by M. D. Grimm
She looked back at Trystan and suddenly touched his hand. “Are you all right? Trystan?”
Was he? He didn’t know. Trystan stared into the darkness, realizing he was trembling. Imprisoned in the foundation? Under their feet? Oh, dear Light. Was that why there was a carving? To mark the place where the beast was defeated, but not killed?
And he’d been talking to it.
“Trystan?” Annalise shook his shoulder.
“I—I’m not feeling….” He gripped his stomach and shook his head. “Thank you, Anna, but I have to go.”
“Are you ill?” Alarm sounded in her voice when she forgot to lower it.
“I—I’m fine. Just need sleep.” He pushed to his feet, but she grabbed his arm. He took a deep breath and patted her hand. “Seriously. I—I didn’t sleep well last night. I just need to rest.”
He could tell she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t argue. She nodded and kissed his cold cheek.
“Rest yourself then, brother. Sweet sleep.”
He managed to give her a smile. “Sweet sleep, Anna.”
He made his way hastily to the window and yanked it open. Diving out, his wings easily caught the wind, carrying him away. But his sister’s words never left his mind. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t… but it was. Hadn’t he suspected as much? The moment he’d learned that carving was of Asagoroth, hadn’t he known in his gut that the beast wasn’t dead?
Trystan acutely remembered the way the carving soaked up his blood, the way the stone trembled when he spoke the dragon’s name. He remembered the heat on his skin, the strange sense someone was listening. Hands shaking, Trystan flew over the Center Garden, easily finding the hole. He didn’t stop, but his eyes stared at the location of the prison. The garden was part of the inner circle of structures that made up Emphoria. The prison was in the freaking heart of the city.
He sped toward his bedchamber and alighted on the windowsill. Creeping to his bed, he shimmered his wings intangible and hid under the covers like a child. He curled into a fetal position. It disturbed him that most of his fear came from the fact he was shockingly excited at the idea Asagoroth wasn’t dead. Why would he feel such things? How could he? It would be disastrous if the dragon was still alive and caged under their city, their realm. What would happen if he broke out?
But he hadn’t yet, had he?
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
The carving had absorbed his blood.
Trystan stared at his hand in the darkness, the wrapping still around it.
The stone had trembled when he spoke the dragon’s name.
Trystan closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to sleep. He was tired. He needed it. Last night he hadn’t slept, and the sun would rise all too soon. Maybe that was why he was thinking strange thoughts. He was exhausted.
But as he tried to calm himself, he lit upon a memory, one from his first year in the spire. There had been an attack by a small band of demons, and Trystan had pressed his face against the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of one, fascinated by the mere idea of the darker cousins of angels. But what he saw was something he had long forgot, yet something he still puzzled at. A demon had flown high, glossy black skin and leathery wings the only details he could see. Demons had hard and rough skin, armor in itself, and this one seemed to be garbed in only a loincloth. An angel soldier garbed head to toe in gleaming armor came to meet it, but as they confronted each other, there was a strange hesitation on both sides. The angel had his sword unsheathed, and the demon held a ball of fire in his hand, but neither struck. Trystan remembered watching, confused. He’d been told all his life angels killed demons, that angels and demons hated each other, and there could be no accord between the two. But all that shattered when the two combatants flew away from one another after lowering their weapons. The demon flew away first, and Trystan saw the relief on the angel soldier’s face. Relief he hadn’t killed the demon. It was the first time Trystan ever considered the chosen might not like being chosen.
Gripping his pillow, Trystan slowly, methodically shut off his mind. He wasn’t aware when sleep finally captured him.
The caresses were intimate. Bold. Wonderful. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see anything, but he could feel. Trystan stifled a moan as someone slid smooth, warm hands down his chest, slipping over his ribs, his torso. The touches became bolder and lowered to his legs, his groin. His breath hitched as his phantom lover grabbed his cock, which was already semihard. He twisted his head from side to side, still unable to move his limbs. Heat enveloped him, turning his skin from icy to blazing, and his body was coated in sweat.
He’d never had a dream such as this before. He’d certainly never engaged in any such activity as this before either. Sex wasn’t condoned or dismissed in his realm. While it should be pleasant for both parties, the emphasis was on procreation. Sex was simply part of life. It had its place, but it wasn’t obsessed over, it wasn’t dwelled upon. It was used when needed, forgotten when done.
Fools. They were all fools if they could forget and not obsess over such pleasure.
While angels’ skins were cool, they were also highly sensitive, which meant soldiers went into battle heavily armored, and their robes were made from the finest and softest materials. Bruises came easily to angel skin. It would seem in the dream—for surely this was a dream—his lover knew that, and the caresses were light and the pressure was gentle. The slightest touch made Trystan tremble with need.
His lover suddenly lapped at one of his nipples with a warm tongue before sucking on it with soft lips. Trystan struggled to move, but a firm pressure kept his arms pressed to either side of his head. He didn’t feel trapped or in danger, simply dominated. In fact, it almost felt like a game, a teasing, playful game his mysterious lover had initiated. He was torturing Trystan by giving him exactly what he wanted.
His lover encircled his cock with a firm hand and slid up and down languidly, never rushing or demanding. Giving, teasing. He slipped the other hand between Trystan’s legs, caressed his secret hole. Trystan bowed off the bed, those lips never ceasing their torment of his nipples.
“Who—” he managed to groan.
But he knew. In that instant he knew.
Sensation suddenly vanished, and in its place was a sight that made Trystan’s blood drain out of his feet. For just an instant, just a flash, there was an enormous eye of pale, bright blue that shone like a flaming star, searing him to the core. The pupil was diamond shaped, wide enough that Trystan saw his own reflection in its black depths.
He felt terror. He felt excitement. But there was also—Light help him—recognition.
And desire.
Trystan screamed and bolted up in bed, shaking like a leaf in a high wind. He was alone in the bedchamber and the sun was shining through the window, right across his bed. Soaked in sweat and with a hard erection, his skin still tingled with phantom sensations. Trystan curled his arms around his legs, drawing his knees to his chest. Tears rained down his face as he fought for some control over his emotions.
What was happening to him? Was he going mad?
A violent shudder wracked his body, and it was several long moments before he was able to drag himself out of his bed and to the bathroom. He took a freezing shower and felt slightly better after dressing for the day. He would be late to his morning class. He didn’t care.
Glancing in a mirror, he realized he did, indeed, look ill. Well, at least his tardiness would be excused. Grabbing his bag, his hands still trembling, Trystan left the bedchamber and slogged his way to class.
Chapter Five
Trystan absently scratched his wounded hand, which was nearly fully healed. But the itch was persistent, and he scowled faintly, rubbing it through the wrap. Literature class was nearly done, and Trystan hadn’t paid attention to a damn word. He sat in the back, head down, attempting to hide. But he couldn’t stop his gaze from finding its way to the window, looking out. He could just make out a small corner of the Cente
r Garden, and he could only too well see in his mind’s eye what lay beneath it.
Also—that sex dream wouldn’t leave him in peace.
That big, scary blue eye was achingly familiar. He could have sworn he’d seen it before. But that was impossible. In the painting in the book he saw in the library, the artist hadn’t colored the dragon’s eyes. The carving also didn’t give any indication as to the color of the eye. So why? Why did those sensations and kisses seem so familiar?
Trystan hunched his shoulders and rubbed harder at the itch on his palm. Then he froze. He sat up, staring hard at the bit of garden he could actually see.
The stone had absorbed his blood.
Trystan looked down at his hand at the same time a deep rumbling sounded in every direction. Their teacher called for silence as the spire began to rattle, the rumbling growing louder, a drumbeat against his bones. Trystan stumbled toward the window as the teacher tried to rally the students, who began to panic. The shaking grew worse, cracks forming along the walls as the sound of an explosion rattled the air, shattering the windows inward.
Trystan flung himself away, hunching his shoulders, and threw his hands up to protect his face. Glass flew everywhere, shards hitting delicate flesh. Screams mixed with the noise, the shaking, adding to the chaos. Trystan gasped for breath, fear whirling in his mind. His wound suddenly flared hot, and then it was gone: the itch, the pain. He spun around toward the window in time to see a massive—an enormously massive—black shadow burst out of the Center Garden, shattering it, crumbling the pillar the garden once sat upon. Stone was flung everywhere, some pieces smashing into the surrounding spires. Their own classroom shook violently as the spire began to sag to one side.
Trystan lurched toward the other students as the room abruptly tipped.
“Come with me!” the knowledge keeper screamed. She shoved students out the door, her wings shimmering into visibility, her eyes bright with fear. “Go!”
Trystan followed the crowd, the corridors packed with screaming, crying, terrified angels the same age as him and younger. All the knowledge keepers were doing their best to control their own fear, to corral the students to safety. But where was safe?
You couldn’t hide from a force of nature.
Asagoroth.
Mind still whirling, Trystan lost focus for a few moments before snapping back as he heard a loud humming, felt the crackling of energy above him. He’d only heard and felt that once in his life, when he was a young boy. It was the sound of the dome barrier snapping shut, a barrier their armies launched when a deadly threat—usually a massive wave of demons—swarmed against Emphoria. He knew they’d also be sending distress calls to the other cities, alerting them to danger.
Trystan tore away from the stampeding crowd and found a window, the glass shattered, and leaned out, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening. What he saw stopped his breath.
A searing fireball of blue darted toward the high chancellor’s residence, a golden spire that rose above all the others. Trystan could actually feel the heat from the fire despite the considerable distance. The fireball managed to make it through before the pale-green dome snapped shut, encircling the city, deflecting all other attacks. The fire blasted against the spire, creating cracks and dents, melting the gold eagerly, hungrily. Trystan watched with a gaping mouth as that massive shadow sped over the gold spire, outside the dome, circling like a predatory bird. Darkness seemed to follow the beast, blackening the sky, creating dread and terror as if sending an emotional plague down on those below.
Trystan trembled with knowledge, confused at his sudden exhilaration and joy. He felt fear but that rational reaction was nearly drowned out by irrational ones.
Then the black shadow hovered a good distance away before perching on the only spire outside the dome—an outlying guard tower. But even then he was enormous, a noticeable feature in the star-strewn sky. Trystan leaned farther out the window, seeing more details now that the figure had stopped flitting around. It was, indeed, a dragon. A big, black, horned dragon… and he was pissed.
He certainly didn’t send that fireball as a warm greeting.
The dragon folded his wings and then a voice—smooth, massive, power in every note—boomed over the surrounding area. The spires shook slightly against the force.
And—the Light Bringer help him—Trystan knew that voice.
“I know you can hear me, angels,” Asagoroth said in Low Enochian with carefully enunciated words. A hush fell over everyone. The entire city seemed to hold its breath. “If you have any intelligence in your tiny brains, you know who I am. You would be wise to heed my demands, or I will unleash such wrath upon you that I will disintegrate your ethereal spirits.”
Trystan pressed a fist to his chest, his eyes locked on Asagoroth’s form. The dragon’s voice shook with power and rage. Deep, boiling rage was in every word, every sound, every inflection. But it was contained and controlled. Trystan couldn’t help but admire that control.
Suddenly another voice boomed out of the city, directed toward the dragon. It gave Trystan a start to realize it was his own father, Commander Gabreld. He was obviously using an amplifier to give his voice such volume.
“What are your demands, monster?”
There was a strange rumbling that came from Asagoroth’s direction, and it took Trystan a moment to realize the dragon was laughing. The sound sent an eerie shiver down Trystan’s back.
“It is quite simple, angel commander. I want the one who awakened me. I want the one whose blood now flows through my veins.”
Sweat slid down his face as Trystan’s knees turned to liquid, and he sank to the floor. But his eyes never left the dragon.
“You have twelve hours,” Asagoroth continued, “to give him to me. If you do not, I will lay siege upon your realm as I did a millennium ago. Remember your history, angels, remember how close I came to destroying your kind once before. I will burn it all to ash, everything you’ve built, everything you are, and my demons will piss on the remains.” There was a slight pause, and Asagoroth fluttered his wings, blocking out the light of some of the stars. Shadows danced from his wings.
“But I give you warning, angels. If the one who awakened me is harmed or if he is killed, I shall lay darkness upon the entire cosmos, so dense and deep the memory of light will be forgotten.”
Trystan believed him. He was sure everyone else did as well. He gasped for breath, shaky, feeling ill and excited and worried and confused and… there was no way he could latch onto one emotion and have it rule out all the others. He gripped his head.
Could this really be happening?
Come to me, my love.
The voice caressed him like his dream lover had. Trystan sucked in a breath even as he shivered. He spun his head around, looking for the source of the voice. But everyone was staring at each other, wide-eyed and terrified. No one even noticed him.
I know you can hear me. I know you can feel me.
Asagoroth. Was speaking. Inside. His head.
Trystan slapped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Nonononono,” he said, wheezing.
Save your people. Come to me.
This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. He did not just wake up the most feared enemy of the angels, and he was not hearing that beast’s voice inside his head. No. It wasn’t happening.
But dear Light, it was.
And why was a joy so fierce he could almost dance with it riding right alongside his terror?
Because you know me, my love. I know you. Our essences have bonded.
Trystan’s eyes popped open, widening, rounding. What? Did Asagoroth just hear his freaking thoughts?
Give yourself to me willingly, my dear, sweet angel. If you do not—
Trystan flinched at the growing intensity of the voice, the way it seemed to thunder in his head, a pressure he couldn’t ignore. It was just on the edge of painful.
The dragon must have sensed Trystan’s flinch, be
cause his tone smoothed out, became once again a caress, almost a purr. No, my love, I will not harm you. I shall never harm you. But should you deny me, deny us, I will destroy your home. I will take you by force.
Trystan gulped.
You are mine. Always and forever.
There was a loud sound from outside, and Trystan dared a look out the window. Asagoroth launched into the air, hovered for a moment, then flew away, fading into the distance, taking his shadows with him. Trystan’s sense of his surroundings snapped back, and he realized their private conversation had taken place within seconds. All the teachers were shouting for their students to go to the meeting hall. He was finally noticed, and a teacher dragged him to his feet, shoving him forward.
Trystan stumbled, his legs still liquid, his insides still trembling, but he managed to move, to follow the crowd. He thought he was about to faint. Why did Asagoroth want him? What did the dragon mean when he said their essences had bonded? There were too many questions and no real answers. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps when everyone was gathered in the meeting hall, there would be some questions answered.
The pressure inside his head lessened but didn’t disappear completely.
The meeting hall was packed with the citizens of Emphoria—from the newly born to the elderly, everyone was there. However, since not everyone could fit, the rest were crowded at the five entrances. Amplifiers were already set up outside the hall, and everyone would hear what was said. Angry murmurings, shouts, demands for answers, and an entire litany of sound echoed off the crystal walls. Trystan found a nice corner in the back and huddled into it, rubbing his temples. His wings were now visible—he was too agitated to shimmer them—and he tried to ignore how they shook.
He liked Asagoroth’s voice. Trystan liked the power he wielded and the dark beauty of his form. And dammit, he liked the way Asagoroth wanted him. Only him. However, his gut twisted with the thought of Asagoroth laying waste to the city, to the realm. Did the survival of everyone truly hinge on his answer?