by Lisa Daniels
Not soft enough to stop them being killed. Not soft enough to stop widening the gap between humans and dragons until the chains of war were at breaking point.
“I just wanted someone to tell me I was doing good. Old Tam made me believe I could succeed. Not my parents. They never even wanted to hear it.”
Old Tam. Something about that name prickled interest. Helga seemed to be gathering herself together, as if ashamed of her emotional outburst, trying to swallow the last remnants of weakness. “It was this Old Tam that was a dragon, right? He helped you to master your arts?”
The red-haired human nodded. By the smog-choked heavens, she looked beautiful. His heart turned craven at the thought of crossing the distance and kissing her. How could he summon such boldness in himself?
I'm not allowed family, anything, until I've cleared my honor debt. Still didn't stop his blood heating up, his emotions running wild.
“Yeah.” Such a small voice to slip out of her. “I wish he didn't die.”
“Tell me more about him.” Calming words. Quentin's brief foray into the quacks and physicians of the human world now seemed to prove beneficial. He'd wanted to try and learn about the different human things. Including the way hands could be used to heal and soothe, rather than maim and kill.
“Honestly, there's not much to tell. He was a kind old man, but considered weak by other dragons. Blood not strong enough to turn into one. He was quite gruff with me, telling me I had to learn from my mistakes if I burned myself or did something wrong. But fair. People used to come from all over the city for the way he cut his gems into necklaces, and forged purified weapons. He told me he was dying when I first met him, but he didn't die for almost a decade.”
“Dragons can be stubborn when it comes to dying,” Quentin said, smiling. “Maybe he thought he needed to teach you all he knew.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes went from glazed, consumed by memory, to a sharp, intense focus upon Quentin. Something crackled in the air between them. Tantalizing, magnetic. His hands stilled upon her. “You know, I can't figure you out. You seem like you're a loyal servant of Zaine, but there's something about you that doesn't add up.”
Now it was Quentin's turn to wear a twisted smile, even as his brain tried to wrap itself around his thoughts and heart, retaining some form of control. “I couldn't control the family I was brought up in any more than you yours, Helga. My servitude is a way to repair that debt... but my family insist on making things so much worse. And since I'm on the outside, there's nothing I can do about it except rightfully endure Zaine's wrath if so required.”
“That's not fair.” Helga's mouth dropped open indignantly. “You've got nothing to do with them anymore.”
“But their blood is still in my veins. And to dragons, that means you'll always be tainted by the sins of your fathers.” The dark, hating feeling welled up in Quentin then, taking over everything else, leaving him speechless and defiant. Of fantasizing turning up at his family's clan gatherings in the Hinterlands, where they'd burned an entire race of dragons, and doing the same to them. If no one was left to commit the sins, he'd be free once and for all.
Helga let out a soft hiss, and before Quentin registered what was happening, her lips pressed into his, clumsy but suffused with desire. His hands tightened on her arms for a moment, before he, too, sank into the kiss. Absorbing her iron-tainted scent, the soot and sweat of the forge, of the hours of effort she put into everything.
“Am I wrong about this?” she whispered against his lips. “Did I read you wrong?”
Quentin's mind exploded with desire. His hands crushed her closer, lifting her off the armchair. She tottered into him, giving up with words now, since the response gave her the answer she needed. This strong, fiery woman in his arms. Choosing him to kiss.
Miracles did happen. He never thought himself as desirable to anyone. Never thought himself worthy of anyone. Still didn't. But that only served to drown him further in the kiss instead.
They stumbled, and Helga let out a snorting laugh into Quentin's lips, infecting him as well. “Rusts, we're no good at this, are we?”
“There's a first time for everything,” Quentin said, now taking the opportunity to taste along her cheek, her neck. Different textures. The salt and desire in her skin coated his tongue, making his body shudder in delight. “I, ah, I'm not so...” He breathed into her neck, before managing, in a burst of shame, “I've never been with anyone before.” Not allowed the honor to be brood-chosen. Shunted from being allowed to bear children.
Oh, if Zaine found out about this, Quentin would likely be worn as a skin over the prince's dragon body. But right now, he didn't care, didn't care at all. Hunger brought his hands brushing along Helga's bare skin, over the scarred patterns on her arms. She breathed with him in rhythm, breath hot and shuddering, now gripping with a need of her own.
Her hands ruffled his dark hair, and her legs parted slightly, enough for an absurd jolt of excitement to ripple through Quentin.
Knock knock.
Both of them froze, halfway between a feverish kiss.
Knock knock. “Anyone in there? Hello!”
Helga let out a distressed groan in her throat. “Servalan.”
“Hmm?”
“I promised her she could have a new weapon. And since we haven't been invaded yet, I figured I could give it to her...” Helga sadly nipped at his ear, before drawing away, trying to shake control back into herself. Quentin, meanwhile, now needed to sit down and hide the bulge straining against his pants.
“Right. You, uh... I need a moment.”
The redhead gave him an embarrassed but pleased smile at the same time, before sauntering to the door and unlocking it to admit the stoneblood. Servalan's coal black eyes examined the room after she gave Helga a hug, before they settled on Quentin. “Oh. Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Helga said, while Quentin said, “Yes.”
Servalan quirked an eyebrow. “I can always come back later. It's not a problem. Listen, I got some more gems from the mines. No more prismatics, but some quality diamonds here.”
“Come with me to the shop,” Helga said, “I'll show you the new staff I've made. I gave Mia the one with the biggest cut, sorry, but I'm sure you'll find this one to your liking...”
“Oh, no worries, you don't even have to do anything at all...”
Quentin couldn't help but notice the rather devilish smirk playing about Servalan's lips. She and Helga contrasted like night and day. Helga had that stocky, solid feel to her, someone with muscles built up from working as a blacksmith, often with sweat-caked red hair, and a quiet confidence that couldn't be stripped away. Servalan's eyes were dark depths, her lips almost cruel in the way they smiled, with deep-set dimples that emerged when her teeth displayed. One of Zaine's oldest employees. He'd rescued her from a brutal life.
And Quentin didn't think that brutality had ever left.
He gathered himself together and followed them to Helga's workplace. After all, he'd helped with the wiring and varnishing of both staffs and wanted to see her expression when she received it.
Across the garden, into the shop, Helga turned on the gas lights, revealing Servalan's new staff, sparkling upon the table in an alluring way.
With a gasp, Servalan bounded over, grasping the staff and examining it. “You've been gifted by the gods with this talent, Helga. It puts my staff to shame! And I thought I had a good deal with that...” Servalan's wicked smile increased, and her eyes crinkled, almost evil in the shadows the light cast over her face. Quentin still couldn't shake off that hateful glare of the little Servalan he'd once been tasked to rescue. Frightening tendencies, she had. More bloodthirst in her soul than even Mia, who merely killed for money.
Hopefully she'd stamped it all out at this age. But Quentin wasn't entirely sure. He mostly wished for her to go so he could continue his little pairing with Helga, to have her lips upon his again, to not give a damn about anything else in the world...
&nb
sp; “Say,” Servalan said, happily resting the staff on her shoulders, “is the egg supposed to look like that?” She nodded towards the white dragon egg, which, Quentin realized with a jolt, appeared shriveled, as if deflated of air.
“Oh no,” Helga said, now striding towards it. “The poor thing must have died. It—” she let out a yelp of surprise, before fumbling for dragonhide gloves. Watching in wide-eyed amazement, Quentin saw Helga gently grasp the sunken egg out of the fire, turn around, and saw a tiny white head, front arms and part of the wings sticking out of the crumpled material. “It was hatching!”
“But too weak to make it all the way through,” Quentin said, uneasy at the sight of the little thing. “They can die if they're unable to break through by themselves.”
Helga completely ignored him, now lifting the hatchling to eye level, whispering something to it. In a louder voice, she said, “No, creature wants to live. It's got fire.” Servalan came closer, and Quentin approached as well, until they crowded around the tiny hatchling, and saw that its eyes were open and blinking. And fixed upon Helga. After a moment's blinking, it continued to scrabble weakly out of the remaining shards of the egg. Helga helped it, until the sticky, taped wings of the dragon came into view, with a tail no bigger than a sewing needle.
“What a beautiful thing you are,” Helga said, completely mesmerized by the hatchling. She placed one finger to its snout, and it attempted to suckle. The redhead blushed crimson. “Oh no. What do we feed it?”
“Milk, I s’pose.” Servalan raked a hand through her black hair, frowning. “Maybe find a midwife or something.”
Quentin didn't share their delight at the hatchling. He saw another future unfolding. One where he knew Gorchev and the people who hired him would never stop until they secured or killed this creature.
After all, his family didn't wipe out the white dragons on a whim or harvest their body parts just for money. You should have died, he thought, before inhaling shame. “I believe it has imprinted onto you, Helga. So, for all intents and purposes, you are its caregiver.”
Dragons gave the hatchlings gorsemilk. Harvested carefully from the steppes and mountainous regions, gorsemilk sustained one. Female dragons didn't produce milk anymore, but the hatchling had never lost that suckling instinct.
“Well,” Helga said, voice cracking slightly, “I'm too young to be a mother.”
Servalan let out a snort and touched the dragon as well, her finger firm compared to Helga's tremble.
“I'm going to need to make a trip. Several trips.” Quentin gave a sigh. “For this, your parents—because it needs gorsemilk. Mia and Zaine are out of city, facilitating something with the trads, trying to get them to meet up and attempt a trade deal.”
Helga gave Quentin a sharp, appraising look. “Better get going then, right? Since I don't think I have anything other than coals to stuff down its throat.”
Exhaling deeply, Quentin nodded. “Yes... but you'll need protection. You shouldn't be in this house alone.”
“Ahem.” Servalan gave Quentin a rather flinty stare. “Lucky I'm here then, isn't it?”
Biting down the urge to voice his distrust, Quentin nodded and managed a watery smile. “I'm sure they'll be in safe hands.”
“Not like I can't defend myself...”
“No offense, honey, but if any magicians show up at your door, I don't think you'll win a fight by throwing a hot poker in their face,” Servalan said, practically brimming with confidence, slight arrogance. Quentin left them to it, mind whirring with priorities. Couldn't use dragon form. Couldn't get Zaine to help. Petyr didn't want to associate with him—Zaine's fellow ambassador. The other princes wanted him dead for his family's sins.
Just fantastic, really.
He hurried down the street after one last look to the glowing light of Helga's open workshop door, before dashing off.
He had a horrible feeling that no matter how fast he worked, he might not be fast enough.
Chapter Eight – Helga
Four days since the hatchling had emerged out of its egg. Four days, and Mia and Zaine still hadn't returned from their business trip. Something about an important meeting. Quentin barely stayed on the property, busy with arrangements, so Servalan had moved in for protection. The stoneblood didn't look like someone who enjoyed idling, but Helga knew she had little choice. People were after Helga. After the little dragon.
“Come on, now,” Helga said, squeezing the gorse bud until a sticky white sap seeped out. The white dragon, tiny and fluffy in her hand, snapped at it with terrible aim, until it used its front claws to grip the bud. Still no bigger than her palm, it absolutely refused to leave her side. When Helga had tried sleeping alone, its tiny, distressed wailing eventually caused her to have to sleep with it on her stomach, and to have her not move for fear of crushing it.
At least Quentin had located and moved out Helga's parents now. She didn't feel prepared to face them, even though they now lived only three streets away, in a house put up for them with Quentin's coin. Quentin never explained to her how exactly he'd persuaded them to move. Helga didn't ask, either. Partly for cowardly reasons. She didn't want to see their reactions to how she'd shot someone in front of them and shown once and for all that she was no longer the little girl they thought her to be.
That she'd become a woman, and not in the way they expected. Not through the happiness of a wedding, but through blooding—aiming with the intent to kill.
“Tell me again how it felt when you killed that man,” Servalan said, now chewing on toffee sweets. A cat string dangled in her other hand for the baby dragon.
“You know, I'm starting to think Quentin was right that there's something off about you,” Helga said, not taking her eyes off the baby, watching its little throat bob up and down.
“He worries too much.” Servalan flicked the string like a whip. “I've killed people before. Everyone has a different reaction to it. Me—it was vengeance.” Helga turned to see Servalan close her eyes and shiver. “I'd been dreaming for years of killing the people who made me a slave. It was my meat and drink when nothing else worked. It kept me alive when nothing else worked.”
Hard to comprehend something like that. Helga had no such struggles growing up.
“Mia's not a killer,” Servalan said then, black eyes snapping open, burning like coals. “She kills, but it doesn't sing to her the same way. She does it out of necessity. Me—sometimes I like it so much that it frightens me. Sickens me.”
“Sickens you?” Despite herself, Helga wanted to hear more from this woman. She barely wrapped her head around the fact that she might have killed someone, even though she'd been so delighted when first hitting him. The aftermath left nothing but ashes in her mouth. Nothing but a dull realization that there was a Helga unblooded, and a Helga who now understood death on another level.
“You know when you do something, and it feels so amazing, but afterwards, when you look back, you realize you're a monster, and it's like a stone in your gut? Or maybe you don't.”
“Yes,” Helga whispered. The hatchling stopped sucking, now refusing the bud.
The stoneblood nodded. “It's like that. If anyone deserves it, I'll do it, payment or not. I'd wear them like trophies, like the fighters of old. I'd be proud of showing off who I am to others. I just won't be proud when the door's shut, and they can't see what's left behind.”
A deathly, awkward silence fell between them, before Helga said, “Surprisingly, I think I understand.” She closed her eyes, thinking about the man. “I hate... knowing what I did. But I know if I had to go through it again, I'd do the same thing.”
Including kissing Quentin. Her heart gave a funny lurch at that. If only that stupid dragon would finish up on his errands, and return, long enough for them to finish what they'd started.
“I guess... what I'm trying to say, and not really saying it well, is don't feel bad about what you did for your parents. I think you did the right thing.” Servalan pursed her lips, still seemi
ng a little awkward. “Probably could have started that conversation better.”
“Probably.” Helga smiled, her unease vanishing to affirmation. “Here. See if it wants to play again with you.” She itched to go back to the workshop, start working on a new product, but they'd run out of materials. She'd cut the new gems, but didn't have the wood to use it with. She tried a metal-only necklace, but Servalan informed her that it was a poor conduit.
The dragon swished its needle-like tail when Servalan dangled the string, and they laughed when it tried to grasp and chew at the offending object.
Four days old, and already so tough. They played with it until it began to sway in exhaustion, so Helga tucked it down her bodice, snug between her breasts. She'd put it in her workshop apron later. “My next invention. Woman's clothes with pockets.”
Servalan snorted, putting away the string, grasping her staff, which never lay far from her side. “I'd be your first customer. Change the world with that, you will.” Then she hesitated, eyes bright with sudden alertness.
“You okay, Serv—?” Helga's question got interrupted by a hiss, a flap of the stoneblood's arm.
Creak.
Both women locked gazes. Servalan pointed towards Helga's crossgun, and Helga prowled to pick it up.
Just a normal creak. Maybe. The wind blowing against a weathervane.
Creak. Followed by light taps. Just a bird hopping along the metal.
Fooling no one but herself.
Helga's heartrate increased threefold, and she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. She didn't want to squeeze the trigger again. Didn't want to hit someone. At the same time, she did. Servalan's staff began glowing, the multicolored light of the prismatic gem illuminating her face. Servalan then edged towards the concealed window and peeked through the curtains.