The Last Queen

by Christine McKay

  His eyes gleamed, a violet fire in their depths. “I am not.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “You wish to make a scene. Go ahead.”

  She opened her mouth to do just that and he took her. His tongue tangled with hers. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt herself go cold with a slick shiver of fear, then abruptly hot as she felt herself grow damp. His hand dropped her wrist to cup her cheek. She felt a pulling deep inside. What the hell was he doing to her?

  She arched toward him, begging for him to touch her now-aching breasts. The need inside her grew. Oh lord. Her breath hitched. He released her lips as she felt herself plummet over the edge, her body twitching.

  His breath was low and tickled her ear. “Choose, my lady.”

  “Touch me,” she pleaded.

  “Choose,” he repeated.

  She broke every rule she ever set for herself. “Yes, damn it, yes. There won’t be anyone else. I swear it.”

  He tweaked her nipple and she felt herself starting to bubble over again. “You are correct. There will never be another.”

  Then the blood swarmed through her ears, her eyes widened, unseeing, and she no longer cared whether she’d ever be able to hear or see or taste again.

  * * * * *

  His Queen had chosen him. Navarre wanted to announce it wherever he went, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept his face composed, his step steady and even. Benito would remain silent on the subject. Other members of the Dragoon would not be as pleased.

  He knew so little about her and yet, he thought he knew all there was to know. Last night when she reined in her emotions, he wanted so badly to praise her, yet by the flash of fire in her eyes, he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. It wasn’t easy to tuck an uncontrolled tsunami of emotion-fed psi back into one’s head. In his younger years, he’d failed miserably at it. Altarre would attest to that.

  What twist of imagination prompted her to create that bed? Did she think of him when she lay in her erotic bed alone last night?

  He had slept badly. He wanted to touch her mind, to soothe her inner demons until she relaxed and fell asleep in his arms. His hands itched to rove all over her body, to reacquaint themselves with someone they lost in another lifetime. Soon. Very soon, he promised himself.

  He knocked on her panel.

  There was no response.

  He was certain she was awake. Tuned to her needs, he knew she was hungry.

  The panel opened.

  “Hey!” Adrianne shouted.

  It was too late. Navarre halted mid-stride, arms laden with a breakfast tray. Adrianne was framed in the dressing room doorway, nude, as still as one of her statues. Her hair was slicked back, wet with her bath, the curves of her body shedding droplets of water. His reaction to her was instantaneous. Her body was sinewy, soft creamy breasts, a narrow waist, round hips and muscled calves. The smooth skin was marred with the hints of deep bruises. One slashed across her chest, between her breasts, and ended at her hips, like a sash. A few spotted her hips, the remains of her plane crash injuries. He wanted to kiss away those bruises, to run his tongue and lips up the lines of her curves…

  He forced himself to focus and lowered the serving tray to conceal his desire. She couldn’t be allowed to see what kind of control she had over him.

  She snatched a towel and draped it around her body. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Bringing you a meal.”

  Rage warred with embarrassment on her face.

  “I knocked,” he protested.

  “I did not answer.”

  He inclined his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “It is not our custom to wait for permission to enter.”

  “Altarre adopted it. You had better too,” she warned. She grabbed another towel and bent forward to wrap it in her hair.

  He caught another glimpse of the rounded swell of her breasts. Desire flared. He wrestled to control his urge to seize her, to possess her lips, and take her body. Cradled beneath him, he could make her understand how much she meant to them all, but most of all, to himself. Words paled beside this ache.

  This was Adrianne—Erifydal, had she been raised by her birth parents. Both halves of the woman needed to be made whole before he would let himself take her. To do that, she needed to fly.

  She padded toward him and lifted the food cover. “Smells good. I’m starved.”

  The curved tops of her breasts were in reach, the towel tucked primly between them. One tug and she’d be free of that encumbrance. His fingers itched. Thank the First Queen the tray required both his hands. “Adonthe cooked it especially for you.”

  She dropped the lid she held. “Thank you.” She paused. “I’m not accustomed to being catered to. Please make sure to thank him.” She looked at him, eyes as dark as the watery depths a man might drown in.

  “I will be certain to tell him. He will be delighted.”

  Taking the tray from him, she deposited it on the bed and sat beside it.

  Freed from her mind-numbing close proximity, he looked around the room. Last night had not been the time for close examination of her bedroom. He had stormed into her room expecting to find his brother literally in pieces. Today she appeared calm.

  Mother of the First Queen, what were they going to do with the likes of her?

  He touched the statue beside the bed. The half-changed dragonesses looked like they were in the midst of orgasm. Was that how she perceived shapeshifting to be? Orgasmic? It was so much more, such an integral part of their being that he could not imagine being denied it as long as she had.

  “You will remain with me this morning,” he said. “Vespero is not feeling well. You will spend the early afternoon with Benito learning to read as you requested. Late afternoon you shall start your self-defense training with Henley. The evening hours are your own. I believe Henley has figured out how to pull in your television signals if you long for human entertainment.”

  He expected her to argue with him. She answered simply, “Okay.”

  He was thrown off guard by her acquiescence. What did the minx have in mind? Or was she thinking of something else entirely? He glanced at the stone maidens, mouths open and eyes closed.

  Adrianne smiled, as if reading his thoughts, and took a bite of warm buttered toast. Her psi talents were growing daily. He didn’t doubt she could read his thoughts and keep him unaware that she was.

  He had a hard time keeping his eyes focused on her face, another thing she seemed acutely aware of. Did she think this little more than a game? His subtle gaze roved to the expanse of leg her towel revealed. She shifted, hitching it a little higher.

  She did play the seductress. He stiffened. “Dress warmly. We will fly today,” he said, abruptly, and left the room.

  Her laughter followed him.

  * * * * *

  Describing how to fly was like teaching a blind man how to paint a tree. The blind painter could touch, feel its texture and shape, and even be handed the correct colors, but the actual version of it would always truly elude him. So it was with trying to teach Adrianne how to shapeshift and fly. Dragonets were born with an innate knowledge. Day after day she tried to please Navarre, but failed.

  After yet another heart-wrenching flight, Adrianne sat in alone in the great central chamber of the ship, one cavern away from the great beast’s heart. The ship’s steady pulse was lulling. The ship itself made no demands on her. Oh, yes, it wanted to be played with. She created something new almost every day with it. Yesterday’s dragon-running-into-a-wall sculpture, complete with “cracks” in the wall’s smooth surface, was noticeably absent from the dining chamber’s panel today, but the ornate chairs she’d designed remained. Her humor seemed to constantly put the Dragoon on guard.

  She heard footsteps way in advance of Navarre’s approach, just a friendly warning compliments of the ship.

  Navarre seated himself beside her. She kept her eyes closed, head tipped back, knees drawn to her chest and arms wrapped around her legs.<
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  “Would I disturb you if I joined you?”

  She didn’t bother to move. The throb of the ship’s heartbeat flowed through her body solemnly. “I disappoint you all.” She could sense it in them every night when she shared their evening meal.

  “Your dedication is admirable,” he said awkwardly.

  “Oh, stuff your admiration,” she muttered.

  “As you wish.”

  “And your blasted tolerance.”

  He remained silent.

  She switched subjects. “Does the ship speak to you?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “It shows me the places it’s been.”

  She sensed his surprise. “Ask it how it was born,” he asked.

  The heartbeat in the room faltered for only a second, then resumed.

  “It won’t say.”

  “Do you dream of dragons, Adrianne?”

  His voice held such a wistful note, she opened her eyes and gazed at him. His eyes were centered on her breasts. “You saw my room.” She didn’t mean to sound so harsh. “You will kill me with that flying.”

  “The skill is within you.”

  “Part of me dies each day I am here and I fail you.”

  “Do you see yourself changing?” he persisted.

  Must he push her every second of the day? “Yes, damn it, yes.” She stood and flung herself away from him again. Turning, she pressed her forehead against the ship’s wall. A fingerless hand emerged from the wall, wiped away a single tear, then vanished as quickly as it’d been born. Adrianne pressed her palms to the wall. Thank you, she said to the ship.

  Each day she was here she felt she lost a little bit more of her humanity. Mind speech was now second nature to her. If she concentrated, she could bring objects to her hand and send them away as well, all with just her mind. Those lessons she could master. Why couldn’t she figure out how to shapeshift as well?

  Navarre was a patient teacher. She shouldn’t be angry at him. But she was.

  Navarre dropped his hand to her shoulder. She tried to flinch away from him, but his grip was firm. “Show me.” She didn’t move, didn’t even twitch. “Please.”

  The emotion in that single word broke her tenuous hold. She flooded him with her broken dream images, shards of a sleek silver-scaled female dragon, wingskin an ivory tone, belly coated with rose-hued scales. This dragon stalked her dreams. Deep inside, she knew it to be her alter ego, but finding her way to it seemed insurmountable.

  “Touch my mind,” he instructed. “And hang on.”

  Her mental touch was tremulous, like the caress of a flower petal against butterfly feet. He encouraged her with gentle words. How could a man who pushed her so relentlessly be so tender as well?

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He took several steps away from her and stretched his arms skyward. The chamber was plenty big enough to accommodate his dragon form.

  “Be with me,” he asked.

  She clung to his mind and felt the shift within it. His body blurred as if it were her own. Her arms ached, her scaled skin felt the subtle nuances of air shift around her, the ship’s own breath cupping her body.

  She opened her eyes.

  Navarre crouched before her in dragon form, multifaceted eyes whirling.

  She reached out to him, then saw her own delicate human hand instead of claw and scales. The bitterness of the loss was crushing.

  She fled to her room.

  Adrianne…Erifydal. Wait, he called after her, but she only put her hands over her ears as she ran. He didn’t try to soothe her mind. If he had, she might have stopped, might have begged for him to hold her and kiss the dreams away. But he didn’t. And she couldn’t bear that either.

  * * * * *

  “Dry your eyes, sh’niedra. There is much to learn.”

  Vespero entered her room. He might have knocked but she was too lost in herself to notice.

  Adrianne regarded him bleakly. The man before her was as close to portly as a member of the Dragoon could be. He stood no higher than her shoulder and was solid, like a tree trunk, rather than the others’ more willowy forms. His face was broad and clean, for no dragon man could grow a mustache or beard. Sage green eyes regarded her from a web of fine facial wrinkles.

  “Vespero,” she acknowledged, straightening when he frowned imperceptibly.

  “Enthusiasm and attentiveness, please. You did not even ask me what sh’niedra meant.” His voice was cultured and modulated as if he possessed the skills of an opera singer. The scolding timbre he affected now leaned toward the dramatic.

  “But you will tell me what the word means even if I do not ask.”

  “I certainly shall not,” he huffed.

  Well then, here was someone to fight with. Anything was better than the apathy she found herself slipping into. “So have you found something more interesting to write about than a Queen who cannot fly?”

  He surveyed her from head to toe. “That is not your color.”

  Her first impulse was to shoot back with a biting comment, but his actions were so exaggerated she couldn’t help herself. She laughed. It felt so good to laugh again.

  “Indeed.” He drew himself up. “We have a lot to work on. Come, follow me.”

  “I thought you were to teach me to read,” she said to his retreating back. She had spent a pleasant week being read to by Benito. Vespero, even with all his drama, was a poor substitute.

  He tipped his head back, uttered a litany of words in another language and raised his hands beseechingly. “Someone has to tutor you on becoming a proper Queen.”

  She glanced down at the sweatshirt and jeans she wore. Not exactly Queen material. The others had not seemed to care.

  “How can you fly like a Queen if you do not feel like a Queen?” he asked, without expecting an answer. “And how can you feel like a Queen when you are dressed like a commoner?”

  “My clothing is comfortable,” she said defensively.

  He snorted. “Here.” A panel slid open to reveal two stories of solid books.

  She looked up. “It’d take a lifetime to read them all.”

  “Fortunately for you, I have selected some of our better pieces of literature.”

  She scowled to herself. They probably wouldn’t come close to the legends Benito had been serenading her with.

  “We’ll start with history,” he said briskly. “I shall read and you will follow along. You should understand that an illustrious line of Queens precedes you.” He saw her frown. “I did pick a book with pictures,” he added, a bit more gently. “Take note of their cut of clothing. We shall have to do something about that. Adonthe can take your measurements.”

  If she were Nikki, she’d be ecstatic with the thought of having a new wardrobe…and new shoes…and matching underwear. Maybe Vespero had it right. She needed a shopping trip with Nikki. Without the Dragoon.

  She sat in a comfortable sofa. Vespero settled himself beside her, a thick tome on his knees. He flipped it open to a marked page. “This was our last Queen.” He jabbed his finger at the image and would have continued on if she hadn’t put her fingertips to the page. Benito had not shown her any pictures.

  “Navarre’s mother.”

  “Cerenth,” he approved. “You remembered.”

  Beautiful didn’t come close to describing her. Her hair was a fiery red, like the heart of a ruby and floated around her in a swath of curls to her waist. Intense eyes seemed to watch her from the picture, Navarre’s eyes, she realized with a start. Cerenth wore a jeweled jade gown and a thick necklace of gems set in a silver collar about her neck. Proud. Haughty. Imperial. Exactly like a Queen and entirely unlike herself. Little wonder the Dragoon seemed disenchanted with her.

  “Navarre and Altarre are clutch mates.”

  She knew that already. “How did she die?”

  “Beneath the Hunter’s hands.” Vespero bit off each word.

  Aha, now they were getting somewhere. If she could only get a few
more questions answered. Benito had been entirely too skilled at deflecting her questions, all the while camouflaging the deflection in a swath of politeness that made her feel petty when she persisted. “Who made the Hunter?”

  “You jump too far into our legends,” he grumbled but he answered her nonetheless. “Our ancestors served as mercenaries. We were quite good at war. Too good. One of our enemies created the Hunter to obliterate us.”

  “Obviously effective,” she murmured.

  He shot her a dark glance and flipped the page. She looked closer. The book appeared handwritten. Flawless penmanship marched across the thick paper in straight neat lines.

  “The Hunter will not die.” He stopped at a pen drawing. A hooded figure rode astride what was almost a horse-like creature save for the bony armor it wore like a second skin. A horn sprouted from its nose like a rhinoceros. Men, women and children fled before him.

  “Why not?”

  Another hiss of disapproval from Vespero. “We do not know how they die.”

  A sliver of fear settled itself in her heart.

  He patted her hand. “You are safe here.”

  Maybe so, but she couldn’t live inside the ship forever.

  He took her silence to mean relief. “Many Queens of recent history possessed not even an iota of the psychic gift you’ve shown. It’s reassuring. We need your outside bloodline.”

  “You mean you’ve inbred?” Even the word was distasteful. Brother to sister? Mother to son? What was acceptable to them?

  Another hard look from Vespero. “What was done is done.”

  Ugh! It wasn’t an answer but almost an admission. He turned a page, saw the image there and started to flip to another.

  “Wait.” Here was a face she felt an instant connection to. A young woman stared back at her with haunted gray eyes. Delicately boned, her porcelain skin was a sharp contrast to the vivid Queen on the previous page. Adrianne had grown accustomed to seeing all the members of the Dragoon with sun-bronzed skin, but not this one. This one could have stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Her auburn hair was wound in an elaborate style on top her head. Where Cerenth had been fire, this one was ice, pride replaced with resignation.