by Cara Bristol
“No, don’t do that. Don’t cry.” He wiped away the drop before it could singe her skin. When a dragon cried, the blood-tears scarred. “I’m sorry, A’riel.” I’m sorry I can’t be what you need. What I was.
She shook her head. “Perhaps you have met another. Your mate.”
“No.” More than ever, he despaired of finding that one dragoness who would dance with his fyre. His parents and seven siblings had all mated before they turned three hundred. He was 435. K’ev, the youngest at 215, was mated but to a human, so maybe he didn’t count.
“Perhaps you prefer to dispatch me from service?”
“Not unless you desire to be released.”
“Is that what you wish?”
“No. I am giving you the option.” The numbness would have to wear off, wouldn’t it? And then he would want her.
“Then I opt to remain in the harem.”
“I’m glad.” A sickly sweet odor of a falsehood seeped from his pores, and he could smell his own lie. He had the oddest compunction to dispatch all his concubines. He stepped out of range before she could smell it.
“I have to go. I must not keep the king waiting.” It didn’t matter if you were his offspring; the monarch wouldn’t hesitate to singe your scales. A year of his youth had been spent in the dungeon after a prank had ignited the king’s pique.
Attempting to reassure him, she said, “It’s a short flight. You have plenty of time.”
Except—he couldn’t fly. He couldn’t shift. His dragon had stopped speaking to him.
He exited his chamber, realizing he should have released her from service. It would have been kinder in the long run.
* * * *
A thin vog tinted the morning sky a pale pink as T’mar sprinted toward the king’s palace. Away from the harem, the summons seemed less like a reprieve and more like an imperilment. Only two individuals dealt with the mercurial monarch with any sanguinity—the queen, for whom the king had a soft spot, and the priestess of the Temple of the Eternal Fyre, the oldest and most powerful dragon in existence.
He would be late. He could have flown in a tenth of the time it took to arrive on foot. It couldn’t be a coincidence his talkative dragon had fallen silent at the same time the ennui had crept upon him. By now, the creature should have been desperate to be released from confinement. Because dragons occupied a lot of space, over the eons they had evolved to shift into demiforma. The half-dragon, half-biped state enabled space travel, the construction of palaces, temples and other buildings, and the formation of alliances with the galactic community—although the quick deterioration of the treaty with Earth had demonstrated the potential pitfalls of the latter.
However, one could remain in demiforma only so long. The dragon eventually needed to be freed and would force a shift if necessary. So, why wouldn’t the dragon shift?
Are you there? Speak to me. He tried to coax a response.
Silence.
Don’t you want to fly? Throw a fireball?
Silence.
Why are you acting like this? Why won’t you speak? Why won’t you shift? Talk to me!
He and the dragon were two minds, one fyre. Disconnection from his other self left him feeling half alive. Why had he gone quiet?
I want our mate. You are keeping me from her. The growled accusation reverberated through T’mar, and he tripped over his own feet. Relief washed over him; however, so did resentment at the silent treatment. He kept a grip on his anger to discover what had been bothering the dragon.
You mean A’riel? he guessed.
Not her!
One of the others?
Silence.
Who? Where is she? Could he have failed to recognize his mate? He hadn’t felt so much as a flicker to signal that any of the dragonesses he’d encountered was their mate.
When you find her, I will know her.
So, we haven’t met her yet.
She is coming. I feel it. But you will not accept her.
I would never repudiate our mate.
I will scare her. You will reject her, and she will never be ours. I am sad.
I won’t let that happen.
You cannot prevent it. We are what we are.
And what is that?
Dragon.
* * * *
The king’s cape flared as he paced the Great Hall. Flanking the vacant throne, two guards stood at the ready. As T’mar entered, puffs of smoke steamed from his father’s nostrils. Even in demiforma, the king appeared more dragon than man. “You’re late. Did you mistake my summons for a suggestion?”
He dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “No, Your Majesty. My apologies.”
“It should not have taken you so long to fly here.”
Letting his father assume he’d dallied could be hazardous. Admitting the truth could be worse. But the king could sniff out a lie a mile off, so T’mar chose truth.
“I walked.”
“Why?”
He’d told no one of his inability to shift, and no way could he share the shameful secret with his father of all people.
“Never mind!” the king snapped. “Stand up so I can talk to you.”
His father stood a head shorter than him, but he was muscular, powerfully built—and had a killer instinct. Had he not inherited the kingdom, he would have been a formidable warrior. K’rah circled him, giving him the once-over. “I command you to shift.”
To confess he’d lost control of his dragon would render him weak in the eyes of the king, and there would be no redemption. “Your Majesty, I, uh—there isn’t enough room in the hall…”
“Into a man.”
“Excuse me?”
“Show me your man form.”
Before he could formulate a response, his bones cracked and reshaped. His horns and frill receded, his snout shortened into a flat face, and his tail retracted. Scales sloughed off leaving smooth, vulnerable epidermis. His gray intelligent jumpsuit retrofitted around his new body shape. T’mar flexed fingers now tipped by short nails rather than claws.
He hated this form.
Still, he was grateful he hadn’t had to confess his secret, but why had the dragon so readily complied? Because everyone obeyed the king, he realized—even his stubborn dragon.
I am not stubborn!
Sourness oozed off the king as he conducted an inspection. The hairs on T’mar’s now-vulnerable nape stood up as his father strode out of sight behind him. One had to see a fireball to dodge it.
Finally, the king stood in front of him. His nostrils flared, emitting smoke and flame. “Sacred fyre, you’re ugly.”
We are not ugly!
Quiet. He might hear you. It was rare to hear another’s dragon, with the exception of one’s mate. But who knew what powers the king commanded?
“I’m betting the human won’t think so,” the king said.
“The…human?” Dread pervaded his bones.
“Your new concubine.”
“Father, no—”
The king’s eyes flashed a dangerous red, but T’mar couldn’t let this go. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, I cannot take a human consort.” The idea horrified him. “Prince K’ev—”
“Has made it work—unfortunately well, as it turns out.” The entire hall reeked with the sour odor emanating from the monarch.
“Then, isn’t that enough?” he argued. Why would his father order this? It was obvious he didn’t want another son to take a human concubine.
“You would dare to question your king? I rule Draco, no one else. A ship leaves at star rise for Elementa. Be on it.” He spun around and stalked from the Great Hall. His guards followed. The heavy door to the inner sanctum slammed shut.
T’mar couldn’t have been more stunned. It wasn’t until he squeezed his hands into fists that he realized he’d shifted back to demiforma.
Well, have you nothing to say about this? he asked.
But the dragon had retreated into silence again.
Chapter Four
>
“This looks like the kind of planet dragons would occupy.” Helena peered out the observation window as the spacecraft descended. Through breaks in the planet’s thick, foggy atmosphere she spied the rocky surface. Rivers of lava wound around mountains and black stone spires. She lost count of the number of volcanoes she spotted spewing smoke, ash, and fire. No wonder the atmosphere was hazy. “How can humans survive here?” This is what we are fighting over? Let the Draconians have it.
“With hazmat suits, it’s no problem,” Henry said.
“Inside the biodomes it’s just like home,” Patsy quipped.
“If you’re a hamster.” The human habitats came into a view: a bunch of reflective half-spheres connected by transparent pass-throughs. The smaller domes spoked off a larger central one that flew a massive, tattered gray flag. “So much for the red, white, and blue. The flag is in bad shape.”
“They swap them out every week,” Patsy said.
It resembled a giant rag flapping in the breeze. Like the colonists had hung out their dirty laundry. “The flag is a week old?”
“Or less.”
“How do you know?”
Patsy shrugged. “I read it in some report. The sulfuric acid, other caustic gases, and the ash are very hard on fabric. Flags don’t last long. Some catch fire from volcanic sparks.”
She had been a fountain of information—and support. They both had. Besides coming to her rescue with travel documents, they’d bolstered her spirits and kept her sane—but fed her shame. I have them, but Rhianna had nobody. She reminded herself, tricking her friend had saved her life—and she appeared happy with Prince K’ev. However, the positive outcome didn’t assuage the sharp pangs of guilt. There should have been another way.
But was there? Once you crossed Biggs, your options became limited. She’d decided to flee quickly, impulsively, but after a lot of reflection and analysis, she still didn’t know what else she could have done. She glanced at Patsy and Henry. They had chosen to leave, too.
At least they wouldn’t have to become the consort of a shape-shifting, fire-throwing alien. She shivered. Worry about that when you have to. Take it one day at a time.
As the ship drew closer to the surface, the colonists could be seen moving from one dome to another through the tubing. “I hope the locals are friendly,” she joked.
Patsy took it seriously. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“They shot Rhianna.”
“Because she came with a dragon, and they believed she was one. No one’s going to mistake us for anything but human.”
“But Prince T’mar and I will rendezvous tomorrow.” Helena gulped.
“It’s going to be okay.” Patsy squeezed her hand. She glanced at her brother. “Henry and I have talked it over and decided to accompany you to Draco.”
The idea brought her immense relief, but she shook her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. Stay on Elementa. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering,” Henry said.
“We insist.” Patsy smiled.
“On Elementa, you’ll live with humans. On Draco, you’ll be surrounded by dragons,” she tried to dissuade them. She desperately wanted them to accompany her, but she couldn’t risk their lives.
“Yes, but Elementa is an Earth territory,” Henry said.
“Biggs’ territory,” Patsy added.
“Since he’s aware we’ve helped you escape, well…” Henry spread his hands.
“Your lives are in danger.” Helena finished the sentence. If Patsy hadn’t shared information with her, they wouldn’t have lost their jobs and wouldn’t be on the run.
“Letting us come with you will be doing us a favor.” She grinned. “You’ve felt indebted to us, so we’ll call this square. We got you on the ship. You help us get to Draco.”
“I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
“None of this is your fault. This is all on Biggs.” Patsy hugged her.
“Thank you for that,” she replied, still feeling guilty. “If you’re certain you want to come with me, I’ll do everything I can to make it happen, but the decision isn’t mine. It will be up to T’mar.”
“That’s all you can do. We understand,” Patsy said.
Would the prince give her request any consideration at all? She was his consort, but she was also his enemy—by his estimation anyway. This was the kind of situation she avoided thinking about. At first her entire focus had been on escape—now that the imminent danger had passed, the other threats loomed. T’mar is a dragon. His father, the king of Draco, has threatened to destroy us. Her government had fired the first volley by laying claim to Elementa—but the Draconian response had been immediate and punitive. There hadn’t been any “let’s talk this out” message from King K’rah.
But if she had to choose between dragons or Biggs, she’d prefer the former. “What’s to prevent Biggs from having the colonists arrest us and ship us back?”
“The prince arrives tomorrow, and he’s expecting you,” Henry said. “It would be a major diplomatic gaffe if you failed to show.”
“Diplomacy doesn’t matter to Biggs—or the dragons, for that matter.” The Draconians and the special advisor shared some traits—aggression and a “take-no-prisoners” attitude. However, the Draconians risked nothing; Biggs risked everything.
The first day aboard the vessel, Helena had received a subspace message from her father. They had figured out where she was, what she was doing, and who had helped her. Fortunately, recalling a ship of people and critically needed supplies had been too exorbitant to consider. Or maybe she was dispensable, as she’d always suspected. She couldn’t count on anybody, least of all her father, to tell her the truth. Honesty had been the first casualty of the hostilities.
“I don’t understand why you did this. I wish you had come to me before committing to something so rash,” her father had said. She didn’t doubt Biggs stood next to him off camera. She wished she had been able to confide in her father. “Unfortunately, we have no alternative but to proceed with the plan you’ve put into effect,” he’d said.
As plans went, hers was thin on the details: fulfill the Draconians’ demand for a consort and then find other ways to achieve a peace settlement. By doing so, she could make the sacrifice she’d forced on Rhianna mean something. And maybe Rhianna would forgive her. Maybe she could forgive herself.
“What will you tell Prince T’mar about us?” Henry asked.
“That I need you? You’re my assistants?” Since her father and Biggs already knew where she was, the three of them had dropped their false identities and disguises. It felt good to get rid of the itchy wig and the scratchy contact lenses.
“I could be your lady’s maid!” Patsy curtsied.
“Yeah, because ladies’ maids are so common.” Her friend’s jest made Helena aware of the flimsiness of her off-the-cuff idea. I’m so unprepared for this.
“How about if you say we’re key policymakers?” Henry suggested. “We’re advisers to the president who share your commitment to peace. You brought us along as reinforcements to convince the president that vacating Elementa is in Earth’s best interests.”
“That’s a great idea!” Helena said. “That might work.” Patsy and Henry didn’t advise the president, but they did share her concerns and wished to save Earth from annihilation.
“And if it doesn’t”—Henry grinned—“you can tell them Patsy desires to become a concubine, too.”
Patsy punched his arm. “You’re full of…great ideas, aren’t you?”
He rubbed his arm and grinned.
The ship settled down with a bump, and Helena’s gaze flew to the observation window again. “We’ve landed!” Her stomach lurched. Arrival put her one step closer to the point of no return in more ways than one. She still didn’t trust her father’s promise she wouldn’t be dragged back to Earth. Upon setting foot on Elementa, she would either be taken into custody—or tomorrow a dragon would take her as his concubine
.
Outside the window, jagged black peaks and obsidian tors thrust out of the ground like spires against a smoky scarlet sky. Colonists in protective gear and gripping blasters emerged from the biodomes and marched toward the craft. “They’re armed!”
“They can’t take any chances,” Henry said. “A dragon could swoop in and grab them.”
“That’s why they fired on Rhianna,” she said.
“Rhianna dropped in unannounced with a dragon. We’re human, and they’re expecting us,” Patsy reassured her. “Like Henry said, they’re being cautious.”
“Or maybe they’ve come to arrest me,” she said.
“Stop worrying!” Patsy squeezed Helena’s shoulder. “We’re in this together. We got this far. Trust me. Tomorrow you’ll get to meet your dragon.”
Chapter Five
“Sir! Wake up, sir!”
“What is it?” Biggs squinted at his aide. “What time is it?”
“Two a.m.,” the man replied.
Didn’t shit always happen in the middle of the night? Nobody could ever have a crisis during business hours.
“I’m sorry, sir. You have a call from Elementa. It’s urgent.”
“Is it about the ship?” The vessel with Helena Marshfield should have landed by now.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“What about the president? Has he been notified?” He slid out of bed, grabbed his robe from the foot, and pulled it on.
“No. John Whitten asked for you,” his assistant replied. Whitten was the operations manager of the colony.
“Audio or vid?”
“Audio. Shall I patch it through to the war room?”
“Yes.”
He strode down the quiet, deserted halls of Bunker One to the war room, sank into the president’s chair, and drummed his fingers on the table. He held the power, but he preferred not to announce it. That put a target on your head. Sitting in the president’s seat felt like bad luck, but only Alan Marshfield’s console was wired to take calls from Elementa.
Had the spacecraft with Helena on board crashed? Had the king or his son rejected her? Had the Draconians attacked the settlement?
