Fantasy
Date Published: 12-08-2023
Without a heart, death and love are equally impossible.
James’s heart has been stolen. He knows because he got stabbed in the chest
and didn’t even bleed. On the plus side, he isn’t dead! On the minus side,
whoever has his heart can control him, and until he gets the heart back, he
is incapable of feeling love for anyone but the thief. Whoever that may
be.
He has to get the heart back, and quickly. But with an assassin in the mix,
and a vengeful ex-lover, and a suspicious fiancée, and no idea who to
trust or where to look, the task won’t be easy. Especially when, with a
stolen heart, he can’t even really trust himself.
EXCERPT
When the dance ended, James headed for the edge of the ballroom with great relief.
Genevieve grabbed at his shoulder, and it so startled him that he almost fell on top of her. She started back, embarrassed, and he said, “Sorry—I’m a little dazed.”
Too dazed. What had been in the punch? Was it more spiked than usual? But Genevieve had drunk as much as him, and she seemed fine. If it was just nerves getting to him, because of Genevieve and his engagement, how on earth would he get through the party where his engagement was announced?
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I might need some fresh air.”
“We could go out on the terrace,” Genevieve suggested.
It was a good idea. A romantic idea, and the cold air really might help. But with his head this fuzzy, James couldn’t help but think he’d end up saying something to offend her once they were alone. He shook his head. “I’ll just step into the hallway. Maybe sit in the library for a bit. Clear my head. I think I should be alone.”
“Oh. All right.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll be back. Just, for the moment… I’m sorry. Could you tell my parents where I am if they ask? They worry when I vanish on them.”
“Certainly.”
“Great. Thank you. I’m sorry.” And with this apology, James made his way out of the ballroom and into the hall. There were still people there, and his head was still buzzing. He kept walking until he found an empty corridor, in a corner near a set of stairs.
He breathed in. Breathed out.
His head wasn’t clearing in the slightest.
His parents really would be wondering where he was. He was trying to be a more responsible son. When he thought about the kinds of fights they’d been having last month, he really felt like an idiot. Rejecting a marriage with Genevieve Hunt because of some deluded infatuation, when they’d been right all along: She was the perfect woman and he was lucky to have her. He’d acted like a child throwing temper tantrums. Now he was trying to be more reliable, and running off in the middle of a party wasn’t reliable behavior, and he needed to get back there, show himself to the crowd, make more conversation with Genevieve, but his head still felt like it was full of cotton, and his chest…
His chest felt tight and empty at the same time. But that wasn’t exactly a new thing. He’d been anxious all week.
A sound in the hall behind him. He turned, readying himself to greet an acquaintance, but was brought up short by the sight of the young maid who had been staring at him in the ballroom.
She was looking at him as keenly now, if not more so.
“Do I know you?” he blurted. Which was stupid, because why would he know a maid? And he was sure he didn’t recognize her.
She shook her head solemnly. “We’ve never met before today, sir.”
“Oh.” His face heated. “Never mind, then. I just thought, perhaps…”
“But I know an old friend of yours.”
“…ah?”
She stepped closer, up into his space. “Charlotte Taylor sends her love.”
He stiffened. “Charlie? You know Charlie?” As for her love—“Listen, if she sent you, I can’t—I’ve spoken to her about this already. We’re through.”
“You’re not through, James,” the maid said. “That’s what she sent me to tell you.”
She was close enough to whisper in his ear. There was a dizzying scent of lilacs on her, and he had begun to lean away when he felt something like a punch in the ribs. He stumbled back, gasping and clutching at his chest. His hands folded around warm metal, warm from where the maid had been holding it, tucked behind her back. The handle of a knife.
The knife was sticking out of his chest.
He gasped, staring at it. But it didn’t hurt. The puncture, the stab itself, had hurt, but the wound did not. And no blood was coming out of it either.
A prop knife?
Then the maid grabbed his shoulder and yanked the knife out of him. It came out clean, not a trace of blood on it. Nor did blood well up from the wound when it left him. No red stained his shirt or jacket. Not a drop fell to dirty the recently-polished cream-tiled floor.
The maid stared at the knife, then at him, somehow even more intensely than before, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you?”
“What are you doing?” James gripped his chest, hands folded over the tear in his shirt. “You stabbed m—”
The maid’s hand clamped down on his mouth as he began to yell. She shoved him against the wall, then frowned. “You don’t have circulation.”
James screamed against her hand. He tried to push her back, but the dizziness was still there, and his arms were weak and useless.
“Sleeper hold’s a bust, then,” the maid said. “Sorry about this.”
She slammed the hilt of her knife against his head, and the world went black.
About the Author
Melody Wiklund is a writer of fantasy and occasionally romance. In her free
time, she loves knitting and watching Chinese dramas. And she’s never
summoned a spirit or an assassin… or at least so she claims.
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