by Tessa Dawn
Prince Dante Dragona no longer had a day to spare.
Forget asking King Demitri for permission.
Forget Asher’s birthday gala on Sunday. Celebrations could always come later.
The time to act was now.
Aguilon Jomei, high mage of Warlochia, advisor to Prince Dante Dragona of Castle Warlochia, and senior member of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, inched further out on the balcony, glaring at the moon.
For several nights now, the bright, ominous orb had cast a double shadow over the land, a portent of looming treachery. Schemes were being made, plans were being hatched, and evildoers were masking their deeds beneath the cover of darkness. But this night, there had been a triple shadow, and the stars had retreated from the sky, shrouding the land in mystical darkness.
Aguilon had awakened from a fitful sleep.
And he assumed all the other warlocks from the Council on Supreme Magic had done the same.
Their souls could not rest beneath such a dark omen.
And as for Aguilon? He was alone at Castle Warlochia with only Thomas the squire, the castle’s garrison, and the various servants to assist him. They were charged with the protection of Mistress Ahavi and Princess Gaia—yea, of the Blood Ahavi as well—while Prince Dante and Prince Dario were away. The elder dragon was searching for his son, scouring the Realm in flight, and find him or no, he intended to hole up at Castle Umbras for the night. He had news to impart to Ari, Azor, and Asher. He had matters to discuss with Mistress Mina. And the omen, the moon, and all it portended made Aguilon extremely uncomfortable.
Seeking further information from the spirit world, Aguilon lit a candle on the terrace and set it on a small table made of poplar wood in front of his black Scrying Mirror. He stooped down, stared deeply into the dark, empty screen, and called on his full breadth of power. Gradually, a dim bluish light appeared in the center of the screen, and as the light expanded outward, it began to glow, pale gold, like a lantern illuminating a scene: a shadow, a drunkard, and a warlock, gathered in the Wild Witches Tavern…
Only, it wasn’t just any warlock; it was Kristof Nocturne.
And it wasn’t just any drunkard; it was Prince Dario Dragona.
Blessed Spirit Keepers and Ancestor Warlocks!
Aguilon blinked three times and squinted at the mirror, waving his hands in a circular motion above the glowing candle to invigorate the flame: “Burn brighter, seek deeper, bring all that is shadow into the light.” The black surface of the Scrying Mirror began to crack down the center, dissecting the screen in a single vertical fissure, but not before Aguilon saw what he needed to see.
He leaped back from the screen and gasped.
He tunneled his hands through his blue-black hair and closed his amethyst eyes. “Blessed Nuri, Lord of Fire, give me wisdom.” He reopened his eyes and paced about the deck, praying, thinking…analyzing: All these years, Eliaz Griswold had kept possession of Prince Damian’s soul, and now the beleaguered, vengeful dragon was alive and dead-set on revenge!
Aguilon’s breaths came in ragged gasps.
Based on the position of the moon, as it was shown in the reflection, Prince Damian, Kristof, and Eliaz had left the tavern on horseback around two thirty in the morn, and they were planning to ride straight through to Castle Dragon. They were going to alert King Demitri. Such a journey would normally take two days, riding a solid eight hours each, but if their steeds were swift and sure, if they only rested them once or twice for no more than a half an hour, they could make the journey in seventeen hours. They could be at Castle Dragon by 7:30 P.M.
And all would be lost to Prince Dante.
All would be lost to Aguilon Jomei as well, for the king would tear the warlock to pieces, dine on his innards, and mount his head on the castle battlements.
It was forty hours, or five days’ travel, between Castle Warlochia and Castle Umbras, assuming one rode eight hours a day, and another twenty-four hours—or three days’ travel—from Castle Umbras to Castle Dragon, assuming the same. Even if Aguilon rode straight through, he would never make it in time. Yet and still, dragons had wings, and creatures with wings could fly. That was exactly how Prince Dante Dragona managed to traverse the Realm so freely.
So quickly.
An eight-hour ride at a fast-paced gallop could be reduced to a one-hour flight.
Aguilon Jomei had no other choice.
He would have to leave Mistress Cassidy and Princess Gaia in the care of Prince Dante’s regent, Thomas. And he would have to trade ten years off his advanced life in exchange for the darkest use of magic, as an offering to the Lord of Agony.
It could not be helped.
Unless he called upon the powers of the Forgotten Realm, he could not become a raven on his own, and by all that was unholy, Aguilon Jomei needed wings.
And he needed them now.
Chapter Fifteen
Castle Umbras ~ 8:30 A.M.
Mina Louvet arched her back and clenched her thighs around Dante’s waist, reveling in the feel of his powerful body: the stark masculinity, the unbridled passion, and the pure carnality.
She could never get enough.
She tunneled her hands into his thick black locks, luxuriating in the silk beneath her fingers, even as his perfect, sculpted lips sought hers. “My prince,” she groaned into his mouth, accepting the sweet, smoky offering and returning it kiss for kiss, bite for bite, each lingering swipe of their tongues becoming a fiery tangle. She pulled back and breathed into his throat. “Gods, how I’ve missed you,” she said. “Wings…give me your wings, sweet dragon.”
His dragon purred, and then he chuckled. “Sweet dragon?” he echoed. “I’ve never been called sweet before.” And then he rolled his hips in a slow, languorous wave, tantalizing her senseless before he unfurled his wings and wrapped them around her, drawing her closer beneath him. As she groaned in pleasure, he changed his rhythm—he began to thrust more urgently.
Apparently, he’d missed her too.
All at once, the room began to undulate as if assailed by a gale-force wind. The walls crackled, the doorframe popped, and the sturdy doors leading out to the terrace nearly caved in.
Three harsh knocks came against the terrace entrance, and Dante flew backward from the bed.
In the space of a heartbeat, he released his claws, extended his fangs, and coated his body with scales. Then he turned toward Mina and flicked his wrist, rotating it in a circular motion, and she soared across the room, propelled by his supernatural powers. The coverlet encased her like a shroud, shielding her naked form, as she now hovered on the floor, far behind Dante, protected by his fiery beast.
“Who’s there!” The prince dropped into a defensive posture and growled, even as smoke, tinged with red-and-gold sparks, began to lace his breath. “Speak swiftly, or burn.”
A bird squawked, the doors flew open, and an enormous black raven with amethyst eyes flew into the bedchamber and perched atop a chest, cattycorner to Dante.
The dragon sloped backward in a stealthy glide.
He cocked his head to the side and studied the raven in earnest.
“What manner of black magic is this?” he demanded. “Reveal yourself this instant, or perish.”
Mina watched in rapt fascination as the raven rose from the chest and unfurled its wings; as the wings became long, spindly arms, concealed by a robe; and the beak became a harsh, angled jaw.
And then, just like that, Aguilon Jomei, the high mage of Warlochia, stood before Prince Dante Dragona, and Mina remained safe and sequestered in the corner. The dragon prince extended his hand toward the foot of the bed and crooked his fingers, drawing his trousers into his hand, and then he quickly slipped them on. “Aguilon,” he groused, his voice betraying his impatience. “What is the meaning of this, counselor?”
The warlock labored for breath. “My lord, I came as quickly as I could. Prince Damian Dragona lives in the body of Prince Dario. His soul was resurrected, and he is
on his way to Castle Dragon to reveal the Great Deception to King Demitri.”
Prince Dante Dragona stood in the Great Hall of Castle Umbras, surrounded by his sons, Ari, Azor, and Asher, all four of them flanked by Prince Damian-Matthias, Aguilon Jomei, and Mina Louvet. As the sun streamed in from an eastern window, he clasped his fingers behind his back and cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention. “There can be no room for error,” he cautioned, his voice taking on a lethal tenor. “This day, we fight for our lives and the lives of our loved ones. We fight for the future of the Realm.”
Damian-Matthias took three strides forward and placed his hand on Dante’s shoulder, giving it a firm, implacable squeeze. “There will be no mistakes. Do not forget, the prophecy is still behind you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the three restless dragons gathered about their father, and stressed the statement with a resolute nod.
“Three legs of a triangle. Your sons are ready—our sons are ready—and I am no longer a fledgling, so easily bested. I can match Damian Dragona, skill for skill, thought for thought, every cunning maneuver and evil conspiracy. I know what he knows. I think as he thinks. I can anticipate his every move because I possess his powers, his habits, and his reasoning. And with that in mind, I will tell you this: He will not grow weary of riding and fly to Castle Dragon. Instead, he will continue to bide his time because he desires the surety and the advantage of the warlock’s magic and the shade’s shadowmancy more than he craves revenge. Damian is evil, but he is not a fool. He is calculating in his every decision. He will travel the backroads through Forest Dragon in order to remain concealed. However, do not misunderstand me: By now, he is growing extremely impatient. Thus, he will not rest, not even for five-by-fifty heartbeats, nor will he allow the shadow or the warlock to take a break or water their horses. He will run the beasts into the ground. He will ride the horses to death. And then he will simply steal three fresh mounts, while slaying all whom he encounters, including any sentries posted between one province and the next to deter the illegal slave trade.”
Prince Dante nodded thoughtfully. He palmed the hilt of his sword, noticing how the crossguard gleamed against the leather sheath. The blade was calling to his inner dragon, begging for freshly drawn blood, even as the more reasoned prince was determined to approach the crisis with cunning and deliberation. It was true—they didn’t have a second to waste. Yet and still, only fools rushed into conflict without a battle plan or a cogent strategy.
Dante unclasped his fingers from behind his back, clenched his hands into fists, and nodded—his decisions were made. “May the Bringer of Rain forgive me if I have miscalculated due to my own selfish needs,” he began, “but what I am about to say is not optional.” His voice was tinged with rough-hewn onyx and molten steel. “Injure Prince Damian if you must; inflict harm just shy of death; but if it can be helped, spare Prince Dario’s life—do not destroy the body Prince Damian inhabits. I am not yet ready to send my adopted son to the Eternal Realm of Peace in order to destroy my wicked brother, and I realize that I may be placing us all in peril with that decision. But it is as I have spoken.”
He turned his full attention to Aurelio, noticing the strain in his temple beneath the tattoo of the dragon swallowing a sword. “Ari, you are swifter in flight than your brothers—hell, you’re faster than me. You will go straight to the Warlochian village, find the blacksmith, Tybalt Browne, who has a gargoyle inside his shop named Siege, and command him to make a muzzle out of Tuvalian steel. It must be multilayered and fireproof; it must cover the mouth, the nose, and the chin; and I would like it to affix to the head and the ears. We do not want my brother—your true uncle Damian—to be capable of breathing fire, not to destroy one of us, and not to heal his injuries.” He lowered his gaze to the floor, noticing an unusually large fissure in a rough gray stone beneath him. “If it’s at all possible, we need to bleed him out, drain his heat and his essence, and hobble his ankles and wrists. We want him broken, disabled, and ineffective…not dead.”
He raised his chin and regarded Azor next. “Azor, your true uncle Damian may be one of the finest swordsmen I’ve ever met—until you. Do not discount his ability to wield both flame and blade. And for that reason, you will fly with me to head him off in Forest Dragon.” He looked askance at Damian-Matthias and raised his hands in question. “Brother, how does that work? Will he possess Dario’s skill with the blade or Damian’s? Who will wield the sword?”
Damian-Matthias declined his head in absolute certainty. “Both. Memories are stored in both spirit and body. He will be the best of both dragons.”
Prince Dante nodded. “Very well. Azor, be prepared to look into the eyes of the cousin you have grown to admire, and to regard what looks back as a lethal enemy.”
Azor absently stroked the thick braided chain leafed around his bicep, even as the large muscle flexed. “I will do all that my father and the Realm require. Rest assured.”
Dante turned his attention to Prince Asher next. “Young prince, if we hope to have a chance to take Damian down without killing him, it will take the strength of three dragons. You will fly with myself and Azor, and we will pray that Ari arrives in good time.”
Before Asher could reply, Damian-Matthias snorted, his jaw briefly locking, his eyes flashing red. “You do not wish for me to join you, then?” He sighed. “After all these years, you would still question my prowess in battle?”
Dante reached out to grasp Damian-Matthias’ arm, and the prince of Umbras jerked the limb away, taking a hasty and generous step back. “Just answer the question, Dante.”
Dante stepped toward him, instantly closing the profane distance. “Brother…” He spoke the word with reverence. “You know better than that.” He swept his gaze around the hall and ushered Mina to his side. “My Sklavos Ahavi”—he tilted his head back and forth to each side, frustrated by the inadequate terminology—“your apparent Sklavos Ahavi will still be here, alone. Would you leave the Realm’s future queen unguarded?” Before Damian-Matthias could answer, Dante pressed on. “Prince Damian had the assistance of Kristof Nocturne, one of the seven members of the Warlocks Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, a council that has sworn its fealty to me! There is no way to know if there are others involved. If Eliaz and Kristof knew about the Great Deception, how many others know? What has been set into motion?”
He shook his head adamantly. “No, brother. I leave you here for two reasons: first, to guard my greatest treasure.” He fingered a midnight lock of Mina’s silken hair, and she shivered beneath his possessive touch as well as the danger both Dante and her sons were now facing. “And second, to draw Prince Damian away from my father, the king. Should Damian prevail in our battle, should he escape us and retreat, he will shift gears and come to Castle Umbras. He will seek his body next. Had I allowed him to live, the prince would have turned one hundred and eighty years old at the end of May; he will not care to dwell long in the body of a thirty-year-old male. Where your body will come of age in just twenty years, allowing you to shift into a fully formed serpent, Dario’s will not. He still has another hundred and seventy years to go. And it matters not whose soul animates that flesh. Brother, you are the second-eldest dragon in the Realm. Not only do I trust you to intercept Prince Damian, should it come to that, but I trust you to flee to Lycania if necessary, in order to come back in twenty years and avenge us all, should we perish.”
At this, Dante lowered his voice and locked his gaze with Prince Damian-Matthias so that he appeared to stare straight through him. “Brother, should all go wrong—should King Demitri get word of our treachery or manage to best me before I can shift into my beast—do not come to our aid in battle. You may be the last living hope for this Realm. Take Mina to Prince Drake. He knows what to do—he will book passage for Mina on a ship to Lycania. Then leave this land before Father can find you, before his dragon can murder you twice. You will not rise a second time. Promise me, Matthias.” He used the true name of his half-brother’s
soul on purpose, appealing to the noble commoner’s spirit.
Damian-Matthias shut his eyes.
It was clear he didn’t like it…the plan.
But he understood, and they were running out of time.
He opened his eyes and swallowed any potential protest, his throat visibly convulsing. “Very well,” he conceded. “You have my word.”
Dante grasped Damian-Matthias’ shoulder and held it for the space of three heartbeats, silently sealing their pact, and then he turned his attention to Aguilon, the high mage of Warlochia. “Aguilon, repair your Scrying Mirror or find another. We haven’t a second to waste. Locate Prince Dario’s soul; determine if anyone else in the Realm knows what is happening; and work with Prince Damian-Matthias to find an ancient shade we can trust, then summon the male to Castle Warlochia. You, yourself, return to Warlochia as soon as possible—the Warlochian castle is closer to Forest Dragon than the castle of Umbras. I don’t care if you have to fly to get there more quickly—use the form of the raven, once again, if you must. I realize the cost is high, but we must be prepared to meet great magic and power with even greater magic and supremacy, on all potential fronts. Damian cannot have a mystical advantage. I am simply covering all contingencies, and I want you close by.”
Aguilon cringed, and Dante instinctively knew what he was thinking. Such a thing, conjuring the dark magic to shift—not once, but twice—would cost him twenty years off his already long life. Nevertheless, the warlock bowed his head in obeisance. “As you wish, my prince.”
Prince Dante angled his body toward all three sons, his voice now brooking no arguments. “The moment Aguilon divines the location of Dario’s soul—or should the fool Eliaz be carrying it with him—we will kill the shadow-walker and the warlock. I want Kristof and Eliaz dead.” He shrugged a calloused shoulder and regarded Aguilon askance. “Any shadow can swallow or exhale a soul, which is why I asked you to locate an ancient, but it is the warlock’s power that counts the most in an act of necromancy or an exorcism—am I correct?”
