by Aaron Crash
He could imagine a day in the future where he and his Escort would create fireworks through sorcery. They’d ride through the air on their wings with the humans on the ground watching.
Steven recalled Rahaab’s fears of the Zothoric and his desire to keep the human world separate from the dragon world. Steven, like his father, thought the Alpheros was wrong. If the Dragonsouls stopped fighting amongst themselves, they could handle any threat. Add several billion people, their cleverness, their bravery, their heart? The demons wouldn’t stand a chance.
After the fireworks, Tessa insisted on dancing. The party raged into the night, but Steven slipped away. He was still healing from the HeartStrike. It might be the ultimate weapon against a single foe, but the price was high. At least for now.
Aria slipped into his bed first. “I hate parties. And I hate dancing. But did you know cinnamon schnapps was a thing? I kind of love it.” She giggled and kissed him. “Do I taste like cinnamon?”
“You taste like Aria. You smell like cinnamon, though.”
“And I like your smell, my Prime. I always did. Even when you were a monkey working at the coffee shop. A cute monkey.” Aria nipped his nose and licked his lips. Oh, she was drunk. Mouse had told him about drunk Aria.
They were having sex when Sabina came in, eyes shining green. “I thought I’d find you two in here. I had visions of sex and cinnamon.” And suddenly Steven had two women to deal with. Sabina had let Steven’s mom stay in her little bungalow, only recent built, to the north of the house.
“Cinnamon schnapps is a thing!” Aria bellowed out. “I wonder what your dragon smell is going to be, Sabina. I bet it will be yummy.”
“Si, yummy, maybe chocolate or mint.”
Steven turned and found a large breast in his face. Aria stroked his shaft. Things were going well for him.
The music was still going, but Tessa stumbled in. “I know what you guys are doing! Is there room for one more?”
Steven only had a king-sized bed, but he’d find room.
Mouse stood in the doorway.
“Come and join us!” Aria shouted. “You’re so hot!”
“Yeah, no,” Mouse said. “I’m so not down with the whole group sex thing. I just wanted to say ... I love you guys. Thanks for letting me be part of your family.”
“But Mouse, you’re so sexy,” Aria slurred. “Sure you don’t want to stay and watch? That would be so hot. The straight girl getting off on us!”
“Oh, look! Drunk Aria is here.” Mouse sighed. “You’re going to regret the cinnamon schnapps in the morning.”
“Fuck the morning!” Aria burst out.
They all laughed.
“Love you too, Mouse,” Tessa said.
The petite blonde woman slipped away.
Steven would visit her in the morning or maybe a bit later. He was feeling better, stronger than he had since the Yellowstone battle. He was done using the cane.
Before they got busy, Tessa had to tell them about a conversation she had with Eduardo, the manager at the Coffee Clutch. He also happened to be an amateur gunsmith.
“My Peacekeepers are not from this world,” Tessa said with excitement in her voice. “You see, the Peacemakers were from the nineteenth century, single-action, gate-loaded, but I have Peacekeepers, which should be a modern handgun, a .357 magnum. But mine aren’t that either. Mine are modified to use .45 rounds, double-action, a totally different gun. That’s why Big Roy in Nebraska wanted to buy them from me. They shouldn’t exist. But they do!”
Again, Steven thought of the doors at the top of the St. Vrain Aerie.
“Revolvers from another world,” Steven said. “We really are a part of a wider universe we don’t know much about.”
“Not a universe, a multiverse,” Tessa corrected. “Multiple worlds. Multiple realities.”
Again, Steven wondered at Tessa’s lineage. Then he had a question of his own. “Hey, so, Sabina is talking about having a baby. How does that work?”
“I know this one,” Tessa said. “Insert tab A into slot B.”
“No, no, no,” Aria slurred. “There’s the magic, and there are the trials, and fuck you, Steven, for not thinking about this before. Such a man, not worrying about birth control.”
“And sexually transmitted diseases,” Tessa said. “He’s never once wore a condom. Shame on you, young man.”
It was dark in his room, and he couldn’t see their faces, but he knew they were teasing him. He wasn’t sure whose thigh he held. In the end, it didn’t matter. All the skin felt so good around him.
“The Animus destroys any problems with STDs,” Sabina said. “As for babies, it is a definite choice for Dragonsouls. But we don’t need to talk about that right now. Tonight, it is for love and for pleasure.”
After a ton of sex, the women slept around him, and Steven listened as the music was shut down, his guests left or found places to crash, and the moon rose to shine through his window.
He remembered his time at the heart of the universe and his father’s embrace.
“Thanks, Stefan,” he whispered. Then changed it. “Thanks, Dad. For everything. I won’t let you down.”
He fell asleep dreaming of a world where dragons and humans lived without fear, where every kid on the planet had enough to eat, and sickness was a thing of the past.
He’d bring revolution.
But first? He had to solidify his power and keep his Escort safe. Like his father said, before he could change things, he had to play the Dragonsoul games. He had his eyes set on every Primacy on the North American continent. That definitely meant more battle, but he had other ideas on how to bring dragons to his side.
The time for vengeance was over. The time for conquest had begun.
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WINNING AN EMPIRE WAS the easy part. Keeping it will be harder.
After killing Rahaab, the most powerful dragon on Earth, Steven Drokharis knew he’d have to fight to keep what he’d won, but the cabal that killed his father was just the tip of the iceberg. He’ll have to fend off a cult of shapeshifters, magical constructs, and two devious, busty, machine-gun-toting twins, all while keeping his Escort of human and dragon women satisfied. Meanwhile, the eyes of ancient demons are ever searching for signs of dragons, and the deadliest threat may be close to home.
Chapter One
STEVEN ADJUSTED HIS bow tie in the elevator mirror as it carried him up to the secret forty-third floor of the InterContinental Hotel in Chicago. He was on his way to the Aerie of one of the most powerful Dragonlord Primes on the North American continent.
He felt calm about it, strangely comfortable in his custom-tailored tuxedo. It was the first time he’d ever worn one, and he would have been far more comfortable in jeans and a hoodie, but there was no denying the tux was well made. He almost didn’t recognize himself. It was the day after Thanksgiving, nearly
six months since he’d killed Rahaab. He’d only been a Dragonsoul about nine months, and yet everything in his life had changed. Last year, he’d worked extra shifts to afford Christmas presents for his mom. Now? He’d bought her a house in an exclusive gated community in Cherry Creek... so exclusive it only had three houses: one for Tessa Ross’s family, one for Steven’s mom, and a mansion that housed Uchiko and the Onari Guard.
But however nice his clothes, or how much money he spent, he was still the same person on the inside.
Same old Steven, same old problems. Getting his mom to move had been a Herculean task. In the end, she’d agreed because she liked helping take care of Jared Ross, Tessa’s little brother. He had childhood MS and needed constant care. That worked out well for Florence Whipp as well as Uchiko. She and her ninjas had grown accustomed to guard duty. Not that the failed Dragonskins revealed themselves to the humans. But they were close by and ready to give their lives for the people they protected.
They’d had a huge Thanksgiving feast in the Ross’s house. Tessa and her sister, Abigail, cooked for days on end, though Steven suggested they could get a caterer. Mouse had rolled her eyes. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Cooking was the whole point, and Tessa had gone all out ordering the most expensive of everything since money was no longer an issue and wouldn’t ever be again. Steven possessed Aeries in a ton of countries across the world. Killing the last of the Alpheros had been stupidly profitable.
And it also put the name Steven Drokharis on the lips of every dragon, Prime and Ronin alike.
That thought rang through Steven Drokharis’s mind as the elevator doors opened behind him. He turned and walked into the heart of Morty Flint’s Chicago Aerie, at the very top of the InterContinental Hotel on the Magnificent Mile. Two extra levels, invisible to humans, had been added, and every inch of them was opulent: hardwood floors, leather furniture, long tables inlaid with gold, windows that showed the twinkling lights of other skyscrapers and the city below. Lake Michigan was a dark stain that stretched though the night and into the horizon.
Steven felt the Primes glancing at him as he crossed the room to the bar, ordered a water, and then moved to a window so he could appreciate the view. He wasn’t there to drink. And he wasn’t there to socialize.
The Dragonlords were politely chatting with each other, but the tension in the room was palpable. In the end, the life of a Dragonsoul was constant battle, protecting their Primacies from power-hungry conquerors and upstart Ronins.
Gather an Escort, acquire a Hoard, and build Aeries—those were the unending imperatives that drove Dragonsouls to get more women, become richer, and establish ever-expanding houses. When would it stop? Only when one Dragonsoul ruled all, and even then, such expansive states were too unwieldy. Empires crumbled when they grew too big.
Morty had been powerful enough to draw a crowd to the Conclave he’d called. His Aerie was packed with Dragonsoul Primes from every part of the North American continent. From the Yucatan Primacy, which included a good portion of Mexico and the Caribbean islands, all the way up to the Yukon Primacy. The two Dragonlords from those Primacies were talking amiably. Their territories weren’t close to each other, so they probably wouldn’t be at each other’s throats anytime soon.
Steven wasn’t too worried about the Mexican or the Canadian Primacies. He had his sights set on the United States. He’d consolidate his power there first. However, the Primacies didn’t follow the maps of humans but drew their own borders. For example, Morty Flint’s Great Lakes Primacy included the states around the four lakes as well as Ontario and parts of Quebec. The New England Primacy stretched from the southern counties of New York state and extended up into Nova Scotia.
But Steven didn’t think he had anything to fear from those eastern Primacies. At least not that night. That was why Morty had called a Conclave for the Dragonsouls: to welcome Steven Drokharis and to feel him out. Was this new Dragonsoul bent on world domination? What were his motivations?
Morty had promised that Steven wouldn’t be messed with. He’d given Steven his word, which didn’t mean much until the Great Lakes’ Prime said he’d murder any Prime who broke the peace.
Morty could threaten them all he wanted, but he’d only get to follow through on that threat if Steven didn’t get to them first.
When they’d gotten the invitation, Aria had been suspicious. She’d suggested that it might be a trap. No vassals were allowed into the Conclave, except for one glaring exception that troubled Steven. Clete Sariah lorded over the Deseret Primacy, which was basically Utah and Idaho, Steven’s immediate neighbor to the west. His head wife, Eve Downfyre, showed up in his place.
Eve looked to be around forty, though she might’ve been ten times that old. She was a sharp-faced brunette with inky hair and muscled arms. This was a black-tie affair, and she wore an elegant black dress offset by a million dollars’ worth of diamond jewelry.
Where was Clete Sariah? Was he planning something? Steven didn’t know, but he made a point to keep his eyes on Eve. She seemed to handle herself well, a doe among stags, but with a quiet power she exuded without being showy. Interesting.
At the center of it all was Morty Flint, slapping shoulders and making sure everyone had a full drink. He was a heavy-jowled man. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, but Steven knew he was far older. He had a big belly and a massive ring on his left pinky finger. He looked like a used-car salesman, but his dark eyes were too intense for that. He had the eyes of a killer, as did most of the men in the room. And it was all men, except for Eve Downfyre, but even she looked like someone who would shank you if given the chance.
Steven finished his water and glanced down at Lake Michigan. The dark water below made him think of what Rahaab had said... shadows of teeth and talon. The Zothoric. He frowned. He shouldn’t have come. This was a waste of time. Nothing would get done when everyone was so on edge. Their wives and vassals were having a party of their own, across town at the Waldorf-Astoria. That was where Aria, Tessa, Mouse, and Sabina were. Steven hadn’t wanted them all to congregate at the same place, so he’d told Liam Strider to wait at the top of the Sears Tower, ready to swoop in if needed.
Morty Flint caught Steven’s eye, nodded, then strutted forward and climbed halfway up the spiral stairs to the second level. No one took the hint, so Morty banged his ring on the railing of the staircase to silence the murmuring. Everyone had drinks in their hands except for Steven. He stood with his arms crossed, no expression on his face. He wouldn’t give these bastards anything.
The room quieted. Morty cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming. As you know, we don’t do this a lot, since it doesn’t make murdering each other any easier.”
Chuckles spread across the group. A few of the men gave each other dark looks.
“You’ve all been on your best behavior,” Morty continued. “There hasn’t been a single spell cast, no one has opened a throat, and we haven’t had to concoct some fucking scenario to keep ourselves secret from the humans because two of you decided to kill each other at this Conclave.”
“I’ve thought about taking down Javier over there,” Carlo Bart Baxter boomed out. A massive man, he was nearly seven feet tall, muscled to at least three hundred pounds, with a 1950s’ football coach’s crew cut and blue eyes that could cut glass. He was the Dragonlord Prime of the Texarkana Primacy, which stretched up from the Mexican desert across the border, to encompass Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. Carlo Bart was Steven’s neighbor to the south. The big Texan was known to be power-hungry; he’d slain two other Primes to extend his territory up to the Appalachian Primacy.
Roy Right, of the Sin Cities Primacy, let out a bellowing laugh. He was a slimy fucker in a silver suit, wearing douchebag sunglasses at night. “Yeah, Carlo, you go after Javier. And I’ll be there to wipe out the survivors, add another sinful city to my collection.” Roy ruled Las Vegas, Reno, and the wastelands between the two towns.
“You do that, and I’ll make boots out of your
hide,” Carlo Bart shot back.
Javier Jones, a tall Hispanic man in an understated gray suit, stayed quiet. His dark eyes took in the two blowhards. Steven knew a little about Javier Jones. The solid Latin man had been given the Sonoran Desert Primacy by Rahaab after Rhaegen Mulk had made a play for it. Sabina had been caught in the drama. She’d said Javier had been brutal in his conquest, but he was more reasonable than most, and that just made him more dangerous. He didn’t need to shoot off his mouth; power emanated off him. Javier had three Primacies under his control—Baja, Jalisco, and the Sonoran Desert. He hadn’t officially given them a new name, and no one really understood why. Most took it as a bad sign. No use renaming your territory if you planned to get more.
The bad air in the room turned worse. It seemed like a brawl could break out at any minute. What had started off as a joke turned deadly serious.
If a brawl broke out, Steven would hold his ground. After facing down ancient dragons from distant worlds, he wasn’t afraid of these jokers.
Morty raised his hands and patted the air. “Easy, gentlemen. We aren’t here to fight each other. No, we’re here to hear from Steven Drokharis—to welcome him.”
“And to warn him,” Louis Laloux hissed. He was the Dragonlord Prime of the French Swamplands Primacy down south. He owned a small section of coast. His rise to power had been a bloodbath, and though his Primacy was small, he’d held it for two hundred years.
Morty eyed the short man with the pencil-thin moustache. “Well, maybe this new Dragonlord should warn us about his intentions. No one else has done what he’s done. Steven, would you mind saying a few words?”
Steven was prepared. It was the only reason he’d risk his life to come to the Conclave. He wanted all those Dragonlord Primes to see him and to understand that he was going to be setting the agenda. He wasn’t nervous, not a bit scared. He’d discussed his speech with his Escort and his vassals, and they all agreed he would come in strong and assertive. He could relax once he gained their respect, but above all, they had to know he wasn’t someone they could fuck with.