The Rebel King

No talking now. His world consisted of watching her breaths: in, take the mask and breathe, back to her, and count the seconds. Glass smashed in the room next door. The fire was in the back walls, and the window had burst. The monster was about to hit.

A whoosh of clean air filled the room. The door burst into glowing sparks as the fire leaped in to meet the oxygen. A voice screamed, ‘Give her to me!’

Thank you, God! Charlie leaped for the bed where the window was. ‘Take her!’

The bed sagged sideways as the floor collapsed under his weight. He passed the child over as the heat at his back seared him. The hairs on his neck withered and his skin was melting—he could actually smell his flesh cooking.

‘Jump, mate!’

He could barely move; the heat, pain and lack of air had left him in a stupor. One hand gripped the window sash; the other made it. Good. I can do this.One knee up…

The bed lurched back into the maw where the floor had been moments before. His body jerked back, but his desperate fingers held on. ‘Help,’ he whispered as his hands lost strength and smoke filled his lungs, his nose and throat, his eyes…

Hands came out of the cloudy darkness, lifting him through the window into a safety harness to lower him to the ground. ‘We’ve got you.’ It was Leopard. ‘You saved her, Charlie. The little girl’s going to make it, and so are you.’

Charlie coughed and coughed; the fresh air hurt, because the hairs lining his airways were gone or damaged. ‘Toby?’

‘He’s okay, he saved the boy. We’ve done all we can. Let’s go!’

He knew by what the captain hadn’t said that someone was dead.

Oh, dear God…those poor kids had lost their mother.

As he was winched to safety, he felt the flashes and glare of media cameras turned on him. He heard the words ‘hero’ and ‘saving the lives of a family’, but he couldn’t answer questions or accept praise for doing his duty. He fell to his knees, coughed until he choked, then threw up: the body’s instinctive way of clearing foreign objects.

The paramedics had him on a stretcher within two minutes, and he was on his way to hospital. He slipped into unconsciousness, knowing the ‘what ifs would haunt him until he died. Maybe he’d done all he could, but a woman had died today; two kids had lost their mummy before they’d been able to have memories of her—and, in his book, that meant that all he’d done hadn’t been enough.

CHAPTER ONE

Sydney, three months later

‘I’M THE grand what of where?’ Charlie grinned at the grave solicitor in the panelled oak office in the heart of Sydney. ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one, Jack. Now, why are we really here?’

His sister’s hand crept into his and held tight. ‘I think he’s serious, Charlie.’

At the fear smothered beneath the shock in Lia’s voice, Charlie’s protective instincts roared up. Lia was pale; he could feel the tremors running through her.

He couldn’t blame her. If this was on the level, this news could destroy his sister. After all these years of progress, she could slide back to anorexic behaviour to cope with the stress of what this stranger was telling them.

No way would he risk that. ‘Come on, Mr Damianakis. Tell us why we’re here. You’re scaring my sister.’

The lawyer smiled at Lia in apology, but his words didn’t give Charlie any relief. ‘I’m aware this must be a massive shock for you both. It was a surprise to us, too. The consulate contacted us after the story of your rescue of the children in the house fire.’ Now the apologetic look was aimed at Charlie. ‘They’d sent photos of your grandparents to every consulate around the world. You really are the image of your grandfather. The photo of you getting the medal for bravery led to an investigation which showed your grandfather’s entry papers into Australia weren’t on the level. The Greek records showed that the real Kyriacou Charles Konstantinos, who shared your grandfather’s birth date, died in Cyprus in the second year of the Second World War, eight months before your grandfather arrived in Sydney in 1941 using the same certificate.’

‘That doesn’t prove anything but that Papou was an illegal alien,’ Charlie argued. It was something he’d always suspected. Papou had always worked for himself, and worked for cash whenever he could.

Charlie frowned, realizing for the first time that Papou had built and paid for the house and everything in it with cash—a man who’d claimed to be the son of a humble bricklayer, and who had only ever worked as a carpenter. Where had the money come from?

‘No, in itself it proves nothing—but it was a start.’ Mr Damianakis shifted again in his seat, reacting to Charlie and Lia’s obvious discomfort with the situation. ‘Your father’s name is the Marandis family name—Athanasius, like your great-grandfather, the twelfth Grand Duke. Your grandfather’s medical records showed some family anomalies, such as the crooked little finger on the right hand, and the AB-negative blood type, which is usual in the male Hellenican line, but rare among Cypriots, and is not at all in the Konstantinos family.’

Lia’s grip tightened on Charlie’s hand, and he could think of nothing to say to comfort her. Damn, he wished Toby was here!

‘And your grandmother’s Italian heritage clinched it. When we contacted her family in Milan, got pictures of her at a young age and saw her resemblance to you, Miss Costa, we knew we had the right people.’

Charlie rubbed the healing skin on his neck, where the heat of the fire had gone right through the flame-retardant suit to melt the flesh. The fallout from that fire had done more damage than even he had anticipated. The media had followed him for days, trying to make him a hero. They’d followed him and Toby as they’d visited the kids in hospital, and had awkwardly tried to console the grieving father who’d lost his wife. If he hadn’t been instructed by the service to do it, for the sake of donations and good political mileage…

Damn the entire brigade! Those kids had lost their mother because he hadn’t been able to save her. If it weren’t for the press turning him into something he wasn’t, he’d still be living in happy obscurity.

Whatever happened now, he had a feeling that much was at an end.

Charlie jerked to his feet, bringing Lia with him. ‘This has to be a joke. You have thirty seconds to tell us why we’re really here before we walk out the door.’

‘I am one hundred percent on the level, sir.’ Mr Damianakis handed Charlie a document and a photograph. ‘Here’s the late Grand Duke’s birth certificate, and his photo taken when he came of age, sir.’

Charlie looked down, fighting a spurt of irritation. No one had ever called him ‘sir’ in his life, and never like he was a grand ‘what’ of where.

It was a young Papou in the photo, no doubt of it; Charlie saw the likeness. He’d always been the image of his grandfather. His Papou, who’d always hated war and had only fought over the backgammon table, was dressed in full military getup, covered in ribbons and medals, and the legend said:

1939. The 18-year-old Marquis of Junoar at hisgraduation from the Hellenican MilitaryAcademy, with his parents the Grand Duke andDuchess of Malascos.

The birth certificate gave no reprieve: KyriacouCharles Marandis, son of His Grace, Athanasius,The Grand Duke of Malascos, and Grand DuchessHelena Marandis, née Lady Helena Doughtry,daughter of the Earl of…

The words blurred in front of him as his head began spinning. The birth date was right; the face was exact. And he couldn’t deny the name— Kyriacou Charles. It was his name as well as his paternal grandfather’s name, in the old tradition, just as Lia was Giulia Maria, named for their grandmother, their beloved Yiayia.

If all this rigmarole was true, their shy, retiring Yiayia had been a count’s granddaughter, an untitled royal nanny for whom Papou had given up his position to run off and marry, if Mr Damianakis could be believed.

He was descended from dukes and earls? He was a lost heir?

‘So when do the man in the iron mask and the three musketeers show up?’ he asked, with a world of irony in his voice.

The lawyer gave him a wry smile in return. ‘It must seem unbelievable: the runaway duke, the lost prince and princess—a massive fortune.’

Lia had read the words on the photo over Charlie’s shoulder and stammered, ‘It can’t be Papou. You have the wrong people. Our last name is Costa. We’re Greek.’

‘Your grandfather took the surname and nationality he was given by the man who created his false identity, and changed Konstantinos to the simpler version—Costa,’ Mr Damianakis said gravely. ‘Probably to avoid media scrutiny and being followed around the world. But there is no doubt. He became the Grand Duke of Malascos at his father’s death, and you became the Marquis of Junoar when your father died. Due to the tragedies in the nation in the past decade, you are no longer merely the Marquis of Junoar or Grand Duke of Malascos.’

Merely? Charlie heard his mind shout in disbelief.

‘But by Hellenican law, as the last male in the direct line, you are Crown Prince, heir to the throne. And you—’ he smiled at Lia ‘—are Her Highness Giulia Marandis, Princess Royal of Hellenia. Your great-grandfather left a massive private fortune to his lost descendants, totalling over five hundred million euros in land, gold and in bank accounts. I think he wanted his son to know he’d forgiven him.’ He rushed around to Lia, who’d turned alarmingly pale. ‘Please sit, my lady.’

Lia released Charlie’s hand and fell into the chair, her breathing erratic. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, her voice horrified.

The room swung around Charlie in slow ovals: around and up and down, like he was in a crazy ride he couldn’t get off. But he was a fireman, damn it, and he didn’t fall down under shock. He strode to the window, saw the limousine with diplomatic flags on it, and clenched his fists. The fairy story he wanted to laugh at was crystallising into horrifying reality. ‘You said the king and my great-grandfather disinherited Papou when he married Yiayia. So what do they want with us?’

‘When your grandfather was disinherited, he was ninth in line to the throne, but there were another twenty direct members of the Marandis family to inherit,’ Mr Damianakis said, in the tone of respectful gravity that killed Charlie’s urge to laugh this all off. ‘The past thirty years has been a tragic time in Hellenia. An attempted coup killed several members of your family. Twelve years ago rebel forces created civil war on behalf of the heir of a man in direct rivalry to the throne, named Orakis, in an attempt to reclaim it. The war lasted a decade. Thousands died, towns and villages were destroyed.’

Good God, now he’d gone from romantic legend to an item on the news networks. ‘So if this Orakis guy wants the throne so much, let him have it,’ he snapped. ‘Then nobody else has to die.’

‘Charlie,’ Lia said in gentle rebuke. ‘This isn’t Mr Damianakis’ fault.’