Waking the Dragon

by Juliette Cross

  I tilted my head. “Are you referring to dragon magic? The myth?”

  “Morgon magic. And it’s no myth. Morgons have gifts outside human understanding.”

  “Because of their dragon heritage,” I added.

  He smiled, wrinkles crinkling around his eyes. “Now, not all Morgons have abilities outside their dragon senses, like their heightened sense of smell, eyesight, and so forth, but…some do.” His pale-blue gaze roamed from me to Kol who said not a word, petting Seerie into a pleasure-induced coma. Now this was ridiculous. The first time I’d felt envy in a very long time, and it was of a cat.

  I turned back to Petrus. “Like the Icewing clan…your clan,” I added.

  “You know of our clan?”

  “My sister. She was injured and one of your clan healed her. I don’t know exactly how, as she was very secretive about it. But the mark it left behind is extraordinary.” Yes. Out of the ordinary. As in, caused by some supernatural gift. Why had I never considered this before? That the Icewing clan wasn’t the only one harboring uncanny abilities.

  “That’s right. My clan has the power of healing.”

  “The Nightwings. What about them?” I had to know.

  “The Nightwings are direct descendants of King Radomis and Larkos. Their gift is sheer dominance. No opponent ever wins against them. No one. Their dragon is too strong.”

  I mused about the clans that came about after King Radomis took a human as his bride and his queen. History told that other dragons saw fit to take human brides, thus populating the world with the varied clans of Morgons. When Larkos let loose his rage on his father and dragonkind, he allowed the Morgons to live, desiring them to become the superior race.

  What gift did the Moonring clan have? There was a story behind those fey eyes, and I was going to discover it. Soon.

  “Devlin Wood,” he continued, “was a place of ritual and sacrifice. The witches I speak of are dragons who sought to use their innate gifts and amplify them with perversions of nature. Thereafter, there were a few Morgon witches. There actually still is one coven, the Syren Sisters. They live far to the north in the frozen Wastelands of Aria, outside the dominion of human and Morgon civilization. And the Syren Sisters profess to practice only good magic, using only animal sacrifice for their rituals. As far as I know, they speak the truth.”

  “But,” I protested, “could there be others who’ve perhaps strayed from the natural path, who might still practice some sort of dark rituals?”

  “Like what, my dear?”

  “Like the sacrifice of blood brides.” My mouth had gone dry. “The Larkosian ritual to honor their god, Larkos.”

  He smoothed his thumb and forefinger along his white beard. In deep thought, he grimaced. “The Larkosians used the site of Devlin Wood for ritual, as have many others before them. The original Larkosians used the deep caves of Mount Obsidian, but Devlin Wood has always held an air of mysticism. Dragon witches used spells, binding their powers with the sacrifice of flesh and blood, to gain more power. The witch Balsheba was one of the most prominent in dragon history.”

  “Funny, I just told my nephew the story of Balsheba and the Poisoned Cup.”

  The old Morgon’s smile reminded me of one who’d seen too much of the world and wished he hadn’t. “Of course, that fairytale you speak of is more fact than fiction. I bet you tell it where she dropped a ruby into the chalice, lacing the wine with poison.”

  Sitting straighter, I replied, “Yes. That’s the story.”

  “Ah, but my dear girl. The truth is that the ruby wasn’t poisoned.”

  I frowned. “Then how did she drink from the cup before she passed it to the queen?”

  “The Bloodbacks were a clan with a dark gift. Poison pumped through their veins.”

  “Were?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m afraid their kind died out. Because of their lethal ability, they were feared. Few of them mated because other Morgons feared their fatal kiss, until eventually, there were none left. The last two daughters of the Bloodback clan disappeared almost a century ago. It is believed they were murdered, though bodies were never found.”

  “What do you mean by fatal kiss?”

  “They had glands in their mouths that could release venom directly into a victim with a bite. Or a kiss.”

  My eyes widened. “Or with a sip into a cup.”

  He nodded. “In the story, before her attack on the queen, Balsheba had always been a vain creature, obsessed with prolonging her beauty and her life, one reason she sought a bond with the king. Naturally, dragon kings live longer than the average.”

  “Our history books claim he was nearly seven-hundred years old when Larkos killed him. Is that true?”

  “Closer to eight-hundred actually.”

  I set my tea to the side. “Wow.”

  The average Morgon lifespan was three-hundred years old. This was why it was always so difficult to guess their age. Petrus must be nearing these upper years. I glanced at Kol, suddenly wondering if he was twenty-five or one hundred and twenty-five. One could never tell once a Morgon reached adulthood.

  My hand went to the medal at my neck, fingering my most precious possession. Petrus shifted in his chair, watching me. “May I see your pendant”

  I paused. No one had ever asked to see it before. “Um, sure.”

  I unclasped it and passed the coin-sized medallion on the silver chain to him. He examined it closely, a broad smile creasing his weathered face. “Saint Portia. The female avenger.” Shrewd eyes fixed on me. “The martyr who sacrificed herself to save us from the evil of Larkos.”

  I straightened, proud of my patron saint.

  “My dear boy,” he said, looking at Kol who was certainly no boy, “do you know the history of Princess Portia?”

  All this time, Kol had said nothing, hadn’t even looked in my direction. “All Morgons do.” His voice was rough and strained. “We’re taught it from our earliest years.”

  “Well, let’s hear it then,” said Petrus.

  Still stroking Seerie in his lap, he lifted his voice and told the tale that had haunted me all my life.

  “When Princess Portia set out with her handmaidens and attendants to visit her sister, the queen of the dragonlands in the North, she had no idea she’d arrive to find blood and death. She’d sent messenger after messenger with letters. None of them returning. No word of what had happened. Knowing something was wrong, she armed a band of warriors and journeyed north to discover what had happened.”

  Kol paused and angled his body toward us, stretching his arm along the low sofa-back before continuing the story.

  “Portia found her sister in her bed, death marking her cold body. When her husband, King Radomis, was killed by Larkos, their soulfire bond demanded that her heart stop beating as well. She’d lingered for a day after Radomis took his last breath, finally expiring with the setting sun. It was the way of dragons and their mates, and now Morgons and their mates, those bound by soulfire. One could not outlive the other. When Larkos entered his mother’s chamber to say his final farewell, his heart seized at the site of beautiful Portia mourning at Morga’s bedside. Though she was his aunt, he hungered for her so desperately that he wanted to bond in that unbreakable way of soulfire. Repulsed at the thought, Portia saw only one good if she could bear to tie herself to Larkos. She accepted the heartbonding of soulfire, the elixir to synchronize their hearts, allowing him to sate his burning lust on her body. When he had finished, the bond complete, she stabbed herself in the heart with his own dagger, ridding the world of the tyrant, Larkos.”

  Entranced by Kol’s rolling timbre and heartfelt words, I jumped when Petrus finally spoke. “Well done, my boy.” Petrus turned his gaze on me so fixedly, it was apparent he understood why I was devoted to Saint Portia.

  “You know, don’t you?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Know what?” demanded Kol.

  “What most Morgons don’t know,” said P
etrus, his white brows pursed. “Princess Portia was married to the human prince of the west intended for her sister, Morga, before King Radomis took her as his bride. When Portia set out to visit her sister, she left behind a young son, knowing the journey might be dangerous for a human boy. Besides, her husband would not permit him to go. Princess Portia was extraordinary in the eyes of humans, not only because she sacrificed her own life for the good of others, but she did so knowing she left her son motherless. A true selfless act. Her son was the first of many in the powerful Kadenstar dynasty. Their descendants would shorten the name, when monarchies fell, to the surname Kaden. And about five centuries ago, one eccentric and rather racist descendant changed it altogether to Cade, desiring to distance his family legacy from the humans tied to dragon and Morgon lineage. My dear boy, you are sitting beside the ancestral granddaughter of Saint Portia.”

  Silence, except for the soft hiss of flames flickering. Petrus passed me the medal. I felt Kol’s eyes heavy on me as I reclasped the chain around my neck.

  “You even have the tell-tale ebony hair and fair skin,” added Petrus, setting his tea cup down.

  I swept my hair over one shoulder. “Yes. My brother and sister do as well.”

  “Lucius never told me this.” Kol had finally found his voice, sounding almost strangled.

  “He doesn’t know. I only discovered it recently in an ancestry class when we had to trace our heritage.”

  “You’ve not told your own family?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think my father would receive the news very kindly.” Any attachment to the Morgons rubbed my father wrong. I had no desire to remind him that our own ancestors mated and bonded with dragons. “And Jessen and I haven’t had much time alone the past few months.”

  Kol frowned, seeming to know I was telling half-truths.

  “You know?” Petrus glanced between Kol and I. “That means that you two are distantly related. By marriage of course. Not by blood.”

  Kol stiffened.

  I sat up straighter. “Um, excuse me? What do you mean exactly?”

  “You don’t know the story of how the Moonring clan came to be?”

  I shook my head. He ignored Kol’s jaw-clenching silence.

  “Ah, well. Diokles Nightwing was a very famous Morgon. He was the one who founded the Obsidian Games several centuries ago. You’ve heard of the Obsidian Games?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Well, his wife bore him seven sons. When she was pregnant with the seventh, there was a festival just before the games beneath Mount Obsidian in Singing Wind Wood where all the clans had gathered. While fetching a pail of water, she went into labor at the pool, giving birth right there beneath the full, blue moon, glowing in the glassy pond. It is said she focused so hard on the image of the moon in order to distract herself from the labor pains, that the moon itself imprinted on her unborn child. The son she bore had dark blue wings and blue eyes with the exception of a pale ring circling the inside of his iris. A magical mark given to him by the forest itself. Perhaps that is why this place seems to respond so well to Moonring clan members. Even today.”

  I glanced at Kol with Seerie curled in a warm ball on his lap. Again, he avoided eye contact with me, as if he could ignore his heritage, the magical mark in question stamped directly onto his bright eyes.

  Petrus mused. “How interesting that your sister and Lucius should find one another. That another Nightwing descendant should find a mate from the Kadenstar line.”

  He was right. It was as if fate had bound my sister to her Nightwing mate. Even my brother, who had once despised Morgons—a fault learned from our father—fell in love with Shakara despite his determination not to. In the end, Fate had her way. And I’ve never seen him happier. Did Fate have something similar in store for me?

  “It’s time we left.” Kol interrupted my thoughts and stood up, setting Seerie on the sofa. She circled once and curled into a ball again.

  “Thank you for your time, Petrus. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I shook his hand.

  “By all means. The pleasure was all mine. I’d always hoped to meet one of the famous Cades one of these days. You are welcome to come back if you should ever need.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, meaning it, though I doubted I should ever have another occasion.

  I glanced around at the rumpled stacks of papers, feathered quills, cluttered shelves of tomes, vials of potions, and pots of spices as I headed for the door. This place was haloed by everything good and whole and warm. I left feeling grateful for having met this eccentric, yet wise, old Morgon.

  Once outside, Kol reassembled the harness with quick, sharp movements. A familiar vibration of energy surrounded him—a pulsing irritation emanating from within.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not.” He cinched the belt so tight around me, the air in my lungs whooshed out.

  “Really? Because I think you are.”

  He spun me around fast, a large hand wrapping my neck, thumb pressing into the hollow between my jaw and neck. His other hand was at my hip, clenching. I braced my hands on his shoulders, caught completely off guard. A look akin to despair marked every line on his face, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He closed his eyes, his thumb brushing along the edge of my jaw.

  “Kol,” I whispered, knowing his dragon had him in some sort of desperate hold. “Are you okay?”

  Slowly, he opened his eyes—pupils as thick, black slits, and irises glinting bright silver in the dark—full dragon eyes. I hitched in a breath.

  “Fate is such a fucking, cruel bitch,” he grated.

  His thumb crossed to my chin. He held me close, my breasts pressed against the hard steel of his chest. His otherworldly gaze, full of danger and promise, traced my lips hungrily.

  He was not about to kiss me.

  “Kol.” I gave a soft push against his chest. Immovable.

  His thumb slipped down under my chin, sliding a sinuous line along the column of my throat to the hollow where my medal hung. He let his hand, gripping my neck, fall away from my body, seeming to come out of his weird trance.

  “I need to fly,” he said to the air, not to me.

  After spinning me back around so fast I stumbled, he clipped the rest of the harness on, gripped me around the waist in his iron hold, and rocketed up into the night sky. We climbed higher than before, so hard, so fast, I thought I would be sick. One arm held me tight. I knew enough about Morgons to understand that sometimes they couldn’t control their beast. Sometimes, the dragon controlled the man. For whatever reason, Kol’s beast had dug his claws in, nearly strangling him. I didn’t know why or what fate had to do with anything, but I did know I didn’t want him to suffer. Jessen had once told me that gentle touch soothed her husband when the beast was riding him hard.

  I wrapped my arm across Kol’s forearm at my waist, trailing my hand up and down. He stopped our vertical ascent, evening out, and let the wind take us on a smooth ride. His grip loosened, but kept me close all the same.

  When we descended into Gladium and landed near my car, he unbuckled and removed the harness in silence. I waited for him to say something, maybe apologize for losing it, but he didn’t. Not a word. Not even a look. As soon as he was free of the harness and of me, he lifted back into the sky, melding with the shadowy night, leaving me in complete and utter confusion. And oddly bereft.

  Chapter 9

  Lorian’s man escorted me to his study. Sorcha was at work at her family’s marketing firm. Vincent took my gray coat and red scarf as he held the door open. Lorian stood by the fire and immediately cut off whatever he was saying to Kol, who faced the window overlooking the west side of the city. The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, painting the buildings an orange-pink hue. Kol’s hands were clasped at his back, his wings pulled tight. He didn’t turn when I entered the room.

  “Moira, come on in.”

  Lorian met me ha
lfway and led me to the sofa facing the fireplace. The room was decorated in warm mahogany tones except for a black marble desk near the window. Behind which Kol still stood, his back to the room.

  “We’ve come to a decision.” Lorian crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wooden mantel. “We’re moving forward with your plan.”

  I grinned, despite the impending danger.

  “But only if you agree to all of our stipulations,” he clarified.

  I straightened. “Let me hear them.”

  “First, you cannot mention the operation to anyone. Especially your sister.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “This Friday is a big game with a Vaengar team from Cloven. We’ve deduced that most of the Butchers must be from this province.”

  “So you’ve heard from your undercover man, Gaius?”

  “No. But before he removed his tracker, he was spending most of his time in and around Cloven. He most probably had to get rid of his comm device and tracker when he went deep undercover, standard procedure to cut all connection to the Morgon Guard. We’re positive he’s now immersed in our target group.”

  Lorian stepped over to his desk and lifted a syringe with a long, thick needle. I shivered.

  “This is the next requirement. You’ll have to agree to have a techno-tracker embedded under your skin.”

  “Won’t a tracker be risky? If your undercover guy had to get rid of his, then they’ll discover it on me, too.”

  “Relax.” Hard to do as he walked toward me with that giant needle. “It’s small enough that it won’t be found or scented by the most adept Morgon.”

  “I’ve never heard of a tracker this small.”

  “That’s because it’s not on the human market,” he said, squatting in front of me. “Quite frankly, it’s not on the Morgon market. It was securely developed by technicians at Nightwing Enterprises for Nightwing security and the Morgon Guard.”

  “I see.” I swallowed hard. I hated needles.

  “If you’ll remove your boot, I’ll insert it between your toes. We’ve found this is the least conspicuous place. Morgon senses can be extremely acute, so the farther from a Morgon’s nose, the better.”