by M. D. Grimm
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
More from M.D. Grimm
About the Author
By M.D. Grimm
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
On Wings of Passion
By M.D. Grimm
A Story from the On Wings Saga
Prequel to On Wings of Thunder
Every story has a beginning….
Dragons. Angels fear them and demons follow them. Formidable beasts of incredible power, they fight each other to the death for dominance. But dwindling dragon numbers cause alarm among the angelic ranks. Surely when the dragons have finished killing each other, the victors will search elsewhere for conquest… maybe even the Upper Realm.
Roland, an angelic artist of significant talent, doesn’t know what to believe. Part of him longs to see a dragon in person, and his peaceful life of contentment is wearing thin. He wants passion, desire, adventure, and love. He gets more than he bargained for when he and his sister are ambushed and captured by demons, and they bring him to a creature who surpasses Roland’s wildest imaginings.
But the mighty dragon Asagoroth is not all that he seems. Something sparks between him and Roland. Something neither anticipated. Something that will shake the cosmos to its core.
I wanted to dedicate this book to all the fans who voraciously devoured On Wings of Thunder and wanted more. Thank you for planting the seed. Now there is more. Enjoy!
Author’s Note
ON WINGS of Thunder was supposed to be a stand-alone story. You can see how well that worked out! I had no intention of ever writing Roland’s story, but once I started playing with the idea, the dominoes fell. He was such a great character to write that now I’m even sorrier for the fate I handed him!
But I might not be done yet…. There could also be sequels dealing with Trystan and his dragon. We shall see.
Prologue
ROLAND LIFTED his head when the cell door creaked open. He swallowed hard as he stared at Commander Mykial, gleaming in his emerald armor, the silver designs swirling from his helmet down to his gauntlets and bracers. He’d known Mykial once. He’d looked into those amber eyes and seen warmth and humor, even a frustrated patience at times. He knew Mykial’s spouse, his children. He was familiar with the shape of his face, his expressions, his laugh, and voice lifted in song.
But it was different now. They were enemies now.
Mykial’s eyes were granite, his expression carved from stone, and his shoulders were rigid and tense, his large white wings twitching slightly. Roland hadn’t expected any allies or anyone to speak in his defense, and the hard look compounded the growing dread in his gut. This was really happening. His fate was sealed.
Commander Mykial, his onetime friend, would lead him to his execution.
He stood slowly, careful to keep his hands visible and his posture nonthreatening. He didn’t resist when Mykial grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back, then locked them in chains. The cold steel bit into his sensitive skin, and he gritted his teeth against the discomfort. Mykial pushed him forward, and he walked on stiff legs, focusing on breathing in and out. In and out.
He couldn’t let his concentration waver. Not now. Not at the moment of truth. He was terrified, yes, but he had to keep hope and love alive for the spell to work. If he hesitated now, he wouldn’t return whole, and his life essence would disperse to parts unknown. He might coalesce into angels, not one angel, and that wouldn’t be enough. He would never get another chance.
By the Light Bringer, he deserved another chance!
They both did.
Asagoroth.
Roland closed his eyes briefly, easily locking the image of the mighty dragon in his mind’s eye. The reason for the spell. The reason for his love and his hope.
He would return. Another face, another name, but he would return. He would reclaim his dragon, and they would start again. They would be happy again. Nothing the closed-minded, bigoted rabble did could shake their devotion.
Roland opened his eyes, hardening his resolve, pushing his terror down.
He’d won the heart of the mightiest of dragons, a beast of such magnitude and power it wasn’t quantifiable. Asagoroth would be wrath incarnate, and he would be ruin when he realized the angels had stolen Roland, had executed him. Roland could only hope Asagoroth would trust him to return so he wouldn’t burn all the angels to ash.
As Roland stepped onto the platform that held the executioner’s ruby block, and as Mykial read his crimes aloud for the restless audience, Roland turned inward. He remembered everything about Asagoroth: their first meeting, their first touch. Kiss. Everything outside of himself dissolved, and he lived the last moments of his life within his memories.
Chapter One
Five years earlier
ROLAND LOWERED the paintbrush and frowned. Still not the right shade. Damn. With a sigh he went back to his palette and mixed once again. The client had been clear on what color and shade she wanted—it was to be the blue of the sky just after a storm at sunset—and he was determined to deliver as promised. He had a love-hate relationship with commissions. He loved creating art for himself and the enjoyment of others, and clients paid well for his skills, yet if the proposed piece didn’t speak to him, it was extremely hard to find any enthusiasm to create it. He would always rather work on his own pieces, but he needed to feed himself, after all. He didn’t get many chances to put on an art show.
Especially considering much of his private collection dealt with demons. If anyone found that out, he’d probably be questioned regarding his sanity or labeled a traitor.
He couldn’t help his strange, dark pull toward the volatile cousins of angels. He was an artist, and he saw beauty in many things. Even disturbing things.
Roland lifted his paintbrush once again and tested the color. Perfect. Now he could continue with the sky portion before descending to the battle scene below. His client was the wife of Commander Mykial, and she insisted on a painting depicting her husband’s triumphant routing of a demon horde. The battle happened ten years earlier and it was still one of his finest moments. Delighted with his progress, Roland continued with the piece, barely noticing when the door to his studio opened. He caught a whiff of the intruder’s scent and smiled.
“Ever heard of knocking, Gabryl?”
“You told me once a knock disturbed you more than a silent approach.”
“Ah, so you do listen to me. I’m flattered.”
Gabryl snorted and knew better than to hover when Roland was working. He stayed near the door and waited for Roland to turn around. They’d been friends for years and casual lovers since reaching adulthood, so it wasn’t surprising Gabryl knew his quirks.
Roland didn’t rush himself, and Gabryl was the definition of patience. Once he was satisfied, Roland set his tools aside and finally turned to regard Gabryl.
Gabryl was a fine specimen of masculinity. His piercing green eyes were the first thing to capture Roland’s attention all those years ago. His large golden wings contrasted nicely with his black hair, so dark that blue highlights could be seen when he flew under the sun. His skin was burnished gold in stark contrast to Roland’s porcelain white. He was tall and broad and intelligent, and Roland had used his imposing form as a model for several
commissions over the years. He was pleasing inside and out, and it was little wonder Roland had taken to him so quickly.
Unfortunately, despite all that, he never considered pairing with him. Beyond the obvious objection that they were both male and couldn’t produce children—though surrogates were a clear way around that—there wasn’t any passion. Roland would receive contentment if he bonded with Gabryl. That wasn’t horrible by any means, and, in fact, many angels made such a relationship their life’s goal. Passion wasn’t something highly regarded.
Roland could only surmise his artist’s heart refused to settle for anything so mundane. More was the pity since he was quite fond of Gabryl, and he knew the affection was mutual.
He grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Haven’t seen you in nearly a month.”
“I got roped into implementing a new categorizing system for the library.”
Roland raised an eyebrow. “I highly doubt anyone can rope you into anything, dear. You volunteered, didn’t you?”
Gabryl grinned and shrugged.
Roland chuckled. “Knowledge keepers. If you’re not teaching half-asleep students, you have your faces in books.”
“Artists. If you’re not painting, you’re looking for paint or mixing paint, or howling that you don’t have the right color of paint.”
Roland laughed outright at that. “Damn you! You know me too well.”
“Do you ever expect me to forget the meltdown of winter ’66 when you chucked that easel at me?”
Guffawing, Roland managed to peck a kiss to Gabryl’s cheek. “And I’m sure I will be apologizing for that for the rest of my life. Truly I am sorry. I am a temperamental artist and can’t handle it when my supplies betray me.”
With an indulgent smile, Gabryl returned the kiss. “I have a meltdown when I see students crease pages. I understand.”
Roland patted his shoulder before moving to his large and generous paint supply. And, of course, realized he was out of a color he needed—a shade of pink for the sunset. At this rate he feared the painting would never be done.
He sighed long and low. “Typical,” he mumbled.
“Is that for Dina?”
Roland glanced at Gabryl as he nodded to the painting currently causing him a headache.
“Yes. And she was disturbingly precise about everything, right down to color shades and placement of things. I normally wouldn’t take such dictation from a client but, well, you know. Mykial’s wife. I couldn’t exactly say no.”
Gabryl nodded. “She and my brother are quite controlling and rigid. They are well suited.”
“Can’t argue that.”
“He said something rather disturbing to me the other day,” Gabryl said a moment later, voice low and cautious.
Roland looked over his shoulder. “Everything Mykial says to you is disturbing. Talk about a meltdown king. He has us both beat.”
Usually that would get at least a smile, if not a laugh. This time, however, Gabryl simply stared at him, expression hard.
Frowning, Roland turned fully toward him. “I’m listening.”
Gabryl blew out a breath. “This is in confidence.”
“As it always is. You know my lips are sealed.”
He nodded. “He came to me with questions yesterday, and they troubled me. I asked my own before I would answer his, and he finally broke down and told me the reason for his need of my assistance. He wanted me to look at records of dragon sightings, going as far back as possible.”
“Whatever for?”
“There have been a significant lack of sightings recently. They’ve been steadily dropping for the past decade and, in the last couple of years, have nearly ceased altogether.”
“Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not in the least.”
“Now I’m confused.”
Gabryl began pacing, his proud wings fluttering in agitation, his purple robe swishing around his legs. “Dragons seek to dominate and destroy. They target each other because of the challenge and prestige in victory. Sometimes they lead demon hordes against each other as well, showing off their military prowess.”
Roland nodded, still confused.
“They’ve left us alone because they’ve been so focused on each other. But what if there are only a handful left? Or, by the Light, only one left? What do you think happens then?” Gabryl stopped pacing and stared.
Roland blinked. “Oh.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Oh. They might start focusing on us. The last dragon or dragons standing will be the fiercest and most cunning of their kind. They or it will also rally the demons and could lead them in an assault against us.”
Roland swallowed hard. “Why would they give a bird’s ass about us?”
“Territory. Dominance. Arrogance. Take your pick. We have wealth up here, beauty and life. Why wouldn’t they want that as well?”
Cold slithered in Roland’s gut, and he rubbed his stomach. Though angels were naturally cool, his skin temperature dropped several more degrees, and he shivered.
“One dragon in particular has started to make a name for himself.”
Despite his dread, he was fascinated. “Who?”
“Asagoroth.” Gabryl shuddered when he said the name. “Every demon captured speaks of him in reverent tones, as if he was the One Who Brought the Light. He also doesn’t fear being noticed. He’s the only dragon our patrols have reported seeing the last couple of years. One demon even told Mykial that Asagoroth had observed the battle between two dragons and waited until they were clearly exhausted before killing both. The more he wins, the more demons that will follow him.”
“What will Mykial do?”
Gabryl shook his head. “He’ll bring the information to the high chancellor. I don’t know what she’ll do from there. As commander, he can only recommend. Hopefully she agrees to more guards at our outer posts, at least.”
“The very least.” Roland grimaced. “You know how to bring me down, don’t you, Gabby?”
Gabryl glared. “Don’t call me that.”
Roland smirked, though it was tight. Another shiver went through him as the looming threat of a dragon or full-scale demon attack haunted his thoughts. Gabryl sighed and tugged him into a hug, holding him tightly. Roland rested his head on Gabryl’s large shoulder and closed his eyes.
“Be careful, Ro,” he said softly. “I know you sneak out to our outer borders to get items for your paints. Maybe hold off on that. Or go with a guard or something. Keep your eyes open.”
Smiling at his worry, Roland kissed his cheek. “I will.”
Gabryl returned the kiss, and for a tense moment, they stared at each other before Gabryl stepped back. He cleared his throat. Roland chuckled slightly.
“It’s time for supper,” Gabryl said. “I’m eating with Mykial tonight. You should join us.”
“I don’t want to intrude—”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Gabryl playfully shoved him. “My nephews are asking for you and you won’t have to talk to Dina about the painting since it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“Glad you told me.” Roland put away his supplies before tossing a clean sheet over the canvas. “I might have asked her something about it.”
“I wouldn’t if you don’t want your feathers plucked.”
Roland winced. “Don’t say such things!”
Gabryl laughed and slung an arm across Roland’s shoulders to lead him out of the studio. They flew through the twilight as the city slowed its usual activity in favor of rest and sleep. Emphoria was the capital city of the Upper Realm and the jewel of the angels. She gleamed and shone in vivid and arresting colors found nowhere in nature. Tall, sharp spires erupted out of the clouds, ruby and sapphire and emerald with some carnelian and topaz thrown in. The city was perfect from its layout to its function, and the shimmering surfaces reflected the light of stars and sun, absorbing the heat. Glass walkways connected each building, creatin
g patterns and spirals. Whenever Roland flew over the city, he could see the intricate design, the grand intent of the architect centuries before clearly shining through.
However, despite the perfection, or perhaps because of it, the city also felt distant and aloof, like the angels who called her home. She was a work of art he could appreciate and admire. Yet she also seemed unreal and stagnant, unchanging, a portrait that would hang on a wall, permanent.
Roland often enjoyed the little imperfections or chance errors that gave life to one of his paintings. When everything went according to plan, he would always feel a pang of disappointment. He recognized his oddities and concluded they were part of his nature as an artist. Other artists he knew also expressed some quirks, though they all kept such things hidden from anyone of a noncreative mind. It never paid to be too different from the general masses.
Perhaps this difference was what the seer saw at his birth and she labeled him artist so his oddities would be overlooked. Although he doubted even she would accept his demon portraits and his secret desire to see a demon up close. How could he faithfully represent them if all he had were crude illustrations in those old tomes Gabryl cared for so diligently? Roland couldn’t help but be a little insulted by the illustrators’ obvious bias against demons. They couldn’t be that horrid and ugly, could they? He doubted it. Angels and demons were cousins, of sorts, and he’d heard a few soldiers say they didn’t look all that different—the dissimilarities were mostly in their coloring, wing shape, and presence of horns.
Angels were supposed to hate demons. He didn’t. They fascinated him. It was something he’d never told anyone, not even Gabryl.
His interest in the forbidden wouldn’t be casually overlooked, artist or not.
Gabryl led the way into Mykial’s home, set in the emerald spire that was reserved for command staff. The golden spire of the high chancellor was close by, the tallest in the city. His sister lived there since she was the next in line to be high chancellor, the angels’ ultimate ruler.