Dragon in the Blood (Vale of Stars Book 2)

by Juliette Cross

  Scrolling Brother Silvanus’s map, I found a place not on the Morgon map.

  “Look. The Ruins of Pallatine. If we dive straight down now, they’ll lose our scent in the gale.”

  “Good plan,” agreed Bowen. “They’ll still be looking for us in the cloud cover.”

  “Now!” I yelled, leading the three of us on a freefall dive, the wind biting our wings as we tucked them close.

  When treetops came into view, we glided flat in the opposite direction of where we were headed seconds before. A semi-frozen lake stretched out beneath us. A web of ice crystals glittered by moonlight.

  “Fly close to the lake,” said Bowen. “It will cover our scent.”

  Water and ice diluted scent without soil for it to cling to. We soared across the vast sheet of ice—sludgy patches of water glistening in breaks of the ice, the edges encrusted solid. Checking my comm, the ruins of the abandoned human fortress should be directly ahead. We rounded a curve of the lake, and there the black mass of the castle rose out of the gloom. Two battlements had crumbled from an attack decades before.

  Swooping down, we landed within its walls onto a stone courtyard. I yanked off my visor and scanned the sky for signs of the wulving. The distant howls didn’t seem to be drawing closer, but they were still too close.

  Debris littered the courtyard, including fallen stone and rotted barrels that once held the finest mead. Pallatine had been a trade port between the Morgons and humans until bands of Morgons saw them as the enemy, destroying every man, woman, and child within these walls. The history books told of a descendent of the Pallatine line who had escaped. A nurse had fled with the child bundled on her back when Morgons burned the fortress from above, killing whoever was left after their raping and pillaging. This fallen fortress held nothing but ghosts and sad memories of a once fine kingdom.

  Lichen crawled up the walls in a coat of pungent, winter-growing fungus, covering the burnt markings of Morgon fire. “That’ll coat our scent.”

  “Let’s hope so. Come on. Let’s get inside,” urged Bowen, leading the way through an arch.

  Valla followed, her long stride determined and sure. My beast relaxed despite the near-attack by a pack of flying wolves. I wasn’t the kind of Morgon who constantly battled to keep my dragon at bay, unlike my brother, Corbin, who seemed more beast than man these days. But in Valla’s presence, it felt like a constant struggle, me yanking on a chain to keep my alpha instincts in check.

  We followed Bowen down a corridor of stables then out into a smaller courtyard and up a short stairwell of steps. We stepped through a small entryway into an open hall, the vast room cold and dark.

  The musty smell of charred stone and green lichen faded to something else. Valla unzipped her pack and had a blue-light beaming in her palm in a matter of seconds. Moving cautiously into the room, there was a significant difference in this space than the exterior.

  “It’s so clean,” said Valla.

  The floors were swept, and no sign of decay rotted this interior hall. There was the distinct odor of tamped fire, but not the old charred bones of the castle as we smelled outside. Rather, the aroma of torchlight having been extinguished hours before. After searching the perimeter of the room, I reached out and touched my finger to a sconce, then sniffed.

  “Someone has been here recently,” I said.

  Bowen had found the large fireplace at the head of the hall and squatted with his hand above the logs in the grate. “Very recently.”

  “We’d better find another place to hide.”

  The sudden whooping of Morgons sent us into high alert. Within three seconds, we’d formed a circle with our backs inward and weapons drawn—myself with my broadsword, Valla with her two sabers, and Bowen with his crossbow. Pouring into the main hall were many Morgons, men and women, streaming around us with jeers and laughter. One of them blew flame to the torches and lit the hall.

  The Greyclaw brothers weren’t among them. These weren’t a militant band of Larkosians as I’d feared we’d meet on this journey. They wore the mismatched attire of marauders, mostly leather and fur of the beasts of Aria. Encircling us with home-forged blades drawn and ready were a number of different clansmen—two Woodblades, three Sunstings, three more from the Coalglass clan, a pair of Violetvale twin males, a Huntergild—which I was sure would elate Bowen—three of the blue-winged Skyshadow clan, two Icewing females, one Starfell male and finally a big Silverback with a wingspan to rival my own. Their allegiance was certainly to this man, their leader, who sauntered within the circle, great wings snapping at his back, both hands on his hips as he squared himself in front of Valla. Close, but not too close, for I’d have sliced his pretty face with my Drakonian blade.

  “Well, well, well,” his deep-barreled voice echoed in the hall. “Company has come calling.”

  A few chuckled at their leader’s obvious sarcasm.

  “I don’t remember inviting guests to our lair. Do you, friends?”

  A chorus of “no” and “I didn’t invite them” and more laughter followed.

  “A Rowanflame, a Moonring, and a Huntergild. Of the highest stock, it appears. High tech gear, expensive thermal suits, and”—he stepped closer to Valla—“very well-honed soldiers with…athletic physiques.”

  I nearly leapt from our defensive stance to gut him where he stood. But that would put us in more danger. And there was no need to act irrationally since Valla could take care of herself.

  “Take one more step, and I’ll slice off your balls and stuff them down your throat before you can blink.”

  Such a lady, my Valla.

  The marauders pushed forward. One of them hissed at her threat. Their leader held out a hand and laughed. A genuine laugh. “I bet you would.”

  “Try me and find out.”

  “Seems the Morgon Guard has sent their finest to Aria. Pray tell, why, I wonder.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” I bit out, unable to hold my tongue a second longer.

  “Forgive me. We are Bastien’s Bastards. And I am Bastien Silverback, their fearless leader,” he said with a small bow.

  At the sound of his name, I heard Valla’s intake of breath behind me. Bowen’s head swiveled to get a better look from my right. Bastien Silverback—number one on the Morgon Guard’s Most Wanted list. The Cloven Senate had crowned him the first enemy of the state after he murdered his entire family in their beds, including his parents, two teenage brothers, and a baby sister, who was only five years old. His father was rumored to be the next consul over Cloven and would rule for a decade. He was a well-respected man and of the greatest importance to the majority in power in the Senate.

  The day the family was found—each of them executed by decapitation—a man-hunt ensued like no other. The search was in vain, and it was rumored Bastien Silverback had absconded into Aria. If he should ever return, he would have been put down with blade justice on the spot, an execution-at-will order, sanctioned by the Morgon Guard as well as the Cloven Senate. Even now, it was our duty to do so if we had the chance. But killing the head of this pack of wolves would be suicide. I might sacrifice my own life, but not Valla’s.

  “I see that I’m still at the top of the Guard’s hit list.”

  He was intelligent with perceptive instincts.

  “Well, I hope you won’t attempt to put me down in my own home. Rafe, punch up the fires, will you? Let us get a better look at our guests.”

  A Woodblade stepped from the circle and blew flame to start the fire in the man-sized grate, then he went to a second and third fireplace on opposite walls adjacent to the main one. This was certainly the Great Hall of the royal Pallatine family, now a distant memory from this place.

  Bastien moved toward a dais, obviously what was once the throne platform, where several worn leather chairs stood facing the hall and a pile of layered vitr’mir furs were draped down the steps. Two pinpoints of gleaming eyes shone from the shadows behind Bastien, coming closer as the Morgon moved toward the dais. From the d
ark beyond the columns stepped a wulving—coarse gray-black hair, sharp-edged wings, fangs extending from his mouth, and the wickedest face I’d ever seen on a beast.

  “Oh, don’t mind Razor,” said Bastien, climbing the dais and seating himself in the white fur-lined throne at the center. “He’s just not fond of strangers. But he won’t bite…unless you give him cause.”

  The wulving whose back came up to my waist followed his master’s footsteps and lay at his feet. Bastien patted his head. Still, the animal in no way looked like a domestic pet.

  “I thought wulving stayed with their packs,” said Valla.

  “They do.” Bastien continued stroking the beast on the head. “We are his pack.”

  The feral creature whose sinister gaze never left us sent a chill up my spine. Meeting a pack of these creatures mid-air would’ve been disastrous. We took the only course offered to us for shelter, but now I wondered what kind of hell we’d stepped into instead.

  “Well, now,” continued Bastien, “let’s all agree not to kill one another, shall we?”

  “And if we do?” I asked.

  “Then you may stay here to avoid Devil’s pack of wulving on the hunt tonight.”

  “Devil?” asked Valla.

  “Yes. Sire of Razor here, and the most vicious beast of them all. You did the right thing finding shelter. We’ve survived in Aria for ages now, but we never attempt to fight Devil’s pack. The weaker ones can be outnumbered and defeated, if you know what you’re doing in fighting a pack of wulving. Which you don’t. But Devil? We steer clear. So congratulations! You survived death by coming here to Pallatine.”

  “And what exactly have we landed ourselves into?” I asked. “Somehow I don’t imagine shelter will be free.”

  The others laughed. Bastien only smiled. “You’re quite right about that. There’s always a toll.”

  “What kind of toll?” asked Valla.

  When Bastien’s gaze roamed her body, I nearly came unhinged, ready to rip out his throat—suicide or no. He glanced at me and laughed, then winked. He knew I suffered. And why I suffered. The bastard.

  “Well, now. We love games, don’t we, friends?”

  Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

  “Let’s call it a truce, and you can put away your weapons. Then we’ll have a friendly game for entertainment. If you pay the toll, then I give you my word you may rest here unharmed until you continue on your journey.”

  I snorted at the offer, biting my tongue before I said something nasty about the promises of murderers.

  “I give you my word,” he reiterated, voice grating deep and threatening, unlike his typically cavalier manner. “And my word is true.”

  A chorus of “aye” resounded. The man had the undying devotion of his followers. But what could that mean among fiendish criminals?

  “And what if we don’t agree to pay the toll?” Valla asked.

  “Then you may join Devil and his twenty-plus pack flying the skies tonight.”

  With a wave of his hand, a silent command, the motley crew circling us sheathed their weapons and disbursed. A few lounged on the fur rugs and in the chaise lounges on the dais. The Woodblade called Rafe continued to stoke the fires and pile on logs. The two Icewings left the room altogether. Facing the dais in a line, we lowered our weapons but did not put them away.

  “Specify your toll,” said Valla. “And we will consider it.”

  “Don’t look so troubled, darling. You may enjoy this.”

  I really wanted to kill this asshole.

  He chuckled, studying me keenly as he scratched the scruff on his dimpled chin. “Very well. I’d say we need a toll befitting your warrior status. A duel. Your finest warrior”—he nodded at me—“against mine.”

  “Fair enough,” I agreed.

  “Not a duel to the death,” protested Valla.

  “Of course not!” Bastien grinned. “What fun would there be in that? However…” He angled his head as if considering.

  “But what?” I asked.

  “We’ll need higher stakes…to keep things interesting. If you win, you stay here unharmed as I vowed before, of course. But if my warrior wins…” He glanced at a fierce Skyshadow female still standing at attention at the foot of the dais, her cobalt-colored wings tucked tight against her back. “We’ll let her decide. Madera, what would you like as your prize?”

  Madera paced forward, crossing to stand a few feet in front of me. She wore her black hair loose with long braids on either side of her temple. Encased in skin-tight brown leather from top to bottom, there was no question the woman was a fit warrior. Her cat-shaped eyes sized me up keenly. Her grave, assessing expression cracked, her pretty mouth tilting up on one side.

  “If I win…I bed the Rowanflame for the night.”

  Catcalls and whistles lit up the room. Unsurprised at the stakes, I was surprised at Valla’s reaction.

  “No. You can’t wager for sex.” She had tightened her stance back into fighting mode.

  “Of course, we can,” said Bastien. “That’s the best of prizes if you ask me.”

  A chorus of laughter erupted. Bastien grinned from ear to ear.

  Ordinarily, I’d find the wager more than acceptable terms. I might even throw the match and lose to have a night with a wild warrior such as this woman, Madera. Readying for the fight, she pulled a spear with double-ended blades from a wall holding an array of weapons.

  “I won’t allow it,” said Valla.

  I glanced to find her pale skin mottled pink from her neck to her cheeks. This wager wasn’t exactly barbaric behavior. Not for Morgons. Slightly uncivilized, but look at our surroundings. We’d left civilization behind days ago.

  “Then you may leave,” said Bastien as politely and dead serious as a man could be, sweeping a hand toward the door.

  “The stakes are acceptable,” I confirmed.

  Valla snapped her gaze to me, fury lining every lovely contour of her face.

  “This should be interesting.” Bowen spoke for the first time, sidling to the sidelines near the fire.

  I shifted in front of Valla to face her, widening my wings to block our conversation as best I could.

  “There is no option here,” I whispered low. “We can’t risk death just to save a piece of my dignity.”

  “Your dignity?” she scoffed. “Don’t even pretend if you lost, you’d be doing a great sacrifice by screwing that woman.”

  “Valla—”

  “Don’t you fucking throw the fight to sleep with her.”

  The venom in her voice shocked me for a few seconds. Her ripe anger spoke of only one emotion…jealousy. My dragon preened and pranced around in a circle. He also knew opportunity when he saw it. The noble thing to do would’ve been to ease her concerns about me sleeping with another woman. But I wasn’t that noble. And I’d do everything within my power to make Valla mine.

  “While I appreciate your concern, this is the only way to keep the three of us safe for the night.” Somehow, I managed to remain serious. “And besides, if I lose, it won’t be that great a hardship.”

  Her white-hot gaze could’ve lit me on fire right there. Hard fury trembled through her body. My instincts told me to comfort her, but I refused. Her nonverbal admission that she harbored feelings for me sent my dragon to jerking at his chain, ready to pull her down to the ground and drive home, here and now. But this was not the time or the place to rehash our dream together or her rejection of me as a lover.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll beat her. I’ve fought wilder ones than her before.”

  “And where might that have been? In your cozy human province of Gladium?”

  I ignored the bitterness with which she spoke of my home, Gladium, where humans and Morgons lived alongside one another peacefully, the only province of the realm where this was true.

  “The Rowanflame clan in the Feygreir Mountains are a wilder bunch than this, if you can imagine. Now go take a seat.”

  She literally bit her lip to keep
from saying something else equally or more nasty. I handed her my sword and unzipped my thermal, removing the suit in haste. No need to ruin my suit. I removed my undershirt for good measure and handed it to Valla in exchange for my sword.

  “Hold my clothes, will you? I’ll need those back later.” I winked. “Or maybe not.”

  Without waiting for her response, I snapped my wings tight against my back and moved to the center of the hall to face my opponent. Her stance square, her shoulders back, she held only the double-edged spear. I sliced my broadsword in an arc to loosen the muscles of my shoulder, which had been rigid since the Bastards had flooded the room.

  “Are you ready?” I asked Madera.

  Her wicked smile reappeared. “Ready when you are, lover.”

  CHAPTER 12

  P lopping myself down on the top step of the dais, I wanted to kill and maim something. Fury raced through my veins like a mad fever. The shock that I should lose my shit at the thought of another woman touching Conn sent my mind reeling. Why was I feeling this way? Sure, our experience in his dream had captivated me. Even more than I let him believe. It was all I could think of since I woke up. That was one way to keep warm in this frozen wasteland.

  But I had no idea that I’d react like a jealous, crazed woman at the mention of him in the bed of another. And look at her. This one would keep him up all damn night.

  Bastien called from his makeshift throne, “The Obsidian Games rules apply. The first to yield loses the match. You may begin.”

  Claps and jeers rose from the audience.

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” I mentioned, keeping a wary eye on his winged hound resting his chin on the man’s foot.

  “For true warriors, what’s a little blood or a broken bone here and there?” he asked lightly.

  In the Obsidian Games, young Morgon men of each clan fought for their honor, to remain the last man standing in the ring against a champion, typically one of the Morgon Guard or someone trained by the elite of the Guard. There was only one rule, actually. Stay alive. Morgons left the ring with broken bones, wings, and deeper wounds with blades. Some never left the ring at all. It was the rite of passage for every Morgon male if he wanted to hold his head high in his clan.