SWITZERLAND

Twenty-five years ago

In the quadrangle of the exclusive Swiss boarding school to which his father had sent him, thirteen-year-old Dante endured his mother’s stroking hand and the teasing that would result if anyone saw them. He understood that she was lonely and that kept him still. He didn’t want to be at this school, but his mother had placed so much store in it that he couldn’t disappoint her when life had already dealt her such blows.

There was one other reason he had come without complaint. His father’s other son was here—Markos Petrakis, nearly a year older and the legal heir. Dante had wanted to get a look at this son whose existence meant that Dante and his mother would forever be relegated to the background, the forgotten mistress and the bastard son.

Throughout his lonely childhood, ever since he’d known of his brother, a tiny seed had sprouted, a forbidden longing to know this other son. Within Dante’s heart had grown a treacherous yearning. Perhaps his brother would love him, and then Dante could live in his father’s world.

Too bad none of that had happened. Instead, his brother had taken an instant dislike to Dante though they’d scarcely exchanged a word, and every success of Dante’s had only fueled the hatred more.

“Are you sure you’re happy here, my son?”

Happy? He stifled the honest response. He’d been happy when he could still believe that his father loved him, when he’d gathered herbs and continued to mix the potions and pastes that were part of his heritage, bastard or not. For a long time, he’d tried to live according to their shared secrets, handed down for generations. He was magos, descendent of the Star People, men who healed, who cast spells, who were charged with protection of the amulet that held the power to turn death to life. Now, however, only barely could he remember hearing the Song of the Soul Star, how it had made his heart race, sent power sizzling through him, blood and bone. He was older now and stronger, but his father’s promise had been forgotten. He would never be the Protector.

But if Dante had never found the magic elixir to conjure the family of his longings, still he had plied his skills as he could. He’d bartered plants with the old women of his village, asked incessant questions. His own reputation had grown as he performed minor cures here and there.

He couldn’t do any of that here at school, and daily he drifted further from what he and his father had once shared, the part of them that had been one heart, one mind. One proud lineage.

“Dante?”

“I’m fine, Mother.”

Her eyes turned sad. She smoothed the front of his shirt. “You’ve never really had the chance to be a child.” Her eyes glistened as tears pooled on her lashes. “I should say I’m sorry. It is my sin that created you,” she whispered, “but, God forgive me, I cannot regret anything but that you have paid such a price.” One lone tear descended, marking its passage with a slender silvery trail. “I am sorry that I never provided you with a proper father. Your own has not been fair to you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Dark eyes snapped. “It matters. He’s here today, but he hasn’t bothered to see you.”

“He is?” Hope rose in his chest. “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

His mother glanced away.

With a dull thud, hope foundered. “He does.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching. He took a step back, summoning nonchalance though his throat pinched tight. “Never mind. I don’t care.”

“I do.” Her voice rose. “He can’t—”

Then he realized who was nearing. His brother, the crown prince. His father’s only acknowledged son.

He had to get her out of here. “I’ll walk you to your car, Mother.”

“But—”

“I don’t want you on the roads after dark.”

Pleasure and pride painted her glorious features. Even if Dante had been blind, the reactions of others would tell him of his mother’s remarkable beauty. She smiled fondly and patted his cheek again. “You’re such a good son.”

One quick glance told him his brother was watching.

Dante escorted his mother to the car and endured the hugs and tears of her leaving. As he watched her drive away, the loneliness that was his constant companion edged back, but this time it was worse, knowing that for reasons he would never understand, his father was lost to him. That the years he had labored to be a son good enough to be acknowledged had all been a waste.

Despair wrapped him like a shroud. He couldn’t forget the feel of the amulet, the ancient silver alive in his hand, the sense of belonging, of connection so intimate it was bone and blood. A deep, unholy anger stirred, and suddenly Dante wanted to strike out at something, anything, to take away the bitter knowledge that his father didn’t want him. That he never would.

Within the bubbling cauldron of fury and hurt, Dante never saw his brother step into his path until he’d bumped the older boy’s shoulder.

Markos shoved him hard. Dante shoved back. A second blow from his brother knocked him to the ground. Though a year younger, Dante was nearly the same height, but there was little meat on him. It took no effort for his brother to shove him back down as he tried to rise.

“Who is she?” his brother demanded.

“Who?”

“That woman. That black-haired whore. I saw her with my father earlier.”

Dante sprang upward, ramming his head into his brother’s chest, knocking him off-balance. “Don’t you call my mother a whore!” He slugged Markos in the gut, and the older boy doubled over.

“She is,” his brother wheezed. Suddenly, his fist shot out and slammed into Dante’s chin. “You tell her to stay away from my father, do you hear me?” He struck again, and Dante went down.

But he didn’t stay. The long months of wondering what he’d done wrong, the years of watching his mother grow more bitter, the sting of knowing that Papa had been there today and hadn’t cared enough to see him—all gave him new strength. “She has as much right to see him as anyone,” he shouted, throwing blows and never realizing that his face was wet with tears. “Just because you and your mother have his name doesn’t mean anything, you hear me? You’re not everything to him,” Dante shouted, wishing he could believe that as he once had.

The older boy tripped him, then threw him to the ground. He rose to a crouch over Dante, a smear of dirt on his face and a terrible sick fury on his features. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice cracking. “What the hell are you saying?”

Dante understood then that he’d gone too far, that his brother didn’t know. He felt a moment when the earth shifted beneath him, a premonition that everything would change if he spoke another word. Visceral dread seized him. He shook his head and began to rise.

Markos put a knee in his chest to pin him. The animal cunning that often rode his face sharpened now, laced with a cruelty that was frightening. “Tell me, you little shit. Tell me or I’ll break your arm.” He grasped Dante’s arm and twisted it savagely.

Dante bit back a cry, frantically trying to figure out how to unbalance the bigger boy, but instead a slow buzzing filled his brain as his brother increased the pressure.

The crack was audible to them both.

Oddly, the pain diminished when the bone gave way. He smiled as his head grew light and fuzzy, watching his brother study him, confusion in his eyes.

Fighting to stay conscious, Dante knew the moment his brother realized the truth. With savage satisfaction, he nodded and smiled while darkness narrowed his vision to a pinpoint. He licked his lips and summoned the breath to speak.

“Hello, brother.”

With a roar, Markos grasped the shattered bone in both his fists, squeezing hard.

The last thing Dante heard was the cry he could no longer stifle…drowned out by the chilling sound of his brother’s unearthly howl.