Fire and Fantasy: a Limited Edition Collection of Epic and Urban Fantasy

by CK Dawn

  Jasper sank to his knees, bowing his head deferentially to the jigger of concentrated fae only the Shade or the Sun were capable.

  After many minutes of tense silence, Doque stood, exhaustion aging him worse than a terminal illness. “She’s empty,” he said, his voice overflowing with despair before staggering to his knees.

  Wrapping his arms around the larger man’s waist, Fish steadied his master and guided him to the elaborate bed at the center of the room.

  “Ch’in,” Jasper called, kneeling over his daughter.

  “Her energy is—” Ch’in said, allowing his palms to hover an inch above her body “—better.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Still fractured, but in bigger, more manageable pieces.”

  “I can heal her,” Quill said, gripping Jasper’s arm.

  “Get your fucking hands off of me,” Jasper said, gathering Dragon in his arms. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d ever let you near my kid again.”

  “Enough!” Ch’in stood. “I know what must be done,” he said, his compassionate gaze touching Quill briefly. “We must get her home.” He pulled Quill to her feet and ushered her through the Shade’s bedroom door.

  “I’ll be in touch, Phooka,” Doque said, standing with Fish’s aid.

  “As you will, my liege,” Jasper said, addressing the Prince of Shadows respectfully for the first time in their long acquaintance.

  “Ten years, Jasper,” Doque reminded him.

  “Better make them count,” Jasper answered as he followed Buddha’s tail out of the room.

  When they’d left, Doque extracted himself from Fish’s hold, the need to appear weakened no longer necessary.

  “Empty.” Doque’s growl echoed, portending doom the way no thunderclap could. Appearing calm, he walked to the well-stocked bar in the corner of the room and reached for a bottle.

  Fish watched, praying that he would choose whiskey, Scotch, vodka, anything to dampen the anger that assuredly darkened the entire back nine like a plague of locusts. Knowing his master well and knowing too that the Shade’s rage would be most destructive within the vicinity of his shadow, Fish sprinted for the door, Reggie on his heels. The hsigo, not as attuned to the Shade’s anger, could only squeak before his ribs caved in and his innards were pressed out to splat against the walls. Reggie, all but one leg over the threshold of the bedroom managed to gasp “Master” even as the bones in his thigh and calf were crushed.

  It was enough. Light returned and the killing pressure eased.

  “Get up!” Fish whispered to Reggie, and peeked into the bedroom. “You.” He motioned to Clarise crouched behind a branch of the great tree. Her presence was unsurprising and, at such times, a required part of her responsibilities. “Help him,” he said and reentered the bedroom.

  “Jasper reeked of undertow,” Doque blithely commented, finally pouring himself a drink. “That may be of use in the future. In the meantime, send him to relieve Ché.”

  “Ché won’t be pleased,” Fish said, staring at the dead hsigo and making a mental note to have the palace cleaners use the stain removing concoction Patty had created to combat last year’s Pan’s feast staining excesses, most of which continued to twitch long after the celebration ended.

  “His performance in the Sun has been mediocre. You’re welcome to add him to your harem if he balks. See what the Phooka can accomplish given the same budget and let him know that if he doesn’t locate my magic, I’ll kill the girl and give the goddess to the entire hsigo guard.”

  “Yes, my lord. Can I get you anything before I go?” Though Fish’s gaze was neutral, his wildly swishing tail revealed his eagerness to be a balm to his agitated master.

  Hauling his shirt over his head, Doque smiled. “No, thank you, Fish. I’m going out.” He stretched his neck and triceps before inhaling and exhaling several measured breaths, then like a chameleon, his hair and body darkened until they took on the tones of a human of Mediterranean descent. Loud cracks echoed throughout the room as his bones broke and reformed, making him nearly two feet shorter; his nose longer and his eyes an unremarkable brown. His sweats fell off his smaller body and his genitals shrank to less than quarter of their normal size, completely disproportionate to the new body the Shade inhabited.

  He inflated them experimentally, watching as Fish discarded his calm façade and fell to his knees.

  “You need not subject yourself to the inconvenience of going into the city. I am happy to serve you, Father,” he begged.

  “I know you are. Later, perhaps,” Doque said, his gravelly voice gone, exchanged for distinctly uneducated accents. “Right now, I need to think. Where’s the orange jumpsuit?” Doque said, shortening the cock of his parolee costume.

  Fish nodded to the alcove, his disappointment obvious as he watched Doque’s new, flatter ass disappear in the closet. When the Shade reappeared he was dressed in the disguise that lured even the most suspicious prudes to their knees.

  “Don’t wait up.”

  Fel stared out the window at the dark stone pathways and the gurgling water of the tiered square fountain and sighed contentedly. He was safe here—he knew that much at least—and finished. No more wars to fight, no more ends to meet, no more bitterness to swallow. Memories of a glass koi fish and a longing for its contents, and for acceptance sparkled and disappeared like fireworks.

  Wherever this was, nourishment was boundless, love was at his fingertips and peace was finally his to command. And time, this too was his. Finally, time to enchant and be enchanted, to lead and follow, to hunger and feast. Endless time to choose. Stay or go. Past or present. Live or die.

  Choose...no strings.

  Outside, fat, perfectly formed snowflakes mingled with cherry blossom petals as they both danced and floated to the ground, softening the gray landscape with a hint of blush. A vermillion flycatcher chirped its distress at this uncommon struggle between the stubborn snowfall of the dead and the vibrant first steps of the living.

  A pair of warm, brown hands slid around his waist, a dragon wyrm tattoo curling about her wrist. He smiled as she snuggled against his back, her nipples pressing into his flesh and her soft belly heating the curve of his ass as her diaphragm expanded and contracted.

  She pressed three quick kisses against his shoulder blade, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor before a downy-stuffed thump indicated she’d retreated to the large futon that took up a shadowy corner of the room.

  “Oral’s fifty and is included in the straight sex package,” he said, turning and leaning against the cool panes of the window. “The kinky package includes any dom-sub scenario requiring restraints and/or corporeal punishment. Additional implements such as paddles or enemas are available for an extra fee. I’m also running a special,” he added, his hooded gaze fixed on her as she placed her palms behind her and, bracing her weight on her straightened arms, slowly opened her bent legs wide. “Anything I want,” he continued, drawing closer to the futon so he could kneel in front of her. “For as long as I want.”

  She hummed as if considering her options. “I’ll definitely take the special. Only the minute the snow stops, I gotta be on my way.”

  “Then I’ll make sure the snow never stops.” He smiled, running his hand up her calf and over her knee, the precise scars of stylized ivy and thorn that described his antecedents changing to match the colored dragon roaring on her flesh.

  “How? Spring is—” Her voice hitched as his fingers slipped down her thigh and hovered over her dampening vagina. “Here.” Her head fell back when he lightly touched her, but she continued. “Winter reaches,” she gasped. “A last-ditch effort then fades away.”

  “I can find it,” he said, dragging his lips along her exposed neck, his skin darkening to a metallic gold in places, decadent eggplant and sin-free red in others. “I can always find it.”

  “Can you?” she murmured, allowing her arms to slowly slide out from under her, sighing when she landed on her back. With a smile she opened her e
yes and met his—a molten reflective silver. Cupping his face tenderly she said, “Can you really?”

  “Always.”

  Can Charlie and Saras find a way to bring their friends back from the afterlife? Stay tuned for Air, book two in the Unbound Realms series, and sign up for my newsletter to be the first to know about release dates, giveaways and other announcements!

  About the Author

  Joss Dey writes emotionally-driven urban fantasies that explore questions about love, family and self amidst bizarre creatures, odd goings on and the end of the world from her basement office in the ghetto in New Haven, Connecticut.

  Read more from Joss Dey:

  www.jossdey.com/

  Karen, I wouldn’t have started this Grand Endeavor without you, and couldn’t have finished without you either. Your encouragement has been as constant as your friendship. Both have meant the world.

  Acknowledgments

  Many grateful thanks to the Plotmonkeys: Karen Pinco, Kristan Higgins, Jennifer Iszkiewicz and Huntley Fitzpatrick. Laughing with you and working on our books has made me a better writer, even when I didn’t really feel like writing.

  Thank you to CTRWA. Nothing has made me believe I could be a writer like this organization has.

  Thank you to Professor Steinbrink who suggested that I take this leap all those years ago.

  Dragon Scale Lute

  JC Kang

  Dragon Scale Lute © copyright 2017, JC Kang

  * * *

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Dragon Scale Lute

  Experience the power of Dragon Songs

  Only the lost magic of Dragon Songs can save the realm. Only a naïve girl with the perfect voice can rediscover it.

  Blessed with an unrivaled voice, Kaiya dreams of a time when music could summon typhoons and rout armies. Maybe then, the imperial court would see the awkward, gangly princess as more than a singing fool.

  When members of the emperor’s elite spy clan uncover a brewing insurrection, the court hopes to appease the ringleader by offering Kaiya as a bride.

  Obediently wedding the depraved rebel lord means giving up her music. Confronting him with the growing power of her voice could kill her.

  One

  Not-So-Chance Meetings

  If marriage were a woman’s grave, as the proverb claimed, I suspected the Emperor was arranging my funeral. Entourage in tow, I shuffled through the castle halls toward the garden where General Lu waited. Given his notorious dislike of the arts, the self-proclaimed Guardian Dragon of Cathay had undoubtedly envisioned a different kind of audition when he requested to hear me sing.

  After all, I was dressed like a potential bride.

  I buried a snort. The Guardian Dragon—such a pretentious nickname. The only real dragon, Avarax, who lorded over some faraway land, might make for a more appealing audience. A quick trip down his gullet would spare me a slow death in a marriage with neither love nor music.

  And it wouldn’t matter what I wore. The gaudy dress compensated for my numerous physical imperfections, but stifled the only thing that made me special. How was I supposed to sing with the inner robe and gold sash squeezing my chest, in a futile attempt to misrepresent my woefully underdeveloped curves? The tight fold of the skirts concealed my lanky legs, but forced a deliberate pace. At least my short stride delayed the inevitable, while preventing my unsightly feet from tripping on the hanging sleeves of the vermilion outer gown.

  At my side, Crown Princess Xiulan glided across the chirping floorboards. If only I could move with the nonchalant grace of my sister-in-law, or even the six handmaidens trailing us. I dug my nails into my clammy palms. Through this choreographed farce, appearances had to be maintained, lest I embarrass Father, the Emperor.

  Chin up, back straight. A racing heart threatened to ruin my already meager semblance of imperial grace. Eyes forward. Servants knelt on either side of the looming double doors, ready to slide them open. I forced a smile, with my best approximation of feminine charm. If only I’d lived before Dragon Songs had faded into legend, I could’ve sent the realm’s victorious hero fleeing with the song he supposedly wanted to hear.

  An aging palace official stepped into my line of sight.

  Singular focus on the doors broken, I blinked. My fluttering pulse lurched to a stop as I blew out a breath.

  His blue robes ruffled as he tottered forward with averted eyes and a bobbing head. He creaked down into a bow. “Emergency, Your Highness,” he said. “The Emperor commands you to greet a foreign delegation in the Hall of Bountiful Harvests.”

  My heart remembered to beat again, and I looked first toward the doors and then down at the man, whose insignias marked him as a secretary for the Ministry of Appointments. Outlandish excuses had mercifully cut short each of the previous meetings with eligible young lords: six times in all.

  But a foreign delegation? Before even meeting the suitor? That was a first. My expression slipped as much as it could beneath the layers of pearl powder caked to my face. “There must be a mistake. Surely the honor would fall to the Crown Prince.”

  He bowed his head again. “No, Your Highness. With your linguistic talents, the Emperor thought you better suited to meet with them.”

  Apparently, small talk with some foreign lord’s wife constituted an emergency these days. Still, the unspoken message needed little interpretation: the foreigners were beneath a prince.

  At least it meant delaying the matchmaking. I cast a glance at Xiulan. “Then shall the Crown Prince take my place and sing to General Lu?”

  My supposed chaperone covered a giggle with slender fingers.

  The man’s eyes darted back and forth, his lips quivering. “I...I…”

  Xiulan stepped forward and brushed her hand across my arm. “Go on, meet with the foreigners. I will explain things to the general.”

  I bowed my head. “As you command, Eldest Sister.” I turned to the official, gesturing with an open hand for him to take the lead.

  As my legs wobbled after him, two of the handmaidens fell in behind. They were more beautiful than me, even after my hours of preening to smother meddlesome acne and subdue unruly hair.

  Which now meant I’d look ridiculous receiving dignitaries. Like an opera singer, maybe. “Who are our guests?”

  The official coughed. “Prince Hardeep Vaswani of Ankira.”

  A man? My stomach leapt into my throat. With limited court training, I might be able to entertain a lady. But a prince... Without any experience in diplomacy, this was an international incident waiting to happen. Given the choice between greeting foreign royalty and the prospect of marriage, that trip into Avarax’s jaws sounded tempting. “What does he want?” I asked.

  “He has been in the capital for a week now, incessantly requesting an audience.”

  And now they were sending me, an awkward sixteen-year-old, undoubtedly as a message. Prince Hardeep wouldn’t see the Emperor until my complexion cleared or the orc gods returned on their flaming chariots, whichever came first. A betting princess would put her money on the orc gods.

  I sighed. After preparing to play the role of demure and dainty maiden before a potential husband, this new situation required a conf
ident demeanor…and neither felt right.

  There was no time to tone down the make-up or change the extravagant gown. Unpinning the outer robe’s constraining fold, I squared my shoulders and lengthened my gait.

  No, this wasn’t bad. It was a reprieve from meeting a dour general. I could do this. How hard could it be? With each step, I concentrated on composing a dignified expression. By the time we arrived at the moat separating the castle from the rest of the sprawling palace grounds, I’d mentally transformed myself from prospective bride into imperial representative.

  Right. I still looked like the former, and felt like neither.

  At the head of the bridge waited eight imperial guards dressed in blue court robes. The magic etched into their breastplates’ five-clawed dragon evoked awe, though I’d grown used to it over the years.

  “Your Highness,” the guards shouted in unison. They each dropped to one knee, fist to the ground. The most talented swordsmen in the realm submitted to me, a pimply girl, for nothing more than the circumstances of my birth.

  If only I could live up to the accompanying expectations. I acknowledged them with a nod. Bowing, the handmaidens shuffled back. The imperial guards deployed behind me. I crossed the stone bridge, leaving behind the relative comfort of private life to enter the formal world of the imperial court.

  We wound through stone-paved alleys. White buildings with blue-tiled eaves rose up beyond spotless courtyard walls with circular windows. At the Hall of Bountiful Harvests, I walked up the veranda and stepped over the ghost-tripping threshold.

  Inside, three chattering men gestured at the green ceiling panels and gold latticework. Their burgundy kurta shirts hung to their knees, collars riding high on their necks. On their left breasts sparkled an embroidered nine-pointed lotus, the crest of the embattled nation of Ankira.