The Black Dragon

by Allyson James

  Trying to ignore fear and pain, Saba began to form words of magic, calming her mind to build up energy inside her. In fury the dragon thrust his fingers into her mouth, twisting her tongue.

  "You only do spells for me, witch. If you don't, I'll hurt you in ways you can't even imagine. You will learn what I'll do to you if you disobey."

  Saba glared at him, wrenching away from his hand. "Bite me."

  He snarled in rage and threw her across the car. Saba hit a pole with bone-rattling pain before she slammed to the floor. Her umbrella flew out of her hands to slide out of reach under a seat.

  Before she could climb to her feet, the dragon was on her, his hands again locked around her throat. He knocked her head to the floor, slamming it until she tasted blood. Fear rocked through her. He could kill her, he was strong enough, and no one could reach her in time. The train was eerily quiet.

  He pressed her legs open with one knee and wrenched her skirt upward, exposing her thigh-high stockings. "I always wondered what the black dragon saw in you. Now that I am human, I think I understand."

  Saba screamed. She kicked, but the dragon pinned her legs and slapped her across the face. She fought with all the strength she had, twisting and writhing so he had to spend all his time keeping ahold of her.

  She had to get away. Run to the next car, scream for help, find someone. The train seemed impossibly empty, and she couldn't understand why, unless the dragon had used his manipulative magic to keep others away. And, chilling thought, if he'd marked other people in the train, they'd help him, not her.

  Saba forced the clamor in her mind to still. Witch magic was best when the witch had time to ground and center herself, to cast a circle, to light candles and raise energy in quiet solitude. She knew protection spells she could call when she was frightened, but right now her spinning mind couldn't form the words or the images she needed.

  All she had were the perfect crystalline spheres in the little silk pouch in her pocket. She was never certain why she'd not buried them in a drawer after Malcolm had gone, why she kept them on her nightstand and tucked them into her pocket each day. She kept telling herself that once she put away the dragon's tears she could make a clean break, but something would not let her lose track of them.

  She had no idea how to make them work or if they'd work at all. She used all her strength to roll away from the dragon, grunting as he backhanded her across the mouth. She thrust her hand into her pocket and fumbled for the pouch.

  The dragon grabbed her wrist, crushing it to the bone. "No you don't. What have you got in there? Mace?"

  He wrenched her hand from her pocket. She balled her fist around the pouch, nails tearing at the Chinese silk, a gift from her friend Lisa. As the dragon tried to rip the pouch from her grasp, Saba's thumb caught in the rip, and she felt the crystalline coolness of the stones roll to her palm.

  "Malcolm!" she screamed.

  The white-haired dragon reared back, his eyes burning points of green. "Bitch." He slapped her.

  There was a sharp tearing sound and the crystals leapt from Saba's hand. The train car filled with harsh, pounding magic that seared through every molecule until Saba thought her head would burst. A spear of light shot from the dragon's tears, blasting through the car and lighting up the tunnel rushing past, earth and snaking pipes and cement.

  The white dragon shouted in rage. Saba clapped her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the high-pitched whine of the magic, but it grew until she felt herself being crushed to a fine point. She dragged in her breath, scrambled away from the white dragon, and hauled herself onto a seat.

  A man stepped through the brilliant shaft of light. He was taller than the average male, somewhere between six and a half and seven feet, his naked body a honed perfection of muscle. Long black hair swirled around his shoulders as though he'd been walking in a windstorm.

  His amis were thick and corded with muscle, a tattoo of a dragon on his strong bicep. Black hair dusted his chest and brushed downward toward his pelvis, picking up again in a fine line below his navel. His large, thick stem pointed straight downward, suggesting how immense he would be when erect. The man's face was square and hard, his expression cold as frost on a January day, and his eyes spoke of power.

  Those eyes took in Saba in a quick glance, and she selfconsciously put her hand to the trickle of blood on the side of her mouth where her lip had split.

  Anger rolled from the man like a devastating wave. He turned that anger on the white-haired dragon who'd gotten to his feet, glaring at the newcomer in apprehension and fury.

  Malcolm attacked him. The white dragon drew a dagger, its shaft glittering in the magic light, but Malcolm knocked it aside and slammed the white dragon's body over a seat.

  Saba scrambled to her feet and snatched up the fallen knife. Every spell she tried to think of slipped from her mind as fast as it formed, and she clutched the knife, ready to plunge it into the white dragon if she got the chance.

  They fought hard, Malcolm's muscles bunching and flowing as he hauled the other dragon toward the opening the dragon's tears had formed. The white dragon resisted with all his strength, but Malcolm pulled him inexorably toward the slit, face set and grim.

  They struggled on the brink, the white dragon growling, Malcolm fighting silently and fiercely. When the white dragon slipped, Malcolm hauled him up and hurled him through the opening.

  The dragon disappeared in a flash of white. A strong wind blew through the portal, clear and clean, sending Saba's hair dancing.

  Malcolm slowly lowered his arms. Saba remained frozen in place, unable to move or speak.

  He walked slowly toward her, every step deliberate. His eyes flickered as his gaze roved her, taking her in from the top of her wind-tossed hair to the tips of her black ankle boots. She remained motionless, unable to even draw breath to say his name.

  Malcolm's muscles rippled as he lifted his hand, the tattoo moving on his biceps. He touched the bruised side of her mouth, and under his fingers, the pain lessened, the wound tingling as the skin tugged itself together.

  His touch moved to her lower lip, his fingertip running the length of the cut, closing it tight. A tiny drop of blood lingered on his fingertip, and he licked it away before he feathered a kiss across her lips.

  Saba was too dazed to do anything but accept the kiss. She stared up at him as he straightened and traced her cheek once more.

  "Malcolm," she whispered.

  He continued to stroke her cheek, his head moving a little to one side as though studying her. He said nothing, not to ask who the white dragon was or why he'd attacked her, why she was on the train, not even, So how have you been in the last eight months?

  His silence so mesmerized her that she couldn't blurt out any questions. She could only stand and feel him and wish she didn't love the contact of his fingers on her skin.

  The door behind her rattled, and Malcolm flicked his gaze to it. The normal sounds of the train came rushing back, the clicking of wheels, the hiss of the speaker as the conductor prepared to announce the next station, a person innocently moving into the car in search of an empty seat. The white dragon's strange hold over the train had gone.

  Malcolm gave Saba a final caress then turned swiftly, stretched out his arms, and dove through the slit. Just before the opening snicked shut, she saw a black speck of dragon in the distance spread his wings and take flight.

  The slit vanished, the light died, and the train heaved itself upward to Embarcadero Station. A passenger walked calmly into the car and plopped down on the far seat, not noticing a thing. Saba retrieved her umbrella, smoothed her hair with shaking fingers and sat down.

  Just before the train slid to a halt, she reached down and picked up the dragon's tears from the floor. Their crystalline structure had shattered, and they lay in scorched black shards in her hand.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Black dragons had the power of healing, Saba remembered as she examined her face in the ba
throom at home. The side of her mouth bore only faint bruising where the white dragon had hit her, and her lip had closed completely.

  The remainder of the journey home had been mundane and uneventful, thank the Goddess. She'd left the train at Civic Center and boarded a bus for the rest of the journey. Hopped off near Lafayette Park and walked to the big square mansard-roofed house on Octavia that housed four apartments. Saba herself owned the house and rented out the other three apartments, courtesy of Malcolm the black dragon. The day after Malcolm had departed last summer she'd gotten a phone call from the broker explaining that she needed to come in and sign some forms because Malcolm had deeded the house to her.

  Malcolm had told Saba he would give her the house when he left, so the phone call hadn't been a complete surprise. But seeing the forms in black and white had been something of a shock. She hadn't turned down the offer because she'd been renting in a run-down building in SoMa that hadn't been the safest place to live alone. In addition Malcolm had obtained employment for her at Technobabble, a prominent database software company whose owner happened to be one of Malcolm's minions. She hadn't had the guts to turn that down either. In the last eight months, she'd worked her way up to senior programmer—that she'd done on her own.

  The veneer of protection Malcolm had left over the house, which Saba had reinforced with witch wards, remained undisturbed tonight. If the white dragon or any other intruder had come while she'd been away, she'd have instantly known. But everything was in place in the hundred-year-old house, same as always.

  A traumatic situation that could have ended far worse than it had deserved a long soak in a hot bath and a good cry. She succeeded with the bath, a quick scrub under the shower followed by lowering herself into the Japanese-style soaking tub Malcolm had installed. But the tears wouldn't come. Every time she thought the flood would burst from her, her eyes remained stubbornly dry.

  Shock, she thought. The event had been too bizarre, too unexpected, too traumatic. The waterworks would likely happen two or three days from now when she least expected it and could least deal with it.

  But she was a witch, and she'd learned ways to combat evil and fear. After the bath she gathered silver candles, salt, amethysts, incense, a bowl of water, and her wand from the special sandalwood cabinet she had purchased to house them and carried everything into one of the apartment's two spare bedrooms.

  This room contained her altar to the Goddess and God, the walls hung with art that reminded her of the mystical along with her personal culture. Several Japanese silk panels, each depicting a single iris and a line of calligraphy, hung next to paintings of the goddess Diana and the horned God. Saba liked the aesthetic art from her Japanese heritage, simple, plain paintings that spoke volumes. She'd hung Japanese paintings in the living room as well, one of them depicting a black dragon.

  The altar table stood on the north wall, always adorned with seasonal flowers. Saba rolled up the bamboo floor matting she used instead of a rug, revealing the sketched outline of her circle which encompassed most of the room. She set the altar in the center of the circle, then placed the incense, water, one candle, and the salt in the four corners: north, south, east, and west. She walked three times around the circle, her wand pointed downward in her shaking hand, watching the silver nimbus rise from the line to close over her head like a large bubble.

  Safety. After saying her calls to the elements, she stood at the altar and invoked the Goddess and God to enter the circle with her. Her tears almost released when she felt the calming presence of the deities but stopped before she could do more than sniffle.

  She knelt in the middle of the circle and placed the broken dragon's tears on the altar. They'd cut into her hand when she called Malcolm's name, though now her palm bore only a faint scratch. She remembered the great pounding magic when the portal between the human world and Dragonspace opened and wondered if her blood touching the stones had made the summons stronger. A detached part of her mind told her she ought to research that.

  Tonight Malcolm's human features had been the same as when she'd first seen him, when she'd awakened, tied spread-eagled across her bed in the SoMa apartment, to find him sitting across the room leafing through her personal Book of Shadows. Had she, the summoning witch, stuffed him into the form with which she was most familiar? Or was this the projection of his true self, and would he look that way no matter who summoned him?

  Wouldn't it be nice if her emotions let her treat this as a scientific experiment? Then she could view tonight's events with dispassion instead of this nerve-wracking turmoil.

  But her mind flooded with fantasies about a gorgeous, black-haired male dragon in human form she'd likely never see again. The magic of the dragon's tears had allowed her to call him when things were dire, but the crystals were useless now.

  Sighing, she ended her meditation, took down the circle, put her things away, and went to bed.

  She dreamed of Malcolm. She remembered the first time he'd invaded her life, back in her tiny studio apartment. He'd appeared out of nowhere, a powerful dragon-man, weaving his mark around her to make her do his bidding. She'd helped him against her better judgment, but she'd been compelled to by the black and silver thought strands that wound through her mind and his strange powerful eyes.

  Malcolm had pleasured her in return, deep, bone-jarring pleasure that she'd never felt before or since. What he'd done with fingers and lips and tongue had brought her to incredible orgasm again and again, but he'd never had full sex with her and never let her pleasure him in return. She'd wanted to lie with him, to touch his body and share the joy, but he'd always held himself away from her.

  The night she'd tried to explain that his holding back hurt her, he hadn't understood. How could he? He was alien, a dragon from another world who was human only in shape.

  But oh, what shape. She saw him in her dreams, tall and firm of body, his shoulders broad and replete with muscle, his waist narrowing to taut hips, and the erection between his legs long and tight, lifting from wiry curls at its base. His biceps tightened as he leaned over her, his breath smelling of spice and male, his musk filling her.

  His voice rumbled low in his throat as he said her name, and the silver black bands of his thoughts slid down to twine hers. A beautiful man who'd enslaved her and made her his own. She'd eventually helped him because she believed in him, but at first she'd been bound, his.

  When he'd severed the bond and returned to Dragonspace, it had taken her weeks to get over it. No, that was not true. She'd never gotten over it. Here she was eight months later, still dreaming of the way he'd touched her, his fingers warm, his caress as erotic as ever.

  "Malcolm," she whispered.

  "My witch." His voice was a dark, velvet rumble.

  He climbed over her on the bed in her dream, his knees on either side of her hips. He lifted her hands and slid his fingers over her wrists, softly pinning her to the bed. She felt his lips touch hers, and she kissed him back, loving the dark way he made her feel.

  She dreamed he wound silk cords around her wrists. He attached the other ends of the cords to the headboard, stretching out her arms, then he eased the sheet from her body and bound her ankles in the same way.

  There she lay spread before him in nothing but her skin, her body warming in delight as his gaze roved her. "As beautiful as ever, my witch."

  She tried to answer. She wanted to shamelessly beg him to touch her, but her lips were heavy and she couldn't say a word.

  He bent over her, not to kiss her, but to study her more closely, as a dragon would new booty he had found for his hoard. "You always sleep so soundly," he murmured.

  "Only when I dream of you," she tried to say, but again, her mouth would not move.

  A skilled witch could control her dreams and dream what she wished. Saba had begun to master the art, but whenever Malcolm appeared in the dream world, her control shattered. She would dream of him tying her up and gazing at her, but she could never make him pleasure her, coul
d never make him have sex with her and ease the deep ache he'd caused long ago.

  Even now wakefulness came at her, not allowing her to enjoy vicarious fulfillment. She struggled, wanting to escape the frustration of the visions, yet at the same time wanting to prolong them. Malcolm laughed softly and withdrew, fading into the darkness of the night.

  With a gasp, Saba came awake.

  The light across the room was on, though she remembered snapping it off before climbing into bed. She was lying spread-eagled, her hands and feet bound to the bedposts with her own silk cords she used for witchcraft. She lifted her head.

  Malcolm sat, dressed, in front of her computer, his long legs stretched out in black leather pants and square-toed boots. His eyes flickered as he read the screen in front of him, but when he heard her stir, he glanced up, black hair sliding against leather-clad shoulders, eyes piercing the gloom.

  "You sleep soundly, my witch," he said.

  Saba stared at him in shock for a full minute, then dropped her head back to her pillows.

  "Goddess," she groaned. "Not again."

  Malcolm fingered the leather jacket he'd found still hanging in the wardrobe, the leather cool. "You kept my clothes," he observed.

  When he'd entered the dark apartment, he'd easily found his way to the bedroom, his mathematical brain remembering precisely where everything in the house lay. Saba hadn't moved the furniture much, and his dragon sight let him avoid the pieces she'd dragged into different positions.

  She'd been fast asleep on the wide bed that used to be his, bare limbs tangled in sheets. She'd left the mica-shaded lamp on beside the bed, which touched her limbs and curve of cheek with soft, dark light. She liked to sleep naked, and he'd spent a long time looking down at her before he'd touched her. So easy it had been to ease her body open for him, so easy to press light kisses to her lips. She dreamed, and never woke.

  He gazed now at her slim, tight body, the rounds of her breasts tipped with dark nipples, the twist of black hair between her thighs. He hadn't been able to resist fastening her to the headboard and footboard as he had the summer night he'd first met her. The bonds were loose, not meant to be cruel, meant to be a joke between them, but her glare told him she saw nothing funny.