by May Sage
“What did they imprison you for, anyway?”
Xandrie shrugged, looking away, before trying for a casual tone, “Consorting with a Demon, and all that.”
In other circumstances, that might have made him laugh. He’d seen demon-sworn minions, and she wasn’t one of them—not by a long shot. There was no mark on her face, none peeking under her clothes, save for a rune on her hand: an Aether rune. No demon could bear one of those. But, as far as he knew, no human should, either.
He wasn’t amused now because the woman looked sad, wounded. He moved closer, his body taking over; reaching her, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips on her forehead, just as he did with Demelza.
It didn’t feel the same, though. Instead of comfort and familiarity, hugging her awakened every part of him.
Thankfully, the world around them demanded his attention. Steel-capped boots and the sound of clanking side-arms meant more soldiers were headed their way. He might have fought the next wave, but as there was a chance that the guards might harm the woman at his side, he dismissed the idea. He’d come in through a window in the tower; it made sense to head out the same way.
“Mount me,” he said.
“Excuse me?” said Xandrie.
Rhey launched himself out the window and shifted mid jump, his white-and-gold scales shimmering in the moonlight. He did his best to keep his large frame steady, batting his wings to stay close to the window. He felt her hand on him, then her legs, and then she was astride him, her hot, sweet self snug against his neck. He flexed his shoulders and shook out his wings.
As the soldiers stormed the jail, Rhey took off into the night, taking the intriguing and enticing human with him.
She was going to be trouble, he knew it. He also was strangely, perversely, looking forward to it.
Xandrie had no recollection of Demelza rescuing her, so climbing on top of this golden dragon was, for all intents and purposes, her first flight. It was terrifying, and beautiful. The air around them was cool, but fragrant, the patchwork fields below a marvel, and the sensation of a muscular beast between her legs, simply indescribable. It wasn’t merely the fact that he was huge, he comported himself with grace and power. She had to hold on to him tightly, as each movement of his wings projected them almost a mile away. Xandrie peeked underneath the beast and held on for dear life.
As moments passed without seeing her fall to her doom, she gulped and leaned sideways to peek again. This time, although her brain still came up with a million ways how she could fall to her certain death, she smiled faintly.
She had never traveled, nor seen any other part of the kingdom but the Northern Var, where she lived, but they left that place—home to her captors, her jailers, and her family—at top speed. They crossed the Lakelands, a marvel of waterfalls and winding rivers that pooled into freshwater lakes; then they soared over the red-painted Plains, dodging thunderheads and stratocumulus, alike—places she’d only seen in books, and projected on a wall. In the rare hours when the villagers were allowed the use of electricity, they gathered in the town hall to watch shows and movies. She’d looked at the other kingdoms with such longing, and now she’d seen them with her own eyes.
From above. Way, way, way above. Her stomach jumped to her throat and she plastered herself against the warm metallic scales. She’d been brave enough for one day. The low rumbling coming from the beast’s chest was comforting—which did make her think she quite possibly wasn’t all there in the head. Who, exactly, found dragons comforting? But she did close her eyes, and caught a nap.
Eventually, Xandrie awoke, feeling them banking to the right and descending. She craned her neck, to look over his head. She’d heard tales, but nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling beauty of the legendary kingdom of Farden, home to the dragons.
She was hit with wave after wave of wonder as they flew on, but figured she must have fallen asleep and been swept up in a dream as they came in to land in the Golden City of Tenelar. The castle that dominated the horizon was the most unearthly structure she’d ever seen. There were towers and turrets, buttresses and battlements, ramparts and roundhouses. She saw a moat, a portcullis, and a drawbridge; in short, everything she might have expected in a castle, but executed with such finesse, she would have sworn it was a mirage, rather than the crystalline home to the fire-breathers.
The dragon slowed and coasted, then came in for a smooth-as-silk landing.
She dismounted and put her hand out to thank him. He shifted under her touch and instead of scales, she found her sweaty hand on a pair of sexy abs. Two, four, six… yep. He had a damn eight-pack. Those things did exist, apparently. Thankfully, they were soon interrupted, or she might have spent eternity feeling him up.
Was there drool on her chin?
“You made it.” Demelza raced across the courtyard and threw her arms around the hunk that had just flown Xandrie further than even her wildest imaginings had traveled. “You’re the best. I knew you’d do it.” Then, turning to Xandrie, she asked, “You good? Everything in one piece? I saw flashes, people coming at you with torture tools…”
Xandrie hugged her friend hard, thanking her because it was due to her she was alive. If Demelza hadn’t sent her friend—or servant—to get her, she’d almost certainly have been at the bottom of the pond by now.
“Did they hurt you?” her friend asked again, knowing that she’d been avoiding the question. She frowned, and glanced to the hunky dragon shifter. She didn’t want him to know what a freak she was—but he stood there, arms crossed, staring at her as if to dare her to tell him to leave.
“They tried. I can’t explain what happened, Elza, I just can’t. The weapons couldn’t touch me—couldn’t get close to me. I really do have fire magic, for some reason…”
She then lifted her palm, showing the rune branded to her skin.
“It all started with this, and I felt it each time that magic came out of me.”
As her friend had made it clear that their relationship wouldn’t be approved of by their kind, she didn’t say it out loud, but Demelza understood; it had all started with her, changing something in Xandrie’s nature when she saved her.
“Right,” Mr. Hunk said, holding his hands up, as if to physically remove himself from the situation. “I did my share. She’s your responsibility now, Elza, keep her out of trouble. And if the Elders come after her, you’re the one doing the fancy talking…”
Xandrie watched his perfect ass and strong legs taking him away from her. She snuck her hand to her nose and sniffed his wild, woodsy scent that reminded her of the things she loved best—the outdoors, nature, and the beasts of the forest.
“Is he working for you? And if so, how do I get me one of those?”
Demelza giggled, shaking her head as she told her, “I wouldn’t say so, no. That’s Rhey.” Xandrie didn’t catch on, and her expression must have made that clear, because her friend explained, “Rhey Vasili of Farden, king of all he surveys.”
Dragon Blood
Attending Council meetings was a tiresome formality, but Rhey did his duty, nonetheless. Today, he’d welcome the dreary task; it would beat sitting around thinking about the human who had the entire palace in an uproar.
As his nonexistent luck would have it, the damn Council was up in arms about Xandrie, too.
The Clerk described her in detail, for the record. “Auburn hair—shoulder length. Height, five foot six.”
He’d say five-seven, actually. And now, he was thinking about her again—which made him hard.
“Brown eyes, race…”
“Green,” he growled. Fourteen heads—his Councilmen and the Clerk’s—turned to him. “Her eyes are green.”
The Clerk nodded, and resumed his pointless description; then his Councilors set about debating what to do with her, which effectively killed his arousal and made him see red, instead.
“She needs to be examined, thoroughly; I propose to run some tests. She was, after all, accused of demonic sorc
ery.” It was no surprise that the Chief Medic was a fan of examination, perhaps even dissection.
“She should be quarantined in the Isolation Ward. That way, she won’t be able to sow dissent or spread any of the diseases she might be carrying.”
Rhey waggled a brow. dragons didn’t get affected by viruses the way humans did; their systems burned most ailments before they could take hold.
The more militant, anti-human faction of the Council roared its disapproval—apparently, that wasn’t enough nonsense for them. They were all for immediate extermination. Their kind didn’t mix with hers for good reason: they considered humans vermin.
“This is hardly necessary.” That came from Nathos, his chief advisor.
Rhey had inherited the politician when he’d taken the throne—Nathos had been his father’s right hand. They didn’t often see eye to eye, but he’d never thought of replacing him, because the man was clever, knowledgeable, and far too valuable. The issue was that the close-to-a-thousand-year-old ancient dragon understandably saw Rhey as nothing more than a child; he rubbed him the wrong way.
“The child could carry no illness that may affect our race. That being said, this is too much of a coincidence—the northern border falls, then we have a human calling a dragon princess to her aid? Highly unusual. We must proceed with caution.”
Rhey shook his head. Level-headed, sensible Councilors were scrambling to outdo one another with ridiculous solutions to a non-problem. She was just an ordinary woman, with a strange link to Demelza, and an Aether rune.
Another time, he might have brought this up, asked what it could mean—when they wanted to make use of it, the Elders did have a lot of knowledge. Now, he had other priorities. The wisest men of Farden couldn’t agree whether to study her, imprison her, vanquish her to the deepest depths of the kingdom’s darkest dungeon, or parade her about the place in a Plexiglas viewing tube. Madness. He stood, and everyone around the table fell silent.
“She came here as my guest and will be treated with respect.”
He was met with a torrent of disapproval. Xandrie provoked such violent feelings in his Advisers, they spoke their minds with unusual frankness. She was “a freak who’d provoke rioting and unrest,” and was “probably sent as a double agent...” they said.
He’d had enough. “She’ll be quartered in the palace and will move about only with my express permission or under Demelza’s guard.” This was smart, and he was all for being cautious, not stupid. He held up his hand, demanding silence. “The debate is closed. Move on to matters of State.”
The king had spoken, when the king rarely spoke. There’d be gossip about that, for sure, but Rhey didn’t care. He couldn’t stand to hear her name spoken another minute. He’d had his fill of the woman who’d identified herself as Alexandria Astria for the day.
They moved on to actual problems, and they had enough of those.
“Foreign dragons have been spotted by scouts; Sir Vincent is coming back from his patrol with a full report as we speak, but he communicated enough details—we have reason to be concerned. There are twelve of them, armed and well supplied, which makes us think it can’t be Ferals.”
“Absolians,” Rhey guessed.
Absolia, the other dragon kingdom, was just as abundant as Farden, so one might think they’d stay away, yet they persisted in doing their best to bother them every other year. As Farden was heavily guarded, as well as protected by spells, they attempted to sneak in.
“Mayhap,” his first counselor replied; trying to get a straightforward answer from Nathos was like extracting blood from a stone. “The guard didn’t say. But I advise that we call a hunt, soon, if these strangers do not pass.”
Rhey nodded, attempting to conceal his eagerness. Good news at long last. Hunts were fun.
Xandrie loved palace life, and was fascinated by the modern conveniences she’d never seen in Malec. There was a rustic charm to the place, and, at the same time, she came across foreign, futuristic devices that fascinated her; curious as she was, she couldn’t stop herself from pressing random buttons, which, more than once, had ended up with her locked in the toilet or adding sizzling hot water to her bath. That might have been a problem if she wasn’t still mysteriously immune to heat.
Xandrie was waited on hand and foot. Demelza explained she was officially classified as the king’s guest, which, it turned out, had some serious perks, such as a room larger than her parent’s house, and breakfast served in bed.
Xandrie befriended the people who served her. She knew, deep in her bones, what it was like to be treated like a nobody, and she wouldn’t do it to anyone else.
The dragoness who helped her into her weird, unfamiliar clothes with too many little leather ties was called Sid, and, every day she told her off, scowling as she muttered, “Women these days! All bones. How do you hope to give birth to a dragonling if you don’t gain some weight, hey?”
She spoke like she was ancient, and Xandrie didn’t question it—adult dragons all seemed to be around the same age, so she had to conclude that they kept their looks throughout the ages, as the legends said.
Lucky buggers. In another twenty years, at most, she’d start to wrinkle.
“I don’t think I’ll birth any dragonlings, Sid,” she replied, and the woman snorted.
“Nonsense. You’ve a bonny face. There will be dozens of lords and whatnot after you once they see you’re alright.”
Doubtful. The only suitor she’d had was Mr. Creep the Rapist, and she was certain he’d seen her as a way into a mage family.
“If you say so.”
“I see so. Look at you.”
Xandrie did, mainly because the woman moved her head to make her face a claw- footed full-length mirror. She had to admit her appearance had improved—she had the right clothes on, now. Soft velvet hugging the form she hadn’t noticed.
She smiled, thinking about her change of fortune. She had sumptuous rooms, a cook who was damned-near a magician, servants, and, as there wasn’t any use for her in the palace, they’d named her companion of Her Highness, Demelza. That meant she got to spend her time walking about with her friend, or, better yet, training with her.
If only her sister Talia, and Claws, had been there, it would have been absolute perfection; there wasn’t a day when Xandrie didn’t think of them and long for their presence.
Thankfully, she was kept too distracted to give in to melancholy. It wasn’t just the physical space and the astounding people that made Farden a dream come true for Xandrie, it was the kickass routine that made up her day. She and Demelza sparred every morning, Sir Vincent Vasili spurring them on.
“You need to hold the sword in the traditional way.” He scooted behind Xandrie and put his arms around her, showing her the correct stance.
Interesting how noninvasive he felt; like her brother, but blond, honed, and more muscular than Damion. Not her type at all, but Vincent was pleasant and pleasing, with a wicked sense of humor.
Xandrie smiled at her own thought: her type. She’d never had one before, to her knowledge. Some actors in movies had seemed attractive, and she’d certainly noticed the beauty of the two Elves she’d met what felt like a lifetime ago. Now, she had a defined type: a little taller than Vincent, a little larger in the shoulder, with piercing eyes, a beard, and ash blond hair.
Shaking her head, she forced all thought of Rhey Vasili out of her mind, like she did every time he crept in. For one, the man happened to be a freaking king. There was probably a law against lusting after kings.
Vincent placed her hands on the sword. “The hilt is long enough to accommodate both hands, which you’ll need if you want to slice someone with this bad boy.”
Xandrie rotated her wrists, sending the sword in a singing arc above their heads.
“No. You’re not beating meringue. You’re brandishing a heavy class-A weapon. The wrists remain still. Try to keep it steady, because your adversary certainly knows how to use hers.”
Vincent nod
ded towards Demelza, who came at her, full on. The Claiming was only days away; she’d said she needed all the practice she could get.
Vincent dodged to the edge of the arena, grinning like the proverbial cat. He loved training, so much so that Xandrie wondered why he didn’t make it his profession.
Demelza did not mess around. She danced to this side, then that, then behind her with her kabutowari, the famed helmet-breaker—singeing the hairs on Xandrie’s arms as it flew by. Xandrie had neither Demelza’s speed, nor skill, but Vincent said she had good instincts, and grit, which she took to mean she might catch up to Demelza someday. Possibly. Maybe. As much as a human could catch up to a dragon. She couldn’t imagine when, though; Demelza was faster than a damned dervish.
“Cheater.” Xandrie fell back, mopping her forehead with her sleeve. “You can only move that fast using magic.”
“So? Use yours,” said Vincent.
Both women stopped dead in their tracks.
“What do you mean?” said Xandrie.
Vincent looked at Demelza. “Surely you feel it?”
Demelza shook her head. “You lost me, cuz.”
Vincent pointed to Xandrie’s abdomen, saying, “Here, in the pit of your belly, you feel power stir?”
She just frowned, confused.
“You have plenty of magics in you, little girl; not just mage blood, but dragonfire, too.”
As he spoke, Vincent walked forward, invading her personal space like he belonged there, and grabbed her hand.
She was a second away from kneeing his groin, but he did something she hadn’t seen coming; something she didn’t quite understand. He touched her hand—the one marked by that strange rune—his own palm ablaze with dragonfire.
“Holy shitty dragon fucking scale.”
That came from Demelza, but had she been able to talk, Xandrie would have agreed. Her rune shone, and, all of a sudden,4 power did radiate from her entrails, she felt it in her bones.
