Shattered Spirits

by C. I. Black

  Movement in the main arch, across from her on the arena floor, caught her attention. Regis giggled and Barna stiffened. The doyen of the Major Brown Coterie knew whatever was going to happen was a not-so-veiled threat. Would it be effective?

  Half a dozen guards, dressed in all black with a gold rampant dragon embroidered over their hearts, stepped out of the shadows. Behind them, collared and on a chain leash like a dog, followed Zenobia. She stood straight and proud, a testament to the Syrian queen she’d once been, but her posture was also tight with agony. Her black hair hung wild about her head, accentuating the silver half-mask covering the left side of her face, the reason for her pain. Regis had dressed her in a low-cut green gown. Runnels of blood seeped down her neck, parting at her shoulder to ooze down her back and over her chest between her breasts.

  The guard holding her leash jerked it, and Zenobia stumbled but didn’t fall.

  “Kneel,” Regis roared, his voice booming through the arena.

  The muscle in Barna’s jaw twitched.

  Zenobia eased to her knees, her head held up defiantly. The guard grabbed her mask and pulled it off.

  A gasp raced through the crowd. The skin on Zenobia’s face scabbed over a raw wound but then burst apart before fully healing. Blood seeped down her jaw and over her neck. The wound scabbed and burst again and again in a constant state of healing and disintegration.

  She should have been dead. Disintegrating touch was one of the few things that could kill a drake. But her soul magic healing was so strong and so fast she had somehow survived—if in an agonizing state of constant disintegration was actually surviving.

  Someone else moved just inside the arch. More whispers hissed through the arena. Then a hint of something pale shifted and caught light, forming a silver halo.

  Capri’s mind stuttered.

  It couldn’t be.

  She blinked, but only one drake had a halo like that. Odyne.

  The silver drake eased from the shadows and stepped into the arena. She was a study in opposites to Zenobia, with skin so white she looked bloodless. Her silver hair hung to her waist, a match to her silver eyes. She wore all black: boots, pants, long-sleeved shirt, and calf-length, high-collared coat. She clasped black-gloved hands before her and turned an impassive expression toward Regis as if she were above all this.

  Maybe she was. She’d been a recluse, hiding in an obscure wing of the Dragon Court for centuries, longer than Capri could remember. Rumor had it she’d been Constantine’s Torturer, using her earth magic gift of searing touch to cause excruciating pain to anyone Constantine condemned. Rumor had it she couldn’t control her gift, it was always active, and any touch, any slight brushing of skin on skin, caused a pain so agonizing you wished you were dead.

  The Handmaiden’s ban on using Odyne’s gift for torture certainly gave credence to the rumor. Regardless of what was true, the Handmaiden had made her proclamation centuries ago and Odyne had withdrawn from dragon society. But now with the Handmaiden gone…

  “I wonder,” Regis said. “What do you think hurts more? Zenobia’s state of constant disintegration or Odyne’s touch?”

  Silence filled the arena. No one wanted to find out if the power of Odyne’s magic was exaggerated.

  “I asked you a question, Barna,” Regis growled.

  The muscle in Barna’s jaw twitched again, then stilled. “And it’s a good question,” he said, no sign of fear in his voice. “Your Torturer’s touch only lasts for so long. Zenobia’s current state is forever.”

  “Are you suggesting we don’t punish Zenobia for her treason? She murdered drakes. She made mages. She broke the laws we hold most sacred.”

  “I’m not saying we don’t punish her—”

  “Sure sounds like it to me.” Regis stood and jerked his chin.

  Odyne slid off a glove. The guards around Zenobia tensed. No one wanted to find out if the rumors about Odyne were true.

  “Put dragon-kind in danger,” Regis said. He was looking at Zenobia, but it was clear he addressed the entire arena. He dropped his gaze to Barna, smirked, then turned back to Zenobia. “Willingly or not, and you’ll wish I’d killed you.”

  Odyne brushed a finger across Zenobia’s good cheek then put her glove back on. Zenobia’s eyes flashed wide, she swallowed a scream, and blew out a ragged breath.

  That was it? Guess the rumors about Odyne’s touch were just that, rumors. It didn’t look as if it had been anywhere near as painful as Zenobia’s already melting face.

  But then Zenobia’s eyes widened again. She gasped, then gasped again, quick, desperate pants. Her body clenched, the muscles in her neck straining, and the good side of her face turned red with effort.

  Regis chuckled with dark satisfaction. “That’s it. Fight it, bitch.”

  Zenobia’s body trembled. She opened her mouth, gasped again, and then started screaming. She screamed and screamed, doubling over and still screamed, wrenching, agonizing, horrific wails.

  Mother of All. One touch. Just a caress of Odyne’s finger was all it had taken. The myths were real, and with the Handmaiden gone, there was no one to stop him from using Odyne’s touch on anyone he wanted. Capri had no idea what Regis had on Odyne. She was old enough to remember the time before the Great Scourge when dragons still had their corporeal forms and all drakes had sworn their loyalty to the gold drakes of the Royal Coterie. Some of the old drakes refused to be oath-breakers no matter what Regis did. Maybe Odyne was one of them.

  Regardless, no drake was safe. Anyone could raise Regis’s ire, even a drake sworn to his employ like Capri. With Odyne back in his service, the punishment was terrifying.

  CHAPTER 8

  Grey gated into Hunter’s front hall, his pulse racing and sweat slicking his brow. Zenobia’s screams still rang in his ears. Screams he’d never be able to forget. There’d been reasons the Handmaiden had banned King Constantine from using Odyne’s magic for torture. No one deserved to endure that. And Odyne shouldn’t be forced to inflict it.

  But with the Handmaiden gone, there was nothing holding Regis back. And using Odyne wasn’t just the first step. Regis had already started detaining drakes without cause. He claimed they’d been involved in the coup, but there was no evidence to the fact. Regis had to be stopped, and the only drake who might be powerful enough to do that was Hunter.

  Grey headed down the hall to the living room. A fire burned in the hearth but the room was empty.

  “Hunter?” The drake needed to know what was going on no matter how much Grey didn’t want to interrupt the lovebirds.

  That thought stung. Grey was even more alone now than he had been before. He hadn’t thought that possible. Sure, Hunter had been a mostly absent friend for the last couple hundred years, but they had been friends. They still were. Just now there was someone else in Hunter’s life. His inamorata.

  The hall darkened and water dripped behind Grey.

  He sucked in a quick breath and focused on the fire crackling in the fieldstone hearth.

  Not. Now.

  It had only been two weeks since the Handmaiden had soothed his clamoring memories into a foggy haze. It was too soon for them to come crowding in. But a lot had happened in those two weeks.

  Like almost getting killed in the humans’ realm. Again. And because he never forgot, not even the slightest detail, the memories now swarmed through his head, weakening his hold that kept the rest of them at bay.

  Drip. Drip.

  Mother of All, why did he have to keep reliving that horrible night? It had been years ago.

  Drip—

  Keep focused.

  “Hey, Hunter.” Grey crossed the open concept kitchen-family room to the back of the house. Focus. Hunter needed to know what was going on. Surely if he saw that Regis stood on the edge of insanity, he’d step up and take the throne. He had the Royal Coterie’s medallion and likely the, albeit reluctant, support of most of the Counseling Coteries.

  The kitchen was sleek and new. All stainless steel, wh
ite granite, and dark wood. It blended into a plush sitting area with a matching hardwood floor and furniture in various shades of grey. If it wasn’t for the vase of red roses and the red and pink throw cushions, Grey would have assumed the place was a bachelor pad, all slick and dark. But the more Grey looked, the more he saw little feminine touches: a bowl of fruit on the counter, a decorative stained-glass pane in the window over the sink, and huddles of candles on shelves and in corners.

  A massive painting of a sky at sunset hung over the fireplace, but that was Hunter’s. More paintings and photos of skies were scattered throughout the room, but not as obviously as the art over the mantel. Grey had been sneaking Hunter’s hoard of sky-art from his suite at Court to him over the last couple of days. After taking the risk with the one big piece, Hunter had told Grey to only take the small stuff and then not too often. He didn’t want to risk Grey upsetting Regis anymore than he already was.

  Grey crossed to the large bank of floor-to-ceiling windows and the back door. A trail of man-sized footsteps led away in the snow off the deck, and into the woodlot behind the house. It was hard to tell if they were new tracks or not. For a fire drake who hated winter, Hunter was certainly spending a lot of time outside on the hundred acres of farmland he’d purchased in Canada—although farmland seemed a misnomer. Even if it wasn’t currently knee-high—and higher in some places—in snow, the landscape was too rugged, with jagged jutting rock and gnarled pines, for any kind of sensible farming. It was cold, and rocky, and Hunter was pretty sure given how everyone knew his dislike for the cold that no one would suspect him of willingly moving to Northern Ontario. And since he’d been able to take dragon form, outside, in the cold that he hated so much, was the most likely place to find him.

  A blast of frigid wind hit Grey in the face, heavy with the scent of pine and cedar. The snow crunched under his boots and clung to his pant legs. He crossed into the shadow of the forest and the chill seeped through his slacks and coat.

  The trail led around a massive oak, revealing a gentle slope into a clearing filled with an enormous red drake. The drake faced away from Grey, offering a spectacular view of his tail and haunches. The dying day’s light shimmered in his scales of varying shades of red with hints of gold and black. The ridges of his spine stood up sharply like another ridge of pines.

  No wonder humans had found them so terrifying. They’d been enormous.

  “I’m sure the question you’re itching to ask is, does this dragon form make your ass look big?” Grey said.

  The dragon, Hunter, stretched his wings and shifted. A massive head swiveled toward Grey and one large slitted eye examined him. Smoke drifted from his nostrils and for a moment, Grey feared his friend wouldn’t recognize him in his frail human vessel.

  Anaea assures me it’s just the right size. Hunter’s mental voice boomed in Grey’s head.

  “That’s what all inamoratas say.”

  True. Love is blind. Hunter’s form trembled. His neck shortened and his snout squashed back. With a groan, he shrank and morphed back into his human shape. Goosebumps leapt across his naked body. He hugged himself and rushed for a pile of clothes a few feet from Grey.

  “You pick the best places to run around naked.” It made Grey shiver just looking at him.

  Hunter glared at Grey and dragged on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and the medallion—which hung on a thick masculine chain. “You have news?”

  “Yeah, but let’s do this inside.” Grey grabbed Hunter’s shoulder and formed a gate beneath them. The vortex transported them back into the house, tossing them out of a gate that lay against the bank of windows. The jerk, from falling through to lurching forward, shook through Grey’s legs, but he—along with Hunter—managed to keep his balance.

  Heat wrapped around Grey, sudden and stifling in contrast to the stinging cold outside. The fire in the fireplace crackled beside them. Reminding Grey of—

  Things he wasn’t going to remember right now. Focus.

  “So.” Hunter rubbed his hands and leaned closer to the fire. “How bad is it?”

  “On a scale of one to ten… worse than the Inquisition.”

  “That good, huh?”

  The Inquisition had been bad times for the dragon community. Somehow, some humans had discovered the dragons’ existence and in typical human nature tried to destroy what they feared. Dragons became good at playing dead and, as a result, half of Regis’s laws controlling the dragon population had been made.

  Light trembled at the edge of Grey’s vision. Water on sunlight. Impossible in the dimly lit living room.

  More light flickered. It wasn’t real. It was just a memory. But Mother of All—

  A voice screamed, “Witch,” and a roar of approval followed. Grey fought the urge to look and acknowledge the vision.

  As if just thinking about not looking gave it strength, the sunlight flashed again, this time in his face, blinding him. He blinked. Hunter’s living room vanished and a muddy village square shimmered around him. Sunlight sparkled from a bucket filled with water sitting beside the well. The vision was serene. There wasn’t a soul in sight. A warm spring breeze caressed his skin. Reflected sunlight danced across his face.

  A woman’s scream filled the air, and a crowd roared. Between one heartbeat and the next people materialized, filling the square and pressing close. The reek of unwashed bodies choked Grey. Smoke billowed from the smithy’s furnace on the other side of the square. The woman wrenched against the grasp of two burly men as they dragged her closer to the doorway. She cried and begged, tears pouring down her cheeks, but the overweight middle-aged priest in the smithy’s doorway, clutching his Bible in one hand and a smoldering metal brand in the other, only grimaced.

  The woman hadn’t been a dragon or a witch. Just some woman who’d given Grey a kind word.

  “—Grey?”

  The priest’s face morphed, turning long and lean with a shock of black hair cut close to his scalp. He reached out, and Grey jerked back.

  “Grey?”

  Hunter. It was Hunter bleeding into his memory.

  It felt so real—it had been real. Grey had watched the woman tortured into a confession and then tied to a stake and burned to death, unable to save her. So many deaths at his hands because of what he was.

  Darkness rippled over the square, turning it into a wet alley at midnight. “How fast can you heal, dragon?” a voice hissed.

  Grey shoved at the memory. Get a grip. It wasn’t real. Hunter and his fireplace were real. That was real. Focus.

  “Earth to Grey?”

  “Sorry.” He clenched his jaw, struggling to see past the memories to Hunter. “Just don’t want to be Regis’s next target. With the Handmaiden missing, it seems Regis now has permission to be… medieval in his punishments.”

  “He always was medieval,” Hunter growled.

  “He brought Odyne back into service.”

  “But the Handmaiden forbade it.”

  “She’s not around, now, is she? You have to proclaim your coterie and take the throne.” It was the only way to stabilize dragon politics.

  “I’m not of royal blood, and I don’t have the Handmaiden’s backing.”

  “No one has the Handmaiden’s backing. The other doyens will support you. Hell, I’m sure even Zenobia will support you.”

  Hunter sagged into a leather armchair by the hearth and rubbed his face. “I’m not a king.”

  “Then at least offer shelter to those drakes without a coterie.”

  “And I’m not a doyen.”

  “You can take dragon form. You’re the only one who can.” Couldn’t he see how important that was to the other drakes?

  “And I’m certainly not the savior of dragon-kind.”

  “I’m not saying that you are, just—”

  “Yes, you are. Everyone is. But I’m just the Prince’s Assassin.” He snorted. “I’m not even that anymore.”

  “Even if you ignore Regis, he won’t ignore you. Your inamorata is a human
sorcerer. You know he’s planning to come after you.”

  Hunter growled and flashed teeth. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  “Then do something before he does.” It was never good to be put on the defensive. They’d had enough experiences during the Crusades to know that—not to mention all the other wars they’d been a part of. “It’s a dangerous time to be a drake. And the humans have nothing to do with it this time.” If Hunter would just step up. More than half of the doyens were sure to support him. Drakes would leave their coteries to flock to his banner. Handmaiden’s support or not, Hunter had to take the throne before Regis destroyed them.

  Hunter jerked toward Grey. He braced himself, ready for the attack, but Hunter stormed past him to the dark window overlooking the path to the clearing and pressed his hands to the glass instead.

  “It’s always a dangerous time to be a drake. Regis won’t just step down. Drakes will die if I make a move.”

  “Drakes will die if you don’t. His first step is Odyne, the next is to start eliminating those he thinks are a threat. And he won’t wait for the Handmaiden to return to rebirth them. He’ll kill them for good.”

  “I need to protect Anaea.”

  “With Regis in charge, she’ll never be safe. None of us will.”

  “Not without the Handmaiden.”

  It always came back to that. Without the Handmaiden, dragon-kind was helpless. If their human vessels were so damaged that they died, they died for real. And their species took one more step closer to becoming extinct. They needed her magic to rebirth them. There were so few of them to begin with and even fewer now, but that wouldn’t stop Regis.

  Mother of All, why hadn’t she just told him where she was going? Why had she even left in the first place?

  Light shimmered on water again at the edge of his vision. His pulse jumped and sweat slicked his palms.