The Last Queen

by Christine McKay

  Where had that come from?

  His head throbbed. He stood cautiously, hand on his desk to keep his balance. Walking around the desk, he stooped, eyes on the dogs, and rolled the dead man over.

  It was Gene from the lab. How had he gotten here? The dogs watched him, their panting the only sound in the room.

  “Easy, boy.” He extended his hand toward the nearest dog. They were pathetically lean, every rib showing. Their dark eyes were red-tinged in the crummy desk lamp’s light. Intelligence glimmered there. He shook his head. He needed more sleep. They were just dogs. Whose, he didn’t know, but someone’s butt was going to be in trouble when management found out.

  The dog pulled its head back, just out of Baker’s reach. He should call animal control. Hell, he should call the morgue for poor Gene here as well.

  He couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten to the office. He was dressed in khakis and a neatly pressed white shirt. That his shirt was spattered with tiny droplets of blood seemed unimportant to him.

  There was a rap at his door. The dogs erupted in a low chorus of growls. “No.” He gestured to them to stay put. Remarkably, they listened. “Who is it?” he called.

  “Cliverson. What are you doing in so late?”

  Great, he was spattered in blood and violating just about every rule he knew existed in his manual. Now he was about to be caught in the act by his mentor. Bloody great. The doorknob turned. Baker caught it mid-twist, opening it just a crack. “I have a problem.”

  Cliverson looked nonplused. Then he recovered himself. “There’s been another murder, one of our own.”

  “I know.” Baker opened the door a little wider, revealing the three growling hounds and Gene’s corpse. Blood congealed in a puddle around the body.

  Cliverson’s gaze swung from Gene to the hounds to Baker. “What happened?”

  Still the neutral voice, still composed. He began to believe all the stories he had heard about Cliverson. Baker shrugged. “Not sure.” His headache had diminished a bit. He felt almost drunk—no, not quite—giddy like a kid anticipating Christmas morning.

  Cliverson raised an eyebrow, one hand easing to the gun at his belt. “Easy now, Baker. Have you been drinking?”

  Baker shook his head. “No, but—” He leaned closer. Cliverson was careful to keep the door between them. For some reason, Baker found that hilarious. He giggled. “Baker wants you to know about Burbeen and River Lane.”

  “What about it? Did you meet someone there? Are you still Baker?”

  He straightened. “Yes, I’m Baker. Who the hell do you think I am?” The look in Cliverson’s eyes raised the hair on his arms and neck. Was Cliverson some sort of freak?

  “For a second there I don’t think you knew yourself.”

  One of the hounds stood.

  “I’m just so tired,” Baker said suddenly. Even his bones ached, if that was possible. He leaned against the door. “I don’t remember how I got here,” he said softly. His head dropped. He saw shadows skittering across the floor on Cliverson’s side of the door. He roused. “You called in backup? How’d you manage that?”

  “Psychic,” Cliverson muttered and opened fire on the first hound that flung itself toward the door.

  The hound fell at Cliverson’s feet, leaving a streak of blood in its wake. For some reason, that aggravated Baker. How dare Cliverson shoot one of his hounds?

  “Wait! Don’t shoot.” Baker stepped in the path of the other two hounds. He faced Cliverson. “They won’t hurt you.”

  Cliverson poked the dead one with the toe of his boot. “This one won’t.”

  His control crumbled. “Bastard.” Baker lunged at Cliverson.

  A gunshot rang out, echoing in the hallway. Cliverson didn’t even hesitate. Baker felt the bullet enter his body, sear through his lungs and leave a gaping hole as it departed, duty done. He remained silent but for the whoosh of air sucking through the hole. The pain was minimal as was the damage. Both could be controlled, his inner demon said. He trusted that steady voice in his head. He had to now. Cliverson’s gun remained leveled at Baker.

  Shots rang out around them. The other two hounds collapsed. Baker’s hand closed around Cliverson’s wrist.

  A tingle went through his body. His eyes widened. “You really are psychic,” Baker said.

  “Yes.” Cliverson tipped the gun barrel up and put a round in the hollow behind Baker’s chinbone.

  Blood burbled out of Baker’s mouth. His inner voice remained curiously silent, contemplating the options left to him. We lost this round, Baker thought. Then he closed his eyes and died.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A perfect day for a perfect Hatching. What more could one ask for? The air was warm, the breeze light. The scent of early summer rode the currents. The Dragoon’s mansion was more fortress than skeleton now, complete with a nursery, partial courtyard and a bit of garden. The scarred landscape wounded Mother Earth, but even that was healing, thanks in part to Hennison’s gifted green thumb.

  Peonies the size of a man’s head, or a dragon’s eye, adorned every flat surface of the hatching chamber beneath the ship and then some. Their heady fragrance mingled with the scent of nervous dragon.

  Every member of the Dragoon was present, even Quince. Nikki raged quietly within the ship’s hull. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t be privy to this event, not even after Adrianne mentioned the calves and their purpose. Adrianne tried to not think about the mewling little creatures locked in their enclosure.

  Today she stood in human form, dressed in a loose sleeveless white garment, cinched at the waist with a rope of black pearls as thick as a man’s arm. Little wonder why Benito didn’t worry about money. Even though she was technically one of them, she felt apart. All the others save for Benito were in dragon form. She was afraid if she joined them, she wouldn’t be able to resist the little calves.

  Vespero told her some Queens didn’t even bother to attend hatchings. She couldn’t understand that callous disregard. These were her and Navarre’s children.

  Crouched beside the spread-out pile of eggs, Navarre raised his head and bugled a greeting to his Queen. The bugle was accompanied by one of the eggs violently rocking. It rolled away from the group, shaking like a Mexican jumping bean, then promptly cracked in half.

  “A good omen,” Benito said beside her.

  A triangular olive-colored head poked from the egg. Its eyes, the same shade as its father’s, whirled, forked tongue darting in and out as if testing the safety of the air. Sitting on its haunches, it extended goo-covered wings, fanning to dry them and himself.

  “A son,” she murmured.

  Other eggs twitched. Her gaze was on the small one Navarre had rolled to the far side of the pile. She had worried and fretted over the little egg all these months, keeping it close to her side whenever she could, offering it whatever strength it might need. She feared it was all in vain.

  “A daughter,” she heard Benito exclaim.

  She looked. With scales as deep a red as the finest dark wine, the little dragonet sat back on her haunches and gazed around haughtily. She knew she was destined to become a Queen. The scales along her spine glimmered almost black. Her tail lashed impatiently. Adrianne hid a smile. This one was going to be trouble. Quince nudged her toward the paddock of calves. She promptly bit him on the nose.

  Adrianne laughed out loud. She stopped laughing when she caught of glimpse of what one of her sons was doing to a calf. She turned away, stomach queasy, heading for the little egg. It was half the size of the others, but Adrianne had never lost hope that it might hatch. It had been the reason why Navarre and Altarre came up with a different number of eggs than she. Only she could hear the dragonet inside it.

  She laid her hand on the smooth surface of the shell. It had hardened like the others. Wake up, little one.

  There was no response.

  With her heart in her throat, she dropped to her knees beside the egg and pressed her cheek to the shell. Yes, sh
e felt movement.

  She glanced around wildly. All the other dragonets were hatched and busy feeding. She didn’t even have a pocketknife on her to try to crack the shell, not that it’d work. The shells were built to withstand the weight of dragons. What could she accomplish with a knife?

  She was half shapeshifted when Navarre caught her and eased her back into human form with him. There was a bit of dried blood in his gold hair and smeared across his chin.

  “Navarre, the baby,” she began. “It can’t get out.”

  She couldn’t read the expression on his face and his mind was curiously closed to her. That didn’t bode well. He took her carefully into his arms and pulled her to sit beside the egg.

  She struggled in his grasp. “Do something.”

  His face was burrowed in her hair. “Remember Mirium,” he breathed.

  She stilled. “No.” This was her baby, her child.

  Her hands went to the egg, caressing it. She laid her cheek on its shell. “He’s in there.” She thought she heard the feeble scrabbling of claws against the shell. “Let me go.”

  “Let him go.” His voice was thick.

  She turned in his grasp. “Please, please don’t let him suffocate.” When she saw Navarre’s face, any further protest died on her lips.

  He was the picture of grief, eyes deep green with sorrow, like the fathomless depths of loch water. His lips were pressed flat and he rocked her sporadically with him. Dragons couldn’t cry. She felt the baby slipping away. He knew part of her was dying with her baby.

  “We have twenty-three healthy babies,” he murmured. The pain behind his eyes did not go away with his words. He is my child, too.

  Why? She couldn’t bear to ask him out loud.

  He rubbed her stomach. Twenty-three healthy little ones, sh’niedra. Let us not question the Gods.

  Help me save him. She hated herself for pleading.

  He shook his head, eyes glinting. I wish I could cry as you can.

  She balled her hands into fists and struck him. He pulled her tighter. The tears came hot and heavy then. She buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed. When she’d cried herself out, she simply let Navarre hold her.

  He shook her gently. “Look.”

  She lifted her head. Twenty-three pair of eyes stared back at her. The dragonets ringed them in a loose circle. There were silvers as ethereal as a moonbeam and greens, ranging from the pale color of a newborn leaf to the dark dappled green of a shaded forest, a brown the color of sand, and another with the same iridescent shade as her own dragon hide. Her deep red daughter alone possessed that rich color. All were either jade or sapphire-eyed. Their whirling eyes radiated sympathy.

  “They sense our pain,” Navarre said.

  Altarre, now in human form, knelt beside them. “No, they share it. They wish to ease your sorrow.” He offered her a warm wet washcloth. She took it gratefully and wiped her face.

  The boldest of their children, the wine-colored female, made her way to the front of the pack and approached her on all fours, wings flexing slightly. Her nostrils flared, eyes whirling sapphire-tinged rainbows. She extended a forepaw. Adrianne stretched out a hand to touch it.

  “Careful, they do not know their own strength,” Altarre cautioned.

  Adrianne stroked the scales, then the dragonet crept close enough for her to scratch the ridges protecting the dragonet’s ear canal. The baby purred, leaning into the touch.

  Then, as if she suddenly remembered what she needed to do, the dragonet took an awkward step backward. Rising up on her haunches, she fanned her wings and announced, You may call me Mirium, Mother.

  Epilogue

  Winter sunlight is not the same as summer’s. Winter’s touch is cold like a corpse’s handshake. Summer sunlight is healing. Summer sunlight moves like a lover’s hands, caressing the earth, coaxing life out of dirt and water. Summer sunlight is accompanied by the sounds of earth giving birth—the fresh unfurling of leaves, the rustle of butterfly wings against silk-lined cocoons. In the nursery fields, birds scratch through mulch, scavenging for last year’s seeds.

  A crow lands, pecking at a shiny trinket all but hidden in the mulch. The metal wiggles in the crow’s beak, like a silver-encased worm, then the crow tips to its side, dead. For a brief moment, every vein in its body right down to the shafts of its feathers is shot through with silver. Then the bird dissolves into a puddle of silver goo.

  It is a time of rebirth.

  The goo becomes an eye, a single blinking red eye.

  About the Author

  Christine McKay was born and raised in northeastern Wisconsin, graduated in a class of less than 54 students, and earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Computer Science at a local college taught mostly by nuns. She is the oldest in her family, with two brothers and one sister.

  Christine lives on a farm with her husband and an assortment of four-legged creatures including goats, mules, dogs, rabbits, cats, chickens, a donkey, and a llama. Her favorite authors include Robin McKinley, Patricia McKillip, Anne McCaffrey, Ayn Rand, Andre Norton, and Nora Roberts.

  Christine welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.cerridwenpress.com.

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