by Paula Quinn
Once again, he tore his eyes off himself and looked at her, this time with something akin to pity for her, as if it were she who was the crazy one—and right now she had to agree with him. “Fra seme Drakkon.”
“Drakkon,” Sam repeated and he nodded. “Your name is Drakkon, I got that part.”
He closed his eyes and Sam was uncomfortably aware of him probing her thoughts. “Stop that,” she demanded, but then she heard him. My name is Marrkiya. I am Drakkon.
An image of a fabled dragon tearing up the heavens with wings as infinite as her imagination invaded her thoughts. The creature was almost beautiful in some majestic, terrifying way, covered in shimmering sea-colored scales and a great spade-pointed tail swooshing the clouds behind it. It opened its mouth and fire streamed out of its great jaws as wide across as a Sequoia tree. The man in the hay nodded at her.
Sam began to laugh. She had to, it was all so insane, and his insanity was somehow finding its way into her mind. She shook her head and gave him her most pathetic look. “You’re telling me you’re a dragon?”
Drakkon.
“Okay.” She was getting out of here, and getting out of here now! “Marrkiya, the Drakkon, you just rest now and I’m sure tomorrow you’ll be a dragon again.” She turned quickly on her heel to escape, but when she heard him cry out in pain, she spun around.
He was sitting up, the quilt and the blanket had slipped down his chest and were crumbled at his bent, whipcord-waist. He lifted the end of both coverings to expose the rest of him, along with his twisted leg, then placed both hands on it.
Sam almost ran to stop him from touching it, horrified he would damage the bone beyond repair. “Don’t!” she shouted at him.
He wasn’t listening. With his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut, he bent the knee joint into its correct position. And then, chanting more unknown words, he ran his large hands over the broken limb.
Sam watched, awestruck and stunned to silence as his leg righted itself, healed before her eyes. No longer broken and twisted but strong and muscular.
“How…?” Eyes wide with staggering disbelief, her gaze followed him as he rose to his height of 6’4”.
For a heart-racing moment, she couldn’t look away from him. He had muscles where men were supposed to have them, carved like granite slabs into his arms and broad shoulders, all along his six-pack belly and down. She was able to lift her gaze to behold him while his dark hair fell over his shoulders, a striking contrast to the immense power in his aqua-colored eyes.
He swayed a moment, then steadied himself, arms outstretched. He met her gaping expression with cool, hooded eyes. He sniffed the air. His lips hooked into a decadent smile.
And then Sam ran.
*
Wood and hay spun in nauseating circles before Marrkiya’s eyes, making him forget the girl. Padgora had done it. He’d altered him. Marrkiya vowed then and there to eat him. He reached out to grab hold of a beam that looked closer than it actually was. He missed it and tumbled to the floor. Dazed, he lay splayed in the dry straw for a few minutes and then tried to get up again.
Bloody hell, how did men do it? How could one balance on two small pads barely long enough to keep him upright? He felt heavy, weighted down, and then he remembered that men, cumbersome beings that they were, had solid bones rather than hollow bones, like the graceful Drakkon. The thought of actually being a man made him want to cry out again. It could not be so. The Council would not have truly done this to him against his will.
But they had done it, and by the stars they would pay. Resolved toward the worst kind of revenge, he dragged himself to his knees, took a deep breath, and began to rise again. He attempted to put one foot before the other, flailed his arms wildly to grab something, lost his balance, and fell flat on his face for the second time. Finally realizing that he had no idea how to walk on two feet instead of four, Marrkiya of the Eleventh crawled out of the stable.
The brisk night air whipped across his face as he sat back on his haunches and gazed at the indigo sky. He longed to take flight. He cursed the earth, man, and the Drakkon with them. Why hadn’t Padgora simply killed him? He raged, gazing down at his puny hands. Padgora had taken everything from him in the blink of an eye and left him with this pathetic body.
His beautiful scales were gone, replaced with paltry skin he was sure could not even stop a bird if one flew into him. His terrifying claws had turned into fingers too weak to even swipe one sheep out of his way, let alone ten. He drew in a deep breath and then blew it out again—nothing but air. Padgora would pay for taking his fire. Aye, he would suffer bitterly for that transgression.
His belly rumbled.
But first he would eat.
He looked around, satisfied at least, that he could still smell a virgin. Ah, but her fragrance was enticing. Where had she run off to? It had been so long—too long—since he’d tasted the sweet essence of innocence. Alas, the world had changed much in the last century. He gave his shoulders a slight shrug, hating the fact that he had them to shrug at all. He would find her, eat her, and then hunt down Padgora. Let the coward try to kill him, he didn’t care. Living as a man would be worse than death anyway.
He sniffed the air like a wolf on the hunt. She had sung beautifully. Her jewel would be flawless. Samantha, he probed and turned his head toward the castle to his right. He thanked the heavens that he still possessed his powers of telepathy and of healing himself. What else could he still do?
Samantha, he probed again. Her scent was mesmerizing, hypnotic, dragging his thoughts away from Padgora. First, he would ravish her thoughts, then he would ravage the body she offered up to him, taking her pure virgin essence. He glanced down between his legs and shook his head with utter disgust. How was he supposed to ravage virgins with that feeble thing? Padgora the White would pay for taking that from him as well.
He rose to his feet again and closed his eyes, letting the wave of nausea pass over him. His hands shook and so did his knees, but he fought for control with every ounce of strength he possessed. When he finally felt sure enough just standing, he took a step, and then another.
The world spun around him, so he spread his legs and braced himself. Then he smiled. It worked. He took another step until he was walking. Now, if he only had a destination.
He practiced stumbling around the bailey, his naked body illuminated only by the silvery glow of the moon. Samantha, he called and tilted his head toward a window high above him. Don’t be afraid. He scowled looking over his shoulder. How the hell was he going to get up there without his wings? He had to find a way. He was starving. Suddenly, he remembered what Tomias had told him about his wings. He smiled.
Chapter Four
From her hiding place inside the castle, Sam watched the strange man from the window. He looked like a toddler taking his first steps, arms spread out, legs stiff and unsteady. She would have thought the sight funny if he hadn’t terrified her by healing himself and rising to his formidable height on a leg that should have been shattered beyond repair. Who was he? What was he? She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Besides walking like Frankenstein, he looked like some mythical god all naked and sculpted to perfection beneath the pale hue of the moon. She blushed, looking past his groin. She’d seen naked men before, but none as well-endowed as this fruitcake. And she had no doubt he was exactly that, a nut, a kook, a madman.
He thought he was a dragon, for crying out loud! Pity he was so damned good-looking. It was just her luck, though. A man falls through her roof like he was sent to her from God, and turns out to be a flipping lunatic. A lunatic who could read her mind.
She narrowed her eyes on his back just as the blaring headlights of an ambulance filled her bailey. She thought she saw something move along the tattooed skin on his back an instant before he tilted his face upward and looked directly at her. His powerful gaze darkened and seared straight into her.
She felt him probing her thoughts and suddenly her vision was filled
with flashing images of his hard, sleek body atop hers. She closed her eyes, gasping while he invaded her mind. His mouth, so hungry and hot, ripped away her meager protests while his body plundered hers with smooth strokes and driving thrusts that tilted her world on its axis. He burned her with fire, raging scorching flames that singed her from the inside out, until she exploded in a wildly thrilling climax that left her dying in his arms.
Crying out, Sam’s eyes shot open. She staggered back, away from the window, away from the torrid images coming from the man in her bailey. Her heart pumped blood to her veins so feverishly, she thought she might pass out. Beads of perspiration dripped down her neck. She lifted a shaking hand to wipe it away.
A moment passed in absolute silence, the night sky outside her window illuminated by the whirling ambulance lights. Against her own will, but drawn by both curiosity and an insane desire to see him again, she stepped toward the ledge of the window. Were they taking him away wrapped in a straitjacket?
She almost reached the edge when the light went dim, blocked from her vision by enormous slow-flapping, leathery wings that were the same color as his eyes. Sam swallowed the terrified scream welling up in her throat but was unable to move away as the man from her stable filled her window frame. He landed like a great bird crouching on his haunches. The two giant wings behind him folded against his back and disappeared.
Paralyzed with fear, Sam stood gaping at him while he leaped into her room with the grace of a tiger. His naked body shimmered against the backdrop of moonlight and spinning artificial light that made Sam’s head reel. He took a step toward her, his gaze pinning her in place. He spoke her name, and the sound of his husky voice made her bones quiver. He was a demon, she decided somewhere deep within her clouded thoughts. She would have run from him if she could move her legs. Her gaze dipped to his heavy arousal. Her mouth went dry with terror, but her gasp was cut off when he moved in a blur of speed and hauled her into his arms.
*
The feel of her trembling body against his drove Marrkiya mad with desire. He wanted to tell her not to be afraid but he didn’t know how. The scent of her fear was beginning to mask the blessed fragrance of her purity. He groaned, gazing deep into her eyes, and then bent his face to the quickened pulse at her throat and inhaled deeply. He opened his mouth and grazed his teeth along her flesh. But the urge to eat her suddenly dissipated. He kissed her pulse instead, wetting his primal appetite with a taste that fevered his blood.
I would have you.
She tried to squirm free of his embrace, but his low, languid words scored across her heart like a brand. When he lifted his face to look at her, she searched his gaze, her eyes wide with terror. “Please don’t,” she whispered.
Marrkiya blinked, and when he did, his gaze softened on her. She wasn’t the first virgin to plead for her virtue, but she was the first to do so while he was a man. Something in her eyes, her voice, touched his heart. And he cursed it. Had he been Drakkon right now, he would have felt no pity but satisfied his longing without care. He knew in that instant that he could never live this way, so pitiful and pathetic.
He wanted his fire back. He wanted his size, strength, and the protection of his hard, steel armor. Protection against what? This mere whiff of a girl? Damn it to hell, but he was already as pathetic as the others if he would allow his next meal to give him pause about his most basic instincts. But even if he wanted to eat her, which he did, how was he to do so when his mouth was no bigger than hers?
“Please, don’t hurt me.”
Marrkiya clenched his teeth. Her terror covered him, made his weakened body tremor with something he rarely felt as a Drakkon. Pity. He did not want to hurt her. Damn him to dust!
He looked deep into her eyes. Their beauty struck him full in the belly. They were wide with fear, as dark as charcoal, and as deep as the sea. Her lips were plump and a pleasing shade of coral, parted with her labored breath. He had the urge to touch them with his new fingers, to feel if they were as soft as they looked. Her skin was as pale as the mists that hovered about his cave in the early morn.
He could feel her blood coursing madly through her veins, her small heart pumping hard against his chest, her scent raging through his nostrils, making his groin throb. He released her with a shove, hating the way she affected him. Let Padgora have his treasure. He could not live this way. Not for six months. Not for another day.
Without a word, spoken or otherwise, he let her go, turned, and then leaped out her window. Unfurling his great, gleaming wings, he set his gaze toward the north.
Chapter Five
Marrkiya the Aqua was coming. The Council of Elders assembled within the great Cuillin Mountains to await his arrival. They’d gathered from the lowlands of Scotland and all the way from the Shetland Islands. They were mostly Whites, arriving by helicopter, but there were also some Purples and Blues among the Elders. All of them feared Marrkiya and they would have preferred to stay at home rather than face his wrath at being transformed.
It was their duty to see that all had gone well with his alteration, and also to stop him should he try to kill Padgora, which they all agreed, was likely to happen. Marrkiya might be a man like the rest of them now, but his wrath still terrified them.
“Any sign of him yet, Aldric?” Thomas White, known formally as Tomias, paced a worn, ancient path in the black gabbro beneath his shoes.
“Sentries report the skies are clear.”
Thomas pulled an onyx the size of an apple out of his jacket pocket and ran his fingers over the polished gem. The others seated on the stones around him watched while he peered into the onyx and then looked up. “He’s coming. He’s just passed the Grampian Mountains.”
Thomas slipped the stone back into his jacket and took up his pacing. He lowered his smoky silver eyes to the ground where he walked, worn into a shallow trench from centuries of his same pacing as a Drakkon. How many decisions about his own genus, as well as others, had he made in this very spot? He remembered when Sir Edward of Shrewsbury had killed Anberine of the Red, and the Reds wanted to wage war against mankind. It was he and Jarakan who had kept peace that day, explaining to their general, Simion Red, that destroying any race; be it Drakkon or human, was not natural and was not the way of the Ancients.
But wasn’t that what the others believed they had just done by ending the reign of the last Drakkon? Doing his best to conceal his apprehension and his thoughts from the others, he turned to the rest of his brothers, who had long since transformed their scales for skin in order to survive. Their years passed slowly now. They led ordinary lives with families who depended on them. He himself had passed his centuries as a man with more wives than he could remember. The existence of the Whites had always been peaceful, both as Drakkon and as humans. And while Thomas understood the need for the change in the present world, he also knew the sorrow that came with the extinction of such a magnificent race such as theirs. But it wasn’t too late.
I will never forget your betrayal, Tomias.
Thomas spun around to face Marrkiya standing behind him. The White smiled, genuinely happy to see him and relieved that at least Marrkiya could speak to him now using telepathy without causing him excruciating pain.
You have always been excellent at landings, Marrkiya, he replied silently, ignoring the murderous glare Marrkiya flung at him. I’m pleased to see your humanness has done nothing to daunt that skill. No one even saw you arrive.
Thomas looked him over, not surprised to find that Marrkiya had managed to find some clothing since his alteration. Centuries of eluding the Council and finding ways to keep himself hidden from humans had taught him well about survival. He also wasn’t surprised by the size or muscular build of the newly transformed Drakkon. Marrkiya had always been a bit larger than the others.
The change is not so bad, is it?
Marrkiya stared at him, his eyes hinting at the fury smoldering just beneath the surface. ’Tis worse than I ever imagined.
A pair of blu
e jeans that fit you properly might remedy that, along with some shoes, Marcus, Thomas added with a gentle smile he hoped would soothe the beast flapping his wings closer toward him.
Tomias, if you call me Marcus or probe me again, I shall toss you over the side of this mountain. Tempt me not.
Folding his great wings behind him, Marrkiya took a step forward. “Treca Padgora?” He asked aloud, passing Thomas without another word and looking around at the others. He raked his eyes over each member, letting them feel the power of his hatred.
“Baseta, fracina lacodan,” he spat at them.
“Marrkiya,” Thomas said. He came up behind him and spoke quietly. “We can no longer understand the language. You possess the power to speak like us now. All you have to do is think about what you want to say.”
*
Marrkiya pivoted slowly to face him. He would have cursed Thomas in a thousand languages, but the bastard was still smiling at him.
“You have much to say, friend. I would like to hear it and understand.”
Nodding, Marrkiya thought hard about the words and they came to him from somewhere he did not know. “If you hadn’t changed me, you would be nothing but a pile of ashes right now. You are not my friend.”
He turned away from the utter discouragement in Thomas’s expression. It was as if those were the words the White had never wanted to hear from him. He didn’t care. Not anymore, not as he did when they were in the cave and Marrkiya let him live.
“Puny, worthless men,” he voiced, turning to face them.
“Man, as you are now,” someone replied. “And your name from this day forth is Marcus Aquara.”
