Chapter One
Leaves beat against him with a continual "thwack" as he tears through the forest; the hoard of his enemy are mere yards behind him. He can hear every foot fall, every breath. His speed is the only thing keeping their weapons in their holsters. Feet flying over dips and gullies, nimble and quick, in the hope of avoiding a misstep, a fall, which would mean certain capture.
Around each large tree trunk, he turns marginally. The constant change in trajectory should be enough to make the larger group slow, even by a second or two. Ducking under a decaying log leaning across his path, he catches sight of an insanely steep path littered with jagged rocks and leading down to the river in the distance. He pops up from under the log, altering his course unexpectedly to get a better view of the body of water. The soldiers behind him shout what he can only assume are obscenities in response.
If he can reach the river, he might have a chance to escape them. He knows that it must be the small tributary of the mighty Danube that he noted on his rudimentary map because he's been running for miles and this is the only water that he has spotted. Following it would eventually lead him out of the dangerous land surrounding Bucharest. He could meet up with his men if only he could get these attack dogs off his tail.
He approaches the edge of the path, looking down at the impossible angle. The angry mob is falling behind because they are wearing heavy packs full of clothes, provisions, ammunition, and clanking metal cups. Hopefully, they will choose to keep their possessions safe rather than continue the arduous chase after one lone enemy combatant. He sighs as he looks at the precipice again. It might be deadly, but it is his best chance.
"Castiel!" Michael bellows from the entrance to the hall.
From his position on the plush chaise lounge, Castiel lets out a beleaguered sigh but barely casts his eyes up over the top of his book of John Wilmot's erotic poems. He says a hopeless prayer that Michael will somehow not see him and find another target for his ire.
The gods are not on his side, as usual. His uptight prick of an older brother sees him and storms over for his unwelcome audience.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"No."
"No?"
"That is the word that came out of my mouth, is it not?"
Michael looks positively apoplectic. It's far too easy to get under his sibling's skin, and Castiel should feel ashamed for such adolescent behavior. He's not.
He lets the book drop marginally and squints his eyes. "Is there a reason for the question or did you confuse me for the mantle clock?"
Michael scowls and relays with bite, "Alexander was expecting you in the parlor at 11 a.m. sharp. You were meant to attend the Marquess Massilian-la-Calmette with him."
"Who?"
"The Marquess Massilian-la-Calmette."
"Poor dear. That is quite a mouthful." Castiel picks a grape from the bunch on the tray at his elbow and pops it in his mouth with a smirk.
"Castiel, Alexander does not speak French, and she does not speak Romanian. You knew the woman was visiting this morning. He is beside himself trying to communicate with her."
He studies his brother for a moment. "Why would he invite her here if he can't speak to her?"
"You were meant to be the interpreter."
"Why doesn't he speak French?" He leans forward conspiratorially. "Is it a prejudice, do you think?"
"I don't know, Castiel. Which one of you was sent away to Paris to study for a year?" His brother is fed up enough to use sarcasm. That's his subtle cue to dial it back a little.
"Point taken," he concedes graciously. He is making a valiant attempt to keep the smile from his face. He already told Alex that he did not want to court the woman, or any other noble, for that matter. He is fourth in line for the throne, so he is hardly a catch for the politically-aspiring aristocracy across Europe. His brother never listens, so he refuses to make this newest obsession easy for him.
"She is here for you, you...libertine!"
Castiel loses the battle and lets his grin appear. "Oh, well. That is easily sorted. I don't want her. Send her away."
Michael deflates like a bladder. "Do you really want to deal with the fallout if you do not make an appearance?" Castiel can picture his brother's unholy tantrum at being made to look foolish in front of his advisers and foreign dignitaries. Even though it would absolutely serve him right, Castiel decidedly does not want to deal with the repercussions.
With a roll of his eyes, Castiel sets the book aside and stands. "I suppose I shall have to wait to find out what happens in St. James Park then." Michael wrinkles his nose.
"A man of your breeding and education should not sully himself with that trash."
"You're right. I should just go out and experience the orgies and debauchery for myself instead of reading about it. Oh wait, I already have!"
The disgust on his brother's face is priceless. Castiel laughs on his way to the parlor. It really is just too easy.
Dean was forced to drop his own pack ages ago, his too visible red coat being the first thing he discarded. Whoever decided to put Her Majesty's soldiers in blazing red and send them into the verdant green forests of Eastern Europe should have their heads removed from their shoulders for their lack of sense. The color looks magnificent and bold in a parade, but gets men killed in the field.
Even as he moves swiftly, Dean is thinking ahead, plotting out his next moves. He is a capable swimmer, but the water would be frigid. He wouldn't be able to stay in the river for long. He glances up to the sky to note that it is already well into the afternoon. There wouldn't be much daylight left to offer warmth or help him dry out. He would have to find shelter quickly, and a fire would not be possible. He clenches his jaw at the thought of his future discomfort. He hates being cold, especially when combined with water. Death's icy fingers that sink bone deep and won't be soothed. He has escaped their clutches too many times already in his short life. He knows he is on borrowed time.
He leaps down from the top of the rocky ledge to a small outcropping about ten feet lower. Immediately, he can hear the shouts and curses of the men following him. He can't understand their language, but he knows that they are at odds with each other over how to proceed. Some of the less driven soldiers are no doubt trying to convince the others to write him off as a loss. His foot slips on a particularly mossy rock, forcing him to grip tighter to the root he is holding or fall. A quick glance down informs him that it is not a fall he would survive. Adrenaline jangles his nerves a bit, forcing his breath to quicken, but he is still in control and thinking clearly.
He chances a glance to confirm that his pursuers are still, well, pursuing. They are, but slowly. He grins. This could enlarge his lead. They don't look nearly as deft and agile as he is in this terrain. Years of training in the wildest corners of the planet have honed his body into a war machine. His strength is unsurpassed, his survival and fighting skills highly coveted, and his tactical mind the best in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. He has earned his place of leadership, despite his young age.
Being on the run like this is exasperating to Dean. His pride sticks in the back of throat like a burr. He is too good to be caught out like this. He has spent days hiding in plain sight; his enemy never knowing that he was sometimes just a few feet away. If he had just let the kid stay in the tree, he laments as he grabs a handhold and lets his body swing down beneath the ledge.
The youngest member of their platoon might not have been seen. The soldiers might have run past him without looking up. But even as he is berating himself, he knows it to be a falsehood. The young soldier is so green that he would have given himself away. He would have made a sound, he would have been seen, and he would have been captured. Even if the idiot put himself in the worst possible place to avoid capture, Dean couldn't have left him there dangling like bait. So, instead of maintaining his perfect cover, he went out into the open to help the kid out. Unfortunately, the Wallachian soldiers picked that moment to come around the bend.
One of those soldiers currently above him hurls a rock down at him along with a feisty curse. Both hit him square in the head, effectively ending his ruminations. Dean can't stop his downward momentum, jumping down to grab the next jutting rock, even though he can feel blood dripping down his forehead. He ignores the laughter from above. They are losing focus, taking this chase too personally. That is why he will win, he thinks smugly. The blood settles on the slope of his nose until he is forced to look down to see his next jump. Stinging pain blinds him.
"Shit," he curses and shakes his head furiously to clear his vision of the dripping blood. Bad move, he thinks as his head begins to protest its rough treatment by the rock. He can't chance removing a hand from where he hangs to wipe the blood away until he finds his next move and plants his feet on something solid. He can't stop and let the dizziness clear. He opts to push through the pain and keep his eye closed.
His next few steps are taken more carefully than he can afford, but his depth perception is off, and he is still maintaining a good distance between them. It's a good compromise for now. Until, of course, one of the more industrious soldiers stops his descent and aims his weapon. Thankfully, being industrious isn't synonymous with being a good shot, so the musket ball hits a few inches below his head. The rock shards explode outward, and a few catch his cheek, ripping the skin there. For truly the first time in this chase, Dean feels that escape is not certain.
Instinctively, he moves faster, takes a few more calculated risks. Finally, his feet land at the bottom of the steep cliff. He can see the river. It is within reach. He can taste his freedom. Then, the sound of thunder cracking through the crevasse causes his shoulders to tighten. There isn't a cloud in the sky. He sees another ball explode next to his left leg. Too close. He slows, debating the likelihood of escape now that there aren't trees to provide cover.
No. He will not surrender, even if capture is imminent. He will fight to the very end, just like he has been training to do since childhood. He speeds toward the riverbank, seeing that the current is swifter than he anticipated. It is ripping around the scattered rocks, causing it to foam up white. Damn, this is going to hurt. Dean braces himself as he dives in. No amount of preparation could have lessened the shock to his body.
"Fuck, fuck, cold, shit" he hisses when he surfaces. He kicks a foot out to stop himself from slamming into a rock, which flips him around backwards. There are only two upsides to this horrid situation. The first is that the current takes over and allows him to not expend any energy swimming, and the second is that the soldiers are standing on the riverbank, no longer in pursuit.
Dean lets out a boisterous laugh of victory. He still might die of exposure, but at least he escaped a nasty imprisonment. How could he have possibly explained why they are spying on their allies? Wallachia is part of the Ottoman Empire, England's ally in the war against Russia. However, the area is in constant turmoil and has been for centuries. The small country gets passed around from empire to empire like a dockside whore. There have been too many rumors about information, supplies, and soldiers ending up in Russia for England to trust their weak alliance. That is where Dean's squad comes in. Their mission was to find out what they could about the true allegiance of the crown prince. They are on a reconnaissance mission and getting caught would have caused a spectacular political nightmare.
Dean spins back around to avoid any errant rocks in his path. He floats there, not peacefully exactly because tremors are starting to wrack his body, taking a moment to rest. He should have known that the capricious fates were not through with him yet. Around the bend in the river, he sees several men standing along the bank and a line of them linked arm in arm across the river. Some have muskets raised, a couple hold fishing nets, still others stand braced against the rocks in the water, making an impossible barrier. All of them are wearing open hatred and violence on their faces.
Dean turns to make a last stand, valiantly pulling against the current, even knowing that it an inevitable waste of energy. Too soon, he is grabbed, pulled, and dragged towards the shore by innumerable hands. The cacophony of yelling around him overpowers the rush of water. When he looks up to see his captors, there are too many to count. They are all crowding in around him, so he can't keep sight of them all. He is almost glad that he doesn't see the blow from the butt of the musket coming, so the darkness can take him by surprise.