Kidnapped by the Dragon

by Kayla Wolf

  And what had Tarik drilled into him, over and over? What had Tarik taught him, through pain, and blood, and injury after injury—wounds he still bore the scars from? Control was everything. Control was the only thing he could truly own—control of himself, control of his body and his mind and his thoughts. The minute he lost that… well, he lost everything. And so he had. He’d even managed to kid himself, as he came into her room, sat on the end of her bed, talked and flirted, that he was doing it for the mission. That he was interested in the book she had, in what the old Draconic text might have to say. And true enough, it had been an interesting book—from what he’d been able to glean from scanning the page in the few seconds she’d handed it over, at any rate. Useful information. But any College grad worth his salt should have left it there. Maybe talked his way into borrowing the book so he could copy it out… but certainly not let himself fall victim to that ancient and pathetic urge.

  What was sex, anyway? It was—nothing. A stupid, base, animal act. He’d done it before, and he’d never much cared for it. Sure, the release was physically pleasant, and there was an animal satisfaction in the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit, the victory… but somehow, none of that stuff had been at play here. It had felt like… more. It had felt almost holy.

  No. That was—none of that could be allowed to continue. How was he going to explain this, back at the College? More to the point—how was he going to get control of himself again? Because no matter how much he tried to discipline himself, to summon up the cold wall of icy impermeability that was his strongest asset, he’d look down and see her sleeping face and everything would crumble, immediately. God, he liked her. He cared about her. He wanted her to be safe, and happy—he wanted to protect her. Owen gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes together, and as if she sensed his discomfiture, she stirred in her sleep, pressing herself against him as if to comfort him. Owen felt tears start in his eyes and blinked them back, horrified. This was… this was bad. This was real trouble.

  There was only one thing to do. The same thing he always did. His goddamn job. He had to refocus. Had to treat this as what it had to be—a one-night stand, nothing more. A roll in the hay with some girl who wasn’t important now and wouldn’t be important in months, years, decades. He wasn’t going to think about her being his hostage, that was for sure. Not her. Just—a person. An anonymous person. A target, that was all she was. A target… and he’d done excellent work in making her comfortable with him. Making her trust him. That was how he’d spin it to the College, anyway, when he got back home and had to make a report on what had happened while he was away. No detail spared, no matter how trivial, that was what they always said. Reports took weeks to write, but it was what was expected of him. How much detail would he have to go into about their lovemaking, he wondered—then flinched when he realized he’d thought of it as lovemaking. Sex, he corrected himself. They’d had sex. That was all it was. They’d had sex, as a means of securing her trust in him, so that he could more easily grab her when the time came to deliver her to the dragons up north.

  He let himself think, for just a moment, of what the dragons up north probably wanted a young, impressionable female hostage for. His whole body shuddered—Angela stirred again, curling into his side, and he gritted his teeth. Control. He needed to get control of himself. This was just pointless emotion. The product of hormones rushing around his body. Completely understandable, completely natural, and completely safe to ignore. By the time morning came around, he’d be cured. Back to his old, impassive self.

  But that didn’t help him now, lying in the dark, listening—without wanting to listen—to the soft, steady rise and fall of Angela’s breathing. And neither did his planned justifications to the College. Sure, he could explain himself in front of them—he had experience with that. What he couldn’t do was justify his actions, real or planned, to himself. Whatever way he looked at it, it was unconscionable. He shouldn’t have taken advantage of this young woman’s trust… shouldn’t be with her like this. If there was any justice in the world, he’d be harshly punished for this behavior.

  But there wasn’t. There was just Owen, staring at the ceiling, long into the night. Sometime before dawn, Angela rolled over and away from him, though her back was still pressed against his arm—and he took his opportunity to slide soundlessly out of bed, gather his clothing, and leave her to rest. He knew what he had to do—and it was going to hurt him even more, but that was what he deserved. He was going to be cold to her. He was going to freeze her out completely, to make her think that he had only been interested in her for one thing, and now that he’d gotten it, he’d lost interest. It was going to hurt her a lot, he knew that. But at least it would lessen the feeling of betrayal when he finally found the artefact he was hunting for—then grabbed her in his talons and flew her up north to her waiting captors.

  Better that behavior like that come from an enemy, and not a lover.

  He couldn’t sleep. There was no chance of that. So he returned to his quarters, put on some clothes that actually fit properly, and set out walking, blindly, with no idea of where he was going. The pathways of the palace twisted and turned, and he wasn’t paying attention to his path, and soon enough, he was hopelessly lost. Good, he thought with a combination of despair and amusement that was most unlike him. It suited him, to be lost, feeling the way he currently felt. His whole mind felt like it had shaken itself loose of its attachments and was floating, completely freeform, around inside his skull. It was a peculiar feeling. He wished, suddenly, that there was someone to fight. Taking lives lent his existence a brutal kind of clarity that he needed right now.

  ”Couldn’t sleep?”

  Usually, nobody would have gotten that close to him without him hearing them. But usually, Owen wasn’t distracted by his feelings. So when the voice sounded, from only a few feet away, he flew into a combat stance before his mind could consciously process the sound. By the time he remembered where he was—and who he was supposed to be—it was too late.

  There stood Stephen, the old dragon. The patriarch of this family. Owen had to hand it to him—it was impressive that he still spent so much time in his human shape. Most Elder dragons he knew had given up on shifting years ago, but this guy seemed surprisingly comfortable in his human body. He also didn’t look at all intimidated by the posture Owen had dropped into, which he moved out of now, feeling a little embarrassed… but mostly unnerved. That hadn’t been at all in character for the pacifist sea dragon he was trying to pretend to be.

  ”You startled me.”

  ”You don’t seem like a man who startles easily.” The older dragon’s eyes were glowing gold in the low light of the hallway. Behind him, through the door he was standing in, Owen could make out a collection of books, and he realized with a start that his wanderings had taken him all the way down to the library.

  ”Not usually,” he said, trying to put on the character—and falling flat in the harsh, withering light of those golden eyes. They all had the same eyes, this family… how, then, did this feel so different to when Helena or Samuel, or even Alexander, looked at him? Somehow this was harsher, less forgiving, more… penetrating. The crazy idea that Stephen could read his mind floated across his awareness, and he dismissed it, annoyed with himself. Even the oldest dragons in the world couldn’t do that in human shape.

  ”Be careful, Owen,” the old man said simply, spreading his hands. Owen stared at him for a long moment, not quite sure how to take that.

  “I will,” he said finally.

  “Somehow, I doubt that. I’ve known men like you.” He was still gazing steadily at Owen, and the way his eyes were boring into him was making his heart race. “More than a few. Most of them met early ends, but you’re a survivor, aren’t you? I know what it takes. To survive.”

  ”I don’t know what you’re talking about—” Owen tried, but Stephen held up a hand to silence him, and he felt his voice stop in his throat.

  ”I’m not like many my age.
I believe in change. But it’s a choice, Owen. A painful choice, most times. Are you strong enough for that? Are you strong enough to hurt that much, for that long? To carry that weight truly?”

  Owen just stared at him. He couldn’t speak—didn’t even dare to nod or shake his head, so trapped in that gaze. He felt like a bug, trapped in amber, surrounded by luminous gold and unable to move an inch of his body.

  ”I hope so,” Stephen sighed, finally. “It’s taken me a long time to remember how to hope. And I hope you can find that strength. For her sake, though, certainly not for yours. I’m not that good at hoping. Not yet.” He tilted his head to the side, and for a moment, though his form didn’t change, Owen could have sworn he saw the ancient, iridescent dragon that he truly was, shining through those luminous eyes. “Perhaps one day we’ll truly meet one another, Owen.”

  The door to the library slammed shut, and with the sound, Owen felt himself come back to his body with a sudden jerk. He resisted the urge to touch his hands and feet to check that they were still there, feeling decidedly strange—and deeply unsettled. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear that the old guy knew something about him—about who he really was, not about the facade he’d put up. Could he know of the College? Not likely… they weren’t known to these kinds of dragons. And besides, if he really knew the College, he’d have recognized Owen from his eyes on sight. No—he knew something else. Something deeper. Something that felt uncomfortably like it might have to do with the feelings that were still fighting their way through the icy wall he was working so hard to keep erected between him and his heart.

  What had that meant, he wondered, walking stiffly up the hallways? What had any of that meant? Could he be strong—strong enough to choose—of course, he could. He was the strongest dragon he’d ever met. He’d made hard choices over and over again, every day of his life—he’d been shaped by hard choices, like a sword on an anvil, battered into shape by blow after blow until who he’d used to be was unrecognizable. Gone—lost completely, replaced by the living weapon that he was now. But if that was true, why did he feel so completely lost? Why did the glint of Angela’s eyes make him feel like he was inches away from falling apart? Why had Stephen looked into his soul like that—found something in him that he’d sworn that he’d killed and buried centuries ago?

  It didn’t matter. He took a deep breath, then let it out, finding himself in the little room he’d been given. Focus on the mission. That was all. Find the artefact, kidnap the princess, drop them up North, then obliterate this entire period of his life from his memory completely.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that.

  Chapter 8

  The first thing Angela noticed when she woke up was that she was alone. That wasn’t unusual—it was her default state of being, except for the occasional evenings when she and Helena and Jessica would have sleepovers in one of their rooms, so it took her a moment to figure out why it felt strange. Then the memories of the previous night came rushing back to her, and she grinned wide enough to hurt her face. Of course. Owen. He’d come to her room… told her he liked her… the whole thing felt like a daydream. For a minute she entertained the notion that it had actually all been a dream. It just felt so unlikely. But her bed still smelled like him—and when she sat up, she could see the book she’d been reading the night before had fallen to the floor. She remembered it being knocked down there. Then it had been real. She’d really spent the night with Owen.

  Then where was he? The grin faded a little bit, replaced with a gnawing sense of anxiety. It was early—the sun was barely up, there was no way she’d slept in so late that he’d gotten up without her. And from what she could remember, they’d fallen asleep together in the bed, curled in each other’s arms. So what had happened? When had he gotten up—why had he felt the need to leave her? Was he worried about her family catching them? The door was closed… it wasn’t as though anyone would have barged in unannounced. A more horrible possibility was circling around under her half-awake consciousness, and she banished it, firmly refusing to entertain it… but it crept in anyway, gnawing at her with worry. What if he‘d made a mistake? What if he regretted spending the night with her? Or what if he was one of those guys she’d heard about on TV, and in movies—one of those guys who lied and manipulated trusting young women into sleeping with them? Those guys who wanted sex and nothing more—who lived for the thrill of the chase?

  She shook her head hard as she dressed for the day. Whatever Owen was—and she’d be the first to admit that she didn’t know everything about him—he wasn’t some sex-crazed maniac. A sex-crazed maniac wouldn’t have been so gentle with her, so careful, so slow and measured in their lovemaking. Looking in his eyes, she could tell he was holding back on her… that there were things about him that he hadn’t told her. That was part of his mystery—and part of the powerful attraction she’d felt to him almost since the minute they’d met. But she couldn’t believe that he was only after her for sex. That was absurd.

  Once dressed, she padded through the hallways, looking for Owen. Samuel and Jessica were probably sleeping in, she thought—they usually took a leisurely morning after they went for night runs. And Alexander and Lisa would be busy with the council meeting—if Lisa was feeling better, that was. A regular event, a representative from each family would come to the palace to discuss the goings-on in the valley. They’d used to be mostly for show, Stephen had told her—so little happened month to month that it was more or less an excuse to catch up and tell stories about the old times that they’d all heard a hundred times already. But lately, with all the changes in the valley, the King and his wife were finding themselves doing more and more work in preparation for these political gatherings.

  She walked past Owen’s door, kidding herself it was an accident—and found it firmly shut. That was odd. He usually only shut it when he was in there… did that mean he was asleep? She considered knocking, but pulled away from the door, feeling bizarrely shy. If he was resting, she wouldn’t disturb him. There was no sense being clingy. Still—she was worried, as she moved through the silent hallways of the palace. And that worry didn’t abate as the day wore on, and there was still no sign of Owen. Ever since he’d arrived in the valley, she’d seen him at least a few times a day. This was a first. She was almost worried enough to ask Alexander about him when she saw him—but the King looked drawn and worried, deep in conversation with Lisa as they walked down the hallway together, and he offered her only a distracted nod as he went past. They were busy, she thought, her heart sinking.

  So she threw herself into work. After all, that book wasn’t going to read itself. She carried it down to the rock by the river she liked reading on—but it reminded her too much of Owen. It was impossible to concentrate, and she gave up after half an hour, feeling miserable as she trekked back up the path to the palace. Where was he? Why was he avoiding her?

  ”You’re distracted.”

  Stephen peered at her over the top of the book he was reading. They were sitting in the library—it was mid-afternoon, and she’d still seen no sign of Owen all day. She avoided Stephen’s eyes. The old dragon had a way of knowing how she was feeling without her saying anything, and she wasn’t interested in it today. She was too worried that on some level, Stephen had been right not to trust Owen.

  ”I didn’t sleep very well,” she said, not looking up.

  “Hmm. Nothing to do with a certain guest of the palace, I hope?”

  ”No,” she said shortly. “This passage here—the translation of ‘sharing.’ It has a sense of ‘strengthening,’ right?”

  Stephen craned his neck over to look at the passage she was pointing out, then nodded, looking thoughtful. “A case could be made, yes.”

  ”Does that mean blood magic could hypothetically share power with other shifters? To make them stronger?”

  ”It’s possible,” he allowed, after a long silence in which he was clearly contemplating the problem deeply. Angela just felt
glad to have gotten him off the subject of Owen for the time being. “We’d need to do more research. But… yes, I think that conclusion would be supported by that reading. How to perform such a rite is a separate issue entirely.”

  She felt restless, suddenly, tired of books. “Could we do some practical experiments? Take a bit of blood out, see what we can make it do?”

  Stephen frowned. “Dangerous. Very dangerous. If there’s anything we can draw from these texts, it’s that our blood possesses more power than any of us are consciously aware of. I appreciate the spirit of scientific enquiry,” he added, his eyes twinkling, “but an uneducated attempt at casting blood magic… well, we’d be playing with fire. Better to keep researching.”

  Angela heaved a sigh. “We’ve been researching for five years, Stephen. I’ve read so many of these old books I feel like my eyes are going to cross. There are other sources of information, you know? I’m not like you, I’m going to die of old age someday, and at this rate…”

  ”Angela, why do you think I’ve embarked on this project?”

  She stared at him, not understanding. The old dragon had put down the book he was reading, and he was looking straight at her, his eyes brighter than they usually were.

  ”The day I met Lisa, I came down into this library and spent hours digging out every single book that had ever mentioned blood magic. I looked at Lisa, and I saw a beautiful, bright spirit. I saw the love she bore for Alexander, and he for her. But dragons live indefinitely. Humans do not. A hundred years… it’s a heartbeat, for us, but for a human… I knew, better than anyone, what kind of heartache awaited them.”