Red Hot Dragons Steamy 10 Book Collection

by Lisa Daniels

  “Here.” Elma was brusque, slamming Helga's food down onto the table. Bubbly bread and orange sauce with little chunks of mystery meat. “And now. Janson. You know what to do.”

  Her father jerked to life as if pulled by strings, and with an awkward bobble of his head, strode out of the door. Helga watched her father go, confused. What reason did he have to leave at this time? Surely not to get more drinks. Not on her mother's orders.

  Elma, hands splayed upon the table, took up more space than usual. Making herself big like an animal under threat.

  “We need to discuss what's going to happen with you in the future, Helga.”

  Tentatively dipping the bread into the sauce, Helga's appetite dropped, crunching into itself at the thought of being lectured. “Can this not wait until after food? I'd like to be able to eat it.”

  “No. I'm afraid not.” Elma inhaled sharply, gathering calm and justice about her like a cloak. Her cheeks, however, pinked with invisible rage. “Time and time again, Helga, we've told you, going the way of the blacksmith isn't going to work in this day and age. What you forge, the factories produce in the thousands. You'll never be able to meet their demands. So, not only are you training yourself for something that will never work out, you're...” Her eyes slanted to Helga's muscles and the burn-speckled arms, “ruining your body. No man wants a woman who might be physically stronger than him and maimed. You'll lose an eyeball in that place. You'll grow old and single.”

  Rage crept into Helga like slag, spreading into the gaps inside, filling her with molten fury. “You weren't so concerned what I was learning when you let me stay at Old Tam's every day, were you?”

  A flare of nostrils. Elma's hand twitched, as if she longed to slap her daughter. Helga chewed furiously, though her stomach struggled to hold down the food.

  “I never anticipated that he'd rub off on you like that. Don't be so immature. Now listen.” Elma held her daughter's attention, her lip so thin that it threatened to disappear into her mouth. “We think we have found a suitable husband for you.”

  The statement ignited Helga and dumped cold water over her skin at the same time. She froze, speechless, steam hissing from her brain.

  “A good man,” her mother said, determined to get it out as fast as possible. “And his family have offered work and shares in their business. Which happens to be one of the few successful swordsmith shops. A direct branch of Gorchev—the one who owns over half the Eastern Factories. There's profit there.”

  At this, although Helga's mind still screeched indignation, words finally bubbled out of her mouth. “Wait. You want me to marry a blacksmith?” Her mind whirred. Did her mother think she was being kind? Allowing Helga to work there? Marrying a blacksmith—the same profession Helga wanted?

  It didn't make sense.

  Elma fought too much to stop Helga from usurping her. Leeching away Helga's money. Trying to choke her from buying additional resources. Helga always found a way. With a little cash saved, Helga planned to leave this place. Move to the other side of the city, as far away from her family as possible. Maybe pretend to be a man. She could wear a mask, lower her voice. Create beautiful things. Live the song and dance of the forge, and the welcome heat upon her skin.

  “I told them about your stubbornness, how you insist on working with metal, despite repeated warnings. And they agree with me. As a wife, you will no longer be allowed to waste yourself. You will be a good housewife, you will bear children, you will be proper.”

  “And if I refuse?” Oh, the rage burned so brightly. Helga was one sliver away from upending the table, but she kept it clamped down. Her stomach contracted, refusing to take any more food. Her arm muscles twitched. Steady. Don't lose it.

  “You won't. They have permission to use force when necessary to keep you in line. The man knows how to educate his women. Keep them in their place.”

  Nice way to say that they were selling her to a wife-beater. Her insides coiled like snakes, and a strange humming sensation rippled through her brain, along with the squeezing tension of a headache.

  “You—you can't do it. You've got nothing of value to give them. This house would barely fetch ten golden arks. How do you expect to bribe them? How—” Helga at first started with a mocking sneer, but fell silent, seeing her mother's face shiver, her little black eyes glancing to the door.

  “No.” Realization sank like a stone. “Tell me you didn't, Mother.”

  “Tell you what?”

  That skittish glance, that pathetic lie. She did!

  “NO!” roared Helga, flinging the warm sauce into her mother's face, pushing the chair back in an awful squeal of noise. “No!” She dashed out the house, her mother swearing incoherently behind, but she didn't care, didn't care at all. Heart pounding a furious, frightened rhythm in her chest, she sprinted through the street, bowling over a couple of drunken workers, not stopping until she reached her workshop.

  People were carrying her inventions, her castings, everything out of it. Piling it into a horse-drawn cart. One of the men held her incomplete officer's sword, talking to his companion and laughing about something.

  “Stop!” Helga saw her father and his instantly guilty expression when she approached, her voice a screech. “That's my stuff! You can't do this! It's mine. MINE!”

  Some of the men blinked at her as if she were mad. And probably she looked a sight, frantic, desperate. They were taking her world. Her—everything she fought for—stripping it away.

  “The steaming heavens you yelling about, wench? This is ours.”

  “That's my shop! Those are my items! My things! Stop touching them! Thieves! Thieves!”

  “Helga,” her father muttered, now flushing bright red, “don't embarrass yourself. It's... it's for the best.”

  “It's my items!” she howled, heart bursting with anger and grief. “You're robbing from me! Don't do this, Father! Why are you letting Mother do this? This is my life! This is everything I've worked for! You have no right to sell my inventions!” All her inventions, some half-made, others with the castings for future attempts, others still for some bright, wondrous ideas that peppered her mind.

  How dare they?

  The four men dismantling her world laughed. “Crazy bitch. No wonder all this stuff's so shit. Made by a woman. Stick to the house, love. Squeeze out the babies with your new baby daddy.”

  “Helga... Helga...” Her father grappled with her as she attempted to charge at the men like a raging bull. He was so weak, so pathetic—she wrenched herself out of his grasp with ferocious strength and launched herself upon the nearest target.

  “Ow!” His companions fought to prise her off, but with everything being taken, with everything she had ever worked for slipping out of her hands—she didn't stop.

  It took all four of them to hold her back.

  “Crazy bitch,” the man she attacked repeated. He made as if to bludgeon her with the incomplete weapon, but now her father intervened, walking from behind, his hands up, as she strained against the grip of the other men.

  “Don't injure my daughter. Please. She's just upset. No need to do anything.”

  Her father was so pathetic. Why was he so pathetic?

  A blow to her side. Something cracking. He'd swung anyway. Helga let out a scream of rage and pain, reduced to sobs in a few more blows.

  He said something, but the sound didn't penetrate the blood rushing in her ears or the pain spitting through her body.

  Didn't matter. Probably wouldn't have been anything kind.

  Released at last, she curled up into a ball, side burning in pain as they took everything from her.

  Her father laid a shaking hand on her as the men continued to laugh. One spat on her, growling slurs before leaving the scene, hopping up onto the cart.

  Helga couldn't move. Pain radiated. Despair crippled. Her father's touch left her for a moment. The cart of stolen goods rolled off, with the men that stole everything from her. Wearing worker's scrubs, unyielding faces. Tur
ning her own weapon against her.

  Janson came back, pressing something into her hand. “Here. Here.” His words sought a way through the blackness, the pit that Helga tumbled in. “I saved something.”

  He pushed the crossgun into her clutches. Her failure. A part of her wanted to laugh hysterically. The rest just groaned.

  “You worked so hard on it. I can see. Helga. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Whiskery sobs came from her father as well. So weak. Hating it.

  Forehead still pressed against the cold stone street, fingers now resting on the crossgun, Helga wept.

  Chapter Two – Quentin

  Find Helga. The thought laced itself through Quentin's mind. Find the blacksmith. Zaine had been adamant on that. Someone of her talent shouldn't be wasted. The topaz necklace she'd forged for Zaine's partner, Mia—a brilliant thing. Ingenious, even. Weaving the wood and metal like that. Cutting the gem into such precise dimensions. Boosting the power inside almost as effectively as a staff. Few people knew how to do something so intricately. So of course she needed to be found.

  All the best magic focuses used both wood and metal. Some preferred just wood, others used a higher proportion of metal. But the best combination—living wood with slivers of metal—this blacksmith knew it.

  Quentin held the necklace in his mind's eye. It glittered with potential. A woman's hands had made that.

  What else could those hands do? Quentin imagined them perhaps hard. Calloused. Using a chisel to cut a gem. Slender fingers working on perfection. Lips pursed, eyes with a professional focus, pouring love and passion into her work.

  Though he was supposed to be here only to follow Zaine's orders, to be his attack dog and courier when needed, to protect the prince from all harm and bring honor in turn, to Quentin's currently dishonored family, he couldn't help but be fascinated by the ingenuities of humans.

  Bring honor. Find Helga. Now... his sources said she lived somewhere in this district. Mia herself, Helga's friend, said that the woman owned some kind of workshop, though she'd never been shown the location.

  With honor, Quentin earned his freedom. With freedom, status. And with status—the right to bear children.

  Dragons didn't allow any old male to breed, after all. Only those most honored would be allowed with a brood mother.

  Or a human. It made sense. Quentin agreed with the system. He just didn't want to be on the outside of it any longer. He was tired of picking up from his family's mistakes. Tired of constantly having to reassert that he was nothing like his savage brother, Varus. Quentin saw him now. A hybrid who feasted upon other people's pain. Who openly talked about ruling over the beastly humans, who, along with the rest of Quentin's vicious siblings, had helped to ransack the Hinterlands and drive the white dragons to near extinction.

  Bring honor. The mantra followed him all the way down the street, where he walked into the nearby tavern to inquire about her.

  Some grunts and finger jabbing later, Quentin crossed over to knock at where the woman was supposed to live. He nervously examined the picture he held of her. A hardened face, dark eyes, red hair. Drawn by a sketch artist, based on Mia's descriptions.

  The door opened. A red-faced, plump woman answered, with red splashed down her front, like she'd just survived a massacre. Her hair looked hastily washed.

  “Yes?” she said, rather peevishly, before swallowing the emotion down. His neat, suited appearance showed him as inner city. Rich. At least, compared to the factory workers of the Ark Sector and Eastern Factories. Garnering reluctant respect.

  “I'm looking for a Helga Greene.” He squinted at the woman. She had dark hair, but something about the face... “Are you her mother?”

  The woman blinked, her cheeks purpling. “She's not in. What you want her for?”

  “My master wishes to hire her. We would like to discuss this in detail. He is in need of people with her type of talent. We have seen some of her crafted items and believe that she is of appropriate ability to make the things we wish.”

  Somehow he'd said the wrong thing. The woman's features contorted, making her resemble a melted black-current ice cream. “If you mean her smithing, then I'm afraid she's no longer working in that profession. She's about to be married. Giving up that nonsense to be a proper wife.”

  “Oh.” He blinked stupidly, deflating. This didn't fit the description Quentin had heard. Mia insisted that Helga loved tinkering with objects. Couldn't be seen without repairing or inventing something. She had the skill, but not enough people to believe in her.

  Then, without another word, the woman slammed the door in his face. Frozen at the door, his inner dragon growled. Something's not quite right.

  Well. He'd caught a whiff of three strong scents from the house. Including one with feminine notes, weaved in iron and sweat.

  A blacksmith's scent. Quentin's nose scaled over slightly as he enhanced his olfactory information, now tracking the scent path. A little trick he'd learned from other hybrids. The scene came fresh. Tinged with terror.

  Terror?

  Something definitely wasn't right. That woman—the mother, presumably—she didn't want to talk to him at all. Probably wouldn't have cared, even if he flouted a bag of glittering arks for her pleasure. Didn't settle right with Quentin. Another tracked scent wove with Helga's—likely the father's. It shared the same notes as the home Quentin knocked upon. Riddled with guilt.

  What caused guilt to smell like that? It churned in Quentin's stomach. Weighed him down. What a heavy burden. This was the kind of smell that drove people to drink, to crawl into darkness and never climb back out.

  It took about five minutes to track the scent to its source.

  The source being a curled-up figure in the darkening shadows of evening, gas lamps erupting to life around them. It wept inconsolably, along with a man who stank of shame and guilt, as he mumbled apologies to the person bunched under his touch.

  “What's going on?” Quentin's voice pierced the thick, stifling air, and the man turned bloodshot eyes towards him.

  “It's—it's nothing. We—we were just moving, weren't we, dear?”

  The weeping figure stuttered to a stop.

  “I—I think a couple of my ribs are broken.” A low, feminine rasp, which reminded Quentin of the way a voice grated when lined by smoke. “It's not nothing, Father.”

  When her father reached to touch her again, she shrugged off his hand.

  “Are you Helga?” Although the two broken ribs statement irritated him, because clearly, she'd been set upon—he smelled the thuggish presence of others—he needed to hear those words from her lips first.

  Turning a pained face towards him, the huddled figure on the ground had nothing but suspicion. How sad. It settled uncomfortably in Quentin's throat, filtering words that might arouse the suspicion further.

  “Yes. Who're you?”

  Dark eyes, defiant under a mess of red hair. And why not? She didn't see Quentin's goal shining in his mind. Reaching out to her, determined to take her away to his master, and most likely to dump her in a far better quality of life than this one.

  Magic words. That was what she needed. “I was sent to find you by Zaine and his partner, Mia. The iceblood. Someone that I'm sure you know about.”

  Suspicion crumbled into confusion. “What?” Beside Helga, her father watched helplessly, still riddled by guilt. Quentin noticed how she clutched an odd little contraption underneath her. A crossbow merged with the stock and barrel of a gun. What an amazing idea.

  “It's true. I was ordered to find you and offer you a position within the inner city. Your craftsmanship with the topaz necklace—exquisite. We have other magic users in our employ that could benefit from gem-studded ornaments. Mia insisted that you were an exceptional blacksmith and gem cutter. And we have need of your talent.”

  Hope burst into life in Helga's eyes, before it tapered off again. “This isn't—this isn't some kind of cruel joke, is it?”

  “Joke?” Quentin attempted his most sinc
ere, serious expression. “Never.” Now something to prove he knew Mia personally, though he didn't, really. Just what she'd told him about Helga. “Mia did mention something about your family not being engaged with your work.”

  At this, a hysterical, pained laugh ripped out of Helga, before she stopped with a wince and fell silent.

  Her father's expression became odd. Manic, even. “Is this true? You'll... you'll take Helga? Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  His splotchy face contorted. Warring with something. His mouth opened and closed several times, before words finally slipped out. “Please take my daughter. Please take her. She—my wife—she'll be miserable. My wife... I...”

  He tumbled into a mumbling, awkward silence, clearly terrified at what he'd just said. Quentin thought about what he'd seen of the woman back at the family home. Forceful. Intimidating.

  “Yes, I did meet your wife,” Quentin said dryly. “Seemed to have plans for her daughter.”

  Helga scowled in the gathering darkness, still kneeling upon the stones. “My mother's an evil hag.”

  “Helga!” Her father seemed unable to deny or scold her. “She's... she just wants the best for you.”

  “She never asked me what I thought was best for me,” Helga said with a snarl in her voice. “So, no. She only wanted what was best for herself.”

  Quentin tapped his foot impatiently. “Well, can you decide? Only I'll need to get you to a hospital first to be checked, if you've got broken ribs.”

  Father and daughter looked at one another. The woman with accusation in her eyes, the father with fear and guilt.

  “You let her do this, Father.” Biting cruelty. A tone perhaps picked up from the woman that ruled the household. The kind of voice that liked to dig in, inflicting damage to the soft tissue inside.

  Her father blinked stupidly in response. Quentin watched the spectacle, trying to figure out what sort of family dynamic existed here. Humans were so different. They lived in tiny groups and interacted with one another. Not like dragons. Well, except dragons who had adopted some of the human ways. Dragons who wanted to start families with humans...