by Mary Auclair
The food tasted so good, and the years of privation made her even more hungry. She wasn’t about to turn down this bounty. Who knew how long it would last?
“You could do with some more curves,” Fedryc said between two bites. “You’d look good with an extra inch here and an extra inch there.”
His eyes slid over her body, pausing pointedly at her breasts. Marielle chuckled, her mouth full and her cheeks burning up. She loved Fedryc’s attentions, and he never missed a chance to make her feel beautiful and desirable. That was one of the many things she’d come to cherish about him. The way he always saw her, saw the woman behind the mask and the bravado.
It made her want him, more than just his body. Want him, this man she was beginning to know.
“I wonder what it felt like, growing up like this,” she said, looking up as Fedryc paused between bites. “So much abundance, never a worry. What was it like, growing up in the Emperor’s castle?”
Fedryc stopped chewing and looked at her like she had been stuffing roasted carrots up her nostrils instead of asking a simple question. He blinked, then finished chewing his food, taking a long time before he finally leaned back against the high-backed chair.
“Growing up as a ward in the Emperor’s castle wasn’t exactly carefree.” He inhaled deeply, his silver eyes on her like he was trying to decide how much he wanted to tell her. Whether she was worthy of hearing about his past. Finally, he nodded to himself. “We never lacked for food or warmth like you did. But that is where the carefree childhood ended. Every day we trained until our arms ached and we fell into our beds exhausted every night. It never eased up, never stopped. There was no holiday, no rest. There is no place for weakness in the becoming of a High Lord. Those who couldn’t keep up with the training died.”
Marielle stared as Fedryc looked up and far away into that past she knew nothing about. An unbearable sadness curved his full, hard lips down and she had to prevent herself from touching him as she didn’t want to stop the flow of words.
“But there are so few of your young, surely they must be very precious?”
“If they show strength enough, yes.” His sad smile stretched as his eyes became clouded with memories. “But there is no softness on Dagmar. The Emperor’s court is cruel and set in its own traditions. From what I understand, most Draekon families on Earth shun the rigorous training held in such high esteem on Dagmar in favor of a more caring approach, if you could call it that. As a result, few young Draekon boys die on Earth, whereas many die on Dagmar.”
Fedryc stopped talking, his eyes remote and his face taut with lines of grief. Marielle looked at him, then she remembered something he had told her what seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Henron was with you, was he not? On Dagmar.” She watched as the grief settled in Fedryc’s features and he nodded. “He is Draekon, but where is his dragon?”
“Henron is the victim of a sad trick of fate.” Fedryc looked down at his plate and slowly forked up another morsel of succulent goodness. Then he looked back up at her, and she suddenly wasn’t so sure she wanted to know. “He was born without a dragon, although both his parents are Draekons. His father felt great shame about this, and even though it wasn’t Henron’s fault, they cast him out. They sent him to the Emperor’s court as a ward when he was three years old. Before he could even remember his parents. It’s only a testament to his strong will that he lived through this many years of training.”
Marielle stared open-mouthed at the horror Fedryc had described. Her mind went back to the stern-faced Draekon man who served as Fedryc’s right hand. This was too much for her.
“But your father came to visit you, did he not?” she asked, almost in denial that men could be so cruel to children they brought into the world. For her, it was unimaginable. “He didn’t abandon you.”
Fedryc’s dry chuckle erased any faith Marielle still had about Lord Aymond’s love for his only son.
“Even before being sent to the Emperor, I barely saw him. I would hide in his office just to look at him when he worked. He knew I was there, but never bothered to come out and talk to me. Or just look at me.” He shook his head. “As I was a ward, Lord Aymond came to monitor my progress with my tutors twice a year, speaking with them in front of me like I was not there. He never had a kind word, never had a kind look for me.”
Marielle opened her mouth, then closed it again. The very words out of Fedryc’s mouth made her blood run cold. He brought his faraway stare back to her and she saw the wound on his soul through those beautiful silver eyes.
“Were your parents loving, caring?” he asked in a voice heavy with the nightmares of a past that was dangerously close.
“Yes,” she whispered back, and felt her heart rip at the seams when Fedryc’s mouth curved in a sad smile. Like he was happy for her. It made her only angrier at the High Lord she hadn’t known. “My mother died of yellow fever when Devan was only two and I seven. I was fifteen when my father died in the fire that left us orphans.”
“How were they?” it was almost like he was pleading with her to find out. To know what parents should be, what a love he hadn’t known felt like.
“My mom was the sweetest, kindest person I’ve ever known.” Marielle heard the dreamy, longing tone in her own voice. “My father adored her. He worked as a peace officer—before humans were banned from the police force—and he would come home every night, then kiss my mother before saying anything. He would just walk in, then wrap his arms around her and kiss her. I remember watching them, so in love, so happy, and I thought we were safe, as long as my father would come home and wrap his arms around my mom.”
She paused under the weight of the emotions those memories brought her. “I was right. Devan was ten and I fifteen during the fire that wiped out most the slum. Our father died that day, and Devan and I were left with nothing. Nothing but each other.”
“But they showed you how to love. In a sense, they made you both richer than I ever was.”
“Yes, I would think so.”
Silence wrapped around Marielle and Fedryc. It was the first time they had really spoken, told each other about the wounds that ran deep as their souls. Fedryc watched her, his handsome, carved face like the image of a watchful God.
“I am sorry for what happened to you. No orphan should have been left to fend for themselves like you and your brother were.” Fedryc’s long fingers wrapped around the arm of his chair. “I vow to you that no child, human or not, will ever be left without protection in Aalstad as long as I am the High Lord.”
Marielle watched him and her chest swelled with an unfamiliar warmth. She got to her feet and walked to him. His silver eyes gleamed in the dim light as she bent over and kissed him.
His lips felt good and strong, and the touch sent a blaze of desire across her skin, rippling all the way to that already begging spot between her legs. His hands closed on her shoulders and he pulled her into his lap. Fire spread between them, their mouths locked on each other’s. The world and its worries faded to the background as only Fedryc mattered, only his hands on her and his mouth all over her neck, her face. She wanted this to matter. She wanted this to last a lifetime and more, just like every night since she had become his Draekarra.
A sharp knock on the door made her stop and Fedryc pulled away, a scowl on his face.
“What is it?” he shouted, his tone clearly hostile.
“Fedryc, you need to come immediately. This cannot wait.”
Henron’s voice was tense and Fedryc slowly lifted Marielle to her feet, his face suddenly sober. He looked down at her, then wrapped his long fingers around her chin.
“Don’t go out of these rooms.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw. “I mean it. The killer is still on the loose, and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
Then he was gone, and the cold stone within her breast ached anew.
Henron stood at the door, preventing anyone from entering. Anyone other than Fedryc and Isobel, who stood
motionless over the girl’s body.
Fedryc cast a sharp glance at his aunt, her face as smooth and expressionless as if she was looking at a doll lying on the floor and not a girl who had worked all her life for the Haal family. A girl Isobel had known for years, yet whose death brought not an ounce of sadness or compassion. Her mouth was straight and two fine lines ran down at the corners of her lips. Isobel’s eyes were lined with dark circles and her skin looked parched and brittle. She looked older, more tired than on the day he’d arrived in Aalstad. Lord Aymond’s death had taken a toll on her.
“What was her name?” Fedryc looked away from Isobel to the still figure of the servant girl. She was slumped in a wooden chair, her upper body slightly leaning to the side, her hands hanging down while her head was tilted way too far back. Her empty eyes stared at the ceiling, soft, golden and beautiful, but beginning to cloud with the shroud of death. She was young, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, slim and short, dressed in a long gray dress like all the servants of Aalstad castle.
“Asha.” Isobel’s musical voice was even but Fedryc heard the tremor at the end. Perhaps Isobel wasn’t as insensitive as he first thought. “She was born in the castle. Her mother and father died years ago. Her grandmother will be distraught.”
“Yes, she will,” Fedryc answered, kneeling in front of the dead servant girl. She was Delradon, like every other person in the castle. It seemed Isobel didn’t hire human help. The girl’s face looked so peaceful, so innocent, with her dark lashes framing eyes that looked without seeing. She would look alive if it wasn’t for the painful stillness of her chest and the faint blue tone of her lips. “She didn’t die long ago. An hour, maybe two, not much more.”
“She was so young.” Isobel stepped closer and the mask on her features cracked, revealing the woman behind. Fedryc got a glimpse of the grief that struck his aunt and it softened his anger toward the woman. “I remember her as a young child, always running into trouble, always where she shouldn’t be. She had such spirit. She was Silva’s friend, the only other girl her age in the castle.”
Isobel turned away from Asha and walked to the girl’s small dresser, the only other piece of furniture in the sparse room apart from the bed and the chair, then braced herself on the plain wooden surface where there was a small jewelry box. Fedryc could see her hands gripping the wooden surface so hard her knuckles were white. He watched his aunt for another second before looking at Henron.
“Have your men found out anything about her?” Fedryc asked him. “Did the girl have any enemies?”
“She was nineteen years old,” Isobel snapped, not turning around to look at them. “No nineteen-year-old has enemies.”
Fedryc stared at Isobel’s straight back for a moment before turning back to Henron. “Did the girl have a lover?” he didn’t add that if she did, then that man was in all likelihood the one who had killed her.
“Her name was Asha!” Isobel spun around fast and in doing so, she knocked the small jewelry box down to the floor.
The box opened and the contents spilled on the stone floor. A glass bead necklace and a few earrings that were likely family heirlooms. Nothing out of the ordinary. The few possessions of a girl born into servitude and who would serve all her life.
Then something unusual attracted Fedryc’s attention. He bent and lifted a necklace, frowning as he examined the sapphires and diamonds, ornately displayed in a heavy gold bezel. His eyes went to Henron, whose face now bore a frown.
“That isn’t a servant’s jewelry,” Henron commented, looking down at the rest of the box’s contents.
“No, it’s not.” Fedryc turned to Isobel, who watched with reddening eyes. “Do you recognize this necklace?”
“It belonged to my mother. Made of dragon-forged sapphires,” Isobel said, her face gradually twisting some more. “It’s priceless. A family heirloom.”
“Do you know when it went missing?” Fedryc handed the jewelry to Isobel, who took the necklace then stuffed it into a hidden pocket inside her dress.
“I wear it only for special occasions.” Isobel suddenly widened her eyes. “At your father’s Mourning. That’s when I wore it last.”
Fedryc stared at his aunt as her face contorted with the grief of betrayal, but when she looked at Asha, there was no resentment, no hatred in her expression.
“She wouldn’t have stolen from me.” Isobel’s lips quivered and she turned away again, bracing herself on the wood dresser. “Asha wouldn’t steal from this family. There’s an explanation for this.”
Fedryc allowed his aunt some time and turned to Henron. Understanding passed between them. This girl had been stealing from her mistress, and had likely done so for a long time, no matter what Isobel said. She had stolen and surely sold whatever she could get her hands on. Now, she had died because of it.
How she had died and who had killed her remained to be seen. Thief or not, nobody was going to murder a young woman in his own house without feeling the repercussions.
“Oh my Gods,” Isobel whispered, then turned around, a white piece of paper in her dainty, trembling fingers. She unfolded it and started to read. Her red, swollen eyes took in the few lines before she exhaled forcefully, then braced herself on the dresser again. Fedryc watched as his aunt’s faced twisted with grief and hurt, then gave way to anger. She lifted her gaze to him and her lips trembled. “She asks for my forgiveness for stealing from me. She killed herself. Stupid, stupid girl.”
Her voice broke and her face crumpled as she covered it with her hands. Her dainty shoulders shook as she wept openly.
Watching the uncharacteristic display of emotions in his aunt, Fedryc understood the girl—Asha—had meant something to Isobel. Something much more than a servant girl who had played with her daughter when they were young.
“Henron, check the body,” Fedryc ordered as he reached for the letter in Isobel’s hands. As soon as his fingers came in contact with the paper, he let go as a wave of weakness traveled up his arm, leaching out his strength.
“Henron!” He turned to his friend in alarm. “Don’t touch her!”
Henron stood over Asha’s lifeless form, surprise and suspicion on his face.
“It’s Venemum Ardere.” Fedryc carefully wiped his fingers with a handkerchief but even that didn’t remove the feeling of his strength being sucked away. “The letter’s covered in it.”
Isobel’s sobs stopped and she looked up, but her eyes soon glazed over and she stumbled forward. Fedryc rushed to his aunt’s aid, then lifted her as she went limp.
“This is not a suicide,” Fedryc told Henron as he walked to the door with his aunt’s limp body in his arms. She weighed painfully little, and he asked himself how he could not have noticed her withering away over the last few weeks. “This was a murder, and whoever killed Asha also intended to kill me. Me and you.”
“How so?” Henron eyed the cadaver with suspicion, pulling leather gloves from his pockets at the same time.
“Who else other than you and me was supposed to find that letter? Isobel was only here because she had an unusual attachment to the girl.” Fedryc paused as he crossed the threshold. “This has been done from inside the castle. The murderer is still here.”
“Yes, and from now on, we can’t trust anyone.” Henron reached for the commu-link at his wrist and spoke rapidly in Delradon. “You’d better make sure your Draekarra is safe.”
Without another word, Fedryc turned and left, running for the medical wing with his aunt in his arms. He couldn’t feel her pulse anymore.
The killer was getting closer.
Chapter 15
Marielle sat on the corner of the bed, her ears ringing and her face numb. She blinked again, but no matter how many times she made the world disappear, it was still the same when her eyelids opened.
“Asha?” Just saying her name made this all too real, and Marielle had to pause for a few seconds. “I saw her this morning. She looked normal, happy. How could she have killed herself?”
“She didn’t.” Fedryc stood in front of her, his face set in grim lines. He looked tired for the first time since she had known him. There was an exhaustion about him that made her shiver with fear. Fedryc Haal wasn’t one to get tired, he was an all-powerful Draekon lord. Seeing the signs of fatigue in him made her more afraid than she ever had been. “Henron confirmed that Asha died of Venemum Ardere poisoning. There’s no way a young girl like that could get her hands on such a rare poison. Whoever killed her left a suicide note coated in it. There was also certainty that I would be the first person to find and read that note. This poisoning attempt was for me; Asha was just an accidental victim.”
“Was it the same person who killed Lord Aymond?”
“Yes.” Fedryc’s eyes gleamed with anger. “Venemum Ardere is the poison of choice of the Knat-Kanassis. They believe it will only harm those of impure blood, like the Delradon and humans, but not the Draekon of pure blood.”
“And does it?” Marielle frowned, remembering the rumor of the year before, about a young Draekon lord whose dragon had been injured by a blade coated with the poison in a faraway kingdom called Darragon.
“Of course not.” Fedryc shook his head. “That’s only more of their propaganda. The Knat-Kanassis used it before, and it pushed Dagmar into a civil war so long and devastating, the planet still bears the scars of it. Millions died, and millions more will if war starts again.”
He turned away and Marielle had the distinct feeling there was something he wasn’t felling her. She bent and reached for his hand, and he looked down at her with guilt on his face.
“What it is?” She spoke softly, knowing he was proud and this was something that hurt, deep inside. “You can tell me. You know everything about me. There is nothing you can say that will make me think less of you.”