfortable. He looked happy for the first time since she came into the room.
Poor guy’s probably bored to death. Not used to staying in bed, that’s for damn sure.
“Sure, I’ll talk. What do you want to know?”
“I do beg you to tell me everything, good lady.”
“Your son—Damon?—brought me. My name’s Lois, by the way.”
“I am Sekal, Lord High King of the SandLands, Ruler of the Exalted Ranges of the OnHigh Mountains, Emperor of the Snowy Islands, Maker of the—”
“So, Sekal, yeah, nice to meet you.” She automatically stuck her hand out, then cursed herself as he just looked at it. She sort of waved at him and continued. “As to how I got here…” She started to talk. She was still talking when tight-lipped servants showed up with fresh nightgowns—one for her, one for the king—sheets, blankets, and food.
While the servants bustled around, changing sheets and offering her clothes, the king beckoned and Damon was instantly at his side. He started to kneel, but the king waved weakly and Damon took his hand instead. “Ho, my son, when you said you left to go a-hunting, I did not think you should enjoy so much luck!”
“Nor I, my good father.”
“And at exactly the right time, too.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Right time for what?” Lois asked, but then she was hustled behind a changing divider, and being divested of her clothes. She slapped the servant’s hands away. “I can undress myself, thanks. What’s your name?”
“Zeka, my lady.”
Zeka—poor kid, what a moniker!—was a petite woman with curly blond hair and the greenest eyes Lois had ever seen. They were the color of a newly mown lawn, and as big as quarters. She was dressed simply in a white robe—in fact, all the servants were dressed in white, draped robes; they looked like escapees from the set of Gladiator.
“Well, Zeka, whatcha got there?”
Teeny Zeka was hefting a brimming stone jug—the thing had to weigh thirty pounds!—with one arm, and pouring bluish-purple water into a large basin. A delightful perfumed scent rose from the splashing water; a cross between roses and water lilies. Suddenly Lois wanted a bath. Very badly.
“If you would be so good as to hand me your soiled clothes, I will see them washed. In the meantime, if you approve, you may wear this.” She held up a plain white robe.
“Sure, looks great. Thanks a lot.” Lois quickly stripped down to nothing, feeling a little awkward. She would have preferred to keep her panties, but all her clothing stank. Working quickly, she sponged herself clean with the water and rough towel Zeka provided. She turned to slip into the robe when Zeka gasped.
“You—you have many, many battle marks!”
“Uh, yeah. Also known as hideous scar tissue. Thanks for