Dragonkin: Storms

by Crymsyn Hart

  Dragonkin: Storms

  Copyright © February 2015, Crymsyn Hart

  Cover art by Clarissa Yeo © February 2015

  Amira Press

  www.amirapress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-627620-91-8

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Amira Press.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Kestrel ran her fingers over the ancient tomes in the expansive library, marveling at how the volumes existed and hadn’t crumbled to dust. The magic of the dragons infused the whole of Blaze Mountain, and it still amazed her that life events led her to the mountain ten years before. A blast of hot breath whispered across her nape followed by smooth lips pressing against her flesh. Her husband slid his hand around her waist and pulled her into him. She sighed, feeling complete in his arms as he nibbled her ear. Andrik smoothed his palm over her purple velvet gown, feeling her rounded belly.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  She turned to him and smiled, seeing his black hair was loose and not braided on the sides the way he normally wore it. Kestrel loved raking her fingers through the silken strands. She touched her belly and concentrated on the life growing inside of her. She was content, but there were still another five months to go in her pregnancy. If she was carrying a human child, it would have been born by now, but dragonkin, dragon shape shifters, had a longer gestation. “I’m good. So is she.”

  “How can you tell?” She heard the bafflement in his voice that she could sense the mood of their child.

  Kestrel shrugged. “The same way I know we’re connected with the magic that binds us. She’ll be a dragon too, just like —”

  “Momma. Momma, did you find it?” A whirlwind of energy that was their son Dravik rushed into the library and wrapped his arms around her leg, hugging her hard before looking up at her with expectant eyes. He had gotten his black hair from Andrik, but he had her honey golden eyes and the shape of her face. He was six, and for a prince he was also spoiled.

  “Your Majesties, I’m sorry, he got away from me.”

  “It’s okay, Shala,” Kestrel said to the young woman who had appointed herself the boy’s nursemaid no matter how many objections Kestrel had given her. The young dragonkin had fallen in love with her spellcaster and they now resided in Blaze Mountain. “Go find Brandyn and spend some time together.”

  Shala blushed, curtsied, and shuffled out of the room. Kestrel ruffled her son’s hair. “Yes, I found it. I thought you were going to wait until tonight.”

  “I was too excited,” he squealed.

  “What’s he looking for?” Andrik inquired.

  “Momma said she would show me the family tree. Is it true I’m descended from a line of great kings?” Dravik asked. His gaze darted to his father. The expectation in his eyes made her see something of a glimmer of the dragon that Kestrel was once bonded to. Castigan. He had died and, by some twist of fate or gift from the gods, had been reincarnated as Andrik. They had found one another again and their love had never been stronger.

  Andrik took their son’s hand and led them to another corner of the library. Kestrel followed slowly. He stopped by a large trunk with a flat top and an ancient lock. “It’s in here. Are you sure you want to see it?”

  Dravik nodded.

  Her mate lifted the top of the trunk and pulled out a scroll. He took it to a long table in the center of the room. He rolled it out slowly until it took up most of the table. Andrik had showed her the document when she had first become pregnant. A line had appeared, connecting the two of them. She trailed her finger over the mark that showed there would be another child, but it didn’t have a name next to it yet. A tingle of power rode up her arm, indicating the scroll’s magic was still active. Andrik lifted his son up and set him on the edge of the table.

  “Can you find your name?” Kestrel asked.

  Dravik stared at her with wide eyes, bit his lip, and glanced at the scroll. His little finger moved over the names, hesitated on one, and then glanced up at her when he stopped at his name. “That’s me,” he declared. His voice was full of glee.

  “That’s right. And this is your father.” Kestrel pointed to the name above him. “This was your grandfather, a great king.”

  “He was. Ralag is your great uncle. And it goes from there, all the way back ten generations to the very first dragon who asked the gods to fall in love with a human woman.” Andrik glanced at her and the love reflected in his eyes warmed her heart, knowing that she could always find it there. They were bonded on a deep level as spellcaster and dragon and an even deeper one as mates.

  “Who is this?”

  Kestrel blinked and focused back on Dravik. She peered over his shoulder and saw where he was pointing. The name he indicated was the first son of the third dragon king. The name read Meruke.

  “You picked an interesting ancestor to talk about. Ralag used to tell me stories about him growing up. Meruke was a great warrior. There was an uprising among the dragons and the humans who lived here in Blaze Mountain. He exterminated the fierce beasts that lived here before us. They tried to drive us underground and were killing our kind. He destroyed them and was crowned king.”

  “What happened to him?” Kestrel was as intrigued as her son to hear the tale.

  Dravik giggled when Andrik tapped him on the nose and began the tale. “It is said that—”

  “...After his coronation one of these great creatures remained and made a pact with a powerful sorceress. Meruke went to investigate as a massive storm descended over the valley. It battered Blaze Mountain. Many warriors went with him to defeat the sorceress. A great battle ensued and the witch was killed and the evil creature was dead. When the storm cleared, Meruke had vanished.”

  An older man had come into the library, hunched on a cane, but still spry for his advanced age. He hobbled across the room and slid into an open chair near them. Dravik slipped off the table and ran to the wizened man. Kestrel glanced at him and caught a flash of a white dragon, but Ralag was not a shifter. He was Andrik’s uncle but had not inherited the ability to shift. Nonetheless, he was still a power magician and Andrik’s advisor.

  “Where did he go?” Dravik asked.

  “Some say he was carried away by the four winds. Others say he gave his life so that the great beasts would not rise again and kill any more dragonkin. His mother never believed that he was slain,” Ralag said.

  “His mother?” Andrik pulled out a seat so that Kestrel could sit. She slid into it, grateful to be off her feet.

  Ralag nodded. “You went to see her, nephew, when you were trying to discern your relationship with Kestrel. It was to Orlana that you sought the advice and learned how to quiet your mind so that you could contact your past self.”

  “She must be ancient,” Kestrel said, wondering how long the woman must have lived, because dragons could live thousands of years.

  “
Orlana is a rare one, and yes, she is very old. Old enough she remembers the first dragonkin, the first of our line passing over and being with the Great Dragon. You would know something of that, wouldn’t you, Kestrel?” A glint of amusement lit his grey eyes.

  “What’s he talking about, Momma?” Dravik asked.

  She smiled at him. “That’s a story for another time. Right now, hatchling, it’s time for bed.”

  His mouth twisted into a scowl, but with a thought she summoned a small ball of dragon fire and threw it at him. It landed on his chest and he shivered. “Stop it. That stings.”

  “That’s the point. Do as your mother says and head to bed.” Andrik hugged his son and lifted him off Ralag’s lap, taking him out of the library.

  Ralag sat across from Kestrel and flashed her a small smile. At that moment he looked tired and worn. She leaned across the table and laid her hand on his. He brightened some. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m getting old. I’ve been alive for a very long time. More and more I’m hearing the call of the Great Dragon. I have lived to see many things and have enjoyed the time with Dravik. He is the grandson I never had. He reminds me of Simeon when he was a child, although much kinder. I’ve seen miraculous things. You are one of them.”

  Kestrel winced at hearing his son’s name. Simeon had once started a coup to overtake the spellcasters. He had sunk a poisoned dagger into her chest that killed her. Although she had been resurrected, it was still a subject she didn’t like to revisit. Without the events of that day, she never would have become what she was. They called her drakin, a warrior, the mother of a new race, the savior of the dragonkin. It had given her wings of flame if she called upon them and the ability to take on some physical dragon attributes. It had made her a more powerful spellcaster, but being the mother of a new race—she wasn’t sure about that. So far her children hadn’t shown any signs of being different. She couldn’t shift into a dragon and lay eggs. Whatever was different about her, she was still waiting for it to manifest. Then again, when she told Ralag about her insight into her children while they were still in the womb, he had said that wasn’t a usual gift. Andrik had never told her that she was unusual. It didn’t matter that she was queen and he was king, he always thought of her as the jewel in his crown.

  She closed her eyes and thought about Ralag. “There is more time for you yet, old man, before you gain your wings and fly off.”

  Kestrel’s will slipped a little. It seemed she was seeing something beyond herself. She was lifted up; carried away over stormy seas. Someone was in pain. She hissed in a breath, but she wasn’t the one in pain.

  “What do you see?” Ralag’s voice anchored her even though she couldn’t see him.

  Kestrel tried to focus, but it was difficult. Her limbs were cold. The wind howled around her like an angry harpy. She concentrated through the cold and listened past the howling gale. She was a long way from her body. Kestrel inhaled, and the heaviness of salt sat on her tongue. “The sea. It crashes against the rocks. The wind screams, but only one can understand what it says and he has nearly forgotten the words. So lonely and lost.”

  “Where are you? What sea are you speaking about? One near the southern coast or the western? Those are the most formidable.”

  She shook her head. “Not familiar shores or seas.” She held up her hand to block out the light. “It’s so bright. It burns.” Kestrel gritted her teeth as the wind battered her against the rocks. It blew her form into the cliffs, but it didn’t hurt. She tried to hold onto the vision, but between the wind and the light she lost her grip on it. She snapped back to herself. When she opened her eyes, Ralag stared at her with an inquisitive gaze. Her entire body ached. Kestrel checked her baby, and she didn’t seem affected at what had just happened. “What was that?”

  “You had a sending, a vision. Something strong must have gotten your attention. Do you think you can find this place once more on a map?”

  “It’s not within our boundaries. It’s somewhere else.” Kestrel thought about what she had seen and felt, the otherness about the world. Something was missing that she wasn’t able to put her finger on, but it made her feel empty.

  “Do you know who it was pertaining to? You or Andrik?” Ralag asked. He had perked up some.

  Kestrel pulled her hand from his and brushed it over the family tree. A sharp jolt went up her finger when it stopped.

  It had landed on Meruke’s name.

  Chapter One

  The waves slapped against the rocks harder with each passing swell as the tide came in. The thunder of the ocean was always a sound he enjoyed, but tonight something kept him on edge. A storm was brewing. He stood at the balcony and stared at the roiling clouds. The beam from the lighthouse emanated from the rocky crags of a lonely island where the keeper manned the light so that it would warn any wayward soul not to dash upon the rocks.

  The lighthouse sat upon a lonely stretch of rock called Little Finger Island. Wyeth had never stepped foot on the island or been to the lighthouse. A massive gust of wind carried the spray so it caressed his cheek. He trailed his fingers along his flesh and tasted the salt. The raging wind raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Something was afoot. He wasn’t sure what it was, but this storm didn’t set right with him. He inhaled a deep breath and took in the musty salt air mixed with the tang of seaweed. As Wyeth stared into black, churning skies he thought he saw something pass between the light and the dark horizon. He blinked, and a misty shadow glided along the inky skyline. Squinting against the pelting rain, he saw the shape dive toward the water and the perilous cliffs as though it would crash upon them. When the silhouette emerged from the clouds, all he could make out was a misty gust in the shape of a large dragon that dissolved once the squall passed.

  Wyeth shook off the foreboding. It was just another tempest. One of the many he had lived through. It might try and take down the mansion, but it wasn’t going to make a dent until the land finally eroded away and the house plunged into the depths of the sea. It might be best if that happened, because then he wouldn’t have to deal with the curse that had followed his family for generations. The stone banister he clutched was slippery with slime and moss from years of neglect. Then again, the whole place had suffered from years of it. He was the first Blackmore to stay for more than a week in nearly fifty years. Wyeth might not have inhabited the family manse growing up, but they had lived in a modest house on the grounds. He had moved out and gotten an apartment in town, leaving the house empty since his father’s death.

  On his death bed, his father warned him not to go into the house. It was their curse, and yet, as long as they owned it, it was said they would always have wealth. The grounds sprawled for five miles around the land to the beach below and included several of the rocky islands that extended toward Little Finger. Once upon a time, his family had owned the land that the lighthouse guarded over, but they had donated it so the beacon could be constructed. Nonetheless, it remained tied to his family because the lighthouse keeper and the upkeep of the structure were linked in with a trust his family had set up generations ago. Even if Wyeth tried to undo the threads that wove him, the house, and his family heritage together, it would take him years of legal battles because there was another family involved. The Drakes.

  Whenever his ancestors had tried to sell something that was bound to the Blackmores a Drake had appeared and contested it. The things I could do with my life if we were not so knotted together. Wyeth had started to dream about the derelict building. He could see its grandness restored, and the decision satisfied something deep within him. After he got it fixed up, he might live in it, but unlike his ancestors, he was not going to be driven from it. Wyeth was going to learn its secrets. He wanted to see if it was truly haunted, and he wanted a hand in fixing it up.

  Wyeth wasn’t afraid of hard work. His father had a hobby of making tables, chairs, bookcases, anything he could form out of wood. So he had helped him in the shop and had an appreciation for carpentry.
Now Wyeth had his own contracting company where he worked. Before he brought all the guys in, he needed to see how much remodeling the house needed. So far, he had spent a couple of nights sleeping in the living room next to the fireplace. At least he could stay warm in the drafty house. The old time castle had fifty rooms that overlooked the ocean, and it retained an old world feel. Of all of those rooms, he had only explored the downstairs and the master bedroom upstairs. He hadn’t even thought of the cellar, but it didn’t matter to him. Once he cleared the cobwebs away and got the electricity working, he would clear out whatever ghosts remained.

  Wyeth glanced at the light one more time as it cast its all seeing eye onto his property. Even for a brief second, it was eerie. The cries of the gulls were banshee-like as he stepped inside the house, closed the balcony doors, and locked them. Not that anyone could get in, because they would have to climb a sheer cliff to reach the terrace.

  Once he was inside, although he was protected from the elements, there was no comfort or warmth. The fire in the hearth crackled. A log shifted and fell through the grate. Most of the furniture was grandiose and from another time. Antiques dealers would enjoy picking through the place. Most of the furniture he could store in the forgotten rooms. He walked over to the things he had brought with him, a backpack, several lanterns, the blueprints, his sleeping bag, a tent that was still bundled up just in case he needed it, a small camping stove, and a few books to read when he got bored. His cell phone was perched on top of an ornately carved, round mahogany table he had dragged over from the corner along with a trash bag filled with takeout containers. The rest of his supplies were dried food he could eat and a few other essentials.

  He wasn’t much into camping and had bought most of it when he had dated a woman who was an outdoorsy type. She had been interested in nothing but his money and his family name. Once Wyeth realized that, he cut her loose and put the gear in a spare room of his apartment.

  Lightning lit the sky. The illumination dashed shadows across the marble mantle, and he saw the two ornately carved, large dragons that held up the heavy shelf. Their heads thrust out of the stone with their tails curved along the sides. Their feet were outstretched, ready to scratch anyone that came too close to it. Wyeth ran his fingers along the ridge of the dragon’s snout and pressed one of its sharp teeth. Those were dull, but as the wind whooshed through the house, he swore the dragons groaned. Maybe it was just the house settling.