Invasion
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Last Princess: Invasion
© 2014 by Alloy Entertainment and Galaxy Craze
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Alloy Entertainment. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), write to permission@alloyentertainment.com.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Produced by Alloy Entertainment
1700 Broadway
New York, NY 10019
www.alloyentertainment.com
First edition April 2014
Cover design by Elaine Damasco
ISBN 978-1-939106-34-6 (Nook)
ISBN 978-1-939106-35-3 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-1-939106-36-0 (iPad)
ISBN 978-1-939106-37-7 (Kobo)
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
The dogs woke me.
I sat up in bed, startled by the sound of their barking. Next to me, Wesley shifted slightly but kept sleeping, his breath slow and even, the hint of a smile on his face. I moved carefully, so as not to wake him from what must be a good dream, and tiptoed out into the hallway to check on the dogs. It was probably nothing, a mouse skittering across the snow or a branch falling in the forest. But I still wanted to be sure.
And then I saw it through the window. Footprints, unmistakable in the fresh snow.
I stepped forward, rubbing at the foggy glass with my sleeve to get a better look. A trail of footprints led from the snow-covered forest all the way here, their outlines shining in the moonlight. A gust of wind rattled the pane and I could feel the cold draft against my nightgown, but I didn’t move. I stood frozen with my hands gripping the sill, my bare feet numb on the cold stone floor, able to think of only one thing. Someone had found us. Someone had tracked us to this cottage, and stood right outside our window, looking in at us.
It had only been a year since the defeat of the evil dictator Cornelius Hollister, but it felt like a lifetime. Now my sister Mary had assumed her rightful place as queen, and thanks to her rebuilding efforts, England was on the mend. Organized crews were repairing roads and cities that had been destroyed since the Seventeen Days. Seeds were distributed and crops replanted. Children were back in schools. And through it all, Wesley and I had stayed away, living alone in this thatch-roofed cottage, deep in the forest.
I stepped back from the window, my heart racing. Faint red embers glowed in the fireplace. I held my hands near it to warm them, trying to think. Whoever those footprints belonged to wasn’t a friend. Otherwise they would have greeted us, made their presence known. But who could have found us here, in a cottage so isolated no one even knew it existed? No one, I thought, except for Portia—Wesley’s sister.
My eyes darted around the cottage—the faded roses on our sofa cushions, the hardened wax on our kitchen table, our twin pairs of boots lined up against the wall. In the bedroom, Wesley was still peacefully snoring. I considered waking him, asking him to come with me, but the snow was falling down hard now. If I didn’t move fast, I’d lose sight of those tracks for good. And if it was Portia, I wasn’t sure I wanted Wesley with me when I found her.
I felt a fear that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Wesley and I were happy here, living simply in this cottage that once belonged to his mother. After everything that had happened to me, to my family, all I wanted was to lead a quiet life with the boy I loved, to forget the responsibilities that came with being royal.
But someone had found us. And until I knew who it was, this life—this fragile peace—was at risk.
Two hunting rifles leaned against the wall next to the front door. I quickly slid into my coat, pulled on my riding boots, and took a rifle, checking that it was loaded before stepping outside into the cold. I blew a kiss to Wesley over my shoulder and then, with a deep breath, shut the door behind me.
My breath formed small clouds in the air, and my face and hands stung from the cold. I followed the tracks into the forest, keeping a tight hold on the rifle. The snow was coming up to my calves now, and fresh powder continued to fall. At the tree line, I paused to look back. My tracks were already almost invisible.
I was wrong; I couldn’t do this alone. I turned and headed into the stables.
“Caligula,” I whispered, stroking her nose softly. It was funny to remember that once upon a time, I had been afraid of Caligula. She was one of Cornelius Hollister’s warhorses: a full head taller than any normal horse, and bred for aggression. The first time I rode her, it almost killed me. But I survived, and slowly, she learned to trust me.
My fingers stiff with cold, I untied the dark green wool blanket that was covering her and slid the saddle onto her back. “We need to go for a ride,” I murmured. She tossed her head as if in agreement, following me obediently outside and standing still as I climbed on her back.
We followed the footprints deep into the woods. It was eerily quiet here, the vast snowdrifts absorbing every sound, so that I couldn’t even hear Caligula’s bridle jingling. The falling snow made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, so I kept my eyes down, following the footprints. They were getting fainter. I nudged Caligula forward, afraid we’d lose the trail before we figured out where it led.
But then Caligula stepped into a clearing, and my stomach clenched in a violent combination of shock and horror.
In the center was a deer carcass—but unlike anything I’d ever seen. Only its head and skeleton remained, its round brown eyes wide with terror. Its bones had been stripped completely clean, and its antlers sawed off at the base of the head. For several feet surrounding it, the snow was stained a deep red, soaked with blood. And in the middle of the deer’s neck was a weapon I’d never even dreamed of. Some kind of giant fishhook, gruesomely piercing the flesh.
This wasn’t Portia’s work. Whoever it was, it was someone else—someone infinitely more frightening.
Caligula whinnied and retreated a few steps, clearly spooked by the sight. But I could see the boot tracks continuing on the far side of the clearing, and I didn’t want to turn back, not yet. “Come on, girl,” I said, giving her a swift kick. Caligula reared up in protest and took off into the woods at a gallop.
I leaned forward, pressing myself low to her back, weaving my fingers into her mane. The snow whipped angrily at my hair. I tried to curl my toes inside my boots, but I couldn’t feel them anymore.
If Wesley knew I was out here,
chasing footprints in the middle of a snowstorm, he’d be furious—but it was for Wesley’s sake that I had to come. I couldn’t turn back now. So I did the only thing I could. I closed my eyes against the stinging wind, trusting Caligula to follow the footprints—after her years in Hollister’s stables, she was a better tracker than most hunting dogs. I didn’t open my eyes again until I heard the ocean.
We had run all the way to the coast.
Since the Seventeen Days—that terrible time ten years ago, when the world was battered by natural disasters until the sky turned black as ash and the sun itself began falling apart—the coastal villages had been living off the grid. Mary had done her best during the past year to restore electricity, but laying new power lines was not easy, and her efforts hadn’t reached this far. The biggest problem was still the lack of oil. Without it, England was struggling to figure out how to run cars, farm equipment, fishing boats. Without it, whole villages were unable to function.
Caligula had led me to one of the many abandoned fishing villages dotting this stretch of coast. Covered in snow and ice, it looked more like a cemetery than a place where people had once lived. In the storm, the waves were gray and angry, rising to a full twelve feet before crashing loudly on the shore.
I climbed down from Caligula’s saddle and took a step forward. The boot tracks ended at the water’s edge; I could see them up until where the icy waves had washed them away. The wind blew water into my face, so cold that each drop felt like a tiny shard of glass.
Shielding my eyes with my hands, I stared out at the horizon. The gray sky, roiling with the snowstorm, met the gray line of the ocean far out in the distance. But just there, fading into the horizon line, I saw a ship.
The heavy snow obscured my vision, but I knew what I was seeing. It was an enormous ship. A tanker.
I ran unthinkingly into the water to try to get a closer look, going in all the way to my waist before the undertow almost sucked me beneath the waves. I struggled to find my footing, shivering uncontrollably, and looked back out—but the ship seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
It was gone.
The snow continued to fall, flakes landing on the surface of the frigid water and melting in a swirl of white. I stood there for a few minutes, maybe more. I could still see the vast shape of that tanker on the insides of my eyelids when I closed my eyes. Those heavy boot tracks. The giant fishhook in the scavenged deer carcass.
Wesley and I were no longer alone. And neither was England.
2
I collapsed onto the doorstep of our cottage, half-frozen. Caligula had found our way home while I sat shivering and numb—with cold and fear—in the saddle.
Wesley opened the door and caught me as I stumbled forward. “Eliza!” he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of anger and relief. “Where have you been?” He pulled me into his arms and carried me inside, kicking the door closed behind him.
My entire body ached. But I relaxed into the feel of Wesley’s arms, his familiar and comforting embrace. He settled me gently on the couch, then pulled my boots off and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Only after he’d added more wood to the fire and poured me a cup of hot tea did he finally repeat his question. “Eliza,” he said carefully, “where were you?”
I curled my hands around the mug of tea, trying to get warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. “Footprints,” I managed, my teeth chattering. “Outside.”
“Footprints?” Wesley’s handsome face immediately grew serious. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
I set my teacup down and tried to rub my hands together. It hurt to bend my fingers, but I knew that pain was good, much better than the numbness I’d felt the entire ride back. “I don’t know. I guess I was hoping it was nothing.”
“Was it nothing?” Wesley asked, his green eyes flickering with concern.
I shook my head and explained about the tracks and the deer carcass with the hook in its neck. Then I told him about the ship.
“It was there one minute and gone the next,” I said. “But I know what I saw. Someone is out there, and they found us. They came all the way to our cottage.”
Wesley didn’t seem to hear the worry in my tone. His face was lit up with excitement. “You know what this means, Eliza?” He grabbed my hands, unable to stop grinning. “There are other survivors! England isn’t alone in the world! After all this time …”
The fire cast red and yellow shadows across the room as his words echoed around the cabin. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t share Wesley’s enthusiasm. I kept thinking about that hook in the deer’s neck, the pool of blood. The way Caligula had backed up, as if it was something unnatural, not a normal carcass.
“We have to tell Mary right away,” Wesley said, his voice thick with emotion. “The general should send out a search party, set off some flares. We should be fueling every ship we’ve got left in our fleet.”
His eyes glimmered with excitement, and for the first time in a year, he looked like Sergeant Wesley—the boy I met in Hollister’s camp, who turned out not to be an enemy at all. The boy who stood up to his evil father and helped defeat the New Guard.
“Wesley,” I said softly, “I don’t know. What if these survivors aren’t friendly? You didn’t see the hook in that deer’s neck. And what they did to its body. It was barbaric.”
“They were hunting,” Wesley said, lacing his fingers through mine. “Whoever they are, they must be starving. Who knows how long they’ve been at sea? That fisherman’s hook was probably the only weapon they had. They’re lucky they were able to kill a deer with it at all.”
He glanced out the window, as if he were contemplating heading out to the water right now to search for these foreigners. A light snow was still falling, but he stared straight through it.
“We’ll tell Mary tomorrow,” I said, squeezing his hand. “When we go for the wedding. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”
We were headed to the palace to prepare for Mary’s wedding. At long last, after loving him in secret for years, Mary was finally going to marry Eoghan—the queen marrying the palace stable master. It was still unbelievable to me, and romantic in a way I thought only existed in storybooks.
I thought of Mary and Eoghan, who were so happy to finally be together, and I hoped this news about the ship wouldn’t delay things for them. If there really were other survivors of the Seventeen Days, it would be the biggest news the country had received in the last ten years. But this was bigger than me, bigger than Mary, and there was no going back.
Wesley pushed aside a dark blond curl that had fallen across his forehead, excitement shining undimmed in his eyes. And for the first time since we’d moved into our little cottage, I wondered if the safety and security it provided may have struck Wesley as too safe and secure. He had been a man of action, a fighter. Had he given that all up just for me?
“You’re right,” he said, standing up and pouring me a fresh cup of tea. “We’ll tell Mary tomorrow. Now get some sleep. Because once we get to London, once we tell them this news”—he leaned over and kissed my forehead—“nothing will be the same.”
3
When I woke, a yellow haze of snowy sunshine crept around the edges of our curtains. My head felt groggy and my body heavy. The dreams I’d had were still running through my mind, pieces of them sticking to me like shards of glass. Ships on the sea, tracks in the snow, the bloody hook in the deer’s neck. And the other nightmares, the ones I’d been fighting for months, but always as frightening as the first time I’d had them. My father, dead on the ballroom floor at the Roses Ball. The bloodthirsty cries of Hollister’s soldiers at Death Night, cheering as they watched the murder of captured enemies. Wesley, standing with his father on the roof of the Tower of London, his gaze full of pain. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to block out the screams.
But I was the one screaming.
“Eliza!” Wesley was saying, pulling me into his arms. “Eliza, it’s okay. It’s just a bad dream.”
I stood there watching Wesley, reassured by the simple sounds of pots and spoons clanging together, butter sizzling on the skillet. My stomach growled, and he turned to me with concern. “You must be starving, after everything that happened last night. Here.” He handed me a plate heaped high with scrambled eggs and toast.
“You look ready to go,” I said, between mouthfuls. He was already dressed in boots and a jacket, the horses saddled out front.
“I’ve been up since dawn.” He smiled ruefully.
Half an hour later we were on the road, following the highway south to central London. The concrete highway was still buckled from the earthquakes of the Seventeen Days, so we tried to ride alongside it wherever we could, to protect the horses from tripping or losing a shoe. We didn’t pass any other travelers. Still, Wesley carried a rifle strapped to his back, and we each had a pistol in our pockets. Though Mary had done her best to protect the highways from the dangerous bandits known as Roamers, it never hurt to take extra precautions.
By the time we arrived at Buckingham Palace, the sun had set, casting long shadows across the city streets. Our clothes clung to our skin, damp and cold. My fingers beneath my heavy gloves were numb. We cantered up the wide avenue of the Palace Mall, past the statue of the golden horse that had been destroyed in the war and then pieced back together, the cracks in its bronze still showing in places. Like the entire country, it might not be whole again for many years.
As we approached, the iron gates encircling the palace swung open. I noticed that barbed wire was looped around the top. What had happened to prompt that? I wondered.