by Mary Auclair
“Lord Aymond Haal?” Marielle called again, louder this time, not caring if she appeared impolite. “It’s Marielle Jansen… I’m here.”
A muffled noise came from up the steps and she froze. She looked up to the top of the that throne she could barely see, and a small part of her recognized the sound for what it was. It was the rasp of someone about to die.
Marielle climbed the stairs two by two, not pausing to think. Finally, she reached the top and stared at the grisly scene before her.
There, just behind the large stone chair, lay a creature she had only ever seen from afar, up in the skies, like angels of death with Gods on their backs.
A dragon, green as new spring leaves, lay on its side, its long neck extended back, its large head resting on the stone in an unbearable stillness. Its eyes were half open, and the milky crystalline that stared at nothing meant only one thing.
The dragon was dead.
Her breathing became heavy and fast, and Marielle’s head swam in a puddle of confusion. Dragons were impossible to kill, they lived for hundreds and hundreds of years, yet here this one was, right in front of her, dead as road kill.
“Lord Aymond?” she called again, but this time her voice was barely more than a whisper. Because she knew that wherever there was a dragon, his Draekon was close by.
What she didn’t know was what did a Draekon do when its dragon was dead?
Another raspy noise came, and this time, she could pinpoint the location of the sound and it made the hair on her arms stand up.
She carefully stepped around the dragon’s head, watching its dead, milky eyes as she put a foot beside the green snout in which she could see the gleam of long, white teeth. Sharp, long and deadly teeth. Teeth that could rip her to pieces in a few seconds.
Only this particular dragon wasn’t tearing anybody to pieces. As she stepped clear of the predator’s mouth, Marielle lifted her eyes to see the cause of that terrible sound.
There, right beside the dragon’s large stomach, lay a tall Draekon man.
Silver eyes locked on her, and the man lifted a hand in her direction. Marielle rushed to him, knowing without needing to be told that this was Lord Aymond Haal, ruler of Aalstad. Her future mate, and her brother’s salvation.
Carefully, she lifted the older man’s head and cradled him in her lap, holding his hand in hers.
Silver eyes closed, then opened again as he fought whatever was trying to suck the life out of him. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Then his eyes grew wider and his back arched, pain etched on every inch of his face, terrible and sharp. Then the man coughed, and blood splattered Marielle’s face, chest and arms—so much blood, it filled her vision with red. Then the man fell limp on her lap, and she screamed.
She screamed until her voice gave out.
The silence felt like a growing beast, spreading from inside his chest and coating the room in a thick layer of dark, noiseless void. His mind was a blank, no thoughts filtered through the haze of shock he felt at the news his aunt Isobel had just given him.
At her feet, her small dragoness, Hydrad, rubbed her fine head against Isobel’s legs. The beast was small, perhaps the size of a small horse or a large pony, her scales glistening a pure metallic green, two large yellow eyes flickering with intelligence settling on Nyra and Fedryc. Hydrad’s size was a direct result of a long line of inbreeding in the Draekon community, a birth defect which some saw as the reason why Draekon should never mate with each other.
Her dragoness’ size alone was not enough to excuse Isobel’s hostile, angry attitude towards Fedryc and Henron.
Lord Aymond was dead. Fedryc’s father, the man who had cast a dark cloud over his life since the moment of his birth, was gone. Behind him, Nyra’s presence was a red anchor, the only thing preventing him from losing himself to the storm brewing inside.
Fedryc closed his eyes against the memories threatening to fill his mind, but it was no use.
He was small, too small to carry the large suitcase to the hovering transport that waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, but he struggled anyway. His father’s eyes were set on him with all the warmth of a winter moon, betraying no emotion as he sent his son away.
Finally, Fedryc pulled the heavy case to the last step and he braced himself against the supple leather, panting heavily. Nyra slithered behind it, raising herself on her haunches, looking at him with her head cocked to the side. A playful lashing of her tail made a hollow noise on the stone stairs.
But Fedryc didn’t want to play. He wanted to cry and beg.
“Please, Father.” Fedryc turned to see Lord Aymond towering over him, his face as stony as the castle. “Don’t send me away. I promise, I’ll be good. I won’t hide in your office anymore.”
“This is an honor, my son.” Lord Aymond looked at Fedryc, then bent and lifted the suitcase easily, placing it in a servant’s hands. “The Emperor’s court is the best place for a young Draekon to learn to be a man.”
Fedryc bent his head to the floor. His eyes filled with tears, but even at five years old, he knew better than to cry in front of the High Lord. “I can be a man later,” Fedryc whispered to the stone. “I will miss my Nan, and I’ll be scared at night.”
The tssk sound that followed sent shudders of terror across Fedryc’s skin and he immediately regretted his words.
“You are a Draekon. You don’t need a Nan anymore.” Lord Aymond’s voice was hard enough to break bones. “I will be expecting you to keep our family’s honor at the court. Work hard with your masters, bring pride to your name.”
Not make him proud. Lord Aymond never expressed affection or pride, or anger, or even hatred toward his son.
Fedryc felt the sting of the tears spreading over his cheeks like a surrender, like shame clinging to his skin. He nodded, not wanting to look up and see disgust in his father’s eyes.
The door to the transport opened and Fedryc climbed in silently, cradling Nyra against his body. When he finally glanced up, Lord Aymond was already climbing the stairs back to the castle. His father didn’t look back.
And Fedryc knew his childhood had ended.
Fedryc opened his eyes to lock gazes with his aunt. Isobel had lived most of her life at her brother’s side. Although she had mated young and produced a child with her first mate, she had never engaged in another mating. It was no surprise, considering her daughter’s dragon was even smaller than Isobel’s. It was the taint of inbreeding, and although it produced dragons of staggering beauty, it was at the cost of their power and strength, and for the Draekon, strength was a virtue held above anything else.
Fedryc couldn’t blame Isobel for her own defect, and he couldn’t blame her for her daughter’s, either. None of them had had a choice. A Draekon woman did not choose whom she was mated to.
But he could blame her for her abrupt, hostile manner.
“I was summoned by Lord Aymond four days ago.” Fedryc handed the official letter to his aunt, who snatched it from his grasp and read it, her lips pursed and her face closed off. “I can only assume I was meant to witness his Mating Ceremony.”
“It won’t happen now.” Isobel lifted her silver eyes, the irises lined with a circle of pure blood red—another sign of her dragon’s weakness—and handed the letter back to Fedryc. “What do you intend to do?”
He paused, studying the woman’s face carefully. She was beautiful and younger than Aymond Haal by many decades, the younger child of his father’s second mating, but the resemblance was striking, right down to her cold cunning and love for power.
“I am Lord Aymond’s heir.” Fedryc spoke simply, and Nyra bristled at his back as if to give weight to his statement. “As such, I am the new High Lord of Aalstad.”
Isobel’s eyes flashed, but it was only for a moment. She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging Fedryc’s claim to the throne and his superior power.
“As is the law,” Isobel said in a quiet voice. “Then as High Lord, we will h
ave to talk about your father’s death.”
“How did this happen?” Henron spoke for the first time, his voice sober and low, but strong like always.
Isobel raised her brows and her gaze went from Fedryc to Henron. Displeasure was clear on her fine, aristocratic features, with a deep scowl curving her high forehead and her fine-lipped mouth twisted in a grimace.
“The guard should be waiting outside,” she said in a voice as clear as crystal. “It’s not proper to have him listening to our private family affairs.”
“If you’re referring to Henron,” Fedryc was pulled from his trance, and a faint anger filled the void in his mind, “he is a brother to me. I trust him with my life.”
“Very well then.” Isobel pursed her lips in what was clearly intended to be a smile but made her look like a hyena instead. “I am afraid your father did not die of natural causes. He was murdered.”
Silence filled the space between Isobel and Fedryc. Behind Fedryc, Nyra was uncharacteristically silent as the news hit them hard.
“Murdered?” Fedryc’s words were breathless and his head swam in confusion. “Nissar was the strongest dragon to roam this side of the continent. He would have never let anything happen to my father.”
“Nobody is stronger than Venemum Ardere.”
Fedryc stared at Isobel as she uttered the words. Behind him, Nyra growled, the sound low and deep as her body shivered with fury.
“Venemum Ardere?” The words left his mouth but Fedryc could barely breathe. “How is that even possible?”
Isobel turned her back to Fedryc, and her long-fingered hands hugged her arms as she shook her head. “Humans aren’t as trustworthy as your father thought. He should never have brought that girl into the castle. Still, no matter now. She will be punished for her crime tomorrow.”
“The girl?” Fedryc stared at his aunt, uncomprehending. “The human woman killed him? The one he was supposed to mate?”
“She was retrieved from her ghastly house in the capital’s slums, given every measure of comfort and hospitality in the castle.” Isobel looked down at her dragoness, her fingers trailing lightly between the graceful ears of the small beast. “Then Aymond sent for her. He wanted to meet her in the throne room, give her the honor of Nissar’s blessing. We found them shortly after she poisoned him. There was nothing we could have done to save them.”
“How did she do it?”
It shouldn’t hurt so. Lord Aymond Haal had never been a father to him. All he had ever been was a ghost with cold eyes, staring at him from the far corner of a satellite world Fedryc had never seen, judging him for something he had no memory of doing.
“She slipped the poison into his cup.” Isobel’s lips trembled and she bit them hard enough to draw blood. “He planned to have a meal with her, make her comfortable. Treat her like an equal, that’s what he planned to do. Well, she showed him what good that did.”
Fedryc stared at Isobel. “She betrayed him.”
Isobel’s green dragoness, Hydrad, curled around her legs and hissed at Nyra. In response, the red dragoness fumed at the smaller one, emitting a steady column of black smoke against the pure red of her scales. Fedryc reached for Nyra, more out of instinct than anything else, and flattened his palm against her neck. A wave of anger and pain assailed him, all mixed together in a tide of molten lava coming from the beast. It took all his self-control to tame the feelings coming from Nyra and turn them into something he could manage, push them down into the pit where his feelings went to slowly turn to ashes.
After he was relatively sure Nyra wouldn’t burn his aunt and her dragoness to death, Fedryc pulled his hand away.
“Where is she now?” His voice was a rasp, low and animalistic, dangerous. “Where is my father’s murderer?”
Chapter 3
Marielle screamed again, this time throwing the tray—and her dinner—through the bars at the guard standing right in front of her cell. The Delradon guard stepped aside quickly, barely avoiding the metal projectile, but ended up covered in the gooey gray sludge they’d served her for two days straight. A strong wind blew from the desert into the open face of the dungeon, hot and dry, making her mouth taste like sand and her lips crack. This was a Draekon’s idea of a jail: a hole in the face of the cliff, where prisoners would be exposed to the elements, their will shriveling up as dehydration from the day’s heat and teeth-chattering cold from the night used up their minds like old rags.
She was done playing nice.
“You can take back your food!” Marielle yelled, loud enough to be heard from higher above. To be heard by someone who mattered and who could pull her away from this place. “I want to talk to someone in charge.”
The guard lifted his dark maroon eyes to her and his mouth twisted in anger. He brushed food off the front of his bright red uniform, then reached for the long wooden stick hanging from his belt. “I’ll tell you who you can talk to.”
He took a fast series of steps toward the bars to her cell, the long, slim wooden stick held high. His intent was as obvious as the way his other hand clenched into a fist.
He was going to hit her.
Marielle backed all the way to the opposite wall of her cell, but that only gave her about six feet. It was enough to prevent him from hitting her through the bars, but she was done if he decided to break the rules and go inside. Judging by the way his eyes glowed with anger, he could very well decide to do so. After all, she was only human, and they’d accused her of the murder of a Draekon High Lord. She was as good as dead anyway. But she wasn’t going to make it easier on them.
“Here! Help me!” Marielle shouted again, remembering the instructions the Delradon servant lady had given the guards about keeping her intact for her punishment. “He’s going to kill me!”
“Shut your filthy mouth,” the guard shouted, then tried to hit her through the bars—without success, which only infuriated him more. “You’ll get what you deserve soon enough for what you did to Lord Aymond.”
“I don’t deserve anything because I didn’t do anything!”
Hot tears of frustration burned her eyelids and she bent down, then grabbed a fist-sized rock from the dungeon floor. She knew she shouldn’t engage him further, should play meek and dumb, like most Delradon seemed to think humans—and especially human women—were. She just couldn’t. She had given up everything to save her family, but now that her sacrifice amounted to nothing, she wasn’t about to let them strip her of her life without a fight.
Without hesitation, she threw the rock squarely at the guard’s face. The man yelped in pain as it landed on his nose and he retreated, holding his injured face with his free hand.
Marielle watched, her heart beating so hard it hurt, as the guard lifted murderous eyes to her while his blood dripped steadily on the ground. The stick fell with a musical, merry sound and the guard straightened. His hand left his face and went to the key chain on his hip. All she could focus on was the mess of his nose, the bruised, battered flesh that oozed blood down his twisted lips and chin.
“I’m sorry,” Marielle said quickly, realizing she’d made a mistake, that she’d pushed things too far this time. She darted a few looks around but there was nothing in the bare cell but stone walls, a stone floor, and the metal bars that ran from floor to ceiling. The handful of tiny rocks scattered on the ground weren’t going to help her against the pissed-off Delradon guard.
She was going to die.
I’m so sorry, Devan. I did my best.
Marielle closed her eyes as the guard turned his key in the hole and a familiar metallic sound told her the only barrier between herself and violence was gone.
The sound of his boots on the stone floor got closer.
This is it.
Then they stopped.
Marielle opened her eyes to see the guard, a mere few feet away from her, close enough to touch her if he wanted to. The door to her cell dangled open on its rusty hinges. But he wasn’t paying her any attention anymore. His body was
turned away from her and his eyes were glued to the spiraling stairway carved in stone that led to the upper levels of the castle, away from the gloom and terror of the dungeon. He was afraid of something. More afraid of it than he was pissed at her.
“What’s wrong?” she couldn’t help asking. Whatever made the guard so scared had to terrify her also.
Then a man came down the stairs to the dungeon, his shoulders large and square, his steps fluid, his entire body glowing with a feline grace. As he got nearer to the bottom of the stairs, his silver eyes reflected the light like a cat’s.
Draekon.
Marielle shivered deep in her soul where her fear of the beasts and their masters resided. Where humans still cowered in awe of the powerful aliens who descended from the sky with fire and death in their wake.
The stranger approached and the guard finally woke up from whatever spell the Draekon had put him under. The guard rushed out of the cell and fell to his knees as the Draekon approached. Those cold eyes, shining like a naked blade, were set on her like on prey as the Draekon stalked toward Marielle, not even glancing at the kneeling Delradon guard.
Marielle stood straight, not knowing the appropriate way to greet him. Should she lower her head? Put her knees to the ground in submission? Cry and beg for mercy? The very idea made her stomach churn with bile.
Never.
“Are you the one they call Marielle Jansen?” The Draekon’s voice was deep and soft like black velvet, the same color as the hair that fell to his brows, and it was layered with enough anger that her knees trembled.
Maybe she would throw herself on the ground after all. Marielle stared at him, the first Draekon man she had ever laid eyes on directly, and her mind was a blank.
His silver eyes squinted and his full, hard lips curved down. His high cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and his honey colored skin was smooth and gleaming under the faint light. He had an exotic beauty, masculine and dangerous, from the athletic musculature of his arms and legs to the way he moved. He was a predator in every sense of the way.