Tears of the Dragon

by Kaitlyn O'Connor

  TEARS OF THE DRAGON

  by

  Angelique Anjou

  ( c ) copyright 2004 Kaitlyn O’Connor

  Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright 2012

  Smashwords Edition

  New Concepts Publishing

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Chapter One

  Lennie nudged his partner. “That’s her, comin’ down the steps.”

  “Which one?” Tony peered through the gathering gloom.

  Lennie glared at him. “The dame, ya moron.”

  “My eyes ain’t so good after dark,” Tony said sulkily. “An’ anyway, she was behind the hulking giant there. I thought you was talkin’ ‘bout one of them dames over there by the sidewalk.”

  “Them’s workin’ girls, numb nuts. Just get the damned trunk open,” Lennie growled, crawling out of the car as the petite redhead reached the sidewalk, bid the man who was with her good evening and turned in their direction.

  She was a pretty little thing, Lennie thought as she came closer and he was able to make out her features … delicate … like one of them china dolls, but with curves in all the right places. It was a pure waste to whack a dame that looked that good. He didn’t like doing dames anyway. It offended him, almost as bad as having to whack a kid. He wondered what she’d done to tick his boss off.

  Shrugging it off, he stepped away from the car when she came abreast of him. “S’cuse me, ma’am? I wonder if you could point me in the direction of 110th street?”

  The woman paused, looked him over curiously. “This is 110th,” she said in surprise.

  He looked around, saw no one was looking in their direction and grabbed her, covering her mouth with his hand as he hauled her off her feet and moved to the trunk of the car, which was open and waiting, Tony nervously fingering the lid.

  The woman, Lennie noticed, had gone limp in his arms the moment he’d grabbed her. He wasn’t falling for that one though. Dropping her into the trunk, he stuffed a gag in her mouth, tied it with quick efficiency, and trussed her like a Thanksgiving turkey. The whole job took less than five minutes, but Tony looked like he was going to pee on himself as he danced around the rear of the car.

  “You need to take a leak, or what?” Lennie snarled as he slammed the trunk lid.

  “I don’t like grabbin’ her right here in the street. No tellin’ who might’ve seen it. We shoulda waited, like I said, till she was close to an alley.”

  Lennie gave him a look. “Get in the car, moron. She don’t walk by no alley. She catches a cab at the corner and hits for home. I been watchin’ her for a week.”

  “What’er we gonna do now?” Tony asked nervously, once they were settled in the car again.

  “We go to the docks. Where else?”

  “What ya got in mind?”

  “Somethin’ quiet. I figured we could tie a brick to her or somethin’ and pitch her over the side. Boss didn’t say to get rid of the body, but he likes things tidy, so I figure he’ll be happier if we don’t leave it layin’ around.”

  “She sure is pretty,” Tony said wistfully.

  “Yeah? And how would you know? You didn’t even know which dame I was talkin’ about.”

  “Think we got time to get a little honey before we snuff her?”

  Lennie gave him a look. “Hey! She’s a lady. Didn’t your mudder teach you no manners? You don’t get fresh with ladies.”

  Tony gaped at him. “But … but … we’re gonna snuff the dame!”

  “That’s different. It ain’t personal. We’re just doin’ our job here. An’ our job ain’t about rapin’ and pilagin’. It’s about makin’ the boss’s problems disappear. Besides, foolin’ around is dangerous.” He shook his head. “We off her. We tie an anchor to her and we ditch her.”

  * * * *

  Khalia Peterson couldn’t decide whether the discussion, which was perfectly audible to her in the trunk, was intended to scare her or if they didn’t realize, or didn’t care, that she could hear them.

  She was irritated, regardless. She was a lady. They had no business manhandling her in such a way. They’d ruined her coiffure! Her suit was probably ruined, as well, and she’d just bought it the week before. The trunk stank of chemicals and the lord only knew what else.

  What really ticked her off, though, was that they’d put her in the position of having to complete the destruction of her lovely suit. She’d been thinking it over ever since they’d tossed her into the trunk. The big ox that had grabbed her had said they were headed for the docks, which meant she might have twenty minutes to come up with an alternative.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of one.

  Sighing, trying to tamp her justifiable anger, she concentrated on shifting.

  She must have concentrated for a full ten minutes. All the while, she was jounced unmercifully in the trunk as her kidnappers seemed to go out of their way to find every stinking pothole between 110th and the docks, until she began to think she must know what it felt like to be a basketball.

  Nothing happened and her confidence began to seep insidiously away as the sound of heavy traffic faded and they drew nearer their destination. Resolutely, she ignored the gradual siphoning of her assurance. She’d always prided herself on her clear-head in the face of disaster, her ability to calmly assess any situation and pursue the most logical course.

  She had first learned that she could shift when she’d reached puberty. It wasn’t a ‘gift’ that she’d found a great deal of use for, however, and, if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t particularly thrilled at the ability to become a female of Amazonian proportions merely by willing it. There were certainly drawbacks to being a small person, but weren’t there always drawbacks with everything? And she rather liked being referred to as petite. In her mind, it made up for some of her other shortcomings--her garish, blindingly red hair, for instance.

  She supposed now, though, that she might ought to have practiced her gift in case of need. She needed it now, if she ever had, and she couldn’t seem to recall how she’d summoned it before.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her mind to the tell tale thump of the tires over wooden planks that told her they’d reached the docks and concentrated once more, her mind focused on the discomfort of having her hands tied behind her back.

  Even as the car slowed and abruptly rocked to a halt, she felt a tingle in her hands and arms, then the burning sensation as bones and muscle lengthened and stretched, bursting the sleeves of her jacket and then the rope around her wrists.

  It was heartening, but hardly enough. Two huge arms weren’t going to be enough to fight off two men with guns.

  As she heard the doors slam and the footfalls of the men coming around to the back of the car, she thought of the amulet she always wore next to her heart, the dragon’s tear.

  They were after it. That had to be the reason behind this and ‘the boss’ they’d referred to none other than Clyde Hawkins. He’d approached her only the week before regarding the legend of the tear, hinting that he suspected she had it in her possession.

  Digging it from her bodice, she clutched the tear possessively. It was all that she had from the mother she’d never known. She wouldn’t part from it for any price. She wasn’t about to allow these hooligans to steal it from her.

  To her relief, as if merely holding the amulet tightly in her fist were enough to focus her gift, she felt her body growing, transforming, heard the tear of fabric and bursting seams. The moment the catch of the trunk clicked, she rolled onto her knees and thrust upward, exploding out of the trunk and bowling both men over.

  She checked, tempted to make use of her size and strength to teach the men the error of their ways, but her size did not make her pr
oof against bullet holes and the surprise hadn’t lasted long. She’d barely cleared them when the two men began scrambling for their guns. Whirling, she fled toward the edge of the dock, launching herself toward the water even as she felt the first barrage of bullets whiz past her.

  She hit--something--even as she launched herself off the pier. Her mind, grasping to assimilate the unknown, produced the sensation of swimming through a chilled, clinging jell. Briefly, the air seemed to be sucked from her lungs. Sound ceased. Even as an unfamiliar sense of panic touched her mind, however, her struggle to gasp was suddenly rewarded by a sharp intake of breath. The sensation of traveling at high velocity was as instantaneous as the breath of air.

  Expecting to feel the chill wetness of water, Khalia was so stunned when her fingers plowed the warm graininess of sand that that stunned her almost as much as the impact of her body against solid earth. Fortunately, she regained the ability to move at about the same instant that she was finally able to draw breath into her lungs again. Sneezing and coughing, she turned her head to try to drag in a breath free of airborne debris and finally managed to climb to her knees.

  The belly flop in the sand dune had knocked her ‘shift’ out of her as well as the air from her lungs. The tattered remains of her clothing fluttered in the sharp breeze blowing over her, pieces drifting downward and settling to the ground around her along with the debris she’d plowed up from the desert floor.

  It was a desert, she realized the moment she managed to wipe enough sand from her eyes to peer around her. She hadn’t imagined the sand, or the friction burns on her palms, her knees, and, in fact, pretty much everything in between. Her clothing had protected her somewhat in more tender areas, but, as she’d known would happen, shifting had pretty well shredded her clothing, leaving a lot more exposed skin than might have been vulnerable otherwise.

  When she’d assured herself she was alone, she spat the grit from her mouth. Spitting in public was incredibly unladylike and ill-mannered, and she was embarrassed to think about doing it, let alone do it. On the other hand, she couldn’t believe it would be very healthful to swallow dirt and, since no one seemed to be about to witness the lapse, she was more interested in her health and comfort at the moment than a lapse in manners. When she’d expelled as much of the grit as she possibly could, she sat back and looked around a little dazedly, absently shaking the sand from a tattered bit of clothing and using it to blot her lips.

  The glow of a full moon lit her surroundings. As far as she could see in every direction, there was nothing but rolling dunes. In the moonlight, the sand looked as if it had the color and consistency of brick dust.

  Where was the city? And how had she come to find herself in a desert of all places? The city was surrounded by marsh and water, not desert.

  Khalia was still trying to assimilate the indigestible when a dark shadow swooped above her head. Ducking instinctively, Khalia’s head whipped toward the perceived threat. She was arrested, however, by a sight that so took her by surprise that she could only blink at it, stunned, unable to think at all.

  A pair of moons had just crested the horizon. Even as she glanced up to see what had produced the light overhead that she’d assumed was a full moon, a man landed in the sand barely two yards away from her.

  He was the next thing to naked. For several horrifying moments, she thought he was completely naked, but even as her eyes dropped with a will of their own toward his genitals, a tiny bit of relief trickled through her. That, at least, was covered, not decently, for she could not consider that pouch that so obviously was only sufficient to hold his genitalia as decent, but covered in a way that prevented yet another jolt to her already overloaded sensibilities. Nevertheless, all that bare flesh was so shocking that her mind simply ceased to function for several moments.

  Dropping to one knee, he struck his left breast with his right fist, bowing his head. “Your highness! We rejoice that you have at last returned to us. I am Damien Bloodragon, King Caracus’ champion, sent to protect you.”

  Chapter Two

  Khalia found herself repeating the words over and over, trying to make sense of what he’d said. By the fourth repetition, it occurred to her that he’d mistaken her for someone else. The question was, would it be safer to lie and pretend she was that person? Or to admit she wasn’t whomever he’d mistaken her for?

  With an effort, she gathered enough moisture into her mouth to speak. Honesty, she’d found, was always the best policy. “I’ve never been here before in my life--where ever here is.”

  He lifted his head, studied her a long moment and finally saluted again. “I beg pardon for my clumsiness, Princess. I should have said, we rejoice that you have come home at last.”

  Her lips tightened. With an effort, she got to her feet, trying to cover her own nakedness with the tattered remains of her clothing. “This can’t be home. I’ve never been here before in my life!”

  There was desperation, and perhaps even just a tiny hint of hysteria in her voice. It embarrassed her, but, really, she thought she might be forgiven for a little slip considering all that she’d experienced since she’d left the museum.

  He stood as she did, revealing something she’d failed to notice before. He towered over her alarmingly. Shadows cloaked him like a thin veil, despite the moons’ illumination, but not enough for her peace of mind. The light glinted off of bulging muscles on his arms, his chest and torso, and even his legs. It also gleamed off of spiked metal epaulets on his shoulders, and the pierced metal bands that protected his ribs. A dark cloak fluttered in the wind behind him, but otherwise he wore nothing but gauntlets, leggings, the obscene cod piece, and a head dress that looked like the skull of a dragon, complete with lethal looking teeth.

  Overall, he made her insides shimmy like the jell-like substance she vaguely recalled falling through when she’d tried to dive from the pier.

  Seemingly of their own accord, her eyes flicked over the cod piece once more, drawn, perhaps, by movement there? She wasn’t certain, but the moment her gaze slid over the cod piece, it grew significantly, alarmingly, larger.

  “It is the home of your ancestors, Princess. The home world of your mother, her royal highness, Princess Rheaia.”

  She might have been able to compose herself somewhat if he hadn’t mentioned the mother she’d never known, but whom she knew most definitely was not a princess. The fact that he mentioned ‘home world’ … as if she had found herself on a world other than her own brought entirely different emotions into play, however.

  All things considered, she decided the man must be dangerously deranged. The thought had no more than registered in her mind than, without any effort whatsoever, she shifted, towering over him.

  She was pleased with herself for all of two seconds. He completely stunned her when he shifted as well, once more towering over her as he had before.

  She gaped at the grim smile that curled his lips.

  “And thus, all doubt is removed. You cannot be other than the princess, or you would not have the ability to shift … come. We dare not linger here, in the land of your enemies. I must take you to Caracaren.”

  Retreat suddenly seemed the better part of valor. Khalia took a step back. “Sir! You are mistaken! My name is Khalia--Khalia Peterson and I don’t know any Princess Rheaia and I’m not about to go anywhere with you!” Whirling, she fled. She hadn’t managed to make much headway up the nearest dune, however, when he flattened her.

  The impact of having him land on top of her resulted in much the same shock as she’d experienced when she had executed the grand belly flop on the sand in her first dive. His body crushed the air from her lungs.

  “Your pardon, princess. But I must insist!” he growled as he rolled off of her and grasped her around the waist, lifting her from the ground.

  When Khalia finally managed to clear her vision enough to look up at him, it was immediately apparent that she hadn’t merely imagined the growth of his male member. The pupils of his eyes as
he gazed down at her were dilated until only a thin, almost purple halo separated the iris from the white of his eyes. His skin was flushed, his nostrils flared and quivering with each ragged breath.

  She hardly thought capturing her had required enough expenditure of energy to account for his physical distress. She didn’t flatter herself that she was either so beautiful or alluring that it was merely her wonderful self that had evoked such a reaction. On the other hand, he was a man--she supposed--certainly a male anyway, and she was the next thing to indecent in her tattered clothing. Perhaps her near nakedness and her attempt to flee had been sufficient in itself to arouse the hunter in him?

  It had been poor judgment on her part to attempt flight when she had no safe haven to flee to, the sort of silly, useless effort a brainless female might try, not one like herself who prided herself on her intelligence and cool head.

  Unfortunately, despite her certainty that she possessed both, she was still a female, and her own body responded to the desire she sensed in him more swiftly even than her mind could assess it.

  “You are in season,” he growled through gritted teeth, his tone almost accusing.

  Khalia gaped at him, feeling her cheeks turn scarlet. “I beg your pardon!” she gasped indignantly when she finally found her voice. “I’m a woman. Not a … a mare!”

  He had lifted his head, however, and she had the distinct feeling he scarcely registered either her remarks or her outrage. “If there is another male within miles. … Hell and damnation!”

  As abruptly as he’d grabbed her, he thrust her behind him. Khalia was so stunned that it wasn’t until she’d peered around him that she saw the man drop to the sand a few yards away. She stared at the newest arrival blankly. What sort of insane place was this anyway that men dropped from the sky like hail?

  Glancing up, she saw two dark shapes rapidly moving in their direction. At first, she thought it was huge birds. As they drew nearer, however, she saw that it was winged men--winged male creatures she amended as they hovered briefly just above. Abruptly, the wings vanished and they, too, dropped to the sand. “Mercy!”