by Mary Auclair
“This one is probably the last of its kind.” Fedryc spoke to Henron over his shoulder as his fingers traced the length of a leather-bound book. “It’s a first edition of the Draekon Origins, from before the Civil Chasm.”
“It is priceless,” Henron answered, his voice steady and controlled, even though Fedryc knew this room, this very castle, was a dead ringer for the life Henron had lost. The life Henron had been cast out of, never to be contacted again. “My mother would have sold half her kingdom for this.”
“Lord Aymond loved books,” Fedryc stated, then turned away from the shelves. “Too bad the books didn’t love him back.”
Behind him, Nyra blew a cloud of warmth, signaling without a doubt that she shared his feelings. Lord Aymond Haal had loved these books, collected them over a period of more than two hundred years, cherished and cared for them. His hand dropped and Fedryc turned away from the precious volumes. He felt like an intruder in this room, one his father had obviously spent a lot of time in, but he also knew it was likely to have been one of the last places his father had been in. This room could contain clues as to who murdered him—and why.
With a heavy heart, Fedryc sat down at his father’s desk, a costly piece of furniture made of Eryan wood, a material that went extinct during the Civil Chasm, imported directly from Dagmar. The red and orange grain of the precious wood was smooth under his palm, speaking volumes about a time long past when Draekons ruled the world like Gods on the back of their dragons, while Delradons crawled in the face of their power. A time Lord Aymond may have been nostalgic for, but which repulsed Fedryc to the core.
Fedryc looked up to see Henron walking around, studying the books on the shelves, lost in his own past.
Nyra came closer, sniffing the priceless item then dismissing it as an object of little importance. The dragoness turned herself around twice, then settled in the large circle at the center of the room, where Nissar had probably slept countless hours as Lord Aymond worked on the affairs of the kingdom.
Looking away from the beast, Fedryc rummaged inside the first drawer. It was full of old scrolls and official-looking stamps. All the tools used by a High Lord to rule efficiently.
It was of no immediate interest.
Henron came to help him sort through the documents. Two more drawers contained the same kind of items. Ledgers, recordings of deeds and loans, lands sold and rented. Hours passed as Fedryc scanned the papers, read names after names of his citizens, glanced at official paperwork until nothing made sense anymore. Exhausted, he pushed the drawers closed, then sat back on the comfortable chair that was molded to his father’s back.
“We’re not going to find anything tonight.” Henron spoke as he closed an accounting ledger focused on agriculture. “We can start again in the morning. We should rest.”
Fedryc shook his head. “I don’t have the luxury of rest.”
He glanced at his wrist commu-link and saw that it was nearly three in the morning. He had been awake for too long, hadn’t slept since stepping inside the transport ship from Dagmar. Nyra’s vital energy flowed easily through the link, keeping him alert and strong, but his mind was tired.
Tired and mostly frustrated. He had been so sure he would find something, anything. Henron, for his part, was hanging on by a thread. Lacking the vital strength of the dragon link, he sorely needed a good night’s sleep. “You go and rest. I will continue.”
“One more hour, then,” Henron answered after a long yawn. “If I let you find something without me, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He smiled that grin that had cemented their friendship all those years ago. That grin that said he was up for anything, and screw the consequences.
“Let’s get to work then.”
There was only one drawer left and Fedryc bent over it, expecting to find the same useless papers as before. He pulled it open then frowned, finding it empty except for an envelope bearing the official seals of the Haal family and the Office of Human-Delradon relations. He extracted it delicately and lifted the broken seal to study the contents of the letter.
“It’s a genetic compatibility letter.”
The one that makes Marielle my father’s mate, when she should be mine.
Again, Fedryc shook his head against the intrusive thought.
What is happening to me? I shouldn’t be obsessing over a human woman. I should be obsessing over my father’s murder.
Fedryc kept reading, then he heard the chair fall down behind him as he stood up, unable to look away from the paper. Nyra moved, her sapphire eyes settling on him, lazy with sleep and annoyance at being awoken from her slumber.
Henron watched him with serious eyes, all traces of humor gone from his face.
“Lord Aymond had to have kept it,” Henron said, but got to his feet to look down at the paper. After a long, stunned silence, his friend spoke again. “But it’s not for your father.”
Fedryc met Henron’s stare, then Nyra’s eyes as the dragoness shed her sleepiness and stared at him with curiosity.
“It’s mine. Marielle was not compatible with my father, she was compatible with me.”
Marielle clutched the small pouch of water and the folded piece of linen containing the bread and dry sausage Silva had hastily pushed into her arms before closing the small servants’ door on her.
Her breath came in short puffs of condensation and a cold desert wind blew over her shoulders, easily getting inside the silk of her dress. She shivered, her teeth chattering so hard it hurt, and she clutched the meager supplies even harder.
I shouldn’t have left so hastily. I didn’t even ask Silva for a warm blanket.
But it was too late.
That bit of water and food was all that was standing between herself and certain death. She understood now that it had been a bad—a terribly bad—idea to set off by herself on foot like that. She had been too scared, too frazzled to think clearly, and now she was so far off that she wasn’t even sure where the castle was, and even less sure in which direction the capital of Aalstad, Gelmor, was. The city she called home.
Marielle was sure she had been walking straight south, heading for the capital, out of the desert and onto the fertile plains surrounding it, in the direction Silva had pointed. She looked at the stars, the landmarks around her, trying to keep a straight line in the barren, rocky landscape, but things had started to blur along the way.
It had been hours, but how many, she didn’t know. Marielle never stopped, never slowed down in her race to save Devan, because she knew. She knew Ignio Marula could have already hurt or killed her baby brother if he had learned of the High Lord’s death.
Her only hope was to get to him in time.
She had been walking all night, and now a lovely pink dawn rose over the desert, bathing the land in a dramatic display of shadows and light. As far as her eyes could see, rocks and dry vegetation covered the land; tall, tree-like cacti with spikes as long as sewing needles, and round, scrawny bushes casting shadows on the dry ground. It was breathtaking and merciless, cruel in its perfection.
Like Lord Fedryc. She had fallen under the Draekon’s cruel beauty like a spell. Even now, she still could see the curve of his hard mouth, feel his rough hand on her skin.
Even in her state of confusion and dehydration, she could appreciate the beauty of it. She could very well die here, under the merciless sun that was going to come. Nobody would come looking for her.
Exhaustion filled her bones and her vision filled with black spots but still, she pushed through. Her feet got tangled in a root—or a rock—or perhaps each other, she couldn’t tell.
She fell, hard.
The pouch of water and the packet of provisions left her grip as she instinctively tried to stop her fall with her hands outstretched in front of her. Hard stones met her knees and she screamed. She tumbled to the rocky ground, the side of her face scraping against the sand, her hip landing on a large rock.
Flashes of pain invaded her body, from her face to her hip and legs,
and desperation washed over her like a wet blanket, covering everything.
There, flat on the desert ground, Marielle cried softly, silently losing what little moisture remained in her body. She let the sobs wreak havoc through her body, through her mind as the pressure and terror of the last few days washed over her in an irresistible tide. Every horrible event came back to her frazzled mind, one after the other; from that day she’d walked inside the decrepit shack where she lived with Devan to find Ignio Marula there and her brother beaten and bloody, to her gnawing fear as the clerks fluttered around her in the Delradon-Human liaison office after she’d handed over her letter of genetic compatibility. Then the horror that had overcome her as she’d found the High Lord dying and his dragon dead, and the gut-wrenching fear as she was carried to the dungeon after the captain of the guard accused her of the murder of Lord Aymond, followed by the desperation of her time in the cold, windy dungeon.
She’d lived through all of it, but she didn’t think she’d live through this. She was too tired, too far from home. She knew that if she didn’t find civilization of any kind before the next sunset, she would be dead.
I’m so sorry, Devan. I tried, I really did.
It was thinking of her brother, of his fear and pain, waiting for her in the clutches of Ignio Marula that pushed her out of that black despair that dampened her every thought. She couldn’t give up, not yet. Not while she still had breath in her body.
Her eyes strayed to the fallen food and water, and she walked on her knees to cradle the bread and sausage inside the linen blanket, then reached with trembling hands for the pouch of water. She hesitated at the low sound of liquid moving in the strange Delradon contraption, which felt like cotton but was as strong as the thickest leather and kept the water in without risk of losing any. Her fingers trembled as she twisted the lid open.
Then she drank. And drank some more. Soon, she couldn’t stop and water flowed down her throat to fill her empty stomach. The moisture filled her mouth, her belly as she emptied the pouch. Finally, she set it aside, looking at the useless remnant with remorse. She shouldn’t have drunk it all but she hadn’t been able to stop.
Marielle straightened, sitting on the large, flat rock she had fallen on to stare up at the sky. The stars had gone to make way for a pale blue sky, illuminated by clouds of shocking pink and orange. Colors came to life in the early dawn and Marielle stared. She knew she should be getting up, should walk again. The day ahead was going to be even worse than the night as the sun hammered over the desert. But she couldn’t do it just yet. Her legs ached and her head throbbed. She sighed, then reached for the loaf of bread and shoved a large piece in her mouth.
She closed her eyes when the slightly salty taste covered her taste buds, then ate until her belly was full and distended.
Then the sound of wings flapping made her jerk her eyes open and her mouth opened in a wide O.
The sky was gone, and in its place was a landscape of scales the red color of fire and fury.
Chapter 6
A thunderous noise filled the air as a demon straight from hell landed on the desert landscape a hundred yards in front of Marielle. Scales in the shades of molten lava covered a muscular, reptilian body and eyes like blue fire radiated a fury so pure it almost burned. From the beast’s partially open mouth, Marielle could see a series of four-inch long fangs glistening white and sharp.
A dragon. This was a dragon, and it was about to rip her soft flesh to bloody ribbons.
Marielle opened her mouth, but no sound escaped and all she could do was stare at the creature that charged right at her as her breathing morphed into a scream.
Wings as wide as a two-story building covered Marielle in a dense shadow, and the dragon lifted its head to roar into the glistening dawn. Terror rippled across the air, resonating within her bones, filling her veins with adrenaline.
Marielle’s scream died and an old instinct overtook her body and mind as she darted blindly through the desert terrain, not caring about her food or water. Her entire being was focused solely on escaping the predator that was about to sink its sharp fangs into her flesh.
Her legs pumped fast, and soon, her breathing was ragged and uneven, but she didn’t stop because the shadow of the beast was over her, easily following as she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew. She knew she wasn’t going to outrun the beast, but the primal part of her brain that wouldn’t let go made her pump her legs even faster as a large set of rocks loomed closer. It wasn’t good enough, but it was the only cover around for hundreds of miles.
She darted for it as a blood-curdling screech filled the air above her head.
Red wings swooped just feet from her left shoulder and a huge head snapped above her hair, but Marielle was quick and light, and she managed to reach the rock. She scuttled as far as she could underneath the pitiful shelter and pulled her knees to her chin, wrapping her arms closely around them in a childish position of helplessness. Her heart beat so fast her chest hurt and all she could hear was the sound of her own blood rushing through her veins as the dragon’s shape formed over the desert sand in front of her.
This was it. She was going to die—and Devan too, soon after.
Boots hit the ground and a familiar, masculine shape dressed in black leather came inside her field of vision. Her eyes locked on to a silver gaze as the Draekon Lord bent and looked at her. Then all her blood froze at the fury twisting his features. Like a cornered animal, Marielle hissed and showed her pathetic, blunt teeth, grabbing a large rock with trembling fingers. It was so heavy she had to lift it with both hands—or maybe she was just so weak she couldn’t throw it with a single arm.
She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.
“Step away from those boulders,” Lord Fedryc Haal gritted out. “And drop that rock.”
Marielle straightened but the rock didn’t leave her grip. Some common sense about her own small, defenseless stature came to her mind but she pushed it down. She wasn’t going to let him and the dragon murder her without a fight.
“I won’t.” Marielle’s voice was hoarse and shaky, betraying her intense fear. “Just leave me alone!”
“I can’t.” Lord Fedryc moved, his eyes darting from her to the dragon who came to position itself behind him.
Marielle’s eyes locked onto the terrible beast. It was at least fifty feet high, with a comparable wingspan, and its scales were of a flaming red. Its eyes were intensely blue, like the entire power of the sky had been concentrated in its supernatural irises.
And they burned with fury.
Marielle’s eyes darted to the side and her body angled unconsciously before she even took a step. A sharp growl made her freeze, and she stared in terror as two large columns of black smoke rose from the beast’s nostrils.
A whimper escaped her lips as she understood the dragon was going to roast her alive.
“Nyra!” Lord Fedryc stepped in front of the dragon, turning his back to Marielle, his arms wide open to shield her from the beast. “Stop!”
The dragon shook her mighty head and her two jewel-colored eyes settled on him as a shrill sound filled the air with fury. The dragon, all scaly wrath and bright red power, backed down on its rear legs, all fifty feet of the creature radiating a power so all-consuming, Marielle felt its vibration in the fabric of the desert, in between the atoms in the air she breathed. Every fiber inside her screamed in panic but her feet felt like they were set in concrete.
“I don’t want her to be scared of you.” Lord Fedryc turned his cold, cold silver eyes to her. “She can be scared of me.”
His muscular, black-clad body turned to Marielle, and the slight feeling of safety she had begun to feel vanished. There was anger in those silver, mysterious eyes—anger and some kind of hurt that made her chest tighten with regret.
She had betrayed him, she knew, and now she would pay the price.
“You ran away.” This was not a question, and
so Marielle kept silent as she stared at the pulsing vein on Lord Fedryc’s temple. He looked like he was about to rip her to shreds. He was right. She shouldn’t fear the dragon, she should fear him instead. “I gave you protection, and you ran.”
“I’m sorry.” This time, her broken voice shook with true remorse. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I had to go home. I need to get home.”
“Your home is Aalstad Castle now!” Lord Fedryc’s pupils flashed slender and vertical before returning to their normal roundness. “You can never leave!”
“I have to!” She was shouting now, unaware of how she had come to stand so close to him. The dragon’s shadow was over her, engulfing her in its powerful proximity, and Lord Fedryc stared at her with eyes sharp enough to slice through her body and into her heart. “I have a brother. He needs my help.”
“Your brother should be protecting you, not the other way around.” Lord Fedryc’s voice was sharp and unyielding. “Now you will come back to the castle, where I can keep you safe.”
He turned away from her and flattened his palm against the dragon’s wide neck. Marielle watched him, all arrogance and power, not even considering the possibility of her refusing to obey him. It ignited something in her, something that had been buried under the fear and the weariness of the long walk. Something that had broken during those days in the dungeon. An iron bar stiffened in her spine and she lifted her chin.
“No.” Marielle put all she was able into the single-syllable word. Lord Fedryc snapped his head back to her, his eyes reduced to slits as his hand left the dragon’s skin. “I’m not coming with you.”
She met the deadly stare of the Draekon Lord dead on. Fear coursed through her veins like some agitated animal, but she had too much to lose. She swallowed hard, her arms stiff at her sides, holding her head high, her gaze defiantly on his.
