The Jinxed Journalist Page 2

  Captain Saint stopped outside the hall. Dean and Waldo, the king’s security detail, gave him a nod as he fell in next to them. He pulled out his phone and answered emails: a request for a private tour of the residence by a Forgelands TV station (no); a request for an interview with the grand duchess about her human trafficking work (he’d ask her); a request for Dowager Queen Lily to attend a tea to benefit homeless dogs (forwarded to her secretary). The doors opened and Edward came out first. He looked tired. He was usually perfectly put together, but today, he was missing his tie and his white shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing his inky black skin.

  “We’re not scheduled to meet. Is this a social moment?”

  Saint grimaced. “No. My office or yours?”

  “Mine. I have another meeting in twenty. You’ll have to fill me in while I eat.”

  “Fine.”

  The two men walked in silence. Being friends with a king for many years had its advantages, though he liked to believe he could’ve gotten this position regardless. Still, it didn’t hurt to work your connections. Saint made himself wait to start filling in the details; despite his flawless outward physical appearance and pressed uniform, self-control wasn’t one of his strengths. Edward, he knew, came by it naturally; he’d always been a temperate person, whereas Saint was basically holding it together until he was off duty. He’d need to let loose soon.

  Saint closed the polished oak door to Edward’s office behind him. “Do you recall a woman named Greta Burnham?”

  “Burnham?” He shook his head as he sat down at his desk, picking up his knife and fork to cut into his steak. “Wait, yes—I believe she worked for the Attaamish delegation. Red hair?”

  “Don’t know her hair color, but she’s claiming you gave her Ralstand’s Kiss.”

  Edward stiffened, gripping his utensils harder. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A new reporter asked me today if you’d used magic against her, Greta Burnham, during the Brothers’ War. On the twenty-first of Fourth Month, no less, when you weren’t even at the front.”

  “I wasn’t, I didn’t. I would never.”

  Saint scowled. “I know that.”

  Edward leaned forward, and, paired with the anger he’d expected, Saint read the vulnerability in his eyes. “I would never. I need you to know that. I wouldn’t lie to you. I haven’t any skill with magic.”

  Edward. So tenderhearted, he thought with mild amusement.

  “Settle down, mate. I know that. I just had to ask. I had to bring this to you, to see how you wanted me to handle it. I wasn’t sure if you wanted it to be common knowledge that you’d left the front in the middle of the war to escort Abbie across the Unveiled.”

  His friend sat back hard in his chair, his lunch forgotten, and a deep sigh burst from his chest. “I’ll have to consider that.” He glanced up at Saint. “Can we trust this reporter? If we disclose that I wasn’t at the front, do you think she’ll keep that to herself?”

  Saint resisted the impulse to run his fingers through his hair. “I doubt it. She seems hungry for a story, any story. Wants to prove herself. Jersey on wheels.” Or rather, Jersey on high heels. High-heeled boots . . . and the shapely legs in those boots.

  “How would you like to proceed?”

  “I can ‘no comment’ Ms. Everleigh for a time, but I’m not sure if that’ll work. The other reporters have heard the names involved now, and they’re going to go after the story themselves.”

  “Stick with ‘no comment’ for now. It’s rubbish. Maybe it’ll go away on its own.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” said Saint, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do remember a story that circulated about a female delegate who’d disappeared. At the time, we all just assumed she’d had too much to drink or gone home. Gasper would know.”

  “Check with him, please. Even if I wasn’t involved, someone was.”

  “Someone’s got to talk to Abbie, too.”

  The king swore softly. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “It has to be done today. Don’t put it off.”

  “On second thought, perhaps you could come with me. It’s your area of expertise, and . . .”

  Saint grimaced. “I wouldn’t want to go alone, either.”

  Edward sighed, his head dropping to touch his chin to his chest. “Let me eat a little, then we’ll go.” A staff member quietly brought Saint a plate and slipped out, and the two men chatted about less distressing things while they consumed their lunch.

  “Let’s get this over with,” said Edward, standing.

  “Right.” Saint went out as Ms. Scrope came in, her arms full of reading material. “Alice,” he greeted her.

  “Saint.” They’d shared a night together a while back, but he was determined not to let it affect his professionalism at work. From the sparkle in her eye, though, it looked like she might be interested in another round. If I was ever tempted . . . too bad I seldom go back for seconds.

  He pulled out his phone as he stalked down the long hallway toward the residence.

  Saint: Got a minute to talk? Palace business.

  Abbie: SNORE. Fine.

  Saint: On our way.

  Abbie: Both of you? Must be serious.

  Saint sighed. He liked Abbie, but she was just about the worst royal in the world. He would never put her behind a podium if he could help it. Next to it was okay; she was a pretty girl—lily-white skin, auburn curls, curvy. But he couldn’t let her in range of the microphone. That was just asking for trouble. He knocked at the residence and she called out to him.

  “This better be good. You’re interrupting my studying.”

  He grinned as he closed the door behind them. “How are your classes going?”

  “Good. But all those whippersnappers make me feel old; I’ve got to stay on my toes with the material so they don’t realize how senile I am compared to them.” Abbie also had lupus, which affected her memory, Saint knew. But he wouldn’t mention that if she didn’t bring it up. “What do you need?”

  Edward sat next to her and held her hand. “We need to make you aware of an accusation that’s come out.”

  “Oh?” She closed the thick organic chemistry book and gave him her attention.

  Saint nodded. “A new reporter is accusing Edward of using magic against a woman at the front during the Brothers’ War.”

  She frowned. “Using it against her how?”

  “Ralstand’s Kiss.”

  Abbie’s gaze hardened. “That’s ridiculous. He’s got no magical ability; if the remote control stops working, he makes Tezza fix it.” Everyone in Veiled countries relied on magic to power their communications and electronics, and the royal family was no different. But affecting someone the way Greta Burnham was, so thoroughly and for so long, would take a powerful user with more than average ability. If that was Edward, he’d hidden it extremely well.

  “It is,” he agreed. Saint tried to relax his shoulders; they were starting to burn. He hadn’t realized how worried he’d been that she’d be upset by the situation.

  “So we’re not providing commentary,” continued Edward, “especially considering I wasn’t even in Attaamy at the time of the supposed incident.”

  She looked at the ceiling as realization dawned. “Right. You were with me. But we don’t want anyone to know you left the front. This is going to be tricky.”

  “Hence my presence here to warn you about it,” said Edward.

  “Well, I appreciate that.”

  “Remember, don’t talk to the press about it, Abbie,” said Saint. “I’m serious. I know you have a tendency to . . .”

  “Go off?” she asked, daring him to argue with her.

  He nodded, backing toward the door. “Yes, to go off. But you can’t on this one. Any reaction from our part will look defensive. We’ve got to play this one cool. All right?”

  She nodded. “All right. I get it.”

  Saint held the door open as Edward kissed her and moved to exit, his phone a
lready buzzing with more problems, and Abbie resumed her studying.

  “We still on for hiking on Saturday?” Saint asked.

  Abbie snorted. “Right.”

  “What’s that mean, love?”

  “It means you go out Friday night, meet some girl, wake up Woz knows where, and you always blow me off. That’s what.”

  He crossed his arms. “I do not.”

  “You do. You think with your pants. It sucks. You suck.”

  She was joking, but that stung a little. “Maybe this time I won’t.”

  “Everyone who believes that, raise your hand . . .” She kept her hands folded pointedly in her lap, and he laughed.

  “See you Saturday, Grand Duchess.”

  “See you next week, Francis.” It was their inside joke; she hated her title, so she punished him by using his first name whenever he used it.

  Yeah, never in front of a microphone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WASN’T FAIR, BROOKE knew, to resent Olly’s very short legs when she was in a hurry, but she did anyway. Dragging him by his hand up to the palace gates, she hissed at him to come on, kiddo. He should’ve been at school . . . Maybe she could get through the morning without anyone asking too many questions about why he was there and she could sneak out to work from home in the afternoon. No one at the paper seemed to care where she worked as long as she was accessible on her phone and met her deadlines. It was one of the few perks of journalism.

  She got Olly settled with a coloring book and a box of crayons at one of the generic desks in the corner of the communication offices, then went in search of Captain Sinner. It had been two weeks since she’d first asked him about the incident. Now that several new witnesses had come forward to claim they’d seen the king and Mrs. Burnham ducking into her tent, she wanted to try again for a statement; running the article without it would make the case seem uninvestigated. She caught him in the hallway; he wasn’t hard to spot with his neatly coiffed blond hair and striking blue eyes, standing a bit taller than the rest . . . not that Brooke noticed his looks.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Good morning, Ms. . . .”

  “Everleigh,” she said with a smile, suspecting that he already knew.

  “Oh, that’s right. I apologize, I can be so forgetful sometimes.”

  “Captain, would His Majesty like to comment on another recent statement from Greta Burnham, where she alleges that he manipulated her with . . .” Brooke’s voice trailed off as she noticed Olly standing next to her. “Darling, go back and sit down where Mum showed you in the office, all right?”

  “Who’s this?” Saint asked, his tone light.

  “I’m Oliver Charles Everleigh.”

  Saint stuck out his hand, and her son shook it. “Very nice to meet you, Oliver Charles Everleigh. I’m Captain Saint.” He glanced at Brooke. “Is this your brother?”

  She shook her head. “My son.”

  He gave her a single slow nod. “And are you sick today, Oliver Charles Everleigh?”

  Her boy blushed. Good. Be embarrassed.

  “No. School kicked me out for fighting on the playground.”

  “Oh, I see. Soldiers don’t abide such behavior, either. A friend of mine was just demoted for such things.”

  Brooke swiped her phone open. “What friend?”

  He gave her a quelling look. “Respectfully, I wasn’t speaking to you, Ms. Everleigh. Now, what were you asking?”

  “I was asking about the recent demotion of one of His Majesty’s closest friends . . .”

  He smirked. “I didn’t say he was a friend of Edward’s. I said he was a friend of mine. And I don’t comment on my friends. Next question.”

  “Want to see my loose tooth?” This question, of course, came from Olly, who had not gone back to the office as requested.

  “Sure.” Saint bent down, squinting into Olly’s small mouth.

  Seriously? Brooke felt herself bristle that he was being so accommodating with her son and so impossible with her.

  “Wow, that’s something, all right. Bet it’ll come out right quick.” He stood and turned to her again. “No, His Majesty would not like to comment on Ms. Burnham’s very grown-up statement that cannot be discussed in front of small ears.”

  “Would His Majesty like to comment on the statement of two Orangiersian officers who claim they witnessed Mrs. Burnham’s awakening?”

  “No, he would not.”

  “Would he like to offer any information about his whereabouts on the day in question?”

  “No.”

  “Would he be willing to participate in an interview with—”

  “Ms. Everleigh,” Saint sighed. “You’re chasing a dead end here. His Majesty is a decent man. He doesn’t . . .” He glanced down at Olly’s upturned face. “He doesn’t have any magical ability, inclination, or interest, frankly. Moreover, His Majesty is a family man. He doesn’t . . .” He glanced down at Olly again. “He is faithful to his wife. He was engaged to the grand duchess at that time.”

  “On the day in question, His Majesty had neither seen nor spoken to his fiancée in five years. Are we meant to believe that he was singularly focused on her during all that time?”

  “The . . . behavior you’re suggesting took place would not only be unseemly and inappropriate but would go against his character.” He leaned closer to her. “Off the record?”

  She nodded.

  “Off the record, why the jack—”

  “Jackrabbit,” she quickly corrected, tipping her head toward Olly.

  “Yes, sorry. Why the jackrabbit would His Majesty try to manipulate someone like that?”

  “Power. Control. Thinks he can get away with it. She saw something he didn’t want seen. Shall I go on?”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Olly asked, pushing between them.

  Brooke stuffed her annoyance. “Grown-up stuff, love. This is my work, remember? Asking hard questions?”

  He seemed to consider this. “I’m gonna go play the computer.”

  “No. No games when you’re suspended.”

  Olly’s face reddened. “What?” he shouted. “You didn’t tell me that! That’s not fair!”

  Brooke reddened, too. People around them fell silent to watch the confrontation. Great.

  Saint crossed his arms. “Oliver, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  The boy’s shoulders whipped back. “A soldier.”

  “Really?” He rubbed his chin. “Then you’ve got to learn to listen to your commanding officer. Do you know who that is?”

  He shook his head. Saint pointed at Brooke, and Olly sneered.

  “See, that attitude is no good. No man wants to go into battle with a man who can’t follow orders. You can bet that I follow my commanding officer’s orders. Every time. That’s why he depends on me, gives me good duty like this instead of scrubbing bogs.” He leaned over and his voice dropped. “But if he told me to scrub bogs, I’d do that, too, and it’d be the cleanest bog in Orangiers.” He stood up. “You learn some discipline, and you could be a good soldier someday. But right now, you’re not there.”

  Brooke’s mouth fell open. Why is he saying all this? Olly looked devastated, and a flare of motherly protection surged inside her. “Now, Captain, don’t . . .”

  Saint kept his focus on Olly. “What did your CO ask you to do?”

  “Go sit in the office,” Olly mumbled.

  “Go on, then. Quick now.”

  Olly turned and hurried down the hall. She’d tried everything lately to get him to obey . . . Was this all it took? Treating him like a soldier? She vacillated between frustration that Saint had gotten him to follow orders so quickly and shock that he’d backed her up.

  “Did you need anything else from me?” Saint acted like nothing unusual had happened. She shook her head, still stunned.

  “No, um, thank you. That’s all.”

  “Have a nice day, Ms. Everleigh.”

  As it happened, sh
e did not have a nice day. Between trying to keep Olly quiet, the stares she was getting from her other colleagues, Captain Saint’s stonewalling, and the useless morning briefing, she gave up around eleven. After lunch, she took Olly to the park and worked on her laptop for a few hours on a metal park bench. Not that there was really that much to report yet; she just needed to keep after the story, she reminded herself. No one said it was going to be easy.

  Brooke’s phone rang: it was Greta. She skipped the pleasantries.

  “I thought the story would’ve come out by now, Ms. Everleigh.”

  Though the woman couldn’t see her, Brooke nodded. “I thought so, too. But we’re still gathering information and testimonies, giving the king a chance to respond to the accusation. These things take time, I’m afraid.” Her editor, Miranda, was dragging her feet a bit, which surprised Brooke, as this paper seemed to have a nose for scandal.

  “I see.” Even in those two words, there was an edge to her voice that made Brooke frown. But when she spoke again, it was gone. “It’s just been hard waiting for all this to come out. I’m on pins and needles, just waiting. My reputation is at stake here.”

  “I understand. I’m doing all I can, Mrs. Burnham.”

  Olly came running over, red-faced, with an older black-haired boy close behind, and Brooke held up her hand for quiet. They both obeyed.

  “Just please let me know when it will be out, won’t you? I don’t want to be blindsided.”

  “Yes, I will. I can certainly do that.” They said their goodbyes, and Brooke sighed. “Thank you for waiting. Yes, love?”

  “This kid lost his dog. Can we help him look?”

  “Oh, of course. And let’s ask him his name, shall we, rather than calling him ‘this kid’?”

  She tucked her notes into her bag and tried to think of something she could microwave for dinner, provided her microwave was working; it had been temperamental lately, and she didn’t have the money to call a technician. “Where shall we start?” After forty minutes of tromping through Rogers Woods with Omar, they found Tagine sniffing around the entrance of a rabbit burrow and saw them both safely home.