by May Sage
“Look, whatever she did, this time, Ana’s not me, I’m not her, ok?”
“I should hope so,” the man replied.
He advanced just one step, but she backed off three.
“What are you… Why are you here?”
The guy grimaced, without losing the infuriating smile.
“This is going to be weird, awkward and you won’t believe a word of it.”
She doubted that; well, not the weird part, but given the fact that there was a dragon peeing on a pole, she was pretty sure she’d buy into just about anything right now.
“Ok, well, if we’re doing awkward, weird and unbelievable stuff, I need a drink. Can I get you anything?”
She was totally stalling, hoping to give her brain a chance to catch up.
“Sure. Hopper probably needs some water, too. And… you don’t happen to have any raw meat, do you?”
They fed Hopper the dragon uncooked steaks and gave him water, then she thrust a glass of cheap white wine in his Imperial grace’s hand.
“Ok, hit me with it. What has she done now, and do I need a passport?”
“Ana’s done nothing.”
Of everything that had happened today, that was the only one that truly shocked the heck out of her.
“Well, she said you were dead, when I was looking for you, but I didn’t believe a word of it.”
That was more like it.
“So, why were you looking for me?”
He opened his mouth and closed it. Then, he tried again but his eye caught something behind her.
She turned to see him staring at her bookshelves.
“Thank fuck! You read paranormal stuff.”
She shrugged; so judge her, but her life was crappy enough to want a little bit of magic in her bubble baths.
“Yeah, so what?”
“So, you’re my mate.”
Oh. Ok, then. She hoped reality would be half as fun, after she woke up.
After two weeks, she’d somehow managed to convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming. The prince who called himself her mate hadn’t disappeared when she’d woken up that morning, the morning after, or any since then. Every time she woke, and came out of her room, there he was, awkwardly folded on her tiny, uncomfortable sofa.
Ava was practical. While saying no to his request to get the hell out of there had not crossed her mind at any point, she’d also said that she needed to work her notice until the diner found her replacement. Alek had shrugged and acquiesced.
Officially, he was booked in a posh hotel in town, but she didn’t think he’d actually slept there even once.
“Morning,” she said when she heard him stir, turning to hand him a steaming cup of coffee.
Holy moly. The man had slept half naked, as usual, and yeah, she was totally drooling.
“That’s a nice smile,” his deep, groggy voice grumbled. “I could get used to it.”
Yeah, swooning.
“So what are we doing today?”
A few months back, if someone had told her a guy was following her wherever she went, she would have laughed and said she’d probably get a restraining order; but Alek had started hanging out at the dinner. When things got busy, her boss shamelessly put him to work; he’d broken a glass or two, but as waiters went, he wasn’t that bad.
“I’ve had a text,” she confessed, unable to prevent her grin from spreading further. “They found a replacement. Kali said I don’t need to clock in if I don’t want to.”
She’d realized early on that Alek wasn’t what one would call a morning person; he generally kept the communication to a bare minimum until the second coffee. That managed to wake him up, though.
“We’re going home?”
Home. What a strange notion, for someone who hadn’t had one in over two years.
“I guess we are.”
“Look, oh, look!” she said again, when a weird-ass golden parrot flew by.
That had become her mantra. Every single thing around her fascinated her, and Alek hadn’t made fun of her even once. Hopper, however, chuckled at the first opportunity.
“Fire birds. I figured they were behind the original ideas of phoenixes,” he told her, casually wrapping his arm around her shoulder, which never failed to stimulate an army of butterflies stuck in her stomach.
“That’s so damn…”
Cool. She was going to say cool, but they turned around the corner, then, and were greeted by people.
There weren’t many – twenty at most – but Ava had never been as intimidated. Might be because she recognized half of them from TV: Lena, freaking Empress of the galaxy, her mate Calden. Shit, those were Alek’s parents.
She’d just processed that when the tall, intimidating redhead detached herself from the group and came over to engulf them in a warm, welcoming hug, capturing him in one arm and her with the other.
“Welcome home.”
That’s when she figured that’s where she was.
They threw a banquet that night, and Ava watched it all, fascinated, asking the occasional question when no one was paying attention to her.
“Why is that woman glaring at that poor guy?” she whispered, discreetly pointing to a stunning blonde.
“That would be Willow. She and Cedar have an interesting relationship. Let’s just say they are great at arguing, but their neighbors have made quite a few noise complaints,” Alek replied, waggling one suggestive eyebrow.
“Oh.”
Goodie. Just what she needed: her super handsome mate mentioning sex. She was pretty sure her face turned tomato red.
Time to change the subject. Pointing to the tallest, roughest male in the whole gathering, she had to ask:
“And why is that big guy wearing a weird skirt?”
The end.
More From May
I hope you enjoyed Rise
Stay tune for excerpts of upcoming awesomeness!
To Claim a King
Age of Gold 1 – standalone
Xandrie
The Claiming was finally upon them and the palace was abuzz with energy. Xandrie allowed Demelza’s maidservant to dress her hair, while she watched women stream across the drawbridge and into the arena, their cutlasses, broadswords, rapiers, and flail maces borne proudly on their shoulders. It was going to be a blood bath. She could only pray her dear friend was ready to slice and dice her way through the competition.
There was a knock at the door.
Demelza stuck her head into the room. “Got a sec?”
Xandrie waved her in. She couldn’t move, for fear of her hair being ripped from her head.
“Close your eyes,” said Demelza.
Xandrie did as she was bid. She heard the door squeak on its hinges and the swish of Demelza’s arms against her steel breastplate, but there was another, gentler sound, a padding of giant paws. She felt her adrenalin tick up; she hardly dared hope.
“Open,” said Demelza.
Fallon, her darling tiger cub, pressed his head into her lap, purring up a storm.
Xandrie was speechless.
Demelza was all smiles. “I figured he needed you as much as you need him, but I’m telling you, think twice before loading a tiger onto your back. The guy has gained some serious muscle.”
Xandrie ran her hands over Fallon’s massive shoulders, marvelling at how much he’d grown. He’s always be her baby, but now he was definitely her man. It was possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her. She hoped her friend could read her heart through her eyes and know how deep the gratitude went.
“See you down there.” Demelza pecked her on the cheek and marched out of her room. The woman was a saint.
Xandrie mounted the steps of the tribune, Fallon at her side. She could hear the whispers of the crowd as they passed. She took her place and Fallon lay at her feet. Mess with me now, fuckers. It was a glorious feeling, to be in charge of her space and the people around her. They might wish her ill, but not one of them would raise a hand to he
r.
She peered over the railing, into the prep pit and saw Demelza and Vincent readying for the fight. Their swords clashed so hard sparks flew. The woman was a saint and a warrior. She deserved to win Rhey’s hand, even though she still claimed she had no interest in a marriage to the King.
The trumpets sounded, the crowd roared, and Rhey made his grand entrance. He looked like thunder. Demelza had told her how much he hated The Claiming, but she had little pity for him. He was King; he could do as he liked, surely. She had no time for politicking and court machinations. Probably why she’d never be queen. She shook her head. That way lay madness. He might be a hottie, but he was well out of her reach.
King Vasili let the ceremonial axe fall and The Claiming began. Xandrie had never seen such violence. Sure, there were battles in the Northern Var and she’d been witness to amputations, lethal gashes, and beheadings, but the sheer, bloody rage these women brought to the arena was a sight to behold. Some bouts lasted many long, heart-clenching minutes, but most were over in a couple of swipes of a well-trained sword.
Demelza was right: The Claiming was skewed in favor of the nobility. It was they who had the weapons, the trainers, and the time to hone their craft to a point. The women of the lower class limped, crawled, and hobbled out of the ring, their dreams of Queendom in tatters.
Demelza comported herself with such skill and dignity, Xandrie got choked up. Her friend didn’t go for the easy victory; she fought with passion and precision, but invited her opponents to strut their stuff. She’d explained her strategy to Xandrie. She was going to fight to maintain her honor and send a signal that she was not to be fucked with, but she saw no need to humiliate anyone who’d had the guts to appear before the highest in the land and fight. Their families were in the stands; these women would have to go home and tell tales of battling for the King’s hand; she wanted them to do so with pride. No one who fought her left the ring demoralized or with more than a scratch. She fought until they relented, then a bowed as they exited. No surprise, then, that she was the crowd’s favorite.
Demelza had won every bout she’d fought and come out top of her ranking. She was paired against a statuesque blonde, who the crier identified as Saskia Xaxan. Xandrie didn’t need a translator to tell her Saskia was of noble birth. When the woman entered the ring, Xandrie’s dragon roared in her chest. It was the first time, since blood had been spilled on the sawdust-strewn floor, that she feared for her friend.
The crowd must have felt it, too, for a hush fell upon them and did not lift when the women each selected their weapon for the bout. Demelza took up her beloved helmet-breaker, with its sharp, dirk-like point while Saskia went for the more predictable longsword. Both women clearly meant business. They began in a blur of silver, so fast it was almost impossible to see who had the upper hand or whether either of them were injured.
For the first time that day, the bouts went long. Demelza and Saskia lunged and pricked, dodged and parried, swung and slashed and swiped at each other with heaving grunts and cries. The stands were awash with onlookers screaming for Demelza. Out of the corner of her eye, Xandrie saw a flower – a gorgeous orange lily – soar over their heads and into the ring below. It was meant as a tribute, but Demelza turned her head, no doubt checking to make sure no one else had entered the fight.
As Demelza turned, Saskia charged, her sword ripping through Demelza’s sleeve and slicing her arm.
The crowd was on its feet, screaming for justice.
Xandrie leaped, three steps and launched herself over the barrier and into the ring, then threw herself in front of her friend. The woman would acquiesce, if she’d lost, but no one, should be permitted to take her down with villainy.
Rhey
Seconds after Saskia skewered Demelza’s arm, Rhey was on his feet and half way out of the royal enclosure. Bad enough that there had been blood spilled in his name, but his friend being slashed, when her back was turned, was more than he could bear. His chief advisor, Nathos, held him in check, his fist tight around Rhey’s arm. No words were necessary: it wouldn’t do for him to show favouritism, even though Demelza was easily the darling of the hour. Royal lines had been toppled with less provocation.
The crowd gasped. Rhey looked back at the ring. Xandrie had vaulted from the stands and charged Saskia. The guard were in there, boots stomping through the blood-drenched sawdust, weapons drawn in an effort to keep the women apart, but he could see Xandrie chomping at the bit to take Saskia down. The guards had to physically restrain both women.
The Code of Combat Conduct dictated that no person be permitted to strike a blow if the bout were halted. Saskia was screaming foul. Her claim was that there’d been no signal, no sign from the marshal, that there was a break in play. “I struck in good faith,” she bellowed.
The Elders huddled around Rhey, urging him to resume play. He was torn. Demelza was injured, perhaps badly – her arm hung limp at her side and ran red – and he longed to end the whole, damned mess but she’d kill him if he interfered with her ability to determine her own fate. Then again, he couldn’t let her continue with a slashed arm. He whispered in Nathos’ ear. His counsellor beckoned a squire and relayed the order.
Xandrie bound Demelza’s arm with strips torn from her own blouse and took up her sword. She glared at Rhey from below.
It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, but the woman was clearly challenging him. Her defiant stance dared him to order her to step away. She was right if she was thinking she’d run afoul of the rules by entering the ring, but the fact that she didn’t break eye contact signalled she didn’t give a good goddamn about the rules. She was fierce. She loved Demelza and would take her place in combat in a heartbeat. Vincent spoke, daily, of her drive, her daring, her unflinching dedication to the craft. She had nothing to gain personally, but she’d thrown herself into training with Demelza with a verve reserved for the most fearless of warriors. And here she was, silently declaring her intention to fight on for her injured friend.
The squire returned to the Royal Box with a tome three-hands thick. Nathos and his cronies broke the book open and pored over its contents. Rhey continued to watch Xandrie, who continued to stare at him, but he had one ear on the debate raging behind him.
“Any creature – be they dragon born or nay – carrying dragon blood in their veins is eligible to enter The Claiming,” said Alfot, a courtier known for his love of the law.
Nathos sucked his teeth, the way he always did when something irritated him. “She’s no dragon.”
“The law is clear,” said Alfot. “She needs only have dragon blood.”
Nathos wiped his clammy forehead, probably worried about precedent or rioting or some other procedural nonsense. The man was too timid, by half. Unlike the woman who had him riveted to the spot; she was boldness itself. His dragon cried out, a roar so loud he was sure Nathos turned, his eyebrow raised, in an effort to admonish him for wearing his heart on his sleeve or, as in this case, his dick straining to get out of his pants.
The voices were familiar. Rhey listened to them daily, in his council chambers. He knew who spoke – and could predict who’d fall which side of the question – without the need to turn around. He allowed himself the luxury of looking at Xandrie Astria, the woman who’d stormed his heart.
“By the report of her weapons trainer, Vincent Vasili, she has the fire in her belly, but she does not shift. Her dragon self is barely formed.”
“There are dragons aplenty who do not shift, Vincent among them. It is not a barrier to her entering the fray.”
Nathos held up his hand. “We have never had a woman of dragon blood, who was not dragon born, enter The Claiming.” He laid a hand on Rhey’s arm. “What might the King have to add to a decision that lacks precedent?”
Rhey smiled for the first time in an age. “The law is the law and the law is clear. The woman has dragon blood and may fight.” He sat. “Let her fight for me.” He nodded at Xandrie and she broke eye contact. All she’d wan
ted from him was permission to fight. Her gaze meant nothing. She wasn’t fixated on him as he was on her. She wanted only to avenge her friend.
He couldn’t hear, but he could well imagine the conversation Demelza and Xandrie were having.
“No, please don’t.”
“Yes, I must.” And on and on.
Vincent helped his cousin from the ring and Xandrie turned to face Saskia.
The crowd were, once again, completely silent. The women paced around each other, panthers both. Saskia lunged first and that was all it took; the two of them were a whirlwind of wild weaponry and skill. Never before had The Claiming seen such brute force combined with such artistry. It was a breathtaking display of how anyone with dragon blood ought to comport themselves in the ring. Rhey didn’t care who saw it, he hung off his chair, willing Xandrie to victory.
The bout was brutal but had at its core a great beauty. Though he didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, Rhey had the first flicker of pride that his hand might be won by someone of such untamed skill. If this were the test of who was to be his queen, who rule by his side, who take to his bed and thrash in sweaty sheets until the dawn, it wasn’t too shoddy a way to find a winner.
The women were well matched, but after a full twenty minutes of unstinting sword play, Xandrie backed Saskie up against the wall of the pit and demanded she concede defeat. Saskia nodded and let her sword fall to her side.
Xandrie was the victor.
The stands exploded in celebration. An upstart had upset the apple cart. She was an unknown, an outsider, not of noble birth, and she’d fought her way to the finals.
Rhey stood and threw his cape over his shoulder, calling an end to the day’s play. He knew Xandrie, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, her mouth wet and wild, was going to haunt his dreams and was glad of it. He left The Claiming a happy man.
