“I understand you’re studying journalism at the University.”
Kraven’s brown eyes watched me as he stirred the soup around, not eating. He had a square jaw, and his nose crooked slightly to the left, a bad break that had never healed quite right. Still, it didn’t mar his appearance much. Though rough, he had a calm, kind face.
“Yes. I graduate next year. And you work for Nightwing Security, correct?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“I’m sure your job is interesting.”
“Sometimes.” He continued to stir the soup, never taking a bite. I glanced at Lucius and Lorian, both drinking glasses of red wine, ignoring the food.
“Is there a reason you don’t like this particular dish?”
Morgon men had healthy appetites, so something was up. His expression showed surprise for a split-second before settling back into nonchalance. “You’re quite observant, Moira.”
“I’m a journalist. A writer. We tend to be watchers.”
“Ah.” He smiled, leaning closer to whisper, “Well, don’t tell the cook, but meat cooked this thorough actually turns the stomach of most Morgons.”
“Really?” The flank steak was tender and delicious, but it was indeed cooked completely through. “Why is that?”
He shrugged one shoulder, his wings relaxing a fraction. “I suppose it is the dragon in us. We like our meat bloody, I’m afraid.”
“Interesting. I’ve never heard that before.” I lifted the heavy glass goblet and took a sip of water.
“It’s not something generally known or, should I say, confessed in mixed company.” By mixed company, he meant humans and Morgons. “Not everyone likes to be reminded of our less civilized ancestry.”
I glanced over his shoulder at the giant silvery wings shining by candlelight. “Well, it’s kind of hard to miss.”
He laughed. A very pleasant laugh. “True.”
I shrugged. “My sister wouldn’t care. Seems like something she would’ve picked up on by now.”
“It can be easily overlooked. Humans and Morgons consume everything just about the same.”
“Except red meat,” I amended.
He nodded, smiling politely. The second course was pasta with a seafood cream sauce. All the dinner guests started to devour the appetizing dish.
“So, Kraven, do you ever work the Vaengar Games?”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, sitting back. “I don’t usually. Not anymore, anyway. Have you ever been?”
“No.” I sipped my water, angling toward him, considering some of the information Bennett Cremwell had given me about what goes on at the after-parties in the Vaengar Stadium. “Do you go and watch fights in the Pit after the Vaengar Games?”
Silverware clinked against a plate as someone dropped a fork. The low conversations shushed altogether. I glanced down the table.
I shrugged. “What?”
“How would you know about the Pit?” asked Jessen, frowning.
The level of scowling by every pair of eyes at the table, except Sorcha, put me on edge.
Sorcha flipped dark-red hair over one shoulder. “Someone’s been more involved in extracurricular activities than she led on.”
“No. Actually, I haven’t.”
“What’s this about?” Jessen’s lips tightened into a grim line, the same look she had given me when I was a little girl doing something dangerous, like playing too close to the lake or the woods.
“I need some help with something. Some Morgon help, and I hoped Kraven was the one to give it.”
Kraven angled toward me. “Would you be more specific?”
“Wait. No.” Jessen tossed her napkin on the table, flipping out, just as I thought she would. “How the hell did you find out about the after-parties in the cellars of the Stadium?”
“You know,” I accused.
Sorcha giggled.
Jessen rounded on her. “What are you laughing about?”
“You, Jessen. You still look at Moira and see your five-year-old baby sister. If you hadn’t noticed, she’s grown up. Taller than you, as a matter of fact.”
“I don’t care if she’s six-feet tall or ten-feet tall, she is still my baby sister. And I don’t want you going to those after-parties Ella told us about.”
Lucius took Jessen’s hand in his. “Perhaps we should hear what Moira needs help with. She’s waiting patiently for you to calm down before she continues.”
I loved Lucius. He understood me so well. Probably because our personalities were similar—quiet with a keen perception. And stubborn as a brick wall when we wanted to be. He held Jessen’s hand, brushing his thumb across her knuckles, soothing her. The sight of the two so openly affectionate—a Morgon and a human—still shocked me a little, when only five years ago, no one had even heard of an intermarried couple like them before.
“Fine.” Jessen inhaled and exhaled, putting on a poor show of being in control. “What help are you talking about?”
I folded and set my napkin on my plate, squaring my shoulders and facing the firing squad. “I need a Morgon, preferably a male, to be my guide in discovering the identity of the Devlin Butchers, who I believe are actually part of a Morgon cult.”
Lorian jerked to his feet. A guttural growl swelled in a violent vibration, rippling down the table and shattering every wine and water glass, sucking the breath right out of my lungs.
Dinner was over.
Chapter 3
Sorcha held the stem of her broken wine glass mid-air, gazing up at Lorian, now towering over the table. Jessen stared blank-faced at me. An awkward, edgy silence filled the room.
Lucius stood, his wings flaring halfway open. “Let’s all go to the living room where we can talk more comfortably. And calmly.”
I didn’t realize I was shaking until Kraven pulled my chair back. We followed in silence from the room, Lorian and Sorcha lagging behind. I caught a quick glance of her standing on tip-toe, cupping his face as she murmured in a gentle tone, “It’s okay. I’m okay. That’s all behind us.”
What just happened? I expected some sort of outburst, but not that. I was definitely out of the loop on something.
Lucius paced by the crackling fire. Jessen sank into an overstuffed wingback chair, obviously bought specifically for her as Morgons didn’t sit in high-backed furniture. I settled onto a sofa, pulling a pillow into my lap. Kraven sat beside me, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, wings slightly open. Finally, Sorcha and Lorian joined us. She stretched out on the chaise lounge. Lorian stood at her back, face frozen in stone-like rage.
Lucius paused, hands at his back. “Before we begin this conversation, I’ll apologize for my brother’s outburst.” Lucius turned his blue-fire gaze in my direction, his dragon sparkling near the surface. “I’m aware that you may not understand why Lorian reacted in such a manner, and I’m afraid that’s not a story for me to tell. It’s Sorcha and Lorian’s. Suffice to say, I think you just caught him off-guard.”
Sorcha curled her legs underneath her. Lorian looked like a sentinel, guarding his queen. The journalist in me wanted to ask a million questions, but the survivor said to keep my mouth shut.
Lucius faced his brother. “Are we all capable of continuing this conversation more calmly?”
By all, he meant Lorian, who returned a sharp nod, saying nothing. His face didn’t portray calm in any way, shape, or form.
“Now,” said Lucius. “Why exactly do you need to discover the identity of the Devlin Butchers?” Lucius’s arched brow and paternal manner told me he was no longer on my side. Or he might not be for long.
“I’m covering the story for The Herald. I’ve been—”
“A college paper, Moira?” Jessen snapped out of her stupor. “You can’t be serious! You’re talking about hanging in a place where girls are being abducted and murdered. Do you even know what they’re doing to them?” Her voice rose to a screechy level.
; “More than you do. I’ve seen pictures.”
“Pictures. What pictures? How?”
“I can’t reveal my sources.”
“She can’t reveal her sources.” Jessen threw her hands in the air, ripping me with her sardonic tone.
“Besides, I’m not saying I’m running blindly into this. I’m asking for your help.” I scanned the room, making eye contact with Lucius and Lorian. “I know this is dangerous. Believe me, I know.” My voice cracked. I couldn’t help it, imagining Maxine’s mutilated body. “But I also have a lead on someone who might be involved in Maxine Mendale’s abduction at the stadium at one of these after-parties. And I’m not sitting back and doing nothing. Jessen, I know you’re worried about me, and I love you for that. But this is something I have to do. Please understand.”
The room fell into silence again. I twisted the medal at my neck.
“What’s your lead?” Lorian’s first words, deep and gruff. And though his question was a compelling command, not a request, I wouldn’t give them anything unless they gave something back.
I sat up a little straighter. “Did the stadium security cameras catch any footage of Maxine Mendale with a suspicious Morgon?” I needed to know if they’d already identified the one we were looking for. If so, then I had nothing to bargain with.
“Negative,” admitted Lucius. “There was an electrical blowout earlier that night, knocking out the system. We’re still investigating to discover if it was coincidence or more than that.”
“Okay. Well, I have a good description of the Morgon man last seen with Maxine Mendale.” I paused, sizing up my attentive audience. “Will you guarantee me a guide, someone to help me blend in? I don’t even care if you have a dozen body guards there, as long as they’re not hovering over me.”
“What do you plan to do with the information you find, if anything?” asked Lucius.
“I’ll take it to the Gladium Precinct. Of course, I’ll demand exclusive rights on the story when I’m able to release it.”
“Going to the precinct won’t be necessary,” said Lorian. “Nightwing Security is already investigating. We’re working with the Morgon Guard in Drakos.”
Nightwing Security was mostly a private-for-hire agency in Gladium, but their connection to the Guard ran deep. Lorian had a scrolling tattoo with the letters MG on the back of his neck. I had asked Sorcha about it, and she told me he was once in the Morgon Guard.
“The Morgon Guard?”
Lorian paced closer to Lucius. “They seek justice and retribution. Among other things.”
I could only imagine what other things the Morgon Guard was responsible for as Lorian hadn’t bothered to enlighten me.
I considered whether I was betraying my own race by allying with the Morgons, giving them information I denied the precinct. Though there were a few Morgons working for the GP and their elite forces, the police were primarily human. The inner-debate of where my loyalties lay took all of three seconds.
“Fine.” I straightened, tossing the pillow out of my lap. “I’ll tell you everything I know already and everything I discover from here on out, as long as you help me get into one of these after-parties.”
Kraven stood and spoke up for the first time, hands at his back. “I can be her guide.”
Lucius tucked his hands in the pockets of his black slacks, looking as if he were discussing the weather, not a multiple-murder investigation. “That’ll work. You can take her to the game on Friday, as if you’re just on a casual date.”
A date?
“But we’ll need more than one on-scene to ensure her protection. I won’t let my sister-in-law go anywhere near that deathtrap unless she’s fully guarded.”
Lorian piped up. “Kol. He’s leading the investigation for the Morgon Guard anyway. She may be able to give him some insight from the human perspective.”
Lucius grinned. “Yes. And you know how much he appreciates the human perspective.”
“Nevertheless. I’ll contact him tonight.”
Lucius faced Jessen. “Will that do, love? Kol Moonring will be her personal bodyguard. What more could you ask for?”
Kraven shifted from one foot to another next to me.
Jessen shifted in her seat, seeming to consider before giving a tight nod. “That will do.”
“I’ll say,” added Sorcha, giving me a wink. “You won’t have to worry about a thing, sweetie.”
I’m not quite sure how the mention of this guy suddenly brought Lorian’s temper in check and my sister to heel. As conversation mellowed into less volatile topics, all I could think was, who was this Kol Moonring?
* * * *
I was forbidden by both my sister and Sorcha from wearing my drab jeans on my “date” with Kraven. Sorcha’s advice, “You’ll never blend in looking like a homeless, college student.” Thankfully, Kris was much more fashion-forward than I was and came to my aid. We had veered away from the uptown boutiques and had shopped in the Warwick District for something a bit edgier and more appropriate for a night out in the Morgon world.
Finally back at my apartment, I’d showered and dressed in record time. I zipped up my left boot and stood for her inspection. Grinning from ear to ear, she was sprawled across my bed, twirling a tendril of her light-brown hair.
“So?” I gestured to my outfit. “Will I blend in?”
“Honey, I don’t know about blending in, but you’ll put every other woman to shame. Human or Morgon.”
“Please.”
“Seriously. You look so hot. Why don’t you dress up more often?”
“Now you sound like my sister. What’s itching?” I peered over one shoulder, fumbling with one hand, trying to find whatever was scratching my shoulder blade.
“I got it.” Kris popped off the bed, then turned me to face the mirror. “One of the laces is loose.”
“Loose?” My reflection revealed a gold corset, embroidered with black-stitched roses on the front of the bodice. It may have been a lovely work of craftsmanship, but it was sucking the life out of me. Kris tightened and tucked the laces. I winced, both at the squeezing of my ribcage and the further heightening of my breasts. I’d never put myself quite on display.
“I don’t know, Kris. I feel…overexposed.”
“Isn’t that the point?” She grabbed the short leather jacket off the bed and tossed it to me. “Here. This’ll help.”
I slipped into the jacket, glancing over my shoulder in the mirror at the copper-studded dragon in flight on the back. A leather-clad woman with a dragon stitched on her jacket would be a silent invitation to the more aggressive Morgons. I was hoping to draw the one Bennett Cremwell had told me about. Of course, I hadn’t admitted a word of this to anyone else. A shiver of anticipation trembled through me. Was I pushing things too far? Still, I felt safe knowing several Morgon men from Nightwing Security would be incognito at the games. As well as Kol Moonring, whoever he was.
“Your outfit is hot. Hair looks great. Makeup is awesome. Because of me, of course.”
I laughed, heading out of the bedroom. “Okay, Vaengar Games. Here I come.”
“Isn’t your date picking you up?”
“Morgons can’t ride in cars, and I’m not letting him fly me there, so we’re meeting at the stadium.”
She followed me to the door of my studio apartment, picking up her bag off my thrift-shop coffee table on the way out. “Mmm, why not let him fly you there? Damn, if that wouldn’t be cool.”
“It’s a business date. I told you that.” I locked the door to my apartment, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at the thought of flying with a Morgon.
“Well, if it’s business, you should’ve taken me along. I could’ve photographed the scene for you.”
Hope laced her voice, but I didn’t want to involve Kris on this dangerous mission. She was not only my best friend, but also an award-winning photographer and videographer for The Herald. I had no idea what I was walking into, and
I wouldn’t drag her into it.
“Not necessary.” I hated seeing the disappointment in her eyes. “I’m just getting some preliminary info for a new story.”
She shrugged, falling in stride with me on the sidewalk. “I still say you should’ve hitched a ride, business date or not.”
“I’m not letting a man carry me around like some child. That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous sometimes, Moira, with all your feminist ideals. It’s okay to let a man treat you like a woman. Being feminine isn’t being weak.”
“It’s not that.”
“Why not give this Morgon a chance then?” she asked.
“It’s not that I’m a racist or anything, if that’s what you think.”
She burst into throaty laughter. “No. I never suspected you of being a racist.”
Kris’s unusual mixture of tawny skin and bright green eyes came from her parents’ interracial marriage. Her father was from a dark people in the southern province of Nebea along the Sorrel Sea. Her mother was born and raised in Gladium.
People might raise an eyebrow at a human interracial union, but that’s all. What ruffled society’s feathers more was marrying outside your class. What rankled the aristocracy more than that, even with desegregation laws in place, even with high-profile marriages like my sister’s to Lucius, was the mating to a Morgon. The old mindset was hard to break, despite the façade of being generally accepted in public society. Behind closed doors was another thing altogether.
We stopped at my car. My shitty old clunker with peeling paint was a daily reminder I was standing on my own feet, not allowing my father to rule my life. Kris might have had a point. Had I pushed my father away in order to appear strong? To be an independent woman who relied on no man to stand on her own two feet? In doing so, I seemed to have pushed all men away.
“Are Morgon men too tough for you to handle?” she teased.
I sighed, giving her a brief hug. “Let’s talk gender politics in a male-dominated society some other time.”
Waking the Dragon Page 4
