The Last Queen

by Christine McKay

  Both agents stood as well. “It is a criminal offense to deliberately block an investigation,” Baker said.

  She found herself shaking, whether from fear or anger she didn’t know. “We live in America where everyone is innocent until proven guilty. Am I guilty of something? How about Adrianne?”

  Baker met her gaze, defiant. She raised her chin. Cliverson looked thoughtful. “Ms. Kitzerow, does your breadth of knowledge in the fetish industry also encompass the laws surrounding BDSM?”

  She resented their intimidation attempts immediately, but she was no fool and she wasn’t about to push their buttons while they were standing inside her bar. “I retain a lawyer,” she said quietly. “Everything I do is legal.”

  “So far as we can tell, you’re correct,” Cliverson said. “Clever lawyer. Have a good day, Ms. Kitzerow.”

  They were barely out of the building when Quince emerged from her office.

  “I don’t think it would be wise to make them forget too,” she said.

  He put his finger to his lips to shush her. Walking stiffly to where the agents had been seated, he flipped over the table. He plucked off a small object that looked like a wad of chewing gum, dropped it on the floor and crushed it.

  “Listening device,” he murmured.

  Nikki’s eyes widened. It hadn’t occurred to her that the FBI would do that to her. How naïve could she be? “My phones are probably tapped too, huh?”

  “They have been for some time.”

  Well, that meant they had part of her client list then. “Wait a sec. You knew they were tapped and you didn’t tell me?”

  He shrugged. “It is trivial.”

  “To you maybe, but not to me. What else haven’t you told me?”

  He simply turned and walked away. She caught the slight limp he tried to hide from her, the limp he earned protecting her from the Hunter.

  She was an idiot. “Quince, wait.” She caught up to him. “Sit down. You’re hurt.” She laid her hand on his biceps and tugged him back to his chaise lounge.

  He settled himself on the chair without protest. She draped the afghan over his lap, then pulled up a stool. “So what do we do about them?”

  “The only way they will find Adrianne is through you.”

  And only if Adrianne left the safety of the ship or they tracked her to the ship. “We’ll have to be very careful, then, won’t we?”

  * * * * *

  Adrianne didn’t look pregnant but she certainly felt so. Altarre continued to insist that everything was progressing as normal, but what did he know? He wasn’t stuck eating copious amounts of raw meat nor was he kept awake by her babies’ incessant chatter. How did she manage to let herself get talked into getting pregnant? Pity was a dangerous emotion.

  When she figuratively waddled into the dining chamber, she was in a foul mood, uncomfortable and irrationally seeking to make each and every member of the Dragoon feel as she did. She knew they could feel her discomfort through their shared mental link, just as she knew when Quince overexerted himself. It didn’t stop her from wanting to broadcast her misery. Self-pity was even more lethal.

  She wasn’t expecting everyone to be crowded around a table, waiting in hushed excitement. Benito stepped out of the way, revealing a miniature model of a mansion.

  She stopped, shocked. Turning to Navarre, she asked, “Did you know about this?”

  He smiled.

  His smile always made her knees weak. She dropped beside the model. It looked like a cross between a castle and a Victorian mansion. Ornate turrets rose from the corners. Several wings spawned off the monstrosity and yet it retained a certain elegance she didn’t think the Dragoon were capable of. A square central courtyard, windows that ran from floor to ceiling and shutters built from popsicle sticks stared back at her. She glanced at Adonthe. He winked. She’d been craving popsicles for weeks now. In fact, she felt the urge for one right now.

  “The nursery will be here,” Benito said, pointing out a wing. “You and your Chosen will have private quarters here as will each member of the Dragoon.”

  She touched her fingertip to a fountain.

  “A common area,” Benito added. “However, Adonthe thought to add a special place for your own private garden here and an herb and vegetable bed here. But I doubt we will have time to complete the landscaping before the snow falls again.”

  “It’s amazing. Can you really do all this? Do we have the land and the money?”

  “The land is purchased. We have begun clearing it. Some of the trees will be used in the construction.” Benito’s smile was smug. “Your currency is not an issue.”

  “The outer perimeter will not be nearly as aesthetically pleasing,” Henley added. “We will plant thorn trees as an initial deterrent. A fence will then be laid within that perimeter.”

  A little wonderment to bedazzle her so she wouldn’t think she was still a captive. That wasn’t any way to think about her family now. But it was true. She shook her head. “All I can say is wow. This must be a decorating dream come true for you, Adonthe.”

  “Or a night terror,” he said cheerfully.

  Benito turned away from the miniature. “Until it is built, we will house the nursery underground beneath the ship. The hatching floor is almost ready for you. Do you wish to see it as well?”

  Her little prison where she’d incubate her eggs for six months? Who wouldn’t? “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Navarre discreetly took her elbow, easing her to her feet. The Dragoon seemed unable to see enough of her, as if they constantly wished to be reassured of her pregnancy. She and Navarre rarely even ate their breakfast alone now and her raw meat lunches in dragon form were a mini-circus. They all followed her through the belly of the ship now to the hatching floor. Even the ship had accommodated itself to her pregnancy, making its ramps more gently sloped. Her walks were now supervised. She wondered if Quince felt left out. With the Hunter dead, she indicated he could return to the ship but he chose to remain with Nikki. Points to him for that. She doubted death could even separate that pair.

  The hatching floor was brightly lit and baked warm, its roof, the underbelly of the ship. A pile of sand was mounded in the center. She bent and ran her fingers through it. It was a fine white beach sand.

  Navarre stooped beside her. “We brought it in, one bucketful at a time, under the cover of darkness. It is sterilized.”

  She let a handful of sand trickle through her fingers.

  “What are you thinking?” Navarre asked softly.

  “I am scared.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

  He frowned, eyes filled with concern. “Forgive us if we hover. We are all anxious.”

  “Except Vespero. He’s already trying to pick the best matches and promising our daughters out.”

  “Do not waste your thoughts on him,” Navarre said.

  She sat in the sand. It was warm and made her drowsy. “Soon, I think.” She let her mind drift. “I should probably start sleeping here.”

  He sat beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulder, the other resting lightly on her knee. Steady, calm, dependable Navarre. Nothing like Quince’s glimmer of danger she saw reflected in Nikki’s eyes. Did she really want that or just the taste of it?

  “As you wish. I will join you, of course.” He waited a moment, an uncertain edge to his voice. “Do you feel that your time is near?”

  She took his hand and squeezed it, letting her mind twine through his thoughts. Was he really that calm or was his façade really that good? After all, he had an extra, oh, seventy years or so to perfect his mental shields. And they were flawless. “Help me up, please.” She turned to the group. “Thank you.”

  Beyond the sand lay packed clay. Rocks ringed what she could only guess to be an enclosure of some sort. Navarre followed her gaze. “We will take care of the dragonets at hatching. You need not be present.”

  “They’re mine too. Don’t mollycoddle me.”

  The façade slipped. “The dragonets will
want fresh meat,” he said bluntly. “This will hold the livestock.”

  She blanched, swallowing hard. “Can we raise them as vegetarians?”

  The look he gave her was soft. “I am sorry. It is simply the way we are.”

  She sighed. It was hard to argue with that. And, as she had found in her dragon form, raw meat was more appealing than any salad they could have offered her. She shuddered slightly. It wasn’t a side of herself she liked to think about.

  After supper, the Dragoon retired to the hatching floor. No matter what she did or ate, she felt bloated and awkward. Navarre coaxed her into her dragon shape, then changed as well. In this form, her pregnancy was obvious, belly distended uncomfortably. She stretched out as best as she was able, Navarre cradling her head and neck against his shoulder, their tails entwined.

  The babies were unusually quiet. She as well as the Dragoon knew she’d slipped into “the window”. The eggs could be laid any time now without worrying about shells not being well-developed or egg sacs too small.

  About midnight, she was awakened by a gentle rumbling low in Navarre’s throat. At first she thought it the dragon equivalent of a snore, then she saw that his whirling jade eyes were watching her.

  It is time, he explained, his voice a bit unsteady. The tip of his tail twitched.

  Wouldn’t she know if it was time? You think so, she retorted. She needed to lighten up. She felt too much like the Wicked Witch of late. But it was hard to feel cutesy pie and sweet when carting around a bellyful of eggs.

  Then the first convulsion racked her body. Damn Navarre for always being right. She bit back a vocal cry, but could not hide her mental pain. She felt the others watching her from the shadows of the hatching floor. Another labor pain washed through her. She moaned.

  Easy, my love. Navarre nuzzled her neck with his nose.

  Her whole body felt as if it were being torn asunder. She raised her head, arched her back and shrieked. This time it was very vocal. The contraction continued, undulating through her.

  The first one comes, Altarre said excitedly.

  Navarre pressed himself tight to her side, despite her extended claws. She was glad for his support. I will not leave you, he promised.

  She shrilled. The first egg plopped into the pile of soft sand. She swung her neck around to stare at it. It was a pearlescent gray, the shell rubbery-looking and slathered in what looked like the dragon equivalent of petroleum jelly. Ugh. If any sort of motherly instinct was supposed to kick in at this moment, it failed her.

  Henley, in his deep navy almost-black-as-a-moon-bereft-night dragon form, crept toward her egg, belly flat to the ground, wings tightly tucked to his back. Carefully, he eased to her side and curled himself around her egg. Primal instinct seized her just prior to the next labor pain. She growled at Henley, lashing out with her foreclaws. Navarre blocked her. He will keep your egg warm until you are ready to do so yourself.

  Her reply was an inarticulate growl. Then the next wave hit her and she could only whimper and thrash. Nine more eggs passed this way. She wished she could die. Her scales had a dull sheen to them. She no longer thrashed. She lacked the energy to do more than lift her head. Benito joined Navarre, sandwiching her between them. Together they fed her their strength, murmuring words of encouragement.

  Eggs eleven through fifteen passed in this manner. Now, she knew she was going to die. She felt like she was pushing her insides out. She closed her eyes.

  You must hang on, sh’niedra, my Queen, my lover. Our babies will die elsewise.

  The others joined Navarre, touching her mind, Navarre their buffer. She was so cold.

  Twenty, Altarre murmured.

  Please let me sleep, she begged. She stood at the edge of the black maw she’d brought Quince back from. Naked, in human form, she watched as the ground crumbled beneath her bare feet. The blackness promised warmth and more importantly, peace. Was this what she’d dragged Quince away from? No wonder he hadn’t helped her. The maw extended thick dark arms toward her, gibbering softly. She didn’t understand its words, only its inarticulate promises.

  She took a step toward it, hand outstretched. Her arm looked so delicate in this world, as if a simple breeze could snap the bone beneath the pale skin.

  Navarre blocked her from tumbling over the edge, his mental arms wrapped tightly around her.

  If you slip, I shall go with you, Navarre said.

  And I. Adonthe nudged her.

  Henley lifted his head off her pile of eggs. I, too.

  The others echoed him.

  She lacked the strength to fight them. Damn them all.

  The last egg slipped out of her. She lay still.

  It is over! Altarre proclaimed with obvious relief.

  The black maw beckoned again. She was too tired to inch herself closer to the brink. Slowly, she let herself be tugged back from its edge. The maw vanished. She slid into an exhausted sleep.

  When she woke, she was at least warm. She opened one eye. She was still in her dragon form. Navarre, Benito, and Henley were curled around and over her body. Graycet and Percet were wrapped around a pulsating pile of silvery eggs half buried in the sand several feet from her. She lacked the energy to even lift her head.

  Navarre opened his eyes. They whirled, jade rainbows dancing in their depths.

  You didn’t let me go, she said softly.

  I might as well be dead without you.

  Had she been in human form, she’d have blushed or worse, cried. We did it, she said, changing the subject.

  She basked in the effervescence of pride he sent her way.

  Benito echoed that. Well done, my Queen.

  Henley stirred, easing himself off her body. I will fetch you something to eat.

  Thank you. I’m not sure I have the strength to change.

  Then do not try. Navarre’s voice was stern. He snuggled deeper against her, wrapping his tail around her.

  No raw meat, she pleaded, though she knew her dragon form wouldn’t mind.

  Henley laughed, his voice a rumble in her mind. How about eggs?

  Her stomach rolled uneasily. No eggs either.

  Navarre lifted his head and hissed at Henley. Do not tease my mate.

  Henley abased himself, belly pressed flat to the sands as he slunk away. Adrianne heard him mumbling to himself, but Navarre either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore it.

  My babies. She never thought she’d miss their voices in her head.

  They are well-guarded. Rest for a bit, sh’neidra.

  I should go to them, she insisted.

  Navarre reluctantly let her go. She half crawled, half dragged herself to the pile of eggs. Graycet and Percet moved aside to let her curl herself partially around the eggs. Navarre joined her, completing the protective circle.

  They are very rubbery, she remarked, nosing one. Can you hear me? she asked the top egg.

  I can, Adonthe said distantly. He was busy shoveling food into a sack for Henley. You are broadcasting.

  Navarre growled low in his throat.

  She felt Adonthe cringe.

  Did you all survive the trip? she asked the eggs. A sleepy incoherent response met her query. She sighed in relief. That was all she needed to know at the moment. Lowering her head, she rested it on the eggs.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Agent Cliverson set a cup of coffee beside Baker and took a seat opposite him. Most days he loved his job but working with a pup barely half his age made him feel old. How many times had he wished Haynes had kept the case? Cliverson had reviewed his records. Haynes was a good, solid agent. Only Haynes didn’t work on bogeyman-type cases. Cliverson did. And now, apparently, so did Baker. He sighed. Of all the cases to have a rookie assigned to, why did his handlers choose this one and why Baker? The boy was barely an agent long enough to put a crease in his badge leather.

  Cliverson’s office was a picture of organized chaos. File boxes lined one wall, floor to ceiling, locked, of course. His window was too small to even
support plant life, but was big enough to create an irritating glare on his computer monitor so he kept the blinds always drawn. A 1700s world map sprawled along one wall, complete with drawings of the supposed sea monsters which lurked beyond land. A much more recent tectonic plate map covered another open spot. A bookshelf crammed with reading material threatened to collapse against the door.

  “Kitzerow knows where Harris is,” Baker blurted out even before Cliverson had settled into his chair.

  Cliverson took his time answering, flipping up the plastic lid on his coffee cup and sipping carefully. It drove Baker nuts. He knew it. “She didn’t strike me as someone smart enough to know she was being wired. She also didn’t sound like someone who wants to be under scrutiny either. Hurts business.”

  “We could bring her in,” Baker offered. Most people cracked under interrogation. This was his first big case involving something that truly could fall under the paranormal umbrella.

  Cliverson took another sip, then set down the cup and picked up his pen to doodle. “Not a bad idea, but we open ourselves up to a lawsuit. DNA from the nursery’s shredder matches the DNA on the body of the hotel clerk. Neither matches Nikki Kitzerow.” Or Adrianne Harris.

  “I read the report,” Baker muttered. “It doesn’t match anything on the planet. It has to be contaminated.”

  “Maybe not.” Cliverson dropped his pen and leaned forward. “Everyone is looking at Ms. Harris and Ms. Kitzerow as the suspects. What if they are really the victims?”

  Baker stood and paced the narrow room, stepping over a skull propped against his chair. “So Kitzerow’s kidnapping was real? We didn’t see the man surveillance identified living with her. Is he her protector or her captor? And is Harris safe or is she being held against her will as well?”

  “By whomever the DNA belongs to or by people who know what the DNA belongs to?” Cliverson watched Baker’s mental wheels shifting gears. That would make the weird puzzle pieces fit. “Let’s say Harris possesses some psychic abilities like an inability to burn. That’d explain her notable lack of burns in the plane crash. Wouldn’t that be a valuable trait to possess by any country?”