by Nina Walker
She mimics my deep breath and her zen-like state returns. Her expression has cleared of the earlier torment, and she’s back to the woman I’ve grown to know and love over the last few weeks. “I guess that will have to be okay.”
She points to the door with a flick of her wrist. “Go before he’s gone. He drives an unnecessary sports car. It’s black. You can’t miss it.”
“Oh, I know all about that car,” I mutter to myself, skipping through the store and out the door. Truth be told, the car is hot. Dean is hotter.
It’s all so annoying and I’ve decided not to be effected like other girls.
The world outside has that shadowy late afternoon filter that hits a few hours before sunset. It’s colder than it’s been all month, and I wish I’d thought to grab my sweater. I’m only in a thin black t-shirt and blue jeans. I wrap my arms in close to my chest, and glance down both ends of the sidewalk to search for Dean or his “unnecessary” car. Main Street is gorgeous, sprawling before me like a storybook. A few of the leaves are starting to change color, but it’s pretty void of people at the moment.
As far as I can tell he’s not here, nor is his car parked on the street. I hurry past a few storefronts to the side parking lot at the end of the block. There are more spots there and I’m betting if he’s one of Harmony’s regulars, he knows all about them, especially if he likes to keep his visits to her establishment discreet. I mean, the man must have some pride, right? He has a reputation to protect. Since I’ve worked there, The Flowering Chakra hasn’t had many college-aged patrons, certainly none that were male—until Dean.
Sure enough, I round the corner just as he’s getting into his car.
Part of me wants to turn back and pretend I didn’t catch him in time, but I can’t disappoint Harmony. Nor would I want to lie to her. I’ve already embarrassed her and she’s been nothing but good to me. Even if I don’t want to do a reading for Dean, I still want to do them for her other customers. I want to learn. I need that kind of $50 an hour money and I want to prove to her that she made the right choice in hiring me.
I swallow my pride and stride up to the car, tapping on the driver’s side window. It’s tinted to complete darkness––like a celebrities car or something. Typical. It rolls down and Dean is there, his expression unreadable. Again, I’m struck by his almost inhuman beauty. I sort of hate him for it, but that’s not what I’m here for. I sigh.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” I say in a rush. “I wouldn’t ever want to upset Harmony and even though you and I don’t get along, I hope you won’t take it out on her.”
He blinks at me for a few moments as the quiet stretches between us. His fingers flex around the steering wheel and he leans back in his leather seat. “How hard was that for you to say?”
“Umm—pretty hard.”
“I thought so.” He laughs bitterly. “But I would never take it out on Harmony. It’s you that I hate. Not her.”
I scoff at him and step back. Is he serious? “Hate is a pretty strong word there, buddy. What possible reason could you have to hate me?” I can’t help but ask the same question that’s been driving me crazy. I’ve never done anything to him. He doesn’t know me. How could he say he hates me? It’s utterly ridiculous and doesn’t make any sense.
He pins me with that smokey gaze, and I’m reminded of what I saw in those eyes that Friday night. This man has secrets. “It’s clear to me that you’re hellbent on pretending that you don’t know the reason for my disdain, so if that’s the way you’re going to play it, it’s better we don’t talk and you stay out of my way.”
Well, okay then…
He rolls up the window and the car purrs to life. I turn and scurry back to the sidewalk, more than ready to be finished with this conversation and be done with Dean Ashton.
As I’m about to round the corner, something swoops in on me. Something monstrous, black, and of the spirit world. But it’s nothing like any spirit I’ve experienced before now. It swoops again, closer, and I’m knocked to the ground, landing hard on my back. White-hot pain shoots through my hips and elbows. I cry out, more surprised than anything. I scramble back until I’m pressing against the brick building. Blood whooshes through my ears, and I can hardly breathe.
Images flash through my mind so quickly I can’t grab onto a single one. Images of castles and courtiers and a girl with two different colored eyes. I blink until the images are gone.
The creature settles to the ground in front of me, huge and terrifying. My heart basically stops—I can’t believe what I’m seeing. And yet, it’s clear as day, clear as if it were flesh and blood and fire and smoke. It’s a … dragon.
A freaking spirit dragon has come to visit.
10
Khali
The funeral pyre glows amber against the yawning gray sky, a solemn dance of flame and smoke. It’s been hours since it was first lit and still I’ve held my tears at bay, watching the pyre burn and burn and burn. What started as an inferno, hungrily consuming Owen’s cloth-wrapped body, has since dwindled to a pile of fiery coals. I stand on the crunchy grass, my velvet black dress gripping my torso, the suffocating corset underneath holding me up. The matching black cape hoods my face and hides me from the barrage of unwanted stares.
Once they cool, Owen’s ashes will be split in two. Half will be taken to the sea that’s nearly one hundred miles away as tribute to his water elemental, and the other half will be laid to rest in the castle cemetery alongside his ancestors. Perhaps then, his soul will be free.
But I’ll still be here, a prisoner to fate. Here, without him.
It’s only fourteen weeks until my birthday when I’ll be forced into an engagement with Silas, and soon after, forced into his bed. The Gods will bind me to him forever. He will be my jailer, locking me to his side again and again with each child. The cruelty of it leaves my mouth tasting of soot that no amount of water will wash away.
A thick gust of smoke blows in my direction, swatting my cape from my head. The smoke burns my eyes and throat until I finally look away from the pyre. That’s when I notice most of the funeral party has left, returning to the warmth of the castle—the warmth of life. I can’t bare to join them. I can’t will myself to move from this place until there’s nothing of the wood left, and even then, I don’t know that I can leave. Because I’ll have to face them.
“My daughter.” Lady Alivia’s voice is smooth as pearls as she appears at my side. “It’s time to be done here. Come, let’s share a pot of your favorite tea together. Lavender?”
I don’t answer her, but I take in her perfectly made-up face, expertly covering her few wrinkles, and the long dark curls styled to add to her youthful appearance, but it’s the twinge of triumph shining behind her amber eyes that tell me all I need to know of my mother’s true beauty. This funeral is not too sorrowful of an affair for her, not when Silas is next in line for king and whatever he’s promised her will come to fruition. I look away bitterly, longing for my father. He would understand.
“The depth of your heartache will not do you any favors,” she tries again, more forcefully this time. “People will question your relationship with the water brother if you continue on in this manner.”
“Let them,” I challenge through clenched teeth. “Owen was my best friend. I don’t care if my grief is too strong for you or anyone else.”
“But Silas is to be your husband now,” she interjects.
“Do not speak to me of Silas again,” I snap. “You got your wish. Whatever he has promised you is yours. There is no need to gloat. Now leave me to my heartache and let me grieve in peace.”
She folds her arms over her chest, peering at me like I’m nothing but a petulant child, but she relents with a wistful sigh. “Very well. I will see you at the dinner tonight. I trust you to behave.”
As she leaves, I don’t dignify her with another word or glance. When did she go from being my loving mother, looking out for my needs, to being simply another person loo
king to use me for personal gain? She has no idea how lucky she is that I care about her life and reputation enough to protect her against the King’s threats. Anger towards her and everyone else who has wronged me and Owen grows stronger. The dragon within rages to be let free, to take revenge, starting with Silas himself. But I cannot give in. Not yet. All I can do is stand here and watch the coals fade to white.
Hours later, I change into a different mourning dress of head-to-toe black, this one comprised of hideous piles of lace that itch with each movement. I’m sitting next to what is left of the Brightcaster family, trying not to break my “deal” with King Titus. I can’t even look at the man without wanting to scream and scratch out his eyes. Nor Silas. And Queen Brysta, her tear-stained cheeks mean little to me. She’s an accomplice in all of this too. The one with more elemental power than any of them, but who stood back and let it all happen.
Bram is quiet and withdrawn, watching the members at our table like he would one of his experiments, green eyes alight with questions. That’s how he is, always in the background, nose in a book, but somehow, always keenly aware of what’s going on around him. Today there is no book, and his eyes keep darting to me and then to his other family members. His earthy brown hair is more messy than usual, like he’s been running his hands through it over and over.
Does he know what happened to Owen? Would he go along with his parents’ wishes and cover for Silas? He is smart enough to figure it out on his own but suddenly, I have the urge to tell him. Even so, he may already know. He may be just as terrible as the rest of them. The thought of it stings like ice. I want to believe the best of Bram, need to believe he’s the last good one left. But I don’t know that I can.
Queen Brysta is seated to my right, the King at the head of the table next to her, the two brothers across from us. Everyone dressed in black seems like a slap to Owen’s memory. I glare at the brothers. Save for their height, the two look nothing alike. Silas is fair-skinned and white blonde, polished, confident and oozing with lust for power and glory. If I thought he was open about his wishes to be king before, this is ten times worse. And Bram? Bram couldn’t care less about power and glory. His unkempt chestnut hair flops haphazardly in front of his observant eyes, his shoulders hunched over in exhaustion. Down our long table and the ones adjacent, the rest of the party dines. This is not a night of wine and raunchy behavior. The conversations are muffled. The energy is tense. And eyes are shifty.
I do not speak to a single person. I fear I’ll proclaim the truth and ignite Titus’s threats against my family. I do not care to pretend that I want to be here as I’ve done every day previous to this one. I’ve always done my duty, gotten in line and smiled through the pain. I had resolved to go along with my predetermined future years ago, believing that my feelings didn’t matter more than the betterment of the kingdom. All that mattered was what the Gods wanted and they wanted me Queen. That was it.
Well, I don’t care about my fate anymore.
What have the Gods ever done for me? What did they do for Owen?
Nothing.
I’m done with this. I don’t want to be a queen. I don’t want to play this part or try to fit in with these people. This role is wicked and it makes me ill to play it. What is power and glory without loyalty and love? These people don’t understand anything of either and the whole lot can rot in hell for all I care.
The crowd is a sea of richly embroidered dresses and tunics, many belonging to desperate or scheming faces. People who would do anything to get on the throne, so why must I prevent them? There are hundreds of Lord’s daughters and thousands of untitled peasant girls living within Drakenon’s borders who would kill to be sitting in my seat, so why didn’t the Gods give this burden to one of them?
I catch Bram’s gaze across the table and his eyes narrow. He is always curious, but tonight he is filled to the brim with unanswered questions. Those eyes lock me in, intense and demanding. Then he flicks them to Silas so quickly, that I almost miss it. But I don’t and the question is there. Bram returns his stare to me, willing me to answer through our eye contact alone. I can’t know for certain what he’s asking, but I’m no fool. Bram is wondering if Silas had something to do with Owen’s death. Indecision rocks me. I shouldn’t do it; it risks too much. Let Bram figure it out for himself.
He stares at me. And I stare back. You know the truth, I direct my thoughts to him, knowing he can’t hear me. Only in dragon form could he and that’s impossible for him, but still, I shout the words inside my mind. You know who your family is! You know what they’re capable of! Don’t be fooled! Silas killed Owen!
He’s waiting, waiting for me to indicate the truth. I look away.
Nobody else notices me, it seems. King Titus and Queen Brysta are occupied with Silas, the trio of serpents speaking in low tones, and none the wiser to Bram or myself. I let out my own sorrowful breath and return to spreading a heap of mashed potatoes around on my plate, uninterested in eating a single bite. In the presence of all these people, in my regular seat at this table, without Owen here, it forces the weight of his death onto my shoulders. I doubt I’ll ever live without this pain. It might lighten with time, but it will never be completely lifted from me, nor would I want it to.
I’m so sorry, Owen. You didn’t deserve this.
King Titus fists his silver goblet and stands, a splash of cranberry colored wine dripping onto his meaty hand. The room falls into silence and the guests turn toward their leader. If only they knew. I eye some of the more prominent members of the Drakenon Court, noting their fleeting looks of sadness and sympathy, but also the distrust in their eyes and the unanswered questions held on their tongues. Maybe they don’t know the full extent of it, but they have to suspect. Titus was right to assume some would make a play for his throne should it be revealed that Silas committed an unforgivable crime, and there are no other Dragon Blessed heirs. I smile. Maybe I won’t have to say a thing; maybe the Brightcasters will dig their own graves.
“I want to thank you all for coming to mourn the death and celebrate the life of my son, Prince Owen Hydros Brightcaster of Drakenon,” Titus says. “He was a gifted young man with a promising future.” Tears spring to his eyes, and I bite the fleshy inside of my cheek, holding back a torrent of angry words. “Our family is distraught over what happened. We are still in shock that we lost our gifted, humorous, beloved son. He had a vivacious taste for adventure, a cunning mind for battle, a generous heart for leadership, and the kind of water elemental power that outshined his peers. We loved him and he will be greatly missed.” He raises his goblet high. “To Owen, may your adventures continue in the next life and may the Gods guide you.”
“To Owen,” the court echoes. I join in, even though it guts me.
The King doesn’t sit. He shifts his stance and continues, “Now, as you may have already heard, my son was murdered in cold blood.” A few gasp but most are quiet. Word travels fast around here and surely they all spent the two-week mourning period spreading rumors. “No elemental magic was found, nor any traces of the death being the result of a dragon attack.”
His eyes harden as whispers erupt. They were not expecting this, it seems. Something about that makes me gleeful. Bram isn’t the only one who suspected foul play here.
“It could have been someone in this court,” the King says louder, his booming voice quieting the whispers. “But more likely, it was an enemy assassin or a foreign spy. But no matter what, I can assure you we will not rest until Owen’s murderer is caught and his death is avenged.”
What he really means is he won’t rest until he can pin it on someone believable, and most likely someone who would suit his plans. I can’t help but glare.
“Our investigation started the moment he was found with Princess Khali,” he continues, as more whispering ensues. “She did not see what happened. She discovered him after he was already gone and I would kindly ask that you do not question her any further. She’s been through enough, poor thing.” Every
eye in the room is trained on me and my face is practically in flames. Titus’s patronizing tone makes me want to scream.
“Until we have answers,” the King goes on, his face growing softer, kinder, “we must protect the family we have left. Silas and Khali, will you please stand?”
Icy dread pours over my body as I rise on shaky legs. I knew this was going to happen, everyone did. But it seems knowing something is coming and actually experiencing it are two very different things. My stomach rolls over in protest and tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I force myself to smile and the action physically hurts my heart, like a knife is running right through its center.
This isn’t fair! I wasn’t supposed to get engaged until my eighteenth birthday. That’s how it works. That’s how it was for Queen Brysta, and Queen Isabel before that. A ring and vow on the eighteenth birthday, followed by six months of engagement. Then the marriage and all that comes with it.
Titus smiles, charm reeling us in. “I am pleased to announce that Silas has proposed to our kingdom’s elemental princess and Khali has graciously accepted.”
The crowd claps along and a few even go so far as to cheer. My mother winks at me like I'm the luckiest girl in the world. My breath is lodge in my throat, my vision narrowing. Silas stands and saunters around the table to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and softly kissing my cheek. He’s laying his claim. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I don’t move an inch.
“Normally we would expect a longer engagement,” Titus says, “but given everything that has happened, my wife and I feel the Gods wish this union to start the day Khali comes of age. The pair will be married on December the fifthteenth, on Khali’s eighteenth birthday.”