The Blood King

by Abigail Owen

  “Is that a challenge?” His eyes glowed with an inner flame. Damn, the man’s dragon was still close to the surface.

  And that is not sexy.

  Who was she kidding?

  “Consider it a warning,” Skylar said.

  “I accept.”

  That sense of purpose settled inside her more fully. Centuries of running…wandering, and for what? To stay safe? She’d never seen the point, but her mother had been obsessed, and Skylar had her sisters to think about.

  She had no intention of jumping into anything without the proof she’d asked for. But… What if helping these new kings could liberate her sisters still in hiding? Angelika and Meira were…softer, sweeter. They wouldn’t fight for themselves. They’d stay hidden as long as they could.

  If Ladon convinced her that dragons were worthy, she’d stay, even knowing what that ultimately meant for her. If not, she’d kill the Blood King and every other dragon in here on her way out the fucking door. Maybe trigger an avalanche for good measure.

  …

  That was too easy.

  For a woman who’d just tried to climb her way off the mountain, she’d given in faster than he’d expected.

  The cold, logical part of him whispered that two other phoenixes existed who could fulfill his needs, and this one was clearly going to be a pain in his ass. He should wait for one of the other sisters and pursue her instead.

  But he’d laid a claim the second he’d clapped eyes on Skylar, and a part of him usually frozen deep in his core wanted this woman. Hell, the dragon half of him stirred restlessly inside, eager to claim her now. It made no sense, so he shut it down. Ignored it in favor of logic. He couldn’t risk any of the other kings getting her. He’d have to pray to the gods that Skylar would choose him, and then, if by some miracle she decided in his favor, that this phoenix was the one. The fates couldn’t be so cruel as to muddy the waters with four. The High King was needed to bring all dragon shifters together. The right High King. He needed that if his people were going to survive this war. That was all. “I have a few conditions.”

  Her dark eyebrows winged high. “You think you have leverage to insist on conditions?”

  Ladon shrugged. “I could kick you out while Kasia stays here and we find your other two sisters and bring them under our protection.”

  Her scowl came fast and fierce. “I wouldn’t let you find them—”

  “You’re one woman against a legion of dragon shifters.” He uttered those cold words with no regret or remorse and watched them hit the mark, her eyes widening, though no fear flashed in those icy depths, only anger.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “I’d rather convince you to help bring them here.”

  She settled back, glaring at him. He’d be a human Popsicle if looks could freeze. “What conditions?”

  Now he was getting somewhere.

  He held up a hand, ticking them off on his fingers. “One, you accompany me everywhere, observing how things are, how I lead, meeting my people and my warriors.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you don’t interfere. Not until you are my mate.”

  Lips flat, she nodded.

  “Two, you sleep in my suite.”

  Her rejection came immediately as she took a jerky step back. “Fuck that—”

  He slashed a hand through the air. “I didn’t say in my bed. I have another room in which you can sleep.”

  That slowed her backward progress, though suspicion continued to spark back at him. “Why?”

  “Partly because I am interrupted with business and information at all hours, and I don’t want to have to track you down every time you need to be there.”

  Her shoulders dropped a hair. “You said partly. What else?”

  “This.” Ladon took three steps until he was close enough to feel the warmth of her body, despite the mist-laden chill in the air humans would probably find freezing. He ran the back of his fingers down the side of her face. Damn, her skin was incredibly soft against his battle-rough hands. This close, the urge to taste those lips rose inside him, dragging at him like a riptide.

  How could she have this kind of pull on him already?

  Skylar froze, her lips parting in what he wanted to interpret as an unconscious invitation. His body, hard with need, pushed him to take, claim, and plunder, but that needed to come later.

  She didn’t pull back. Too stubborn, he’d bet. The woman didn’t know how to back down. Neither did he.

  “Condition three,” he murmured, his gaze on those fantasy-inducing lips. What would they look like wrapped around him? “Only stay if becoming my mate is on the table.”

  He was taking a huge risk. She could walk away, and he’d be fucked.

  Slowly she pulled back, a steel wall slamming down behind her eyes. Not that there’d been much give in her a second ago. “I figured mating was the endgame. But you should know, even if we mated, I’m not the type of woman to be claimed like property. I won’t be a figurehead, trotted out for special occasions.”

  Just like Kasia. He should’ve seen that one coming. Ladon dropped his hand to his side as an answering determination settled deep in his gut. “I don’t blame you.”

  Her chin lifted a fraction. “No?”

  “No. I’ll earn your trust. When I do that, you mate me. We figure it out from there.”

  She eyed him warily, and he held his breath. Had he read her wrong? He got the impression this woman didn’t back down from a challenge. “If you earn my trust.”

  Her words shouldn’t have his blood pumping, but he couldn’t deny they did. What would it take to get the firebird to submit to him? His body was eager to find out, had been since she’d walked into the conference room with that smoke and cloves scent of hers.

  He stepped back, needing space between them before he did something stupid, and held out a hand instead. “Do you agree to all my conditions?”

  “Do I have a choice?” she flung at him.

  “You could walk away. I won’t stop you.” An outright lie. Not that he’d meant to lie to her, but the sudden image of Pytheios anywhere near her slammed a black rage through him that took every ounce of his control to subdue.

  “I’ll find your sisters, though,” he continued. No way would a woman who broke into a dragon lair to rescue one sister walk away when all three were in play.

  Skylar’s lips pulled back in a snarl this side of feral. “Not the best way to gain my trust,” she observed, almost idly. But he recognized the anger sparking in her eyes anyway.

  “Only if you force my hand. I want you.” The hard truth of those words settled under his skin like shards of glass.

  Skylar’s eyes flared wide, and, for a brief flash, he thought an answering heat glittered back at him before she shifted her wary gaze to his outstretched hand. “I’m totally going to regret this,” she muttered, more to herself. Slowly she reached out to shake, and triumph lit fire through his blood. “Agreed,” she said.

  “Excellent.” He tightened his grip as she tried to extricate her hand. “Let’s get started. I’ll fly us back down.”

  She spun on one booted heel and headed toward the edge. “I’ll climb down on my own, thanks.”

  “With me at all times.” He let the reminder hang in the air between them.

  She paused, and he got the distinct impression that she was arguing with herself right then, though his enhanced hearing didn’t pick up any mutterings.

  Then her shoulders lifted in a sigh. “Fine,” she capitulated. “Go ahead and shift. I’ll wait.”

  With her toe tapping in impatience.

  Ladon started his shift to hide another shaft of amusement, an emotion that had been foreign to him for a long time. He hadn’t found much to smile about in decades. Centuries. He shouldn’t find her in-your-face personality amusing. Th
at damn sure wasn’t her intention.

  But no one challenged him like she did. Not even before he took the throne. Maybe getting his little phoenix to find him worthy would be more fun than he’d thought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pytheios commandeered the Gold Throne—a gilded, carved masterpiece of beauty—deep in the heart of Store Skagastølstind, the mountain stronghold of the Gold Clan in Norway. Fingers steepled in front of his mouth, he pretended to listen to the previous king’s lame-duck heir.

  Brock Hagan should be king, yet the Gold Clan remained divided. Half bore the mark of Brand Astarot on the space between their thumb and forefinger. The other half, possibly those still loyal to the Hagan name, bore no mark at all, technically setting them as rogues.

  But why? He might be young, but Brock was confident, intelligent, a leader.

  Pytheios allowed his gaze to drift to his own son, Merikh. His slighter body, slouched shoulders, and fancy suit stood in stark contrast to Brock’s utilitarian gear worn with the air of a fighter. Brock was ready for battle, Merikh a day at the office.

  And I thought to make him my heir, put him on the Blue Throne.

  Although that had partly been to control his son’s mother. He needed his powerful witch to remain loyal. Needed her to continue draining paranormal creatures’ power and syphoning it into his body, to keep him alive. At least until she could do so with a phoenix.

  Phoenixes were rumored to be immortal. If Rhiamon transferred the powers of one—just one—he would live forever. Rule forever.

  No need for an heir.

  His gaze slid back to Brock. Though perhaps alternatives to a blood heir should be considered. Immortality wasn’t his yet. Even once it was, he would need strong men ruling the clans under him. Uther had been ruthless, and his participation in taking out Zilant Amon had also given the gold dragon reason to remain faithful. Pytheios didn’t have that axe to hang over the son’s head. Plus, he got the impression that Brock was more unpredictable, which could make him more dangerous. Not necessarily a bad thing.

  But will he be loyal?

  “If we attack now,” Brock was saying, “with the might of the Gold, Green, and Red Clans, we’ll topple Ormarr from his throne, kill Astarot, and crush this rebellion before it’s truly started.” Brock slammed a fist on the large glass tabletop, currently in screen mode, showing thermal imaging of Ben Nevis, the Scottish mountain that housed the Blue Clan.

  “The rebellion is already started,” Pytheios pointed out in bored tones that brought a flush to the younger man’s skin.

  Uther had been almost amber in coloring, but his offspring could possibly pass for a black dragon if, true to form, his scales reflected the darker coloring of his eyes.

  “Then we finish it.” Brock’s hands formed into fists.

  Pytheios locked gazes with the impudent pup still yapping for scraps and waited. After a long tension-filled silence, Brock sneered and glanced away, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  Ah, there it is. The flash of fear in the younger man’s eyes that told Pytheios everything he needed to know. Like Uther, Brock could be loyal. Could be controlled. Perchance, more.

  “Do you have a better idea?” Brock asked.

  Pytheios rose slowly to disguise the stiffness that had invaded his aging joints of late. He did better in the thinner air of his own mountain stronghold in the Himalayas and should return there posthaste.

  “Your father already tried attacking Ormarr directly. Tried…” He deliberately glanced at Brock’s hand where the brand of a king should show. “And failed.”

  Brock’s eyes flared with gold flame, casting his face in a surreal glow. Good. He’d need that anger to see this through. Ormarr had proven himself a difficult opponent. With Astarot at his side, and mated to that fucking phoenix…

  “I’m not my father,” Brock spat.

  “No?”

  Brock loosed a low rumble that bounced off the rock walls. Before he could do more, Pytheios shot across the room, though his bones protested. He wrapped one gnarled hand around the younger man’s neck and used their combined momentum to slam him into the stone, leaving a human-sized imprint.

  Pytheios held him there, suspended and choking. “Growl at me again, and I’ll rip out your jugular. Understand?”

  Deliberately, he’d pitched his voice in casual tones, as though he wasn’t choking the life out of the man twisting in his grasp.

  Brock clawed at his arms, legs thrashing in the air but finding no purchase. Still, he managed to nod.

  Pytheios released him and deliberately turned his back to return to the map displayed on the black glass of the table in the center.

  “What do you suggest, my lord?” The voice behind him came out strangled, and satisfaction settled over Pytheios’s shoulders like a cloak.

  “We don’t attack them. We give them a reason to come to you.”

  Brock stepped up to the table, where his own Beta and several advisors stood in silent anticipation. “How does that help? I can’t defend this place. Most of my warriors are still prisoners in Ormarr’s godsforsaken fortress. I run this place with women who have never been trained to fight, children too young for their first shifts, and a council of blithering old fools.”

  A glance at the group of men who looked to be sucking on lemons at Brock’s words didn’t change Pytheios’s opinion any. Brock’s father, Uther, had surrounded himself with men easy to control. Not fighters or leaders.

  “We give them what they need most.” Pytheios gave a grim smile of anticipation.

  “What does that mean?” Brock demanded. At a single glance from Pytheios, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I don’t understand.”

  “Brand Astarot believes all he must do is put down a small contingency of followers loyal to you, and the rest of the clan will fall in with him as their king.”

  Their sources had reported that Astarot held Brock’s men within the bowels of Ben Nevis’s dungeons. Only those whose hands had shown the mark of house Astarot had been allowed to live. The same had happened here. Those with the mark of Astarot gathered and held. However, the numbers of branded were greater than expected.

  Damn that phoenix. Her existence was already having an impact.

  In the end, it wouldn’t matter. No dragon shifter wanted to follow a rogue. A true rogue, as Brand had been most of his life. The dregs of their society, rogues were usually hunted down and killed by their own. As soon as Brand was killed, his mate would die, too, and loyalty would return to the rightful king.

  Ormarr was the bigger concern.

  That traitor had taken his throne by force with the support of people who already knew him. There was no question of his rule as every blue dragon shifter bore his mark. And Ormarr had proven he’d kill anyone and anything that got in his way.

  However, Ormarr would have to help his friend. He needed allies, too.

  “They have no choice but to risk coming here,” Brock said slowly. “They must take this throne to legitimize his reign.”

  Pytheios ran a hand over the smooth screen with the warm bodies glowing red. “They will take their time and attack only when they have the numbers.”

  Brock shook his head. “They could wait me out, pick off those loyal to me a few at a time.”

  Pytheios smiled, ignoring the way the expression pulled painfully at his skin, and enjoyed the way Brock’s face blanched. With the way his flesh hung from his bones these days, he was well aware how…grotesque…his smiles could be. “So, we give them incentive to come sooner. Before they are ready.”

  To give the man credit, Brock quickly collected himself. “I will not be able to defend this mountain with my depleted numbers. Will the red army be at my disposal?”

  “Not the red army, but green.”

  King Fraener, who stood silently among those listening, gave an eager nod. “You know
you have our support.”

  The King of the Green Clan had already lost men in the attack on Ben Nevis, but Fraener had always been a loyal dog. He would sacrifice more before this was over.

  “We’ll need a large number of forces,” Brock insisted, hands curling into fists on the glass top, the touchscreen responding and scrolling the map, though that fact went unnoticed by the man. “This must be a decisive victory.”

  “I agree,” Pytheios murmured. “Which is why I have called in the services of one of the other kings.”

  Brock lifted his head at that, a suddenly eager expression turning his yellow-tinted eyes even lighter. “Who?”

  A door nearby banged and every head in the room turned to face the massive carved doors that led into the throne room. Within seconds, those slammed open as well and a man with skin the hue of an ancient gold coin entered. He ran into the room with the harried expression of someone on a mission.

  “My kings,” he paused to bow first to Pytheios, then Brock, then Fraener. “My commander sent me directly to you with a message.”

  Pytheios slashed a hand through the air. “Speak.”

  “Another phoenix has been located, sir.”

  The very air in the room seemed to still as the words echoed off the high ceilings of the chamber.

  Pytheios hid a building rage behind a blank expression. He’d hoped to have more time before any other kings discovered that secret.

  No one else had known Serefina survived after Zilant was gone, believing she’d died with her mate. Pytheios had always known he’d eventually hunt her down. He’d planned to keep her ashes in his personal chambers—right beside the urns carrying the ashes of her lover, her mother, and her father. The constant cold had preserved their charred remains nicely.

  Too late now.

  Pytheios aimed a glare at the tall, bony man lurking in the shadows of the room, his pale red hair pulled back in a ponytail that draped over one black silk-clad arm. How had Jakkobah, one of his most trusted advisors, not known already? The man called the Stoat behind his back—thanks to his weasel-like appearance and time-tested ability to be everywhere and know everything—should have been the first to know.