Huntress: A Paranormal Romance

by Alexandra Christian

  “No, no, my lady,” he started, rushing forward and taking her wrist gently to help her up. “You bow to no one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why should you?” he said. Giving an exaggerated bow, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it gently. She smiled at the ticklish feel of his whiskers against her skin. “For you are the savior of us all.”

  “A savior? Whatever do you mean?”

  He chuckled and led her to the edge of the bed and gestured that she should sit. “Of course. You have been given the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a commoner of Osghast. To save the people from the wrath of this pestilence!”

  Thalia gazed at the prince. “I would hardly call a dragon pestilence, sire,” she scoffed. “They are mindless creatures that care only for consuming death—ash and decay. Hire a dragonslayer and be done with it.”

  “Do you not think that we have tried that, my dear? Slayers from all corners of the continent have come to our aid. All of them have taken our money and brought back nothing but scales fashioned from silk and glass. Or they haven’t come back at all. My father, King Christophe, believes as you do. That this is a mere animal that is just passing through and will soon move on with his food source.”

  “But you don’t believe that?”

  “Of course not. This beast is clever. And seems to be bent on some kind of revenge against our royal house. He’s attacked up and down the border towns, each time coming closer to Thane.”

  “You think he’s stalking the capital?” Thalia couldn’t stop herself from laughing, but Tristan’s expression was grave.

  “I know he is. You see, he has other motives. This dragon seems to think he has some kind of claim on these lands, and he will stop at nothing to regain what he feels is his birthright.”

  Thalia’s jaw tensed. “You think he’s a Dragon Lord.”

  “It’s the only explanation.”

  “But no one has seen one in a thousand years. Dragon Lords are Fae shapeshifters. In Faerie, they can take a human form, but in the world of men, they’re trapped.”

  “I see you’re well-versed in the legends of my people. This dragon is larger, stronger, and deadlier than anything a common slayer has ever seen. Even if they could kill him, they’d never find him. The Dragon Lord is cunning, hiding in the deep places of the earth. He can withstand fire and water. And he might hide in Faerie. But you, my beautiful darling… you are the weakness that our friend has not considered.” Tristan brushed his fingertips along her cheek, a gesture that made Thalia’s skin crawl. He was handsome, but there was something predatory and pathetic in those eyes.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sheakhol. Nyxyn, my counsel, is schooled in Ancient Magic. According to the old scholars, the Dragon Lord cannot resist the call of the rite. This evil plague of a beast will be helpless to resist the pull of Sheakhol’s magic. He will be drawn to the crags where you will be waiting.”

  Thalia’s hope sank in her chest like a heavy boulder. “I am to be put to death for helping the child.” She shook her head. “Perhaps there is a pestilence in this kingdom after all,” she murmured.

  Tristan barked a greasy laugh that chilled Thalia to the marrow of her bones. This man… this boy who would be king had become twisted and greedy for power. These men were dangerous. “You would be careful to whom you are speaking, my dear. I could have your head with the snap of my fingers.”

  “Then do it, if you are so eager. I do not fear death,” she lied. “That child may have been an unwanted, but she did not deserve to die on the crags.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased. As soon as we became aware of your exceptional talents, I set the rest of them free. They’re all probably back in their meager homes, warming themselves by a smelly old peat fire, unthinking about your sacrifice.”

  Thalia couldn’t be sure, but she could see the lies dancing in his eyes. She didn’t want to know what had become of those maidens, but she knew it wasn’t good. “My talents?”

  “Oh, of course.” He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling it out straight and running his fingertips along the dark mark on her wrist. It was only a birthmark, but the dark spot twisted around the tiny veins there and into the palm of her hand. It looked like a dancing flame that flickered in the dim light offered by the fire. “You’re a slayer of Tarkin—the only marked slayer in your generation. Unless I miss my guess, you’re the one they call Huntress.”

  Thalia nodded. “How did you know that?”

  “Don’t be so modest, my dear,” he said, closing his cool, clammy hand over hers and patting it with mock tenderness. “Your gifts are well known throughout the land. A slayer with an almost supernatural ability to know what the beasts are thinking. Some have even called you a descendent of the Fae Queen herself, a born consort of the Dragon Lords.”

  “There is nothing magic about me, Highness. Other than my exceptional skill at getting myself into trouble.”

  His lips spread into a wide, toothy grin that sent a shiver of unease crawling over Thalia’s skin. “On the contrary, my dear. You’re a very lucky girl. You see, you have been given a unique opportunity.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you really have two choices. Assuming the dragon doesn’t kill you.”

  “Why would you think he wouldn’t?”

  “I have reason to believe that, should you go willingly, the dragon will take you for his bride.”

  Thalia laughed. This time she could not help it. The ridiculous and desperate superstition of the prince was too much. “You’ve heard too many stories, Highness. Dragons, despite all your tales of the Fae and shapeshifters, are animals. Rare animals, yes. But they are animals nonetheless. They don’t take brides. And they can be killed like any other if given the right opportunity.”

  “Opportunity is exactly what I was thinking of, my lady.”

  “I don’t think I understand what you ask, Highness.”

  “You’re the bait, child. You will lure the dragon in during the ritual. When he approaches, legend says that he will be vulnerable, trapped in the intoxication of Nyxyn’s spell. The dragon will bow to you, opening himself up for your dagger.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and offered it to her. Thalia took it fast, and before Tristan drew his next breath, it was at his throat.

  “I could kill you easily, sire.”

  “But you won’t.” He smiled, his eyes traveling over her body. He made no attempt at subtlety as he sized her up. It made Thalia feel grimy, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up as if she were about to be ill. “If what they say of you is true, then your honor will not allow it.”

  Thalia huffed and stepped back, releasing him. “You’re right. I wouldn’t want to waste a good weapon with such bitter blood.” It was an exquisite weapon, fashioned of the finest steel and folded many times by a skilled blacksmith. Carvings of ancient spells had been worked into the blade itself, and the hilt was the body of a raven.

  “My father gave me this dagger long ago, Huntress. How appropriate that you should use it to ensure my place.” He stared at the dagger as she turned it over in her hands, examining the craftsmanship. Thalia had never seen its equal. “Look at the striations in the blade. It was made to slice through flesh as easily as warm butter. And it is indeed unique. The only one ever crafted.”

  “It is a beautiful piece to be sure, Highness, but surely you don’t think that a young girl will be able to slay a dragon with such a modest weapon.”

  “You don’t have to slay the dragon. You only have to wound it. Distract the beast long enough for me to kill it. Use your unique talents to calm it. Trap it.”

  “Do you honestly believe that this will work? The dragon at the very least will tear my body from the chains and carry me, broken and bleeding, to his lair where he’ll devour my flesh slowly.”

  Tristan grinned. “You may be right, Huntress. But my guard will be standing by to make sure he doesn’t escape. Make no mistake, child.
The dragon will die.”

  “That’s so comforting,” she grumbled. “If I do this for you, what then? Will you let me go?” She captured his gaze and held it. Thalia did not trust him. His eyes were cold, and though his voice never wavered, he was nervous. He was not certain that his plan would work, but he also realized it was his only chance.

  “Better than that, my lady.” He bowed, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss lightly at the scraped knuckles. “Should you succeed, I shall make you my queen.”

  Chapter Ten

  When Tristan left, Thalia was more confused than she had been before. There was something niggling in the back of her mind. Something about Tristan’s story didn’t quite add up. She had heard the stories of the Dragon Lords as a child from Esa, but those were just stories. There was no such thing as a dragon that could change his shape—not even in the kingdom of the Fae. Most people didn’t even believe in faeries anymore. Life was difficult but simple for the people in the far reaches of the kingdom like Isling and Tarkin. They didn’t have times for daydreams of magical creatures.

  And what of Tristan’s offer? Imagine, Thalia of Tarkin—Queen of Osghast. The very notion was preposterous. The people of her homeland often thought of her as something otherworldly, but never a queen. Queens didn’t have dirt under their fingernails or ratted tangles in their hair. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Thalia was sure she had both and much more. Her clothing was torn, her body covered with splotches of mud, and her hair was one big knot. No, Thalia was not made of royal stuff.

  A knock at the heavy oak door brought her out of her reverie. At first, she was afraid to make any noise. Perhaps if she just kept quiet, whoever was on the other side would go away. But they knocked once more, and the door opened. A thin, regal-looking man dressed all in black entered, followed by two chambermaids. His arms were folded with one slender index finger tucked under his chin. He did not speak, but strolled up to Thalia, looking down his nose at her. “Well. This just won’t do,” he said with a sneer.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, child. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” he replied. Thalia’s mouth snapped shut so hard that her teeth clicked together painfully. “I am Balan, your groom. These are my assistants, Freya and Xyneth. We’ve come to prepare you for the ceremony.”

  “The prince means to dress me up before throwing me to the dragon, I see.” She stared at Balan defiantly, daring him to silence her.

  “Well, what sort of virgin sacrifice would you be looking this way? Even a hoary dragon wouldn’t bother with you. You look like you ate one raw with your bare hands.” Thalia could feel herself blushing and moved to cover herself. He snapped his fingers, and the chambermaids brought a large tub into the room and set it down in front of the fireplace. “All right, child. Come and take those filthy things off.” When she didn’t move, Balan came over and began pulling at her tattered tunic.

  She immediately grabbed his hand and twisted his arm behind his back in one graceful movement. “Take your hands off me!” she snarled, pushing him forward so that he stumbled over the edge of the rug.

  Balan brushed off his coat and glared at Thalia, obviously affronted that she would dare touch him. “Well, the prince certainly didn’t choose you for your temperance!”

  “He chose me because I don’t suffer fools,” she growled, smoothing the tunic over her thighs.

  “Be that as it may, the ritual of Sheakhol requires that you’re clean and pure,” he snapped. “My job as His Majesty’s valet dictates that I oversee any task he deems worthy. And today that task is making sure that you are fully prepared for the ritual that will take place at moonrise.” He pulled a timepiece from his coat and stared into its face. “The sands tell me that we have just over an hour to make that happen, and I am never late, my lady.”

  “What difference does it make if I’m clean or wearing some ridiculous gown? The dragon will devour me either way.”

  “It matters because we all have our station in this world and things that are expected of us.” Balan stood tall with his hands on narrow hips. Thalia could see that he was immovable. Though it pained her to acquiesce, she liked this man with his blustering and prickly tone. In his way, he was as much a warrior as she and just as determined in his quest, and she couldn’t help feeling respect for him if not for his mission. “Must I call in the guards to tether you, or will you comply with my reasonable request?” His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of kindness, and this time he offered his hand.

  Thalia allowed the valet to lead her to the hearth. The handmaidens were busy filling the copper basin with warm water. She could see the steam rising from it, and her resolve wavered. A warm bath was not a luxury that she had been allowed often as of late. It would help to clear her mind so that she might concentrate on the task ahead. If she were going to survive, Thalia would need to stay calm and think. Balan’s hands were gentle this time as he pulled at the ruined fabric of her tunic, slipping it down over her shoulders and letting it puddle at her feet. She gasped at seeing her own haggard frame in the mirror opposite. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Her skin seemed to drape around her bones like a shawl. Her breasts, which had always been a source of desire for most of the men she’d come across were no longer the shapely orbs that were almost too large for her elfin stature. Like everything else, they were bruised and drawn. Her skin had lost the youthful luster it had once had. Time had taken its toll on Thalia, and she wept to see it.

  “Why are you crying, child?” Balan asked, pinning her hair up as best he could with the tangles. “If the rumors around the castle are correct, Tristan doesn’t mean to let the dragon kill you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Balan smiled. “He’s much more interested in killing the dragon than appeasing it.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked, allowing him to support her weight as she pushed her leggings over her hips. She was trying very hard not to concentrate on the fact that she was now completely naked in front of this stranger with nothing—not even a few locks of hair—to hide herself.

  “Tristan is vying for power. He wants to be king.”

  “King Christophe is still alive, is he not?”

  “Yes, but Tristan feels that he is weak. He wants his father to retire to the country and give him control. He thinks that if he can kill the dragon, his father will abdicate and give him the throne.” He turned to one of the chambermaids and nodded to the pile of clothing. “Burn those.”

  Thalia watched as the girl gathered up every possession she had left and took them away. It was true that they were ruined, but now she felt that she was tied to nothing else in the world. “Does Tristan really believe in the Dragon Lords? Perhaps this is just a show of strength to the kingdom.”

  Balan chuckled and helped Thalia step into the tub. “Tristan knows that the Wyrm of Gwynfir is not a normal dragon. And Tristan has more reason than most to believe in the lore of the Fae.”

  “He is superstitious?”

  “He is no stranger to Queen Mab. He nor any of his kin. It has always been so.” He held her hand as she sank into the warm bath. She sighed audibly as the water rose around her. The water was scented with rosewater and precious oils that calmed her senses and made her mind lazy. The panic and worry of the day seemed to slip from her skin with the droplets of moisture. “Some say that the dragon that plagues us now is a Fae curse, wrought by Mab herself to torture Christophe.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “He was her lover, of course.” Balan took a soft sea sponge from the basket beside the tub. He dipped it in the fragrant water until it was full and then squeezed it over Thalia’s skin, getting it wet. Over and over he did this until the initial layer of grime ran into the tub. “Some said that she was wildly jealous of the queen, Tristan’s mother, and laid a curse upon the House of Laurenz until Christophe agreed to go with her into Faerie to live forever.”

  “The curse being a Dragon Lord?”
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  Balan nodded and cleared his throat. “Freya,” he called. She brought a vial of golden liquid, and he gestured that she should sit. The girl knelt beside the tub. She squeezed a bit of the liquid into the sponge and used it to spread the thick soap over Thalia’s skin. It smelled of sandalwood, and despite her initial reaction to resist, Thalia closed her eyes and let the girl wash the blood and dirt from her body. Soon she was lost in the gentle strokes of the sponge along her shoulders and down each arm. Slowly the girl worked the cleansing oils into her skin, scrubbing away at the sorrow and pain and fear that the last few days offered. She could feel Balan’s fingers in her hair as he pulled at the pins and tangled curls. They tumbled down over her shoulders as he nudged her to lie back. With a small silver pitcher, he gathered water and poured it carefully over her head, getting her hair wet. It was thick and took a few tries, but the warm water felt so nice running over her scalp that Thalia nearly groaned with pleasure. His fingertips were hypnotic, massaging more of the sweet-smelling soap into her hair. She began to drift, lost in the sensation of these expert sets of hands trilling over every part of her.

  “I can do this myself,” she murmured, not really wanting them to stop.

  “Tonight, you are a queen, my lady. Let us take care of you,” Balan said.

  She was nearly asleep when he spoke again. “You may get up now. Quickly.” Remembering the wormwood, he helped her to stand and steadied her on her feet. “There’s no time to waste.”

  As he led her from the bath to the hearth, Xyneth returned with masses of white fabric draped over her arms. Thalia felt like a marionette as they pulled the gown over her head. They worked her arms into the sleeves, and Freya held her upright while Balan pulled the bodice strings tight. She stared at herself in the mirror while Xyneth combed her wild golden hair into place and wove tiny flowers into it. Looking at her reflection, Thalia could hardly believe her eyes. She’d never really been allowed to be a girl before. The life of a dragonslayer was difficult and left no time for things such as fine linen gowns or perfume.