by Tessa Dawn
Matthias’s words swept over Mina like a cold, bitter wind, chilling her skin and causing her body to shiver. She grasped her head in her hands as she rocked forward in anguish. Oh, heavens above, not Raylea, not sweet, innocent, beautiful Raylea. What were those monsters doing to her little sister? Trying to contain her grief—it wouldn’t help, and Raylea could not afford the wasted time—she tried to think of something she could do. Would Dante actually help her? Would he send a faction of the Dragons Guard to search for Mina’s little sister? Would he actually go himself?
She honestly didn’t know.
It was a lot to ask.
A lot to consider.
Before she could formulate her next words, seek advice, or ask Matthias for suggestions, a distinctive, familiar sound caused the hairs on Mina’s arms to stand up: the crackling of crisp, brittle leaves beneath footfalls, alerting the two of them to an approaching visitor.
Someone was coming toward them.
Mina slid onto her belly and rolled toward the trunk of the tree, even as Matthias scurried behind it.
“Too late, you little witch. I knew you could not be trusted.” Pralina Darcy’s shrill, heartless voice penetrated the tense atmosphere. “Get off the ground, you stupid little whore, and tell your lover to come from behind that tree.” The castle’s spiteful governess glared angrily at Mina as she stood before her like a looming bastion of evil, her skeletal hands planted firmly on her bony hips, her thin blood-red lips pulled back into a scowl. She looked positively murderous.
“Mistress!” Mina bounded to her feet, unconsciously placing her body between the witch and Matthias as he crept from behind the tree, his knees bent low to the ground, his considerable weight shifted forward, as if he were prepared to spring. “What are you doing in the gardens?” Mina persisted, trying to sound indignant. “Were you following me?”
Pralina threw back her head and howled like some sort of demented animal, utterly insane.
“Pralina!” Mina curled her hand into a fist and thought seriously about striking the governess across the jaw. “Be quiet!”
Pralina’s severe gray eyes narrowed in rage as she howled again, this time calling for assistance. “Guards! Guards! Come quickly!”
Mina’s heart constricted in her chest.
She spun around to face Matthias. “Go!” she ordered, hoping her sudden, imperious command would startle Pralina into silence, at least long enough for Matthias to slip away. “Get out of here. Quickly! Before she wakes the dead.”
Matthias rose nimbly to his feet, his nervous eyes scanning the nearby commons, even as he took a cautious step backward, preparing to run. “What about you?” he whispered softly, his overwhelming concern etched into his forehead.
Before Mina could answer, Pralina stepped forward and glared at Matthias, challenging him to even flinch. “You dare to step foot on these royal grounds, commoner!” she snarled. “To approach one of the castle’s Sklavos Ahavi without escort or invitation? I will see your head on a spike.”
Mina sucked in wind, her clenched fist convulsing with spasms. She was going to kill this witch—
Right here.
Right now.
This was not a game.
She fixed her attention on Matthias and placed all the volume she could muster into her voice. “Go!”
Matthias hefted his quiver onto his back, clenched his bow in his right hand, and spun around in quick retreat, heading toward a thicker grouping of trees on the outskirts of the gardens, just as a tall, looming figure entered the private setting from the east. Oh dear ancestors, have mercy! It was Damian Dragona.
He was dressed in black from head to toe; he had a wicked-looking sword dangling in a scabbard at his hip; and he was striding forward like a tornado bent on destruction. Mina saw her life flash before her eyes—to hell with it! She cupped her mouth in her hands and shouted from the top of her lungs. “Dante!” She arched her back, turned toward the castle, and shouted again, this time abrading her throat. “Dante!” What were the odds that the prince could hear her? What were the odds that he was anywhere near? Oh gods above, she prayed for their divine intervention.
Damian stepped promptly in front of her, drew back his arm, and slapped her soundly across the cheek, sending her spiraling to the ground on her knees. And that’s when Matthias halted, drew an arrow out of his quiver, and turned back around. Mina stared in stunned stupefaction as Matthias Gentry nocked the arrow in his crossbow, pointed it directly at Damian, and sidled forward toward the willow tree.
Blessed Nuri, protect them all.
He was going to confront the prince.
The ground shifted beneath her knees; the sky spun in dizzying circles of pastel blue above her head; and her stomach churned like a vat of curdled milk heated in a kettle as Mina reached up with a quivering hand and tried to distract Damian. “My prince,” she garbled the words around bloody spittle, “please…this is all a big misunderstanding.”
Matthias took a bold step forward. “Don’t touch her again.”
Damian came to a sudden halt. He cocked his arrogant head to the side, measured Matthias from head to toe, and laughed: a loathsome, scornful sound. “What are you going to do with that bow, boy?” he snarled.
Matthias’s eyes betrayed his fear. He blinked several times in quick succession and then planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart below trembling knees. “I don’t want to do anything, my lord, just…but…we all need to calm down.” His voice was wobbly, despite his deliberate attempt at bravery. “Mina is right. This is all a misunderstanding. I came in peace.”
Damian snickered. His bicep twitched, and his sword hand covered his scabbard. “Mina is right. Mina?” He glanced down at her trembling form. “You mean my insolent slave?”
Pralina leveled a hate-filled glare at Mina, stepped forward, and grasped her by a handful of hair. “Get up, bitch!” she ordered.
Mina clutched her scalp, fury overwhelming her, and stumbled to her feet, trying to keep the roots of her hair from ripping out with every jarring movement. “Let go of me,” she cried.
Pralina tightened her fist and tugged against Mina’s scalp, drawing pleasure from her pain. She dug several sharp, jagged nails deep into Mina’s flesh and cackled, staring at her nose-to-nose.
That was it.
Shoving the heel of her shoulder into the hag’s stomach to throw her off balance, Mina went for blood: She raked her nails across the woman’s cheek, barely missing her eye; kicked her in the shin; stomped on her foot; and then elbowed her in the neck. The moment Pralina let go of Mina’s hair and began to choke, Mina followed up with a quick uppercut to the jaw, causing Pralina to bite her own tongue. The governess yelped and jumped back in surprise, trying to regain control.
“Son of a bitch,” Damian swore, crossing his arms over his chest and relaxing in spite of Matthias’s bow. His laughter grew raucous and loud. “You’re a regular hellcat, aren’t you, woman?” He shrugged a cocky shoulder. “Perhaps I should ask my father for you, after all.” And then he grew callous in the blink of an eye.
Without warning or preamble, the dragon prince flicked his wrists, pointed one forefinger at Mina, the other at Matthias, and shot them both in the chest with a supernatural bolt of lightning, stunning them where they stood. The air whooshed out of Mina’s lungs, and she froze in place like a statue, even as Matthias went flying into the air, tumbled in a violent circle, and cried out in agony as his crossbow singed his hands. Damian rotated his forefinger in two small circles, and Matthias’s bow and quiver soared away from his body as if caught in an unseen wind, spiraled high above the tree, and then plummeted to the ground, splintering into a dozen pieces.
Mina gasped, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even speak. All she could do was watch in abject horror as Matthias stopped spinning and began to drift upward—further and further—heading toward the high, winding branches of the willow tree. And then the twisted limbs began to moan and stretch, wrapping their rigid arms ar
ound the human’s waist, his throat, and his hands.
Oh gods, Damian was using the tree as a restraint, binding Matthias in wooden chains, suspending him above the ground, in order to…in order to…what?
Mina’s eyes grew wide, and she fought against the evil prince’s magic, desperate to turn away, as Damian took several paces backward, opened his feral jaw in the most grotesque contortion she had ever seen, and released his pointed canines. Smoke bellowed from the corners of his mouth; his lips turned fiery orange, and deep red flames began to dance like twirling vapors, emerging from his throat.
Mina recoiled inwardly, even as she forced an outer moan.
No…
Please…
Oh, gods…no.
She did not want to watch Matthias burn.
Please, Damian, she begged in her mind. Her tongue was still thick and laden like it was coated in goo. Oh, ancestors, where was Dante? Where was Drake? Where were the gods when they were needed? Bitter tears stung her eyes as Damian’s lip drew back in a primitive snarl, and he hissed a final pronouncement. “You dared to place your feet on the king’s land. You dared to speak to a Sklavos Ahavi, to a wench that belongs to me and mine, and you dared to raise a weapon to your lord. For these crimes, and just for the hell of it, I sentence you to death.” A primal roar escaped his throat, and he opened his mouth even wider to release the fatal flames.
“Prince Damian! Prince Damian!” An agitated band of castle sentinels rushed into the garden, led by the two Malo Clan guards who had been present at Mina’s scourging. “My prince,” the seven-foot guard with a pointed, scruffy goatee grunted impatiently. “The king demands your presence in the throne room at once.”
Damian didn’t turn in their direction. He didn’t turn away from his fury. He didn’t even acknowledge their presence.
The second guard stared at the piteous human dangling from the tree and grimaced as understanding registered in his dark, seedy eyes, but he pressed on with his own entreaty. “My prince!” His voice was gruff and insistent with appeal. “The watchtower sentry spotted at least two dozen Lycanian ships sailing this way across the restless sea.”
“They’re headed toward Dracos Cove,” the first guard cut in.
“An attack is imminent. You are needed in the throne room at once.”
For the first time, both Malo Clan guards glanced absently at Mina, still frozen like a piteous effigy where she stood, and then at Pralina, her face bitter with anger, ashen with humiliation, and speckled with welts, each streaked with blood. The first guard snorted. “There is no time for”—he swept his hand in a dismissive arc, indicating whatever had gone on with the women—“for this.” And then he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders to the prince, and bowed his head in deference. “We were told to bring the Sklavos Ahavi, all three of them, to the throne room as well.”
“The king said now,” the second guard added with just a bit of vehemence and more than a little distaste.
Damian shook his head briskly as if trying to snap out of a daze. Undoubtedly, he was accustomed to the Malo Clan guards and their brusque, heavy-handed ways. More than likely, he was trying to bridle his dragon, retract the beast’s fire, and regain some semblance of control. Moments felt like hours as Damian blinked several times; his eyes flashed back and forth between red and dark brown; and he finally drew in a measured, easy breath.
The fire abated.
He tilted his head to the side and glared at Mina, and for a moment, she didn’t know if he planned to release her or murder her, right then and there. “Compose yourself,” he ordered, flicking his wrist in her direction, and just like that, her invisible bonds were removed. She was no longer paralyzed.
She shivered and groaned from the strange sensation, watching in trepidation as he turned his attention to Matthias, who was still terrified and hanging, suspended from the tree. “Oh please, oh please, oh please, sweet goddess of mercy,” she breathed.
Damian frowned, but his ire had already cooled.
His attention was clearly elsewhere.
He raised his open palm toward the top of the tree, curled his fingers inward, and the branches simply let go, dropping Matthias to the ground, where he landed at Damian’s feet. The sadistic prince kicked him in the ribs, and then spun around to face the leader of the guards, the barbaric giant with the menacing goatee. “Take this human excrement to the dungeon—we can execute him later.” As several guards rushed forward to seize Matthias, Damian turned toward Mina once more. “And clean her up—quickly—then bring her to the throne room.”
“As you wish, my prince,” a normal-sized guard said, leveling his gaze at Mina.
As if she were utterly clueless to the gravity of the situation, Pralina Darcy huffed in exasperation, rushed toward Damian, and grasped him by the arm, her jagged nails unintentionally biting into his skin. “My prince,” she panted, “forgive me, but I must insist on this Ahavi’s immediate punishment. Did you not see what she did to me?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed into two tiny slits, the pupils drawing as thin as a cat’s.
“I am your father’s most faithful domestic. I have served him honorably for the past ten years, and that bitch had the audacity to strike me.” She kicked a mound of dirt in Mina’s direction, her voice growing hoarse with disgust.
Damian licked his bottom lip. Slowly. “You insist?” His words were barely audible.
Pralina cleared her throat. “It’s…well…it’s very important that the slaves know their place. So in that respect, yes; I insist.”
Damian nodded slowly. He glanced back and forth between Pralina and Mina, his face an iron mask of disdain, and then he fingered his scabbard, drew his sword, and gutted the governess from stem to stern in one graceful thrust of his blade. As Pralina’s eyes bulged in their sockets, swollen with shock and horror, she grasped at his lapels and groaned.
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Slaves should know their place.” With that, he withdrew his sword, shoved her away with a booted foot, and watched as her body slumped to the ground. Turning to Mina, he extended the blood-soaked blade. “You,” he snarled, placing the tip of steel to her throat. “Ten words or less: Why were you meeting with that human? Why did you call out for my brother? And what made you think you could get away with attacking Pralina?”
Mina swallowed convulsively, feeling the hard, cold edge of the sword taut against her throat.
Ten words or less?
How did he expect her to answer?
He increased the pressure, nicking her skin in the process and drawing a trickle of blood. She steadied her nerves and spoke slowly. Deliberately. “He brought a message from home. I was scared. Apologies.”
Damian withdrew the sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. “What was the message?”
“My sister was kidnapped by slavers.”
He nodded slowly. “I see. And you thought Dante would…what? Help you find your sister? Protect you…from me?”
“My prince.” The second Malo Clan guard vied for Damian’s attention, presumably to remind him of the urgent situation, the need to get to the throne room post haste, but his captain swiftly seized him by the arm and shook his head in caution.
Shh, he mouthed the warning.
The lieutenant looked away.
“No, my prince,” Mina answered quietly. “I…I just panicked. There was no thought. I…I’m just better acquainted with Prince Dante, thus far.”
“Acquainted,” Damian echoed nastily as he nodded again. “Hmm. And Pralina?”
Mina bit her bottom lip. “She…she…” There was no polite way to put it, no clever way to restate it, so she chose to shut her mouth.
Damian leaned forward until he met her at eye level, and his harshly sculpted nose twitched. “She was a royal bitch,” he whispered. This time, Mina nodded, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a sadistic smile. “Well, I don’t think she’ll bother either of us again, do you?” He narrowed his gaze with such contempt…
>
Mina closed her eyes and waited, expecting anything to happen.
She had no idea what the prince would do next.
To her surprise, Prince Damian stood up straight, brushed the dust off his tunic, turned on his heel, and pompously strolled away.
Chapter Fourteen
Mina crossed her arms over her chest, gripped both triceps with her palms, and rubbed her exposed flesh briskly in order to stave off the chill as she entered the throne room of Castle Dragon.
Again.
How well she remembered the last time she had stood in this massive hall with its cryptic walls, enormous columns, and elaborate trappings. She still recalled the king’s heartless words—give her fifteen lashes with a spiked whip—and the brutal flogging that had followed thereafter. She still remembered Dante’s courageous sacrifice as he had endured her pain, accepted it as his own, and she understood, more intimately than most, how quickly one’s fate could turn from bad to worse at the whimsical nod of this king.
Making her way toward the back of the room, she scurried to the left side of the hall and took an inconspicuous place beside Tatiana Ward. The two exchanged wary glances before Mina took her best friend’s hand. “Hi, Tati,” she murmured, still staring straight ahead.
Tatiana was practically cowering in the corner, and she welcomed Mina’s touch with a firm squeeze of their interlocked fingers. “What is this about?” the frail, auburn-haired female whispered in an anxious tone. “And where were you earlier?”
Mina shook her head. She wasn’t about to go there. She pressed her shoulder to Tatiana’s, leaned in her direction, and whispered in her ear: “The Realm is under attack, or at least it will be soon: Lycanians from the north, sailing across the sea.”
