by Tessa Adams
“Reach out to the man who murdered our king?” Julian’s fist banged down on the huge cherry table they were gathered around. “Are you insane? That will never happen!”
“I thought it was Dylan’s wife who killed Silus?” she asked, determined to get the facts straight once and for all. Bad enough that she was, for all intents and purposes, fumbling around in the dark here. The least she could do was make sure she knew what she was talking about when she did open her mouth.
“He was there, and he would have killed your father if his mate hadn’t gotten to Silus first. Besides, as anyone knows, the king is ultimately responsible for what his people do—particularly those in the royal family.”
He was absolutely right. She knew he was, but he was twisting things around to suit his own agenda. That responsibility he talked of worked both ways. Yes, the king—or queen—was responsible for the actions of his or her clan members. But at the same time, he or she also had a responsibility to those same clan members, and it seemed to her that this two-way street was something her father and his factionnaires had completely forgotten through the years.
Yes, Dylan was responsible for his wife’s killing of Silus, but Silus was responsible for having put her in a position where she felt murder was the only answer. They could go round and round for days, but whatever was said, whatever was thought, the fact remained that this problem belonged firmly on the Wyvernmoons’ doorstep.
And since, according to the Conseil’s own beliefs, she was now responsible for what the Wyvernmoons did, there was no way she would sanction any more raids or attacks or battles or whatever the hell the factionnaires wanted to call them, unless she really believed they were necessary and in the Wyvernmoons’ best interest. And she didn’t, not now when they had so many other pressing issues to deal with. And maybe she never would.
But when she said as much to the Conseil, they looked at her as if she were insane. Even Thierren and Gage, whom she’d believed were at least mostly on her side, didn’t seem to agree with the moratorium she was asking for.
“Mon Dieu, Cecily,” said Julian, outrage in every line of his body. “I know you weren’t close to your father, but I can’t believe his death means so little to you that you want us to just let it go. ‘Put it behind us,’ didn’t you say the last time we spoke?” He shook his head sadly, and she wondered if she was the only one who saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“None of us can,” Remy agreed. “We need to avenge the deaths of your family and show both the Dragonstars and the Shadowdrakes that the Wyvernmoons are a force to be reckoned with.”
“But we aren’t. That’s the point, isn’t it? We’re losing power with every one of these ill-advised raids. Soon, we’ll be less than nothing.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted desperately to take them back. They were exactly what Julian had wanted her to say—hell, he’d even led her there like a sheep too stupid to know what was about to happen.
Looking around, she saw that every man in the room wore a look of affront, as if she had just cast aspersions on his very manhood. And maybe she had, though that certainly hadn’t been what she’d intended. But all dragons took the protection of their families, and their clans, very seriously, and that seriousness was doubled or tripled when dealing with the factionnaires. The most dominant of the clan’s dragons, they lived—and died—to protect their people.
By saying that the Wyvernmoons couldn’t stand up against their enemies—no matter how true that statement was—she had basically told the men sitting around her that they couldn’t be trusted to take care of the clan. While she might believe that, saying it straight out was a rookie mistake and one she wouldn’t soon recover from.
Once the significance of what she had done sunk in, she tried to backpedal as fast as she could. She knew it was too late, but she had to try to salvage a little bit of this disastrous meeting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you—”
“I think we’re done here,” Thierren interrupted her. “It’s been a long day. Let’s say we’ll pick it back up here tomorrow morning at nine.”
The other men nodded, started gathering their things, and she knew if she didn’t do something right then she was going to lose any hope she had of ever winning them to her side.
“Wait! I’m not done yet. There are still a number of things we need to consider. I want to talk about—”
“No offense, Cecily,” Thierren said with a grin that was all sharp teeth and razor blades. “But I don’t think anyone in this room really gives a shit what you want right now.”
“Damn straight,” said Dash as he headed for the door, the others right behind him.
And that was that. In less than a minute, the room was empty of everyone save her, and Cecily wanted nothing more than to lay her head on the huge cherry table and bawl her eyes out.
How could they just walk out on her like that? Yes, she’d said one wrong thing, but they’d been attacking her for two days and she was still there. She was still willing to work to save the clan. But she insulted them—accidentally—and they were through with her. It was bullshit, especially when she knew they never would have done it to her father.
But she wasn’t her father or her brother. She was just stupid little Cecily, and what she wanted didn’t matter. Just like it hadn’t mattered to them that they were being manipulated by Julian. She knew that most—if not all—of them were aware of it, could see it in their faces and the way they’d responded to him at various times throughout the day. And yet they’d chosen him. Chosen his subterfuge and veiled insults and selfishness over her desire to get the clan going in the right direction again.
How could that be? How could they care so little about the clan they professed to love that they would rather rally behind an asshole with an agenda than behind her, simply because she was a woman? Even worse, she hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it.
What it all boiled down to—what it always boiled down to—was that she had no authority to ask them for anything, let alone to enforce it. She was a member of the royal family, yes, but she was powerless.
Useless.
Her opinion of no import whatsoever.
They could walk away from her any time they wanted, and she had no way to stop them because she had no authority and she never would. She meant nothing to them, her opinions even less. The only reason the factionnaires had bothered to listen to her this long was out of courtesy—and respect for her dead father. But she’d killed that when she’d accidently said she didn’t think they were up to the task of protecting the clan.
Furious with herself, with Julian, and with the entire Conseil, for that matter, Cecily slowly gathered her things while her mind went over the day’s discussions again and again. By the time she headed out the front door, she had the need to cry under control, but her fury had become a wild, uncharted thing.
She wasn’t wrong, damn it. That’s what was so damn frustrating about this whole thing. She was right. She knew she was, and if they’d stop thinking with their dicks and egos for a few minutes, they’d see the truth, too.
The time for action, for fighting, for war, was over—if it had ever even existed to begin with. They needed to find a way to reconcile with the Dragonstars and the Shadowdrakes or they were doomed. Maybe not this month or even this year, but soon they would find themselves too weak to fight or even to make a stand.
She had run the numbers. Had looked at the percentage of healthy males in her clan, compared it to numbers she’d found in her father’s study from the other two clans, and known that it wasn’t possible for them to win a war against the two clans at the same time—especially if they were the aggressors. The term home-field advantage existed for a reason.
That wasn’t even taking into account the fact that their people were currently overworked and on the brink of going hungry. Silus had put much less stock in his people than the kings who had come before him, and, as such, had not dealt with crop or
employment issues for far too long. He’d funneled all the money he could into defense, and a few pet projects she had yet to get to the bottom of, while his people suffered.
She couldn’t live with that, and she ached, physically, with the need to somehow help her people. But without the Conseil’s support, her hands were tied. She could do nothing, not even access the clan’s money to invest in resources. And after this afternoon’s demonstration, she doubted that any of the factionnaires were going to come around to her point of view. But if they really did refuse to help her . . .
She shook her head as she walked slowly through the streets to her father’s house. If they really did refuse to see her side of things, then she would have a lot more to worry about than whether the Wyvernmoons could win a war. They all would.
Survival would be their only goal, and it would be a frail and nebulous one at that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He felt like a stalker. It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d used his psychic gifts to seduce Cecily, and here he was, skulking around the outskirts of the compound while trying to pick up whatever he could about the Wyvernmoons. And while he obviously had motives for being here that had nothing to do with her—and he needed to concentrate on them if he was going to set his plan into motion—a part of his brain was constantly tuned to her, constantly searching for her on the psychic plane. And not because she was the Wyvernmoon princess.
It was a stupid move, damn near suicidal, and one he told himself to stop even as he sent his senses out in a wider circle to try to locate her. There was nothing to say that the Wyvernmoons didn’t have a psychic dragon or two of their own, and the last thing he needed was for them to sense him out here. He’d planned on keeping his scan very light—had kept it very light—but even he couldn’t go unnoticed forever. His chances of being discovered were growing exponentially the longer he stood out here searching for Cecily.
Why am I so determined to find her? he wondered. Was it what he’d told himself before he’d come on this little sojourn—that he wanted to parlay the momentum he’d gained with her the previous afternoon to get access to the Wyvernmoons? Though it made him feel like a total louse, he really hoped that was all it was. Because anything else, particularly the idea that he wanted to find Cecily because he’d enjoyed talking to her and kissing her and psychically fucking her the day before, didn’t bear thinking about. Talk about what could easily become a disaster of epic proportions. Not to mention leave him feeling like a complete and total traitor.
Giving up on the spot he’d been lurking in for the past fifteen minutes, Logan began working his way along the outskirts of the compound. Situated in a kind of natural bowl, the Wyvernmoon headquarters were surrounded on all sides by craggy hills and mountains. Add to that the protection safeguards that enveloped the entire thing, and it should have been nearly impossible to breach the safety of its walls.
But he’d already found one way in and he hadn’t even been looking for it. Not how Dylan had gotten in a few months ago when they’d come to retrieve Phoebe, but a viable place nonetheless. More viable, really, as he wouldn’t have to transform into smoke to fit through it—which was a good thing, as that was definitely not a talent in his skill set.
Sneaking into the compound wasn’t exactly the point, though. He could take the hole in the safeguards, could even use his extra senses to help him unravel them if he really needed to, but none of that would get him into the heart of Wyvernmoon society.
He needed to ingratiate himself with someone—preferably Cecily—and get invited into the center of the Wyvernmoon clan. Otherwise his entire plan would fail. An intruder showing up inside without an invitation would be shot on sight. And knowing the way the Wyvernmoons operated, the shots fired wouldn’t be meant to wound.
Which was why he was pretty shocked that he’d been out here for nearly half an hour and had remained undetected. He knew he was good. Among the skills he’d learned as a rogue dragon, what Dylan had taught him through the years and his own psychic powers, he knew it was almost impossible to catch him if he didn’t want to be caught. That wasn’t arrogance talking, just simple fact. Camouflage, blending in and sneaking around were major talents of his, and when he’d left his spot on Cecily’s mountain, he’d figured he would have to use every ounce of those skills to avoid the Wyvernmoon sentries.
Instead, he’d all but gotten an engraved invitation. As it was, he’d been allowed to work his way around the perimeter of the camp completely unbothered. While he’d taken the added precaution of staying invisible, that alone wouldn’t protect him. Because it was a tool all dragons had, it was one that they were all trained to pick up on. He’d been prepared to flee at the first sign of trouble—or to ask to see the king. He’d concocted an entire story about seeking asylum for a little while, had practiced it on his flight down the mountain.
But, so far, none of his planned subterfuge had been necessary. It made the spot between his shoulder blades itch as he picked his way around the base of the mountain.
Where were the sentries, the famed Wyvernmoon factionnaires who for millennia had been almost impossible to defeat?
Where were the guards on patrol?
Where was any sign of self-awareness, any sign that they understood they needed to guard themselves against the outside world—particularly considering their extracurricular activities of late?
Sure, the safeguards were impressive, but safeguards were unraveled every day. Yes, each clan—and each dragon, even—had his own special safeguard weave, but that didn’t make them impenetrable. Especially to Logan. One of the abilities that came with his psychic talents was being able to see other people’s safeguards and the patterns they used to weave them. It gave him a huge advantage when he went to unweave them, an advantage he had planned to use to sneak on to the Wyvernmoon compound if absolutely necessary.
His beast roared at the thought of Cecily being unprotected. Its protectiveness alarmed him a little, but probably not as much as it should have, as his brain was having a nearly identical response. Cecily was vulnerable, open to attack, and he didn’t like it.
His reaction was stupid—he knew it even as he was having it. He planned to use her, planned to bring down her clan however he could, and yet the idea of hurting her was abhorrent to him. The whole thing was ridiculous, especially considering what her family had done to the Dragonstars. Caring about her safety was absurd when he didn’t know what she knew—and what she didn’t—about the virus and the war parties.
Though Silus was dead, the virus continued to be manufactured. War parties were still sent to other clans. Treachery abounded. All of that could be starting with her. Probably was starting with her, if he wanted to be honest about it. She was the only living member of the royal family, after all.
He kept walking as he tried to puzzle out exactly what was going on. Part of him swore he was—that he had to be—walking into a trap, and yet he’d used every ounce of power he had and he still couldn’t sense anything out here. He started to send out another psychic wave to see if he could find anyone, but if there were any dragons close by that he hadn’t picked up on, they would feel the burst of power. And he’d be surrounded before he so much as had a chance to shift.
No, better to keep going as he was, using his regular senses, instincts and training to determine what he was facing.
He’d hiked about twenty miles around the compound—maybe one-fifth of the way around the massive enclosure—before he decided that he really was the only one out there. More than once he’d slowed down to regular human speed, making sure to make enough noise to attract the attention of the laziest sentry. But nothing had happened.
Shaking his head at this newest proof of the stupidity of the Wyvernmoons, Logan finally decided it was safe to dig a little and see what he could find out about the inner workings of the clan. It had been months since he had been here on the rescue mission for Phoebe, but he still had a pretty good idea of the layout of the place.
Largely because when they’d gotten back to New Mexico, the group had gotten together and mapped out as much of the compound as they could remember. When he’d decided to do this, to come here, Dylan and he had sat down and gone over every inch of those maps until his king had been satisfied that he knew them like the back of his hand. He had copies in his bag, as well, but neither of them had been content to limit his knowledge to a piece of paper.
Orienting himself with the help of the landscape, the mountains and the stars that shone so brightly overhead, he called up a mental picture of the map. If he was right about where he was standing—and he was so sure that he didn’t bother to pull the GPS out of the backpack he had slung over his shoulder—the laboratory was directly in front of him.
It was at least ten miles inside the compound, but it should be a straight shot from where he was standing. And if the lab was there, then he was close to one of the main defense areas in the compound. Loaded with weapons and usually having seven to ten soldiers and sentries guarding it, at least according to the intelligence some of the Dragonstars had been able to gather when they’d spied on the compound a few months before, it was one of the most sophisticated places in the whole operation. The fact that he was standing so close to it without sending off any alarms made him wonder just how bad the state of the Wyvernmoons was.
Not bad enough, obviously, as the attacks were still coming and the virus was still infecting some Dragonstars. If they were really in as bad a shape as this reconnaissance mission implied, wouldn’t they be pulling back? Gathering their resources and trying to save what they could instead of antagonizing other clans?
But then again, nobody ever said that Silus had been sane. Cagey, yes. Sly, absolutely. Amoral, without a doubt. But sane? That was a whole different ball of wax, and the longer Logan stood out here, the more convinced he became that the Wyvernmoon king had lost his marbles sometime in the middle of his whole planned attack.
