by Cara Bristol
So Marshfield still had a backbone. How interesting—and inconvenient. At this critical juncture, he couldn’t allow him to impede the plan. Perhaps Marshfield had outlived his usefulness?
Many officials and staffers—the vice president, the secretary of state, chief of staff, the press secretary—acted for and spoke on behalf of the chief executive. Nearly all matters funneled through Biggs before they went to the president. In actuality, rarely was the chief executive’s presence and approval or disapproval required for the running of the country. Given the current planetary crisis, he hadn’t been seen in person for months anyway. If a situation arose requiring a face of authority, holograms and computer-generated vid would suffice.
On the other hand, eventually the public and world leaders would expect to see a real, live president. Continued denials would seed speculation and suspicion, which would grow and spread.
Patience. He hadn’t gotten this far by making sudden, rash moves.
“I did not arrange to put her on that ship,” he replied. “She got the idea on her own.” How convenient it was when the truth could conceal a lie. Rarely could problems be solved so easily, but he’d known what Helena would do if pushed into a corner.
“What did you say to her?” Marshfield demanded.
“Nothing,” he denied. “You were in this very room when she offered to go to Draco instead of Rhianna.”
“She was bluffing!”
“Was she?” He arched his eyebrows. “The fact she is on her way to Draco indicates otherwise.”
Marshfield flinched. “She felt guilty about Rhianna.” He rubbed his jaw. “As do I. I’ll regret that decision for the rest of my life. I shouldn’t have been swayed by—I should not have been swayed.” By Biggs’ influence was what he left unsaid.
It had been a long time since the president had questioned him. “Something on your mind?”
Marshfield squared his shoulders and narrowed his gaze. In the scrutiny, Biggs saw vestiges of the man the president used to be. Powerful. Honorable in a quaint sort of way. He hadn’t admired him, but he had appreciated how his rising political career could be exploited. But certainly his constituents and peers had lauded his honesty, his fairness, his reasoned patriotism, his concern for the public welfare. They still did—although the leader who continued to capture their regard was an illusion, a straw man for someone who didn’t share any of the values they held so dear.
The truth was—and he did appreciate truth—no matter how righteous a person you were, your ethics could be compromised. A little chip here, a little chip there, and one day you weren’t so bright and shiny anymore.
Marshfield had to have had an inkling of the kind of man he’d brought into his administration. He couldn’t have succeeded in politics if he lacked astuteness. Rivals might drop out of public life, but they didn’t vanish.
“If I discover you had a hand in my daughter going to Draco, there will be consequences,” Marshfield said.
The threat added another tick mark in the pro-elimination column, although it amused him, too. “I would expect nothing less, Mr. President.” Marshfield had loyalists he could call upon for assistance, but over the years Biggs had amassed a veritable army of enforcers, some visible, most not, giving him a reach Marshfield couldn’t fathom. If he deemed someone no longer useful and needed him or her dead, it was as good as done.
* * * *
The ship arrives soon.
The priestess walked the perimeter of the temple spiraling into the inner sanctum. In woman form, she relished the press of her bare feet against smooth, cool stone. Even with its volcanic core dying, Draco remained hot, a temperature they needed in order to thrive. Dragons didn’t often experience the absence of heat. Few appreciated it when they did.
The floor warmed as she approached the Eternal Fyre. Floating in open space, the flame flared, emitting tendrils of radiance. As long as it burned, Draconians would live. Many found peace and comfort when they knelt before the collective conflagration of all Draconians; she felt the weight of responsibility, for she was accountable for the lives contained within.
Outside, guardians surrounded the temple in silent vigilance. The priestess tended the sacred fyre; they watched over her. She needed no one’s protection, however, the duty bestowed them with worth and honor, so she allowed the misconception to continue. She had no worry her falsehood of omission would emit a detectable odor. The ability to stifle the scent of her emotions was the least of her powers. She blocked them as easily as she blocked the distraction of the guardians.
The priestess knelt on marble warmed by the flame.
The former acolyte, O’ne, had loved the invigorating, sharp bite of cold, the contrast between fire and ice, the stark differences between dragon and human. Oh, how alive she’d felt! O’ne did not exist anymore, only her memories did, and they were locked away, unexamined except when circumstances dredged them to the surface.
The ship arrives soon. Excitement and grief twisted into an inseparable tangle.
Forced to abandon her infant daughter on a primitive planet eons ago, O’ne had cried a mother’s agony. Her fellow Draconian explorers had been repulsed by her half-human offspring, and as soon as the rescue ship arrived, had dragged her aboard. She hadn’t come into her powers yet, so she’d been unable to fight them. Oh, but when she did…when she’d taken her final vows…
Vengeance couldn’t replace the loss, fill the sorrow, staunch the scalding bloody tears. Had her daughter known how much she’d been loved, how much she was loved still?
She still wept. Although she cried less since Rhianna, a descendant of her daughter, had arrived as the mate of Prince K’ev.
Everyone believed the priestess omniscient. Visions came to her, but they were clouded in symbolism requiring interpretation, and she couldn’t see everything. Not until Rhianna had arrived and she had recognized the fyre in her, had she learned for certain her daughter’s fyre still existed.
But even the most powerful dragoness couldn’t reach across space and time on her own and pull her children into her embrace. She had to work through the political factions of two planets, but she vowed to do it. She would bring all her children home. One by one, if that’s what it took.
Under her directive, King K’rah had issued a request for another consort, this one for his son T’mar.
She clasped her yellow diamond pendant in her hand and stared into the sacred flame, seeking and isolating the two fyres in her vision.
Two drops of blood slid from her eye to spill upon her white gown. One tear for joy, one for sorrow.
Two more children would arrive soon. One child she would embrace; the other she would kill.
Chapter Nine
“How do you find your way around the ship? Everything is the same. You must have a great sense of direction,” Helena prattled while wrinkling her tiny nose. It was no wonder humans lacked a keen sense of smell when they had such inadequate olfactory organs. However, on her, the nose looked…appropriate. Not altogether displeasing. The honey fragrance she exuded didn’t smell that bad, either.
Her snout is very cute, the dragon said. And she smells delectable.
It is a nose, not a snout. I did not say it was very cute, only that it is not unattractive.
Very cute.
“I have an unerring sense of direction,” he replied. The ship didn’t allow her to see what he saw. In the unlikely event they got hijacked, the craft’s design would hinder invaders from reaching the bridge or engine room. Without access privileges, a person saw passage after passage of gray-green walls, unbroken by signage, doors, observation ports, or elevation tubes.
To further disorient her, he’d led her in circles—as J’toh had been instructed to do with Henry and Patsy. Until the humans had proven their trustworthiness, he would adhere to stringent security measures.
An ensign in demiforma rounded the corner. His skin was scaled, his head thorny and horned. A long ridge
d tail twitched as he strode their direction. She widened her eyes, and her mouth formed an O.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Haven’t you seen a dragon in demiforma?”
“Only on vid.”
Thorns sprouted from his forehead, his neck thickened and lengthened, growing a frill. His jaw jutted outward, giving room for his teeth to elongate and sharpen. His jumpsuit split in the back as an abbreviated tail sprang out. He stretched, relieved to be out of man form.
Helena’s jaw dropped. “Wow.”
“Draconians are omni-shapeshifters,” he explained. “Our full forms feel the most natural, but as you’ve seen, we are very large, so this compact size is less cumbersome, especially for space travel.” Comfortable at first, demiforma became a strain to maintain, and eventually one had to shift, so every craft had flex chambers.
Since the shift on Elementa, the ennui had vanished, and he felt like his normal self again. All I needed was a shift.
All we needed was our mate, the dragon said. Our dragoness.
T’mar recoiled. She is human.
She has fyre.
I see no evidence of that.
It glows like an ember.
“So, what are your expectations of me? As your consort, I mean,” she asked.
None. He had no expectations, but, still shaken by the dragon’s words, he had no ready answer for her.
We must mark her and claim her as ours.
There would be no marking. The dragon had confused his uncharacteristic liking of a human with desire.
I am not confused or mistaken! The dragon growled.
Helena shrank back. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did you growl at me?” she said.
She heard us! See, she is our mate, the dragon crowed.
“I apologize.” He had no explanation for how a human had heard the subaural vocalization, but she was not their mate.
Smell her. You will see.
I don’t need to smell her. But he found himself leaning in, sniffing. With olfaction more sensitive in demiforma, the alluring scent of female, warm and musky with an exotic tinge, drifted up to his nose, teasing, beckoning.
She smells gooood. The dragon hummed.
“Are you smelling me?” She canted her head.
“I’m a dragon; it’s what we do.” He flashed a mouthful of fangs, hoping to scare her off.
But she held her ground and stared at him. “Even in demiforma, you still have dimples!”
“What are dimples?”
She touched her face. “When you smile, your cheeks indent a little. It’s cute.”
We have dimples! She likes us! We will woo her. We will court her. Then we will mate—
“I have no expectations of you as my consort,” he answered her question, which, he hoped would put a stop to the dragon’s nonsense.
Consort no. Mate, yesss. She is delectable.
“The whole idea was King K’rah’s. Not mine.”
“Will I have any, uh, duties?” Her chin lifted and jutted out. “Political…or, uh, personal?”
“None. When we arrive on Draco, I will deposit you in the harem.”
“Harem? Harem? Like an area for women only?”
“Yes.”
“Will I get to see you?”
“For what reason? You and I will have no need for further contact with each other.” He stopped outside her quarters. “Your room is here.”
“Didn’t we pass this area once before?”
Twice before, but she shouldn’t have noticed at all. “Go inside.”
“Through the wall?”
“The entry is here.” He gestured.
Extending her arms, she inched toward the door. It slid open, though she couldn’t see it. She passed into her quarters and whirled around. An expression of surprise that could have been comical lit her face before the door slid shut; and blocked her from his view.
T’mar strode away.
* * * *
Helena rubbed her neck. The swing of emotions had been enough to give her whiplash. What the heck happened? Why did she feel she’d missed some important subtext? They had seemed to be getting along—until they weren’t. After emitting some weird, almost sexual vibe, he’d gone cold as ice.
Instead of feeling rejected, she should rejoice he intended never to bother her again. The whole conjugal specter had been one of her chief concerns. Now that she knew he had no expectations of that nature, she should feel happy. Okay, maybe not happy—nothing about this situation was good—but relieved.
She sighed and turned away from the wall—the one she’d passed through—and set her hood on a low table. Without air being pumped into the bulky, heavy hazmat suit, she’d gotten hot and sweaty. She itched to remove it, but first, she stopped to survey her quarters.
Furniture and fixtures stuck to the dull gray-green color scheme as if the Draconians had taken decorating tips from an army surplus store—but her room had all the accoutrements a guest or a hostage could desire. Well-appointed, the suite could almost be considered luxurious. A long ash-colored comfy divan-like structure faced several large chairs in a coordinating grayish green. Large gaps in the furniture backs created a picketed effect in the seating.
What an odd design. She passed her hand through a gap in one of the chairs. Oh! It’s for their tails.
She recalled the prince in his demiforma state. As a humanoid, he was model gorgeous. As a dragon, he was magnificent, fierce, powerful. In demiforma, he was a mix of both. Topaz eyes glinted with keen intelligence. His face, roughened by scales and framed by a leathery frill, still dimpled when he smiled. Who knew a dragon could have dimples? Did the beast have them? She hadn’t noticed before, but she’d be sure to check the next time he shifted.
An ache settled in her chest. If I get to see him. He intended to get rid of her when they got to Draco. What had caused the switch in his attitude? He’d even growled at her! He’d denied it, but she’d heard it loud and clear. It had startled her at first, but in reality, he didn’t scare her that much. He aroused her curiosity. The differences between them fascinated her, and she wanted to learn more about him. The more she could find out about Prince T’mar and Draco, the better she would be able to resolve the differences between dragons and humans and maybe bring peace to a threatened world.
Judging from the furniture, arranged in a cozy conversational grouping, the Draconians were social. She wished her social circle, Patsy and Henry, were with her so they could compare notes. She wondered where they’d been taken, how far away they were. Were the two of them together, or had they been split up? Had T’mar divided them so he could conquer them?
Off the room was a doorway, the first one she’d seen since boarding the ship. As she approached it, it slid back into the wall to reveal a huge bedroom, evidenced by an enormous round pedestal bed.
Her luggage was stacked against the wall. She unzipped her hazmat suit and shimmied out of it, leaving it on the bed. Perspiration had dampened her clothing underneath.
After a brief search, she discovered a bathroom. She recognized the commode—some things remained the same across the galaxy—but the “shower” resembled a death-ray tube out of a science fiction movie. The cylindrical chamber was fitted with high-tech dials, levers, and nozzles. What if it didn’t spray water? What if she turned it on and flames shot out? What if their idea of a shower was burning off impurities?
Better get some instruction before showering. I’d hate to vaporize myself.
At least she could change out of her sticky clothes. She returned to the bedroom and grabbed a trunk from the top of the stack. The wall wavered and shimmered, transforming into a wardrobe. “Well, that’s interesting.” She backed up, and the closet disappeared.
Step forward. Appear. Step back. Disappear.
How did one tell what was here and what wasn’
t? Were there doors she couldn’t see? Why were the bed and sofa visible but not the wardrobe?
She slung the case onto the bed and opened it, pulling out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and began unpacking the rest of her stuff, curious to see what Patsy had bought.
The few items she’d sneaked out of Bunker One had been chosen because they could be hidden under her regular clothing. Patsy’s outfits were more functional—the sort of items a fashionable “glamper” would wear—utilitarian and stylish, exactly what Helena would have selected. How well her friend knew her.
Their relationship had always been cordial and professional, but after Rhianna had left she and Patsy had grown much closer. The older woman had helped her out many times, having a sixth sense for what Helena needed at the moment she needed it.
She eyed the pitiful items she’d bought at Drugs & More. She didn’t need the sneakers and shirt now, but they symbolized what she was fighting for.
This is all that’s left for so many. Supplies had vanished as people stockpiled and others looted. Fear had thrown an entire civilization into survival mode. She had to find a way to bring peace between the two worlds if they were ever to have a normal life again.
But would she get a chance? Prince T’mar had indicated he intended to wash his hands of her. When they got to Draco, would she be confined or free to go where she pleased? Either way, it seemed she would be marginalized. The story of my life.
This time, she’d be relegated to a harem. Did T’mar’s mother and sisters live there? She wondered how they’d react to her. She assumed she’d be the sole human—unless Patsy went with her. She hoped they could be together. What would happen to Henry? There was so much uncertainty.
Stowing the last of her possessions in the wardrobe, she peeled off her damp clothes and donned the jeans and top then returned to the outer room to better investigate her quarters.
Remembering how the wardrobe had remained hidden until she got close to it, she walked the perimeter of the room. Nothing happened until she reached the third wall. Then a big screen materialized. She waved her hands over it and poked all around it trying to activate it, but it remained dark.
