No Good Dragon Goes Unpunished

by Rachel Aaron

  Even knowing exactly where to press, it still took forever to get through all of his rightfully paranoid little sister’s locks and wards. Finally, the last lock clicked, and he stepped into the bunker that had served as Chelsie’s fortress of solitude since she’d first come home from China all those centuries ago. It was just as small as he remembered, but Bob hadn’t been here personally in ages, which was why he’d left himself plenty of time to search. Time, it turned out, he did not need. True to form, Chelsie had left his target on display, nestled in a place of honor at the heart of what passed for her treasury.

  Carefully, painstakingly, Bob popped the lock and removed the rainbow-hued dragon egg from its heated box. Most eggs rattled when you touched them, the tiny whelp inside alert to danger even before it knew what danger was. But this egg was still when his arm closed around it, the fragile life inside still pulsing softly only because Chelsie was too stubborn to let it die.

  Balancing the egg in one hand and Amelia’s fire in the other, Bob sank to the floor. He placed the too-quiet egg in his lap, making sure it was snugly tucked against his body heat before pressing the hand that still cradled the last flicker of Amelia’s life into the leathery shell. The egg absorbed the flame at once, and a second later, something inside it began to shake as the old dragon’s fire sparked the new.

  Once caught, the flame spread quickly, and the egg began to grow warmer. Having watched his own mother do this eight times now, Bob knew how to help it along, blowing little puffs of his own flame across its rainbow surface until the shell glowed red. Finally, when the egg was so hot it was singeing his clothes, a crack appeared on the surface as a tiny claw broke free, clutching the wall of the egg that had been its prison for far, far too long.

  “There you go,” Bob said, using his hands to help it break through the old, leathery shell. “There you are, my beauty.”

  The baby dragon cheeped, moving her blind, shaky, down-covered head toward the sound of his voice, growing steadier on her spindly little legs as she opened her lids at last to look up at him with eyes as beautiful and bright as golden coins.

  “Hello, darling,” he whispered, mindful of her baby fangs as he reached down to gently stroke her downy nose. “Happy extremely belated birthday. My name is Bob. Remember it, because you and I are going to be the very best of enemies.”

  The tiny dragon chirped in confusion, blinking her golden eyes as Bob stood up, lifting her out of the remains of her egg before tucking her into his coat. When she was safely pressed against his chest, he kissed her little nose and held out his arm for his pigeon, who’d been silently following this entire time. When she flew down to perch on his wrist, he turned and carried both of his girls out of the room, out of the basement sanctuary Chelsie had made for her Fs, and out of the mountain altogether, stealing into the desert like a thief with a Nameless End on his shoulder and the first dragoness hatched since the death of Estella, his very own little seer, hidden inside his coat.

  Epilogue

  When Marci woke, she was alone in the dark.

  She blinked rapidly, looking around in confusion, but there was nothing. She couldn’t even see herself. Just the dark, a lightless void so deep and unrelenting, she had to close her eyes again. Not that it helped.

  “Ghost?”

  I’m here, the spirit said, but his voice in her head sounded odd, like he was shouting from across a chasm.

  “Why do you sound so far away?”

  Because you’re not in my domain, he said, his distant voice frustrated. You’re dead, but you’re not forgotten.

  Marci nodded. “So how do I get to you?”

  You can’t. Not unless we wait until everyone who remembers dies as well. It wouldn’t be too bad if it were only humans, they forget easily. But that dragon will remember you forever, and dragons live a very long time.

  He said that like it was a problem, but Marci refused to feel bad about the fact that Julius would remember her forever. “We’ll just have to try something different, then,” she said, peering around at the dark, the only thing there was to look at. “Let’s start with where I am. I mean, I understand that I’m dead, but I have no intention of staying that way.” She was going to get out of here, and then she was going to get back home to Julius. There had to be a way. What was the point of dying to become a Merlin if she couldn’t go back and actually be one? And speaking of, “I thought you said the path to being a Merlin was just on the other side?”

  It is, Ghost said angrily. I’m actually standing right next to it, but I can’t see you. Don’t worry, though. I won’t let you go.

  Something moved in the dark as he said that, and Marci had the odd sensation of a hand tightening inside her head. Under any other circumstance, that would have been creepy as all get out. Right now, though, it was very comforting to know someone had a grip on things. It also gave her an idea. “Do you think you could yank me over there like you yanked me out of my body?”

  What do you think I’ve been trying to do? I’ve been pulling since I heard your voice, but it’s not working. The only reason I can touch you at all is because of our bond, but it wasn’t meant to be used like this. If I pull too hard, it will snap.

  “Crud,” she muttered, taking an experimental step forward.

  This was a very bad idea. Now that she was trying to move, it became obvious that she wasn’t just blind from the dark. There really was nothing there, no ground under her feet, no sensation of movement, not even the feel of her own body. There was no pain, no pleasure, no sensation of any kind. Just her thoughts and the endless, fathomless, empty dark.

  “Ghost?”

  I’m here.

  The sound of his voice was instant relief. Marci didn’t have personal experience with sensory deprivation, but she was pretty sure staying too long in places like this was how people broke. “I need to get out of here.”

  I know, the spirit growled. I’m trying. But I don’t know what to do. I can’t reach you. There was a long pause after that, and then, Maybe I can send you some help.

  That sounded promising. “Help would be great. I’m literally in the dark here. What did you have in mind?”

  You’ll see, he said, his voice strained, like he was pushing very hard. As you gave to me, so I will give to you.

  The spirit’s words were strangely ritualistic, and deep in Marci’s mind, his reassuring grip began to vanish. “Whoa,” she said nervously. “What are you doing?”

  What I have to, he said. I can’t get to you, so I’m sending someone who can. His voice grew more distant with every word, growing softer and softer, even as he started to shout. I give it back! The price is returned! The bond is broken!

  “What?” she yelled back. “No! That’s not what I want!”

  It’s the only way, he cried, his tiny voice desperate. Trust me!

  She did. She had, but this was too much. “Don’t leave me alone!”

  I won’t, he promised. But you have to remember, Marci. Remember him, so he can guide you back to me!

  That sounded terrifyingly final, but before Marci could scream at him to stop, Ghost’s hand vanished from her mind.

  The moment he was gone, the endless emptiness roared in to fill the void. Marci staggered as it hit, clutching her head, but there was nothing to clutch. She had no head, no hands, no body at all, and now no Ghost, either. She was alone, utterly alone in the yawning emptiness. But just as she began to panic, Marci realized that wasn’t quite true.

  There was still no light or sensation, so she had no explanation for how it worked, and yet she knew with absolute certainty that there was now someone else here with her in the dark. He was actually standing right in front of her: a stocky middle-aged man with brown eyes and brown hair that was touched with silver at the temples. How she could see all of that without light, Marci had no idea, but there he was, smiling at her with a wide, easy, laughing smile that was as familiar as her own face. And as Marci instinctively smiled back, everything she’d forgotten came r
ushing back.

  “Daddy.”

  The memories landed like punches in her mind—Bixby, fleeing Las Vegas, her childhood, blowing up her stupid, ugly house—they were all back, and at the center of everything was the man in front of her. Her father. Her poor, murdered father, who she’d left forgotten in the desert. How had she forgotten?!

  Tears tumbled down her face. The sudden wetness was the first physical feeling she’d had in this place, but Marci was too gone to care. She barely even registered the fact that she could see her body again as she threw herself into her father’s arms. “Daddy!”

  Aldo Novalli hugged her close. “Hello, carina.”

  The familiar endearment sent Marci to pieces all over again. She shut her eyes tight, clutching her father in the endless dark as she cried all the tears she’d forgotten for the father she’d lost plus more for the spirit that she could no longer feel.

  Thank you for reading!

  Thank you for reading No Good Dragon Goes Unpunished! If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review. Reviews, good and bad, are vital to any author’s career, and I would be extremely thankful and appreciative if you’d consider writing one for me.

  Want to know when my next novel is available? Visit www.rachelaaron.net to see all my books and to sign up for my new release mailing list! You can also follow me on Twitter @Rachel_Aaron or like my Facebook page, facebook.com/RachelAaronAuthor, for up-to-date information on all of my releases.

  I’m already hard at work on the fourth Heartstriker novel and hope to have it out early next year. If that’s too long to wait, you can always check out one of my other completed series. Simply click over to the “Want More Books by Rachel?” page in your eReader’s table of contents, or visit www.rachelaaron.net to see a full list of all my books complete with their beautiful covers, links to reviews, and free sample chapters!

  Thank you again for reading, and I hope you’ll be back soon!

  Yours sincerely,

  Rachel Aaron

  Enjoyed No Good Dragon Goes Unpunished? Try the Fantasy series that started it all,

  THE LEGEND OF ELI MONPRESS

  Eli Monpress is talented. He's charming. And he's the greatest thief in the world.

  He’s also a wizard, and with the help of his partners in crime—a swordsman with the world’s most powerful magic sword (but no magical ability of his own) and a demonseed who can step through shadows and punch through walls—he's getting ready to pull off the heist of his career. To start, though, he'll just steal something small. Something no one will miss.

  Something like… a king.

  "I cannot be less than 110% in love with this book. I loved it. I love it still. Already I sort of want to read it again. Considering my fairly epic Godzilla-sized To Read list, that's just about the highest compliment I can give a book." - CSI: Librarian

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of the first chapter, or buy it now in ebook, print, or audio!

  Chapter 1

  In the prison under the castle Allaze, in the dark, moldy cells where the greatest criminals in Mellinor spent the remainder of their lives counting rocks to stave off madness, Eli Monpress was trying to wake up a door.

  It was a heavy oak door with an iron frame, created centuries ago by an overzealous carpenter to have, perhaps, more corners than it should. The edges were carefully fitted to lie flush against the stained, stone walls, and the heavy boards were nailed together so tightly that not even the flickering torch light could wedge between them. In all, the effect was so overdone, the construction so inhumanly strong, that the whole black affair had transcended simple confinement and become a monument to the absolute hopelessness of the prisoner’s situation. Eli decided to focus on the wood; the iron would have taken forever.

  He ran his hands over it, long fingers gently tapping in a way living trees find desperately annoying, but dead wood finds soothing, like a scratch behind the ears. At last, the boards gave a little shudder and said, in a dusty, splintery voice, “What do you want?”

  “My dear friend,” Eli said, never letting up on his tapping, “the real question here is, what do you want?”

  “Pardon?” the door rattled, thoroughly confused. It wasn’t used to having questions asked of it.

  “Well, doesn’t it strike you as unfair?” Eli said. “From your grain, anyone can see you were once a great tree. Yet, here you are, locked up through no fault of your own, shut off from the sun by cruel stones with no concern at all for your comfort or continued health.”

  The door rattled again, knocking the dust from its hinges. Something about the man’s voice was off. It was too clear for a normal human’s, and the certainty in his words stirred up strange memories that made the door decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Wait,” it grumbled suspiciously. “You’re not a wizard, are you?”

  “Me?” Eli clutched his chest. “I, one of those confidence tricksters? Those manipulators of spirits? Why, the very thought offends me! I am but a wanderer, moving from place to place, listening to the spirits’ sorrows and doing what little I can to make them more comfortable.” He resumed the pleasant tapping, and the door relaxed against his fingers.

  “Well”—it leaned forward a fraction, lowering its creak conspiratorially—“if that’s the case, then I don’t mind telling you the nails do poke a bit.” It rattled, and the nails stood out for a second before returning to their position flush against the wood. The door sighed. “I don’t mind the dark so much, or the damp. It’s just that people are always slamming me, and that just drives the sharp ends deeper. It hurts something awful, but no one seems to care.”

  “Let me have a look,” Eli said, his voice soft with concern. He made a great show of poring over the door and running his fingers along the joints. The door waited impatiently, creaking every time Eli’s hands brushed over a spot where the nails rubbed. Finally, when he had finished his inspection, Eli leaned back and tucked his fist under his chin, obviously deep in thought. When he didn’t say anything for a few minutes, the door began to grow impatient, which is a very uncomfortable feeling for a door.

  “Well?” it croaked.

  “I’ve found the answer,” Eli said, crouching down on the doorstep. “Those nails, which give you so much trouble, are there to pin you to the iron frame. However”—Eli held up one finger in a sage gesture—“they don’t stay in of their own accord. They’re not glued in; there’s no hook. In fact, they seem to be held in place only by the pressure of the wood around them. So”—he arched an eyebrow—“the reason they stay in at all, the only reason, is because you’re holding on to them.”

  “Of course!” the door rumbled. “How else would I stay upright?”

  “Who said you had to stay upright?” Eli said, throwing out his arms in a grand gesture. “You’re your own spirit, aren’t you? If those nails hurt you, why, there’s no law that you have to put up with it. If you stay in this situation, you’re making yourself a victim.”

  “But . . .” The door shuddered uncertainly.

  “The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Eli gave the wood a reassuring pat. “And that’s enough for now. However”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“if you’re ever going to live your life, really live it, then you need to let go of the roles others have forced on you. You need to let go of those nails.”

  “But, I don’t know . . .” The door shifted back and forth.

  “Indecision is the bane of all hardwoods.” Eli shook his head. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be forever. Just give it a try.”

  The door clanged softly against its frame, gathering its resolve as Eli made encouraging gestures. Then, with a loud bang, the nails popped like corks, and the boards clattered to the ground with a long, relieved sigh.

  Eli stepped over the planks and through the now empty iron doorframe. The narrow hall outside was dark and empty. Eli looked one way, then the other, and shook his head.

  “First rule of dungeons
,” he said with a wry grin, “don’t pin all your hopes on a gullible door.”

  With that, he stepped over the sprawled boards, now mumbling happily in peaceful, nail-free slumber, and jogged off down the hall toward the rendezvous point.

  ***

  In the sun-drenched rose garden of the castle Allaze, King Henrith of Mellinor was spending money he hadn’t received yet.

  “Twenty thousand gold standards!” He shook his teacup at his Master of the Exchequer. “What does that come out to in mellinos?”

  The exchequer, who had answered this question five times already, responded immediately. “Thirty-one thousand five hundred at the current rate, my lord, or approximately half Mellinor’s yearly tax income.”

  “Not bad for a windfall, eh?” The king punched him in the shoulder good-naturedly. “And the Council of Thrones is actually going to pay all that for one thief? What did the bastard do?”

  The Master of the Exchequer smiled tightly and rubbed his shoulder. “Eli Monpress”—he picked up the wanted poster that was lying on the table, where the roughly sketched face of a handsome man with dark, shaggy hair grinned boyishly up at them—“bounty, paid dead or alive, twenty thousand Council Gold Standard Weights. Wanted on a hundred and fifty-seven counts of grand larceny against a noble person, three counts of fraud, one charge of counterfeiting, and treason against the Rector Spiritualis.” He squinted at the small print along the bottom of the page. “There’s a separate bounty of five thousand gold standards from the Spiritualists for that last count, which has to be claimed independently.”