by Anne Renwick
Her laugh was bitter. “Am I not? But for me, my father might be alive, we might be in Russia, and you would not be ill.”
“Stop.” He squeezed her hand. “I count it a rare privilege to have met you, to have worked with a dragon I consider a friend.” All he wanted was to see her, Zia and her brood safe.
Lie.
With one foot in the grave, he’d somehow managed to convince himself that would be enough. But the moment she’d dangled the possibility of a cure before him, everything had shifted. He wanted to be with her. As her lover, as her husband, as the father of her children. But though he might feel relatively well at the moment, his health would eventually begin to fail. He would become a burden. Unless…
He stared at the eggs nestled inside the dragon hoard. If they weren’t viable, he and Natalia ought to make plans to leave immediately. But if they were—he glanced at the sad-eyed beauty beside him—then he was willing to wait, to serve as laboratory rat one last time.
It ought to be cozy, sitting before a fire with Luke, holding his hand while, outside, day faded into night. But instead of dreaming of a future together, she was brooding over the past, over things that could not be altered. Too long she’d existed in such a state, tied to a dissolute, opportunist of a husband who had done nothing save foist the care and keeping of his family estate upon her while pilfering from governmental funds earmarked for her research.
Free at last, it was time to take decisive action to secure a better future for herself. Luke in her bed was only a beginning. She wanted more. So, so much more. But if there was no cure for his illness, her dreams of spending a lifetime—hers—with him would crumble, slowly but surely. Every hope she had for their future hinged upon a viable egg.
“I can’t wait,” she said. “The uncertainty will kill me.” She reached out to touch the tip of a half-buried egg, then addressed Zia. “May I?”
Zia nudged her hand toward her brood, as if proud to have her offspring admired.
She pushed aside a brass doorknob and a few stones before placing her fingertips upon an egg. She looked to Zia. No objection. Gently, she lifted an egg free, careful to keep it near the flames. Luke handed her the decilamp, and she touched the light to the shell of the egg, illuminating its golden-red interior.
Within a large mass of dark red shifted.
“It’s alive!” she gasped.
“And nearly ready to hatch.” His voice held a note of excitement, but it was tempered with relief. Or was that apprehension?
One by one, they examined all three eggs. All contained viable embryos. Three dragonets due to hatch in less than two-weeks’ time. She looked to Luke with a grin, but her smile fell away as she studied his face. “What’s wrong?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “Nothing.”
She frowned. “You doubt my laboratory skills, my ability to culture stem cells? It’s true, I have no formal training, and I didn’t help Papa with the original experiment.” She’d been flat on her back in a bed, wondering when she would die. “It is a risk. My plan might well fail.”
Luke shifted, touching his fingers lightly to his injured arm, then dropping them away, clearly uncomfortable. He drew a deep breath. “It bothers me that Ivanov is out there, scheming…” He shook his head. “I want the cure. But I also want you safe. And I’m certain Ivanov—now that his true identity has been discovered—won’t wait two weeks before pressing his agenda.”
Nor was she. But to step beyond the castle walls was to expose themselves to capture. By Ivanov or Rathail’s hunter. Even if they altered their plans, fled for the city and somehow managed to reach Edinburgh, once they arrived, what then? Bone-deep, she knew men in formal attire would swoop in—citing various rules and regulations—snatching away Zia and her clutch. Without a newly-hatched dragon egg or access to a laboratory, all hope of curing Luke would be lost.
And that was unacceptable.
“We need to stay.” She closed her eyes and forced the truth from deep in her heart. “Three years ago I fell in love with a man I couldn’t have. My feelings haven’t changed, but my plans have. I want more than a few years. I want a lifetime. I’ll do everything—anything—to cure you.” Snapping open her eyes, she pinned him with her gaze. “Give me that chance?”
“Natalia, I—” Luke swayed, nearly toppling to the floor.
She caught him about the shoulders and pressed a palm to his brow. Only minutes before he’d seemed fine, but now he was hot. Feverish.
“My arm.” He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it from his shoulder. “It feels infected.”
Already? Her mind raced. How was it possible? They’d been so careful. And the dragon’s blood should have helped quell any complications. Eyebrows furrowed, she unwound the bandage and gasped. Red, inflamed streaks radiated from the wound, and pus oozed from beneath the threads that pierced his skin. “Aether, how?” This was no simple infection. Something more was going on.
He cursed. “I might not make it two days, forget about two weeks. It was that damn sword of Misha’s. A polluted sword.”
“Polluted?”
He grimaced. “Some guards in the Ural Zavód carried them, blades dipped in a brew of noxious bacteria and allowed to dry. A single nick can be deadly.”
No. Absolutely not. Her heart flipped over and began to beat irregularly. She would not lose Luke to a bacterial infection. She jumped to her feet and ran to her workbench, snatching up a bottle of ethyl alcohol, a scalpel and a clean cloth. Kneeling at his side a moment later, she said, “Brace yourself. This will hurt.”
Luke dragged in a deep breath and held it. He gave a short nod.
As the stitches fell away, a thin, yellow-green liquid trickled down his arm. A lump formed in her throat as she pressed at the inflamed tissue, draining it, trying to maintain a calm demeanor when she wanted to cry out in alarm. She needed to clean it, kill as many bacteria as possible so that his immune system had a chance to fight the infection. She poured a measure of ethyl alcohol directly into the open wound, and Luke hissed and spat a long string of colorful curses, some in Russian. Concerned, Zia nudged his thigh.
“A most interesting prison vocabulary.” Her voice shook. A feeble attempt to inject a certain lightness into her voice, despite the growing panic that tightened like an iron band about her chest. The wound was angry and septic, a ticking bomb. She set the bottle aside—an easy arm’s length away—before loosely wrapping a clean cloth about his upper arm. “We’ll try that again in an hour’s time.”
Luke slumped, pale. “We need a new plan.” He looked at her with tired eyes. The hollows beneath his cheekbones seemed more pronounced. “I sent a skeet pigeon to Edinburgh, to the Department of Cryptozoology. There’s a faint possibility they might send help.”
He was making plans for her, plans that wouldn’t include him. She opened her mouth to object. Closed it. If this infection proceeded apace, he would be unfit for travel in a matter of hours. Her heart jumped. With fear for him, with fear for herself. She’d not traveled anywhere, not since fleeing Russia three years past.
“It’s possible,” he began. “If you exit through the postern door and—”
“Lady Kinlarig!” Aileen pushed the thick wood of the door open, stumbling into the room. “Two pteryformes!” She pointed at the window set into the stone wall and flapped her hand. “With men upon their backs!”
Natalia ran to the window, and her jaw fell open. Silhouetted by the setting sun, two human forms—mounted upon the creatures’ backs and holding reins—swooped low above the castle.
One such beast had been circling the town for some time now, but that was not uncommon in this part of Scotland. Zia would often peer out the window at it, hissing, perhaps envious of another reptile whose wings were strong enough, wide enough to lift their entire body into the sky. But they were wild beasts. Natalia had never seen one with a rider. Until now. Aether! H
ad Misha Ivanov flown into Scotland? And who rode by his side? She’d thought herself safe behind stone walls and bolted iron gates, but if a man could saddle and ride such a creature such barriers wouldn’t stop him. She tried to swallow her mounting panic.
“It can’t be!” Aileen grabbed her arm. “Michael?” Shock and denial were at war in her voice.
“Misha,” Luke corrected as he made his way across the room, slowly, and with great effort.
“Your sword-wielding, Russian fiancé, Misha Ivanov.” Ice dripped from Natalia’s voice.
Stupid of her not to insist upon meeting the man, but Aileen hadn’t offered. Of late, Natalia had put special effort into avoiding her more than usual. The humming and the slight skip in her step as the housekeeper worked had been irritating, exacerbated by the smug and pitying smiles Aileen had bestowed upon her—the poor Lady of Kinlarig, young widow.
“He’s only following orders!” Aileen backed away, and though she defended her intended, a certain stricken look stole across her face. Did she just now realize a man such as Misha might not return her loyalty? “Youstole the dragon. The papers…”
The pteryform riders circled back, lower this time. Clawed feet extended, they landed with grace inside the castle courtyard. Dismounting, their two riders shoved flight goggles upward upon foreheads and waited.
Ice crystalized in Natalia’s veins as she recognized one of the riders. Mouth open, she gaped at Luke. How was it possible?
Luke cursed. Not just because their unwelcome visitors arrived fully armed and garbed in leather, but because Ivanov was accompanied by one Dimitri Kravchuk. “How is he not dead?”
Natalia grabbed a sword. She added another blade to the belt at her waist and slid one into her boot, one that she could throw.
Tiresome, this constant state of alert. The lairds of yore had armies. All she had was an ill—if determined—man and a dragon. Not only did Zia not breathe fire, her scales weren’t impenetrable, and she couldn’t fly, not really. Though her poison glands, sharp teeth and claws were quite effective at close range.
“You can’t mean to confront them,” Luke objected. He stabbed his fingers into his hair, fisting them as he shook his head in disbelief.
“What else am I to do?” She met his gaze with her eyebrows raised. “If they knock from inside the castle walls, McKay will open the door to them. Do you think the haughty disdain of a seventy-year-old butler will deter them from their plans?” She snatched up her scarf and wound it around her neck, concealing the dragon scales. Her mistake to have thought the cloth no longer necessary. “Perhaps I can buy us time.” She pinned Aileen with a look. “Stay with Mr. Dryden. Be quiet. Do not alarm Zia.” Stiffening her spine, she marched off to battle.
Chapter Eight
Outside twilight had fallen and the moon rose over the hills. In the distance, a bell rang. A gentle breeze brought in the crisp, cool air of the nearby river and ruffled a carpet of snowdrops. A peaceful night.
Elsewhere.
The main keep of Castle Kinlarig rose six stories, its curtain wall forty feet. It boasted walls that were six feet thick and a surround of defensive earthworks. But when the enemy could fly above it all to land within the courtyard, withstanding a siege became an impossibility. What point in hiding? Better to fully understand the situation she faced. Natalia pushed open the door and descended the stairs to stand before her enemies.
The air vibrated with tense hostility.
She detested both men. With his sword, Misha Ivanov had wounded Luke, perhaps fatally. But Dimitri Kravchuk? His presence made her blood boil. To turn on his mentor, to not lift a finger when armed guards hunted her and her father with loaded weapons. To stoop so low as to forcibly inject an unknown virus into a healthy man so that he might endeavor to cure him with untreated dragon’s blood. To think she’d once thought to marry the blackguard.
Ivanov—well-muscled and gripping a curved sword—stood a step behind Kravchuk, his face carefully blank as he awaited command. Not a man she could imagine bending on one knee to propose to a love-struck Scottish lass.
Dimitri, dressed in a leather flight jacket and trousers with a sword strapped to his side, looked no less lethal. His handsome face was familiar, but his eyes were cool and appraising. Her last glimpse of him had been from a distance, as she lay immobile upon a makeshift litter while men carried her away from the rocky base of the dragon cliffs. Did he now marvel at her ability to stand, to walk, to lift a sword?
Behind him, the two enormous beasts dug claws into the gravel and stretched out their long necks, huffing clouds of sulfurous breath into the wind as they spread their leathery wings wide. The keratinous skin covering their chests was thick, dark and… burnt? The rumors had been true, then, that her Russian colleagues in Kadskoye had succeeded in bioengineering a military-grade beast. A worrisome development.
“Control your beasts,” Natalia demanded, refusing to cower before them, no matter a simple command could end her with one snap of their sharp beaks.
With a quick motion of his hands, Dimitri signaled to the two creatures behind him. With a final flap, they folded their wings against their sides and settled onto the ground, reluctantly obedient.
“What do you want?” Natalia planted fists on hips. Aggressive posturing that was completely unenforceable. Should they choose to force the situation, to attack, she would not emerge the victor. But, by blade’s edge, she would make them regret the effort.
At Natalia’s brave—and perhaps foolish—challenge, Dimitri smiled. “You need to ask?” It was a grin that had once charmed her and convinced her father to serve as his mentor. Until he’d abandoned her broken body, then betrayed the man who wished only to cure his daughter. “My betrothed, there was no need for you to run.” His accent a reminder of her homeland, yet so very unwelcome falling from his lips. “Your father alone broke the rules. We’ve searched for years, but the British government hid you well. Until Rathail made it known that his catalogue of goods would soon include a certain rare species of dragon.”
Silently, she cursed her husband’s name.
Dimitri took a step forward, and she lifted her sword. “I am not your betrothed, you cold-hearted, opportunistic bastard. Not so much as a word of sympathy reached my ears as I lay dying.” She spit on the ground. “No, you were too busy exploiting the opportunity, crowing over our find, over the dragon eggs we located together. Carrying them back to the Ural Zavód, watching over them, celebrating the hatchlings. What did my father do, save to use the scraps you tossed away to attempt a cure?”
“One that worked.” He took another step forward, one with a slight hitch. Light spilling from the castle’s interior glinted off ice chips deeply embedded in his frozen eyes as he assessed her form. “One that ought to be shared.”
Her fingers twitched with a need to claw the arrogant expression from his face. “With you? A man who betrayed the woman he professed to love, all so that he might crown himself director of dragon research?” Natalia shook her head. Her heart had been right to save itself for Luke, the polar opposite of the man who stood before her. “Go. When you ordered my father killed, you destroyed the only man who could give you the knowledge you pursue. Go. Leave me in peace. There’s nothing here for you.”
“There’s a dragon.” Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. “A Russian dragon. One that a man named Rathail seeks to sell, piece by piece upon the black market, an unacceptable end.”
Agreed. Though she refused to voice the shared sentiment.
Dimitri flicked a hand, and Ivanov strode to his pteryform’s side to unknot a rope fastened about the neck of a large, canvas sack. The body of Rathail’s hunter slid free and slumped onto the ground with a soft thud. A dark, clotted gash gaped at this throat.
Ice shot through her body and, for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
“It proved impossible to convince him my claim to the dragon was stronger.” Dimitri’s eyes warned her she faced a s
imilar end if she refused to cooperate. “Agree to hand over your father’s notations and assist the dragon into its cage,” he waved a hand toward the corner of the courtyard where Kinross had met his untimely end attempting to force a hungry dragon behind bars, “and I will leave you—and your lover—to enjoy the damp and cold of this indefensible pile of rocks. The walking dead are of no concern to me.”
A cold sweat broke out over her skin. He knew of Luke’s wound and approved. Another inconvenient man who thought to block him from acquiring something he desired, easily swatted away. How many bodies littered his path? “I have no notes, no record of my father’s work.” But she couldn’t deny Zia’s presence. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. There was little hope of a peaceful resolution.
“Please.” Dimitri cocked his head, ignoring her implied threat. “You don’t truly expect me to believe that, do you? Ivanov attempted to extract them from you peacefully, to cultivate a friendship with Rathail’s hunter. Alas,” his grin grew sharp, “my intended had developed a certain amount of bite. He was right to send me word, if only that I might look upon you and fully recognize your father’s brilliance.”
“Michael!” Aileen ran down the stairs and into the castle courtyard, heedless of the tension, sparing not the slightest glance for Natalia, Dimitri, the pteryformes or the dead body that lay at their feet.
As she rushed past, the sleeve of her dress caught at the scarf loosely wrapped about Natalia’s neck. As it fell open, Natalia clutched at it with white knuckles. Too late. She held her breath, suppressing a scream. Luke was right; meeting with them face to face had been a mistake.
Dimitri’s visage brightened. “No record of your father’s work?” He leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Not written, perhaps, upon paper, but upon your skin. I must amend my original offer. Both you and the dragon will be returning to Russia.”
