by Shana Abe
"I didn't actually go through the city. I went through Schaerbeek. It was more direct."
Rhys shook his head. "You weren't even in the same vicinity, and you felt her. Just.. .going by."
"Yes. Lady Amalia's Gifts are most distinct."
Rhys let out a laugh. "That's splendid. I expect she's using them well in Brussels, with Mother and Father gone searching high and low for her. God forbid she return home with that bastard in tow—"
"Rhys," said the earl once more, silky soft, and his brother gave another shrug, subsiding back.
"He's a fine man," said Maricara. "Human or not."
Kimber nodded to the footmen to begin serving. "I'm sure that's so."
"Attractive. Intelligent. Devoted."
"So's a good dog," said Rhys.
Maricara flattened her hands upon her skirts. "I'm not going to marry you, Lord Chasen."
Rhys choked a little; the head footman fumbled and recovered his serving spoon. Kimber only paused with his water goblet raised to his lips, then lowered the glass gently back to the table.
"Excuse me?"
"I will not marry you. I want that to be plain between us right now." "Your Grace, I assure you—"
"I know how we are, Kimber." Her use of his name startled him; she'd meant it to. "I know how we think. You're the Alpha, and you're not wearing a wedding band, and no one has come forward to me as your wife. You perceive that I'm also Alpha, and this is true. But I'm not one of your people. I rule a land, even though it's far away. I control my fate, not you. I won't wed you."
Kimber lowered his lashes. He kept his fingers loosely cupped around the stem of his goblet.
"You're not remarried?"
"No."
"I thought your brother ruled Zaharen Yce. " "Nominally. In my absence."
His eyes lifted to hers, bright piercing green. "Your people allow a female to lead them?"
It was a trap, she realized. If she said yes, he'd think the Zaharen weak, the castle open for the taking. If she said no, he'd think she was lying before.
She wasn't willing to be bartered. Not ever again.
Maricara motioned to the footman, who hurried over with the fish. She allowed herself to be served one thick, blanched fillet, the flesh oozing butter across her plate. Without waiting for the others, she lifted her fork and took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.
"We're not so very alike," she said at last, to the fish. "Whatever kinship we once shared has been stretched thin with time. No doubt there are many of our ways you would find foreign, as I do yours."
"No doubt," Kimber replied, unmoving. "But I look forward to celebrating our differences, Your Grace."
"As long as that's all you wish to celebrate." "It's a promising start."
"Or a natural conclusion," said Mari, and took another odious bite.
She used the lemon fork for the fish, and the fish fork for the salad. She ate in small, tentative mouthfuls, as if the flavors were all new to her, as if she had to explore each and every texture and spice before moving on to the next bite. Her expression remained aloof as she dined, her dark hair tied back with a simple ribbon like a girl's, like a drakon maiden off for schooling in the village.
She kept her gaze focused downward most of the meal, her eyelashes long and sooty. Kimber did the same, Rhys noticed, and so felt free to let his own gaze roam.
She drew him in. Brash and brittle on the outside, looking out with eyes of endless gray, an oddly wounded depth to her every glance.she seemed a princess trapped in a shell of ice; a strange magic indeed in this heat.
Rhys glanced at his brother and wished, for the first time in his life, to be more than what he was. To be eldest.
She desired to walk outside after the meal. His instinct was to refuse her—hell, his instinct was to lock her up, to keep her bound to Chasen, let the dragon in him take rein. It'd been done before. There were dire instances of drakon run feral, there were precautions already in place. For all her cool composure, Kimber had witnessed Maricara's other face, and he'd felt her other heart. She would Turn in a flash if she felt the need.
The council had convened a new, whispered meeting while she'd dressed. Within moments they'd abandoned the whispering—no one knew how well she could hear, and in light of what he knew now, Kim thought it a good thing they'd switched to scratching out messages with what quills and ink they could gather from the scattered corners of the mansion. That thrush had been miles away. She might not understand English, but she would damn sure know her own name.
It'd taken three sheets of paper and all his authority to convince them that entrapping her was not the solution, not now. If she went missing, who knew what her guardsmen would do. Far better now to adhere to diplomacy; there was too much at stake to risk losing her, or provoking an unnecessary fight. They needed her.
He needed her, it seemed, in more ways than a scribbled block of sentences on parchment could convey.
In the end—ten long minutes later—he'd achieved unanimous agreement. For all that she had their senses spinning, no one had forgotten her news, or the rings.
So Kim only nodded when Maricara commented over her sliced strawberries and cream that she'd like to see the sky, and suggested the garden in the back of the mansion, where there were trees and a fountain, and a chance for water-cooled shade.
They strolled out into the blistering sunlight. He removed his coat once again and left it dangling from the arm of a stone cupid that marked the beginning of the herb maze. At least his waistcoat had no sleeves.
Rhys remained inside. He hadn't even needed Kim's pointed glance before declining to join them on the walk.
The princess had no fan. He hadn't thought of it when he'd offered her the use of Lia's room, and Lia's gown. Ladies used fans. Ladies wore hats. Gloves. Yet Maricara moved forward into the day without these things, wearing only an expression of supreme indifference. The sunlight rippled down her hair, shifting between walnut and bronze. It fell in a tail down her back; the ribbon was slipping loose, its jaunty bow wilting somewhat in the humidity.
Her throat, her arms, the soft contours of her chest. Her skin appeared nearly as snowy as the ribbon, dewy, untouched by the heat. With the sun high above them the shadows drew sharp and deep; he found himself watching her hands as they walked, how her fingers curved and her wrists bent; no bracelets or rings, no adornment of any kind. But she shone like a flame by his side.
The fountain was in the center of the maze, easily spotted. Few of the herbs grew higher than his hips, but the fountain was as tall as two men together. It was Botticino marble with carvings of palm fronds and lilies; a single nymph at the top held a shell that bubbled with clear water, splashing down to the layers below. His parents, he recalled, had it imported before his birth. His mother had enjoyed the sound of it as she clipped roses nearby.
Rising warmth from the graveled path bent the air into shimmers. Maricara raised a hand to her brow and lifted her face.
"You've made me your prisoner, I see," she said calmly.
Dotting what had been a previously cerulean clear sky were now a dozen small, drifting clouds, following the lofty path of an invisible zephyr.
There were more of them in the woods. There were drakon all about, Kim knew, honed to their every move.
He could stop them from detaining her. He could not stop their curiosity, the profound, primordial instinct to see her, to bear witness to her presence. Every man in the shire would have sensed her by now.
"Honored guest," Kimber replied, smooth.
"Lord Chasen, I have been wed. I know full well what imprisonment is." She halted at a turn in the path and studied him, speculative. Beds of nodding anise surrounded them with hot licorice perfume.
"Do you think I could escape?"
He sighed.
"Shall we wager on it?" she persisted.
"No."
"The English never gamble?" "Not in matters of the heart."
"How very suave. A Frenchman could not h
ave said it better."
His voice roughened. "You must understand, Maricara, what you mean to us." He spread his hands, palms up. "There's never been anyone like you here before, never a single drakon beyond our own blood. You're—of immense interest to every member of the tribe."
"I wager I can evade you and your men up there. I wager I can do it for at least one full day. Should I win—"
"Your Grace—"
"We take our walks," she gestured to the clouds, "without accompaniment." He paused, curious in spite of himself. "And if you lose? If I'm able to find you?"
She tipped her head, and the shadows from her lashes threw dusk across her eyes. "What is it you want?"
He couldn't help it; he smiled.
"Oh," she said flatly.
His smiled vanished. "If I win, I want you to reconsider the possibility of.of a union between us. I want you to stay here at Chasen at the very least."
"Well, which shall it be?"
Marriage, he almost said, but saved himself in time. "You'll promise to stay here."
"Oh," she said again, this time breaking into a wide, glorious smile. "I'll promise it now if that's all you require."
"No." Kim reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips. She wasn't immune to the day after all; she was warm, very warm, and just as soft as he'd imagined. He realized he'd not touched her bare skin before this moment, not even in passing. Her fingers kept a faint, questing pressure against his.
"No," he said again, huskier. "I want you to mean it."
She gazed up at him. Without warning, without even a blink, she Turned and was gone, leaving smoke in his palm and her empty gown to the path. The hair ribbon floated sideways in a flourish, last to fall.
The Morcambre Courant
Friday, June 28, 1782
Wilde Beasts Devour Cattle
Master John Wilcox of Hetton-le-Hole reported the Loss of Two of his Finest Charolais White cows to a Vicious pack of Angry Beasts at an Unknown Hour in the Dark Night of Wednesday last.
Mistress Edith Shelby of Hought-le-Spring reported the Same on Thursday regarding her Ribbon-Winning Spotted Hog, awarded Best Pig at the Sunderland Spring Faire two years past.
Each of the Animals was grazing afield. Little was left of Any but bones and a single horn. Heavy Claw marks upon the Remains revealed the Monstrous Strength of the Creatures.
Wolves have not been Sighted near Our Fair Province for nigh a full Century. It is Assumed the pack has Arrived from the uncivilized Wilds of Scotland and is Moste Fleet to have Traveled so swiftly between the two Townes.
Huntsmen have been Dispatched with Great Haste to Eliminate the pack.
Gentle Readers of all Regions are urged to spend their evenings Indoors with their young Children and Pets until the Beasts have been Destroyed. Shepherds are urged to Bear Arms.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Explain to me again," Kimber said, in his most aggravatedly patient voice, "how a woman weighing no more than nine stone, and reaching no higher than my forehead—a foreign woman—has been able to elude an entire population of the finest hunters on this earth. For eight days."
"Did you actually think," responded Audrey politely, "that she would be easy to find because she is a woman?"
"No." Kim placed a careful hand upon the crinkled newspaper spread open before him on his desk. "I thought she'd be easy to find because she is a dragon. "
The Marquess of Langford had made a point of subscribing to every periodical available that might contain news of Darkfrith, in addition to several of the London weeklies. Preventive measures, he would tell his son. Don't drown in the comforts of the shire. Pay heed to the outside world before it pays heed to you.
The Morcambre Courant. The Durham Chronicle, the York Afternoon Advertiser. Three papers carrying stories about a pack of savage, mysterious beasts that carried off cows and pigs—and according to one, an entire gaggle of fat geese—in the black of night, leaving behind only feathers and ravaged bones.
But the worst one, the worst one by far, was a small article that had appeared in the Whitby Daily News. It detailed the account of a tinker and his kin who all declared they saw a giant, winged "Serpent Fiend" in the sky Friday evening as they'd camped in the North York Moors.
Not wolves, not feral dogs. None such creatures could travel from town to town at the speed of flight. Trust a bloody tinker to get it right.
It was the princess, or her guard: another taunt. Kim couldn't imagine why she'd hazard exposure in such a blatant manner, but as she'd said, their ways were different. No doubt in the ruddy Carpathians dragons flocked the skies as common as blackbirds, but out here, in this rural and sleepy land.
She was putting his people in danger. She was jeopardizing all of Darkfrith, all for a ludicrous wager.
None of the papers were less than four days old. He was fortunate they'd reached the shire in that amount of time, actually. It usually took almost a week for even the Courant to wind its way through the gates of Chasen Manor.
It was the late afternoon of the eighth day of the hunt. He'd been out with the others, searching day and night, following scents and trails, doubling back, guessing at routes that seemed to evaporate midflight. It was as if Maricara had managed to erase every trace of herself, magically, utterly. He was still sensitized to her, he knew he was; all he had to do was close his eyes and imagine her face, her voice, the shape of her hand—and the elements of her rushed back to him, sent goose bumps along his skin.
But except for a fleeting hint of her by an old yew in Blackstone Woods, there was nothing of the Princess Maricara left in Darkfrith. And there had never been even the slightest indication of a guard. It was baffling. Beyond that. It was infuriating.
He'd come home that afternoon to see if there was anything new; every day brought a fresh batch of periodicals. Cows, sheep, that prized pig. Men with guns.
Kim pressed a hand over his eyes, rubbing against the gritty ache until his lids flashed red. Slanted light from the Tudor windows behind him felt far too good at the moment, soothing warm across his taut shoulders. He needed to shave. He needed to eat, and to sleep. He needed to shake the worry that gripped him, that itched across his skin and sent evil whispers into his brain: Something was wrong. Something she'd not anticipated had caught up with her, a farmer with a pistol and excellent aim. Human men who wanted to pluck out her heart.
He imagined her wounded. He imagined her shot, plummeting to the ground, her wings torn apart, her body broken.
Kimber was developing a healthy abhorrence of the press.
"You'll find her," said Joan. She perched on a corner of the mahogany desk, covering his free hand with her own. "You will, or Rhys will. Or one of the council. I'm sure she wants to be found. It's just a game to her right now. It will play out."
Both of his sisters had, naturally, been anticipating his return. They'd found him in the marquess's study—Kimber's study—staring blankly at an untidy stack of newspapers and old mail, with his elbows on his desk and his fingers clenched in his hair.
"I can't wait for that." He rubbed his eyes one last time—it only made them hurt worse—then sat back in his chair, frustrated. "I can't wait for her to decide she's won." He waved a hand at the papers. "For God's sake, have you read any of this?"
"Yes," said Joan. "All of it. She's gone far beyond the pale. So we've decided to join the hunt."
That got his attention; Kim looked up. "You have? What does Erik have to say about that?"
"Erik," she answered stiffly, "gave me a peck on the cheek this morning and wished me the blooming best of luck. Did you think he wouldn't?"
"No." Almost against his will, Kim felt his lips curve. Joan was fire and passion, as surely as Audrey was calm, cool water. Together they made a frighteningly crafty duo. He glanced at his twin. "And you?"
"Of course. I won't be left behind. It seems you need everyone you can get. Perhaps, as the other two females who can fly, we may offer some insight into her patterns."
"A few feminine suppositions," added Joan, with a slight, steely smile.
Audrey matched it. "Quite."
"All I need," said Kimber, "is one damned good guess."
Audrey nodded. "Fair enough. I daresay we're up for it." She stood and locked her fingers together, stretched her arms out before her and then up over her head. She was wearing her chestnut hair loose, he realized, long and uncurled, a style that would be shockingly inappropriate just about anywhere else in the world.
Joan stood and began to work free her rings. "Oh," said Kim evenly. "Did you mean right now?" "Have you a better time?"
"I suppose not." But the truth was, he was done in, and it made him uncomfortable to see them like this, preparing to Turn; he couldn't get the image of Maricara's empty dress, her chemise and stays, from his mind.
Kim dropped his head back to his hands and stared instead at the postmark of a letter peeking out from under the corner of the Chronicle, just as Joan kicked off her shoes.
Seaham. Who the hell did he know in Seaham? He reached for the letter with one hand, broke open the seal with the edge of his thumb, and began to read.
"Kimber?" Audrey dropped her arms to her skirts. "What is it?"
"You're going to want to put your hair up," he said slowly. "She's staying in the Crown Suites at The Bell & Star. In Seaham."
"What? How on earth can you be certain? Did she actually write you to say so?"
He glanced up with a hand still propped to his head and held out the letter so that the script showed clear in the bright July light.
"Not exactly. But she was kind enough to have them bill it to me."
Like every other people on the planet, the drakon had legends.
There were legends of diamonds, of course. Diamonds had been linked to them since the birth of time, and the tribe had its share of mythic stones. Herte, Dramada, Eloquise—each with its own dark glimmering story, each kept in the mansion's most secret places, treasured and adored.
And there were legends of dragons. The ragged, long-ago leaders who had brought the tribe to the shire from a place since forgotten, who had struggled and forged a home for them all. The Alpha who had first touched claw to the land that would become Darkfrith was named Nadus, red-haired, mighty; by force of will alone he'd pulled his kind from the Continent to this rough and untested isle.
