Enchanted by Alethea Kontis Page B

raven ponytail, and even temper had been fixtures of the training ground since before Rumbold had practiced as a boy. Like Rollins and Erik, Velius had been there when Jack and Rumbold were cursed.
    In all the time Rumbold had known him, Velius hadn’t aged a day.
    As he clasped wrists with his wry, dark cousin, Rumbold realized that Velius ... hummed. Not a sound but a feeling, and one Rumbold recognized. Reflected in those deep-set indigo eyes was the same fire currently banked in Rumbold’s midsection. It was a raw lightning, vibrating at a frequency only slightly variant to the prince’s own, as if in harmony.
    Rumbold’s mind flashed back to cold ashen flagstones in the dark of the night.
Kill me. Free me.
    Velius searched Rumbold’s face. “He’d like to have a go,” the duke announced, in a voice so calm a stone could be dropped in it and never form a ripple. He released Rumbold’s hand in time for the prince to awkwardly catch the staff Erik tossed to him. He had not meant to spar today; he was still not sure why he’d showed up at all. But that burning inner beast possessed him, roaring with pleasure. He backed up a pace and nodded to Velius, suppressing a smile. He twirled the staff in his hand once, twice, testing its weight, balancing it, settling his grip.
    What was he doing?
    Don’t think.
    He must not think, or he would never be able to do whatever he was about to do. If he didn’t think, then the demon inside him would take over. Maybe it would find some peace in the exercise and let him rest. He only hoped so. This was either very smart or very stupid.
    Don’t think.
    They circled each other, step for step. Rumbold focused on Velius’s eyes, their nightshade depths. They were the blue-black of a deep bruise, bright with life and vivid with—
    Velius lunged forward, and Rumbold blocked his attack. Rumbold blocked again and then countered. Over and over their staffs met, faster and faster, the stained wood tapping out the staccato rhythm of an intricate dance. Sweat poured off the prince. His muscles screamed. The insubstantial beast raged on.
    The prince’s eyes never left the duke’s. Velius’s every movement was revealed in the brilliant darkness of his eyes. Rumbold saw further, deep into Velius’s cold heart: unused, forgotten, forsaken, as clumsy with love as Rumbold’s body would be when this fleeting fire left him. He could taste Velius’s soul, the reluctant hopelessness bitter on his tongue. And there, there at the core of him was the flame, that burning, insatiable, unnameable need that mirrored his own.
    One misstep let the duke rap his knuckles, another left Rumbold’s side open for a smack, but still they kept on. There was no time for pain. The staffs became a blur between them, coming together again and again in such succession that the noise almost became one unbroken sound, a sound that completed a harmony between them, a harmony that fell magnificently to pieces at one word.
    “Prince,” whispered Velius.
    And the spell was broken. The moment he remembered who and what he was, the magic left him. The demon fled, leaving Rumbold an unwieldy sack of bones to be swept off his feet. The prince landed hard in the dust, the duke’s staff planted rigidly on his breastbone, pinning him there like an insect under glass. Not that he could have risen otherwise; his breath, sweat, energy, sinew, even his very essence seemed to have seeped out through his skin and into the dirt. Rumbold felt the pain of his beating tenfold. The bruise on his ribs pressed into his lungs. The split skin on his knuckles was wet with blood. He felt the confused stares of the men surrounding them, unsure about congratulating the winner of this duel.
    The duke leaned over the prince with transcendental grace. Those violet eyes trapped Rumbold more readily than the staff upon his chest. “So, who is she?”
    Shock. Surprise. Words sat ready to escape Rumbold’s lips in reply, but nothing came. The