A Lair So Sinful

by Zoey Ellis

  “What skills would those be?”

  “You know how magic is accessed?”

  I’mya nodded. “It responds to charms and potions.”

  “That’s right. But the most powerful and pure way to invoke it is to speak the language of the gods.”

  “I thought that language was impossible to learn?”

  “For most of us it is. It contains five different variations of the same language, all with different accents and dialects. It is an extremely comprehensive language and one that is practically impossible to the minds of mortals like us. But for someone like you, who can feel and sense magic, the language should be easier for you.”

  “How will this end the war?”

  “Once you learn the incantations you need, then you can target one of the dragorai-dragons.”

  I’mya raised her brows. “What?”

  The king shifted in his chair, leaning forward on his elbows, capturing her eyes with his. “It will take the death of a dragon to end the war, I’mya”

  I’mya stared at him in shock. “You want someone to kill a dragon? Are you crazy?” She dispensed with all pretense and protocol. This man was insane. “The last dragorai are impossible to kill. Impossible. No one’s been able to kill them,” she almost shrieked. “It is suicide to even try.”

  “For most people it would be,” the king said. “But not for you.” He placed a stack of parchment in front of her. “They are ancient beings from a time before the Twin Realms were even called the Twin Realms. They are useless to us now, relics. But their extinction could end the war.”

  I’mya frowned as she looked up at him. “Why can’t you end the war?”

  “It’s not that easy,” the king said. “The dragorais’ existence is part of the reason why this war is going on for so long.” He leaned against his desk. “Do you know they could erase ember if they wanted to?”

  “No,” I’mya said slowly. “I didn’t know they had that power. Why don’t they stop it?”

  “They have no interest in the lives of lesser-mortals. But they are extremely powerful. They are the key to many lives being saved.”

  “How?”

  “They were made from magic,” the king explained. “They have magic in their bones and it is the base of their bond with their alphas. Their deaths would send shock waves throughout the magical plane and change its essence forever. It would change the very nature of ember.”

  I’mya put down the parchment. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I would like to pay you to learn an incantation. I can also teach you others, like ones that will allow you visit your parents in the ember, but once the war is over, you will probably want to bury them.”

  “How do you know about my parents?”

  “As I said, I know much more about my Dominion and the people in it than most think. Just because you don’t see me presenting myself for people to fawn over like the queen does, does not mean that I am not here, planning for ways to end the war.”

  I’mya thought for a long moment. “How long do I have to think about it?”

  The king pushed himself back off the desk and went to sit down and then leaned back in his chair as he eyed her. “Dragons fly around here all the time. I need an answer soon.” When I’mya said nothing, he sighed. “I will give you three days. Three days of food, a soft bed, and safety with your sister. Then you can tell me what you want to do.”

  “And we will be able to leave without any harm coming to us?” I’mya asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Three days turned into five, which then turned into eight. I’mya was reluctant to remove I’yala from such an incredible lifestyle—one neither of them had ever had. They had shelter, they had food, and they had safety. I’yala could run, play, and scream and shout and she could sleep without waking up panicked. In a few short days, she’d turned into the child she was supposed to be, not the worried, gaunt adult in a child’s body that she was forced to be. As the days passed, I’mya couldn’t think of any reason not to stay. All the king was asking her to do was explore her connection to magic. And if she could end the war… She thought about her mother and father and the factions, all the horrendous things that happened in the North. If she could end the war, wouldn’t it be worth it?

  On the tenth day, she told the king she would accept his offer and began training and learning magic with him.

  Learning magic was harder than I’mya imagined. The incantations were sensitive to tone, intonation, cadence, accent, rhythm, rhyme, phrasing, syntax, articulation, and stress just within one dialect; and there were five dialects. On top of that, some sounds in the language were almost impossible to create.

  The king seemed to think it would be easy for her just because she could sense magic, and he pushed her hard to learn the language quickly. They argued a lot, both having outbursts when frustrated with the other, but ultimately, I’mya was making progress.

  After two months, the king led her up to one of the balconies near the top of the tower. He gestured to the thick pillow placed in the center. “You will do your focusing exercises up here,” he said, “where the air is cleaner.”

  The view from the balcony allowed her to see a vast amount of the city. It was a mottle of grey and brown with crumbling buildings, patches of wild moss, and clouds of ember hugging buildings and blocking roads. It was a depressing sight. “What are focusing exercises?”

  “They will help you to enhance your ability to sense magic,” the king said. He instructed her to kneel on the pillow and to focus on the magic in the air around her, its quality, texture, all its nuances.

  She wrinkled her nose. “But why? Magic has a bad smell.”

  The king looked at her sharply. “Does it? What does it smell like?”

  “Like rotting eggs mixed with sour lemon.”

  The king frowned. “Is it… a smell you experience with your nose?”

  I’mya thought for a moment. “No. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like a sense of it smelling bad.”

  “And is it normal magic or ember that smells that way?”

  I’mya shrugged. “There’s so much ember everywhere, I can’t tell.”

  The king was quiet for a moment, looking over the city. “Get started and stay alert.”

  She spent a few minutes holding her focus before I’yala interrupted, throwing her arms around her neck. I’mya grabbed her and pulled her into her lap, tickling her sides. “Hey, little ma’am. What happened to your reading?”

  I’yala laughed, kicking and wriggling. “The book is boring!”

  I’mya feigned surprise. “How can a book of the royal court be boring?”

  “It’s all about the Order, and the Sayings of the Seven, and the devout Mheyu, and their tireless devotion.” I’yala made a face. “Why are so many books about the Goddesses?”

  “That’s what they love to read here,” I’mya said, pulling her upright. “At least you can read enough to know it’s boring.”

  “When are you going to read with me?” she whined.

  “You want me to be bored too?”

  I’yala grinned. “I found one you might like.” She dropped her volume mischievously. “It’s about ruts, and big alphas, and—”

  “I’yala!” I’mya’s surprise was real this time.

  “It was squashed between the other books,” I’yala said, shrugging.

  “Well, since you’re reading such advanced material, I think your reading level has surpassed mine!”

  I’yala made a dismissive noise. “You can read magic. That’s better than handsome alphas.” She spun around, twirling the green dress she loved so much. She’d never had a dress like it.

  I’mya smiled as she watched her. “I’ve got to concentrate ’lala.”

  “Can I sit with you?” Her eyes pleaded. “I’ll be quiet.” She held up her ragged, knitted, one-eyed, one-armed doll. “I’ve got my doll.”

  “If you’re quiet.” I’mya shot her a stern look. />
  I’yala settled in a corner behind her, and I’mya continued her focus practice. After a long while, nausea seeped into I’mya’s surroundings. It wasn’t quite a feeling in her stomach, just like the rotten stench of magic wasn’t a smell in her nose, but it affected her nonetheless. She didn’t usually pay this much attention to magic.

  Rising from the pillow, she went down to the kitchens to request some sage tea.

  Just as she was finishing her cup, the king entered the kitchens. “What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be—”

  I’yala’s scream froze I’mya’s heart in her chest, her blood turned cold. She dropped her cup and ran out of the room before she’d taken a breath.

  She raised up the stairs, pushing all energy into her legs. I’yala did not scream like that, ever.

  She burst onto the balcony and I’yala was still in her corner, scrambling backward against the wall, her mouth open in horror.

  A huge, black dragon with shimmering scales hovered by the balcony, its wings beating so loud the vibrations hummed in I’mya’s chest.

  “I’yala!”

  Puffs of fire unfurled from the dragon’s mouth, aiming for I’mya’s pillow, but at the same time, I’yala shot toward I’mya, right into its path.

  I’mya screamed out in horror as her little sister was knocked back against the wall, collapsing in a stream of fire tearing into her hair, her face, her body.

  I’mya tried to run to her, but a hand on her arm held her back. I’mya fought, screaming for her sister, but she couldn’t get to her.

  Finally, the fire dropped away and the beating of the dragon’s wings began to fade. All that was left of I’yala was a burnt corpse, her leg and arm falling into a heap of coarse black sand before I’mya’s eyes.

  I’mya screamed, hot anger and despair setting her alight. She called for I’yala, unwilling to believe that she was staring at her sister’s body, and when the hand finally let her go, she dropped next to her, hysterical. It couldn’t be possible that the beautiful girl she had just been speaking to—who she’d protected all these years—was gone.

  She stayed on the balcony for hours, not allowing anyone to touch her or I’yala as she raged and wailed and sobbed, but eventually, I’yala’s entire body dissolved into the black sand, and she no longer existed.

  I’mya didn’t allow herself to grieve. She held onto the fury, turned herself hard inside and out.

  She trained with her knives, barely ate or slept, and spoke to no one. The king and his people tried to talk to her, but they didn’t exist. It was her motivation to train as hard as she could, to become the person she should have been to protect her sister. Once, the king’s guard tried to grab her, and she ran her knives ran through them in moments, killing them brutally. After that, the king let her be.

  Rage was a hard ball in her chest, fierce and writhing, desperate to avenge I’yala. Her sister did not deserve to die that way. She did not deserve to be attacked by a monster, her last breath taken in fear and pain and suffering.

  A month later, she was skin and bone, fueled by her blazing hatred for the dragon, but the king had had enough.

  As she trained in his magical battle room one morning, he used magic to knock the knives out of her hands and pushed her to the ground. She snarled at him as he stood over her, looking down at her with contempt. “Your obsession with these weapons is pathetic and pointless. Magic holds the real power, you know that.”

  “Can it bring back my sister?” When he didn’t answer, she screamed, “Then I don’t want to learn your fucking magic!”

  “Even if you can use it to kill the dragon?”

  His words thundered in I’mya’s ears and she stilled.

  His voice softened. “I can teach you. Your focus is much stronger now. I know the dragon that attacked and I know where to find it.”

  Trying to kill a dragon, especially a dragorai-dragon was suicide, but what else was left? In all the Twin Realms nothing more remained for I’mya. “You only want to kill the dragon to end the war,” she said to the king.

  “I do,” he admitted. “But is that wrong? It’s a worthy cause. Look at what it did to your sister? It was unprovoked. This is the danger they are to the Twin Realms, to the Dominions, to my people. They need to be stopped!”

  I’mya watched him closely. “You’ve lost someone too.”

  The king’s jaw hardened and his nostrils flared. He lowered his hand to her. “Avenge your sister, I’mya.”

  After a moment’s thought, I’mya grabbed his hand.

  10

  I’mya woke, dread and horror souring in the pit of her stomach.

  She turned in the bed, thankful that Nyro wasn’t there with her. Tears already streamed down her face from the visceral and brutal memory—the ringing of her own screams, the sight of burning flesh, and intense heat from the flames. And in the center of it, the most powerful of all, was the truth that stung in her chest; Nyro’s dragon had killed her little sister.

  She sat up in the bed, remembering all that had followed after she’d accepted the king’s offer. He trained her for days, months to complete one task. She studied the mountains and the dragorai’s use of servants. That was why she thought she’d been in the mountain before—the king had created simulations for her to practice in. When she’d first arrived and ran from Dayatha, she had been heading to where the king had thought the dragon slept in the dragorai’s lair.

  The king had made sure she ate; he’d fattened her up until she was healthy looking, fabricated the story of her background and made her applications to the lair. He trained her to fool the interviewers, behave demure and frightened and respectful of the dragorai.

  When she had balked at the idea of entering the lair as one of the dragorai’s bed servants, the king had told her that it was no different from him buying her virginity, which many omegas did to get money, safety or protection. He said if she was able to blend in and be mostly unnoticeable, she probably wouldn’t have to do anything like that before she had time to complete her task.

  Of course, that was not what happened.

  I’mya closed her eyes and took a breath. The truth was, she wasn’t here by accident or mistake or to live a peaceful life in honor of her family. She had come for revenge.

  A soft echo of that ball of fury she’d nurtured arrived in her chest, the feeling she’d used to propel every action she took. It wasn’t as strong as it once was, and she could only guess it was because she spent time grieving in the lair. She didn’t reject the grief like she had before. She’d had Elora and the other kon’ayas to talk to and spent time doing things which were enjoyable, even praying. Now she knew why the Mheyu had refused her request to pray. The level of anger she had felt at that time must have been powerful, and it had been charged with revenge. It would have tainted the Goddesses’ sacred place, and a Mheyu guardian would have been cautious about letting her pray unaided.

  But that feeling of unadulterated anger and revenge felt alien to her now. She’d spent her whole time in the lair without that anger and saw the lair through different eyes—as someone who didn’t remember the war and her experiences of it. But that did not mean she didn’t feel angry or that she could ignore the memories she’d been so desperate to get back.

  The lingering effects of her heat shuddered through her body, reminding her of the depth of her involvement with the owner of her sister’s killer. She got up, heading for the pitcher of water on the table.

  The king had warned her that the magic they used in the lair was powerful, and in order to fool the stewards, he buried some of her memories. But he couldn’t have expected she would forget all of them. Clearly, the magic used to bring her into the lair had interfered with her memories, because she had some kind of connection to magic that no one else did. She had honed that as much as possible, but it was a suicide mission. The king never expected her to return.

  She drank the water, gulping it down until nothing was left. It cooled her throat and slo
wed the fading vibrations of her heat.

  Her mind whirled through the new knowledge. Her anger might not be as strong anymore, but she had to consider what would happen if she chose to carry out her revenge—or if she chose to do nothing. Initially, she wanted to do this for I’yala and for all that she symbolized—children suffering from the effects of the war, orphans who had no one. Who was fighting for them? Who was providing for them? It was all well and good to be hidden away, confined to the luxury of the lair, but what about the people who were still out there? The children still affected by the war, the ember destroying people every day? If that could end right now, was she in a position to abandon her task?

  A knock on the door interrupted her somber contemplation. “Come in,” she called.

  Dayatha peeked in, a smile on her face. “Your heat has broken,” she said, pleased.

  “Yes,” I’mya said, although she almost wished she’d never had it at all.

  She watched Dayatha as she collected the leftovers from yesterday and set out a new pitcher of water and some food.

  “We’re going to need to change those sheets soon,” she remarked.

  I’mya glanced down at the sheets. They were stained with fluids and stunk of her and Nyro. “This isn’t something you would normally do as a steward, is it?” The king had been very concerned about the stewards. He considered them skilled in everything to do with dragorai life and culture.

  Dayatha grinned at her. “No. But you are one of my kon’ayas and you were in your heat. The fact that you are with Master does not change my responsibilities. I am simply trying to care for you.”

  I’mya nodded. “You know more about the dragorai than anyone else in the lair, don’t you?”

  Dayatha lifted a shoulder in a throwaway gesture. “I wouldn’t say that. All the stewards have an in-depth knowledge of the dragorai. We have to do our jobs well.”