“I have to go,” she said.
Her mother’s face blanched. “We need to inform your father.”
She shook her head softly. “What good will it do? The doors will only open for me. You know that.”
“But still—”
She grasped her mother’s hands and brought them to her lips. “But still nothing, Mat’. I have to go see what the king wants with me.” She paused. “I’m sure it’s something to do with the deal I just signed with Dynamogenics. This will bring my face and identity even more in the limelight. He probably wants to make sure I have sufficient glamor to keep our existence a secret.”
She’d just fibbed, there, and her mother knew it, too. Still, Eliza didn’t say anything. It usually bade nothing good for the fire royals to summon someone from the ice families. Ancient animosity and all that, though there’d been a time when they’d tried to forge an alliance between the two sides.
“I have to go,” Kseniya said softly.
Eliza seemed to swallow a sob rather hard and audibly, but then she nodded and released her daughter’s hands.
Kseniya kissed each of her sisters on the forehead, then picked up the long train of her dress and started toward the main hall of the castle. Across the massive stone-wall room she went, exiting the dwelling on the front end and making for the gates opening onto the vast expanse of snow-covered lands.
She welcomed the cold as she started to trudge in the ice, the crystals crushing like dry sugar under the soles of her dainty dancing slippers—no one would dare come to one of her grandmother’s soirées in high heels. That would be the epitome of vulgarity in the matriarch’s eyes.
The closer she got to the palace, the more her heart started beating, and the more the thought of her grandmother stayed with her. Because Princess Irina Mikhailovich Rostova had been the dragon queen once. A truce between fire dragon royalty and ice dragon aristocracy had been concluded when the daughter of Prince Mikhail Ivanovich Rostov had been married to Andrei, the Crown Prince of the royal fire dragon Vasiliev family.
Irina and Andrei had lived their time together cordially, married but not mated as dragons. It hadn’t been a love match, but they’d done their duty, Irina getting pregnant with their first child when a hundred-and-ten years old. Life had been peaceful and content for all … until the strain came.
A virus that only attacked dragons of royal blood.
Within a few weeks, it had decimated the royal family. The king died, as did the Crown Prince and his brother. Although Irina survived due to her different DNA, she lost her baby. Laws of primogeniture in their world meant only a male member of the royal family could ascend—laws still in force today … antiquated, patriarchal bastards—and the only one still alive at the time had been Anton Aleksandrovich Vasiliev, a very young distant cousin on one of his expeditions in Africa at the time, which had thus saved his life—he’d come back to Ognennyy Ostrov once a cure had been found.
However, Anton Aleksandrovich had returned with a wife already, an Ethiopian Earth dragon princess by the name of Taitu. He would have been expected to marry Irina to keep the peace, but things didn’t go as they’d planned.
And that’s where the age-old animosity between her family and the royals stemmed from. It should have been her grandmother on that throne. Her father should’ve been born the Crown Prince, and she would’ve been a princess in her own right, too. Anton’s line had but a weak claim to that royal position they so lorded over everyone today.
Long spears of red-hot fire suddenly blocked her way, crossed in front of her by the sentinels guarding the palace when she reached the frozen moat in front of the main drawbridge.
Without a word, she produced the note, and the spears lifted, the bridge lowered so she could enter the palace grounds.
A tiny old man, hunched and gnarled, waited for her in the main courtyard, and she frowned when he dropped into a curtsy upon her arrival. She was merely the granddaughter of an albeit very wealthy count. Why the lofty consideration?
He bade her with bowed head to follow him into the palace, and she pulled the train of her dress once more, her steps going from trudges to resolute marching as she reached the stone floor of the entrance hall and dropped the layers of fabric in her hand to let them trail over the hard ground under the satin of her slippers.
With head held high and her back erect, she entered the throne room bathed in the light of a hundred torches.
Very Game Of Thrones, if she had to describe it. She’d never set foot here before, there never having been a Crown Prince ascending to King during her short lifetime thus far. She almost expected to see a blond Lannister on the ornate throne, which didn’t have any iron spokes, sadly, or even a royal derrière plonked on it.
“Welcome, my dear,” a deep voice boomed.
She startled, but recovered quickly enough and scanned the empty room. Calling onto her ice dragon, she transformed just enough to sharpen her eyesight so she could see inside this darkened, cavernous chamber.
And then she saw him. A tall man with pale skin and floppy blond hair. He didn’t look a day over forty, and under a certain angle, could even pass for those renditions of Prince Charming in the human fairy tale books.
Shadows cloaked him, and they didn’t disappear the closer she got to him. Once within three yards, she stopped and dropped into a small curtsy, as low as protocol dictated but without going all the way to her left knee with her foot extended behind her. There was, after all, no love lost between their two families, even their two kinds. She wouldn’t be disrespectful, but that was as far as she would take it.
“Your Majesty,” she said softly as she drew back up.
Up close, she could see he wasn’t an overly tall man, topping her by just a few inches at around six feet. She could almost look him in the eye if she dared to be this insolent. Still, she kept her peace. He had called her. Let him speak first.
“Kseniya Dmitriievich Sokolova,” he said as he reached for her hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Surprise cut her vocal chords when he bowed and dropped a light kiss on her knuckles before releasing her hand.
She cleared her throat without making a sound. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”
“Indeed, I have. There is someone I need you to meet.”
Puzzlement descended over her. She didn’t hear any censure coming from the king, no bad vibrations, which should’ve been the case if he’d had any beef with her. Seriously, if he hadn’t called her here to dice her up for a mishap, then why the hell was she here?
“I suppose you must’ve heard of this gentleman here,” the king continued as he turned to the shadows and another man came out of the darkness.
The bespoke three-piece suit tried to give him a civilized air, but it couldn’t contain the inherent ruthlessness he carried like an aura of menace around him. His skin was a light, smooth pale gold, his hair dark and long, well past brushing the collar of his jacket. His strong, chiseled features would almost take any woman’s breath away, but any sane creature would recognize the flare of danger burning bright in his light grey eyes.
He was also very tall—she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. Unbidden, something inside her pushed her to also curtsy to him as he stood there.
“Kseniya Dmitriievich, I would like you to meet Konstantin Feodorovich Marek.”
The air left her lungs upon hearing the name. Because this man was no man at all. He was an Old World Lycan, the head of that kind’s pack and of the Marekova, the most ruthless and feared family in all the supernatural realm.
What on Earth was he doing here, and how the heck was she involved?
Konstantin Feodorovich Marek took her hand, and he, too, dropped a light kiss on her knuckles.
“Congratulations on your recent contract with Dynamogenics,” he said.
“Thank you …” What was he getting at?
“How is dear Alexis doing?” he continued.
“Uhm, she is fi
ne …?”
He nodded. “Busy woman, she is, especially with all on her plate.”
A niggling sensation started in her gut. He sounded like he knew about Alexis’ secret life.
He focused those sharp eyes on her, and against her better judgement, she squirmed.
“She trained you, didn’t she?” he asked.
Surprise stunned her. He did know. How did he know?
His severe mouth etched into a small smile then. “Not a lot goes in in my territory that I don’t know about.”
Great—either he read minds, or she’d worn her astonishment plain as day on her face. Drat.
“Trust me, this will come in handy for you in the very near future,” he added.
A drop of cold sweat danced down her spine, and she stiffened. What could he mean by that?
Did the head of the Marekova need her services? Much as she wanted to balk and run away, no one turned down a request from that illustrious family.
“I … I’m not sure what you mean,” she ventured to say.
The king spoke then.
“There is a lot for us to discuss, my dear. But we need to wait for someone else to join us. Always late, that boy.”
He shook his head, and started toward a small table laden with bottles of all kinds on its lacquered surface.
“Wine?” he asked.
Kseniya swallowed hard then nodded at the king. “Yes, please, if you would be so kind.”
The way things were going, there wasn’t enough wine in the world to make things better. What the hell had she gotten herself embroiled into?
3
“Gabe!”
The human-sized hurricane stormed through Djibril’s bedroom and landed in his arms, almost making him lose his balance.
Spitting some wayward strands of dark brown hair that had slithered their way into his mouth, he slipped his arms around the slender, squirming body.
“Easy,” he murmured. “My bones may be indestructible, but the rest of me needs taking care of. This body is my bank account, baby girl.”
Zoya, his hellion of a sister, pulled back, frowning. Her eyes shone like amber and green jewels, a beautiful, kaleidoscopic combination of colors. A shade or two darker than him, with defined bone structure and full lips, he couldn’t believe how much she’d grown.
“Stop calling me that, Gabe. I’m not nine anymore, and for sure, I’m not a baby.”
“You are to me, Zoe,” he teased, reverting to his nickname for her. “My baby sister. Stuck at ten. Maybe eleven.”
She punched him in the shoulder and sailed away from his arms, depositing herself on the edge of his bed, her booted feet crossed in front of her.
“I haven’t seen you in a million years, and you want to be an idiot.” She huffed. “Ivan says I’m now a woman and I have to stand up for myself.”
Heat surged through him, and the familiar rumble started in his solar plexus. “And who is this Ivan? Are you hanging out with older dragon-folk?”
“He’s a friend Mom allows to take violin lessons with me. His dad works here, as a chef, and also owns a restaurant.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Ouffff! And stop looking at me like you’re damning me to Hell. Your eyes are about to catch fire, and I’ll need triple strength sunglasses just to look at you.”
Djibril grunted and checked himself—not an easy thing to do. He’d gladly change to beast again and go find this Ivan.
“Why are you home, anyway? Don’t you have a match coming up?”
“Yes, but Father told me to show up now or else.”
“Hmmm … sounds about right. That’s his style.” She grinned, then took a deep breath. A puff of icy mist emitted from her lips. Closing her eyes, she threw her head back and took another breath, only now it looked like vapor—soothing and warm. “I hate this cold. Why did Dad not choose another place for us all to live in, preferably closer to the Equator? Some place where I didn’t have to constantly regulate my temperature like an A/C unit.”
“He’s a native. He likes it here. You, on the other hand, can make fire. Why not do that instead of playing with the ice? All it takes is a bit of concentration.”
“I’d rather not have to work so hard for it.”
Oh, his sweet, lazy, entitled sister. She had a long way to go to grow up.
“And who’s heard of a fire dragon that likes the cold? That said, I wouldn’t say he necessarily cares for it, but he tolerates it better than we do, I guess.” She sat up. “What if—”
“My son! But why does it have to be a summons to bring you here, so I can see you?”
Djibril turned to the doorway where a woman walked gracefully toward him, her colorful robe flowing around her slim form. A headscarf in gold and orange hues framed the stunning features of her face and wrapped up most of her long brown hair. His mother, Taitu, was a natural Ethiopian beauty with a bone structure no woman could rival. She looked youthful and wise at the same time. No wonder his father had fallen head over heels in love with her.
She enveloped him in a hug made of jasmine, lavender, and a hint of vanilla.
Squeezing her to him, he inhaled. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until that moment.
Taking his face in her hands, cradling his cheeks in her palms, she smiled bright at him. Her unique hazel eyes matched Zoya’s, as did the rest of her facial features.
“So when are you going to bring a nice girl for us to meet? There are many among our kind who’d kill for the chance to get close to you.”
“Mother …” he started, exasperated. Here we go again.
She waved her hand at him.
“Oh, why do I even bother?” She squeezed his cheeks, as though he was still a boy of five. “Well, my darling, you should go now. You don’t want to leave your father waiting. He’s had something on his mind since yesterday, and he’s been insufferable. Time for you to deal with the obstinate Grinch!”
Jerking her chin up in a regal pose, she moved to the side to let him pass. The scent of mild annoyance drifted to his nostrils, her base hint of incense mixed with the odor of petards as they go off—seriously, his mother was a firecracker. Another reason why she’d snagged her husband. An underlayer of patchouli and herbs from her perfume helped to cover it up, but not completely.
A dragon’s curse to smell and taste emotions in manners no human, or most other sups, could ever do. On the plus side, you always knew how someone felt and often what they’d been up to—beast or not.
“Off you go.” She shooed him.
Dropping a kiss on her cheek, he headed to the massive double windows that reached up to the high ceiling. To his mother’s consternation, he’d always preferred them bare, with no drapes, facing the far-off terrains they’d nicknamed wastelands as nothing but snow thrived there for as far as the eye could see. Nobody understood why he had chosen this far corner of the castle to establish his quarters, but he’d had his reasons. As such, getting to the throne room would take almost fifty minutes of walking through a maze of corridors and doorways. He’d be faster flying there.
He turned to the women. “Maybe best for you to leave now.”
His mother frowned while his sister rolled her eyes.
“You and your grand entrances.” The queen sighed. “I was just about to tell you the door was the other way.”
“Let’s go before I’m traumatized for life. No amount of eye bleach would erase the memory from my mind if I saw you in your birthday suit.”
Djibril snickered. “Okay, then. Tell your Ivan I said hi!”
The two women exited the room, the younger one wearing a look of loathing and disgust, laced with panic, the older one with her eyebrows raised.
When they’d closed the door shut, he took off his shoes and socks, then removed his tan corduroy blazer, blue jeans, white turtle neck, and boxers, casting them on the chair by the window.
Changing to dragon form, he hopped on the ledge, spread his wings wide, and flew outside. The biting cold hit him in th
e face first, but he powered through, for the adrenaline alone gave him the heat he needed inside. This climate might not suit him, but he found the place beautiful nonetheless. As he soared through the air, inhaling all the fresh scents of the atmosphere, he pushed away any unpleasant sensations to enjoy a few moments of total freedom.
Too soon, he spotted the large, ornate terrace leading into his destination. Landing with a flap of his wings and feet on cold stone, he bent down and peeked inside.
His father was there, along with two others—a man and a woman. The tall male stood so that he practically eclipsed the other person there, his back to him. With his sharp eyesight, Djibril could make out a hint of light, shimmering gray peeking around the man’s broad frame. The woman’s dress. Something about the man’s long hair, the pose, the striking presence, tugged at his memory cells …
His father stood conversing with them, his face red from probably just two sips of wine. It didn’t take much for his body to heat up like a thousand-watt lightbulb. They were huddled around a table laden with glasses, carafes of wine, and some nibbles.
No one had heard him arrive.
Still in his beast suit, he stepped forward over a few stones, which made a crunching noise. He froze.
Nobody turned in the direction of the closed balcony door.
He hadn’t thought this through. If those people were dragons, which they likely were—the cold subdued his sense of smell—the dark or partially drawn drapes would not protect him from their keen vision.
Quietly inching to the far side of the balcony where the glass door panes did not reach, he softly breathed out fire and let it split in dozens of little flames around him to keep the icy nighttime mists at bay. The air around him warmed in seconds. This ensured he wouldn’t die of hypothermia in the few moments it took to conjure up some clothing.
As he reclaimed his human form, an outfit similar to what he’d just worn pasted itself on his body. The power of glamor came in handy in times like these. Reaching out, he caught a spark of fire as it danced in the breeze. He carried it to his mouth and swallowed the light, which went down feeling like the best malt money could buy. Now, he was ready.
Sirens and Scales Page 268
