PRINCE UNDER COVER
 by
 Adrianne Lee

 PROLOGUE

Martha’s Vineyard

 “Hurry, Javid,” Zahir Haji Haleem urged his twin as they raced up the
stairs to the second level of their American grandparents’s Victorian summer
house, their movements as quick and furtive as the warm, sea-scented breeze
stealing in through the open windows.
 Their destination: the attic, that forbidden refuge of irresistible
treasures--Grandfather Hayward’s stash of antique war relics, daggers,
swords, helmets, and rifles.  All were tinged with a musty scent of bygone
days, of mysterious lands, of adventurous times, their lure irresistible.
Especially after Nana Hayward, ever fussing at Grandfather about the dangers
of weapons and “boys being boys,” insisted he store “that junk” away under
lock and key.  (Grandfather had informed Nana that what she called “junk”
belonged in a museum.  She’d suggested he put them in one, but he refused to
part with even one item.  In the end, he’d stored them in the attic not only
under lock and key, but with an alarm system for protection against theft.)
 The rattle of the keys Zahir had taken from Grandfather’s desk brought
Javid up short.  He hesitated as Zahir worked the right key, disarmed the
alarm, shoved the door wide, and quickly ducked inside.
 Torn between the pull of temptation and the knowledge of wrongdoing, Javid
held back, weighing the pros and cons of disobeying Father.  He could nor
more help his prudent nature than Zahir seemed able to help his reckless
one.  His brother was forever rushing into mischief as though he didn’t
understand right from wrong, as though he hadn’t been taught the same
virtues as Javid, as though his DNA makeup were polar opposite Javid’s.
 But that was impossible.
 They were identical, their fourteen-year-old faces mirror images, down to
their pitch black hair and date brown eyes, down to their love of
competition, their need to win.
 But there were differences.
 The boys--sons of Anna Hayward, American playwright, and Salim Rizk Haleem,
Emir of Anbar, a small oil rich nation on the Arabian Gulf--had inherited
traits, good and bad, from both  parents’s diverse gene pools.
 While Javid hated incurring Father’s disapproval, Zahir, who would one day
succeed to the throne of Anbar, seemed to relish it, as though his manhood
relied on his asserting his own will, on defying authority.  Javid, younger
by five minutes, but quicker both mentally and physically, worried this
streak in his brother was more than defiance.  There had always been in his
twin something ruthless--something dark and indefinable.
 “I’ve found the case, Javid.  Come.”  There followed a click of a latch
being opened.  “Ahhh.”
 Zahir’s sigh held pleasure as thick as the velvet protecting the specially
lined case that cradled the matching daggers, and despite Javid’s struggle
with right and wrong, he was seduced into the attic by the thrill swirling
in his belly.  He hurried to Zahir’s side, shoved back a hank of unruly
raven hair and eyed the weapons, the prize of grandfather’s treasures.
Father had given them to Grandfather on the day of the twins’s birth.  One
had been forged in Anbar, the hilt shaped like the head of a king cobra, the
other forged in America, the hilt shaped like a bald eagle.  The daggers
represented the equal halves of the twins’s  heritage.  More than once, the
boys had been warned not to touch them--which made touching them ever more
tantalizing.
 Zahir fingered the solid gold hilt shaped like the head of a king cobra.
Full carat rubies served as eyes.  The twenty-two inch blades were curved at
the tip and honed to razor keen edges.
 “Careful,” Javid cautioned as his brother lifted the bald eagle-headed
dagger and presented it to him, hilt first.
 Javid gathered the handle in both hands, surprised at the heft, at the
surge of something almost electric that undulated from his grip into his
flesh, heating his veins as though the weapon possessed the potency of
lightning, as though it had imbued him with the power and strength of the
eagle.  A grin tugged at his mouth, and he lifted his gaze to meet his
brother’s.
 Zahir’s handsome face was alight with wicked pleasure, and Javid’s guilt at
touching the forbidden object dissolved in a soft chuckle.  He hoisted the
blade chest level and took an offensive stance, learned in fencing classes.
“I am Khalaf, Sheik of Imad, come to slay the Emir of Anbar and claim his
country as my own.”
 “I will see your blood ground into the sands, hyena,” Zahir spat, accepting
the challenge with a fierce arch of one ebony eyebrow.  He raised his
dagger, the curved blade glinting in the lamplight as it connected with
Javid’s.  The ensuing metallic clink echoed in the vast attic, but neither
boy feared discovery.  The adults had walked into town and would be gone for
at least an hour.
 The swordplay ensued with exuberance, the boys thrusting and parrying,
leaping and sidestepping, kicking up dust as they ducked between antique
dressers and tables, their excitement raising their voices.
 Javid laughed, danced, light on his feet.  Sweat popped across his
forehead, beneath his arms, at his groin, and he grew bolder.  Confident in
his ability to best Zahir as he always bested him in fencing class.
 They leaped and dodged and darted dangerously close several times more.
But the heavy dagger was not an epee and soon its  heft made Javid’s arms
ache from the weight.  But he would not give up.  Or in.  Not with victory
in sight.  For Zahir was also tiring.  He could see it on his face.  Tasting
triumph, he swung at Zahir as Zahir dipped toward him.  Too late, he
wrenched the blade back.  Zahir yelped, dropping his dagger and grabbing his
ear.  Curses spewed from him.
 Javid stood horror-stricken at the injury he’d inflicted on his brother, at
the blood seeping between Zahir’s fingers.  All the guilt he’d abandoned
earlier rushed at him now and the dagger slipped from his hand, clattering
to the dusty floor near his feet.  “Zahir, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean--”
 Zahir’s furious growl cut off the apology.  He lunged.  His head rammed
into Javid’s gut, punching the wind from him, knocking him off his feet.
Javid’s spine smacked the floor.  Zahir landed on him, pinning him down.
 Blood from Zahir’s wound--not to the ear, but behind it, he
realized--dripped onto Javid’s dusty, sweat-smudged tee shirt.  He started
to apologize again, but the fierce hatred emitting from his brother stilled
his tongue.
 “You did this on purpose.  Your jealousy offends me, Javid.  You must
always best me.  Humiliate me.  As though you, and not I, deserve to be the
next Emir of Anbar.”
 “No,” Javid choked.  “Accident.”  Stunned at the accusation, he tried
bucking Zahir off, but in his fury, Zahir possessed inhuman strength.
 “Well, that will never happen, brother.”  Zahir grabbed something off the
floor and scooted higher on Javid’s chest, cutting off his intake of air.
 Then Javid saw it, the eagle-headed dagger that moments before had been his
confederate.  Fear shot through him.  He wrenched against his twin’s hold.
But for once, Zahir was faster.  He sliced a small X into Javid’s chest
right over his heart.
 Javid’s breath hissed as the pain and his shock gave way to fury.  “Let me
up, Zahir!”  Blood sprang from the wound, wetting the front of his shirt.
“We’re even now, brother.”
 “Even?”  Zahir’s laugh chilled Javid.  “I don’t want to be even.  Not with
you.  Not with anyone.”
 Pure hatred shone in Zahir’s eyes, a light so clear it was as if a window
had opened on his soul.  Javid shuddered at what he saw there.  “Get off me,
Zahir.”
 “X marks the spot.”  Zahir lifted the eagle-headed dagger high, the ruby
eyes as bright as fresh blood.  He meant to thrust the blade into Javid’s
chest, right through the X he’d sliced there.
 “No!”  Javid bucked.  Twisted.  Squirmed.  He couldn’t get free.  He was
going to die.
 “Zahir!”  Their father’s voice resounded in the murky attic.  “What is this
madness?”
 “Nothing, Father.  We were playing war.  Javid lost.”  Zahir gathered
control of his expression and scrambled off Javid, his manner and voice now
contrite, humble--as though he hadn’t meant to kill his brother.
 But Javid knew.  He shoved up on his elbows, struggling to drag in a deep
breath.  His ribs felt bruised.  The cut on his chest burned.  But it was a
deeper pain that immobilized him, a wrenching sadness, a sense of great
loss, a disjoining of some vital part of himself, as though the dagger had
plunged into him and severed the blood cord between himself and his twin.
 No apology could heal the wounds inflicted this day.
 He and Zahir were no longer allies, but enemies.  From here on out, Javid
must watch his back.

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