by Lola Gabriel
“I’ve wanted to tell you guys for a while… but the longer I put it off, the more anxious I became, and the less I wanted to tell you. It’s now come to the point where I had to.” All eyes were on Olive then. “The doctor recommended I get information on my biological parents so that they know of any health conditions that might affect the baby and myself during late pregnancy.” That lie did come with ease, since she and Asher had rehearsed that portion.
“I see,” Don murmured. “Alright, tell ya what. You two spend the night, and first thing in the morning, Asher and I will go up to the attic and get the information we have.”
Asher wanted to protest, wanting to get the records now so they could keep on their search. Both Asher and Olive had their phones turned off, and it wouldn’t be long until someone came looking for them. However, it was a reasonable request, and he supposed that some time with her parents would do Olive some good. She would probably be an emotional wreck if they left so soon after slapping them with such startling news.
“That sounds like a fine plan.”
13
The evening went surprisingly well. Yvette’s shock had worn off faster than anyone’s, and she excitedly picked through her yarn collection to get started on a baby blanket as soon as they finished their dinner. With the women busy, Don had suggested that he and Asher head up to the attic to get those records, just to get it out of the way. Asher had to contain his excitement. During the search, Don had given Asher the classic girlfriend’s father talk: that if Asher ever hurt Olive, he would have a group of guys come after him, and that Olive and the baby were to be his top priority for the rest of his natural life. It all ended with a firm clasp on the shoulder and a chuckle as Don pulled a folder out of a cabinet drawer, right next to the entry of the attic.
Asher had spent the remainder of the evening impatiently waiting for Olive’s parents to retire for the night, guessing they would find it inappropriate for an estranged boyfriend to read copies of their daughter’s records. When they finally did, Olive and Asher followed them up and into Olive’s bedroom. It had been redone since the first time he had seen it, changed to suit an adult rather than keep the high school-era shine that had existed in there before. Much to Asher’s delight, they had kept her desk. It was understood that Olive did not want to read the file, having talked about it on the ride into town. The idea of reading about her biological parents made her uncomfortable, and she felt it was disrespectful to her parents to read about her life before they had adopted her.
Asher agreed that was for the best, not wanting her to find anything that could cause her stress. The longer he was around Olive and got used to the fact that she was pregnant, the more protective he became. He wanted her to avoid as much stress as she could. Olive lay down in the bed, falling asleep in record-breaking time. Asher scoured each page, looking for anything that was remotely out of the norm.
The most painful part was reading the reports from Olive’s childhood in foster care. She had opened up about it, but she hadn’t mentioned some of the things he read. Asher wondered if she had blocked them out. House after house she was sent to, Olive endured physical and verbal abuse, and she had been deemed severely malnourished when the state finally took her back into custody.
Asher glanced over his shoulder to the bed. Olive was sprawled out, one leg sticking out of the covers, her hair wild from sleep. That woman was so much stronger than she gave herself credit for.
It took hours to read through each of the papers. It wasn’t until after midnight that Asher found the page he had been looking for: a sheet with information about her biological parents that had been filled out at the hospital when her mother gave birth. It was incomplete, and a note scribbled at the top of the page said that the mother refused to give most of the information.
Mariella Edevane, seventeen years of age. Brown hair, blue eyes, only a partial social security number. George MacQuoid, twenty-five years of age. Asher couldn’t read further without pausing to cringe. While he understood Mariella was at the age of consent, there had always been something predatory about men who lusted after girls not even fully developed into women yet, even back in times where it had been widespread and considered “normal” to wed girls even younger than Mariella was.
Asher stared at the sheet, rereading it several times. The only thing of note were their last names. “Edevane” stood out to him, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Moving the sheet to the side, Asher went on to the next page. There was a report from the doctor who had overseen Mariella’s care that had been submitted to the court.
Patient and spouse were brought in from a car crash, her labor becoming stress-induced. Upon waking, Edevane demanded to go home and screamed at hospital personnel. However, when informed that she was in labor prematurely, Edevane still insisted on going home, claiming she wanted an at-home birth. I explained that it was too late for that and she needed to give us consent to treat her. She reluctantly agreed but remained hostile toward staff. Once Baby Girl Edevane was taken to NICU, Mariella Edevane was left to rest. Just an hour later, when nurses went to check on her, both Edeveane and MacQuoid were gone.
Was her mother insane? Why had she been so angry to be in a hospital? Asher had no idea, but he found himself glad that Olive’s parents had abandoned her, despite how cruel that may have sounded. Asher couldn’t imagine what would have happened to her under their care.
Everything happens for a reason, he thought. In the instance of Olive, she had ended up in the care of Don and Yvette. Every little decision made in Olive’s life, whether in or out of her control, had led her to him, which had resulted in their son. The thought was still new and strange, but it still managed to warm his heart. The dragon-shifters had always been an open-minded people when it came to faith and superstition, but at that moment, Asher found himself believing in predetermined fate. This was supposed to happen for a reason.
In an hour, Asher finished reviewing the file in its entirety, and he sat with the two statements about her parents in front of him. “Edevane” continued to grate his nerves, knowing he had heard that name before but had been buried in centuries of memories. Despite Asher’s lack of a full night’s rest, he was absolutely wired. He was itching to get to the bottom of it. Once he finally gave up prodding his own mind, Asher knew there was only one other person he could turn to in confidence to help him reach a breakthrough: Sebastian.
Strategically pacing the floor, trying not to cause the old wooden floors to creak, Asher reached for his duffle bag and dug out his phone. His finger hovered over the power button. Was it safe to call his brother? Asher had always been wary of technology, especially considering his father’s insatiable appetite for information. He wouldn’t put it past him to have some sort of tap on his children’s phones. Considering Asher had been MIA, there was a good possibility that his calls would be monitored.
Avoiding the estate had been Olive’s one request, and Asher was going to uphold that. However, it didn’t mean he couldn’t go by himself. By no means would it be suspicious for him to be there, and nothing would give away that he had contacted Olive again. Asher’s main concern was Olive’s safety, and, admittedly, the fear that she would run away again. Debating the thought, he decided he would make the trip as quickly as possible and get back by sunrise. Olive was safe here.
Asher didn’t need any more convincing. Stopping briefly at the bed, he kissed the top of Olive’s head, lightly touching her stomach as he did so, and exited the room. It took him no time to move through the house stealthily. Entering the backyard, Asher gave a glance toward the windows of the house, making sure all curtains were drawn. Then he leaped into the air. His clothes ripped from his body and fell into the meticulously kept yard. He cursed to himself, noting that he would have to get them before Don or Yvette woke up.
In a horrific blur, Asher was in his dragon form, embracing the familiar relief that came with it. The night air did nothing to calm his racing mind, however. Olive, the baby, Edevane… It
all played on a miserable loop. Guilt from leaving without saying anything to Olive also pricked at his conscience, but she had been sleeping peacefully, and he didn’t want her to worry. It would be fine, he would be in and out, going straight to Sebastian’s room, talking to him, and flying back.
Olive’s parents were only an hour and a half drive away from the family estate, roughly a forty-five-minute flight, typically. Asher had made it in thirty by flying even higher in the sky than usual. The air was a bit thinner, making him lightheaded by the end of the journey, but it had been worth it. The quicker he could get back to Olive, the better.
The house was illuminated by soft orange lights on the decks and balconies. The sight had always brought Asher peace. The sand-colored stone with cream-colored trims and shutters having that faint hue of orange made the grand estate appear warm and welcoming.
He slowly glided down onto the roof of the west wing, his talons hardly making a sound as they touched the shingles. His body collapsed into itself, drawing back his bones and scales to be left a pale and naked man standing on a rooftop.
If Olive could see me now, Asher thought humorously. Just as he had done many times before, he moved to the very edge before jumping down onto his own balcony. His fingertips traced the crevices of the stone exterior next to the door, finding his hidden key before unlocking the door and putting the key back in its place.
Asher was only in his room long enough to pull on a white linen button-down and a pair of black slacks before moving into the hallway. He knew Sebastian was bound to be home at that point. They would have been called back after Asher had gone missing; at least, he hoped so. If Sebastian wasn’t there, then it would have been a wasted trip.
Slipping into the hallway, Asher headed downstairs toward his brother’s room. His eyes scanned the darkened hallways, hoping to stay out of sight as much as possible. That dream was short-lived.
As he hurried down the hallway, a gruff voice called, “Asher. Get in here.”
Asher mumbled a stream of profanities under his breath. It was his father, calling from his study. He didn’t have a choice in the matter—he had to go talk with Carlyle. If he dared to ignore his father’s beckoning… To say the least, he wouldn’t make it back to Olive by morning. Reluctantly turning on his heel, Asher turned into his father’s office. The door was open only by a crack.
A fire was burning inside, illuminating the room and casting long, ominous shadows from all the antique furniture. Carlyle was slumped in an armchair near the fireplace, his eyes fixated on the flames with a glass in his hand. How much had he drunk?
“Sit,” his father commanded, his voice low but harsh. Like an obedient child, Asher perched on the end of a chair adjacent to his father. Carlyle’s lazy, drunken gaze was on him only for a moment before rolling to the small table next to his own chair. Sitting up straighter, his father reached for the glass canister containing an amber liquid, pouring himself another stiff drink. “Why on Earth would you leave the search party, hm? Do you simply enjoy pissing me off?”
“That wasn’t my intention,” Asher murmured, his own eyes falling to the flames. Anywhere was better to look at than Carlyle Tallant’s face when he was angry.
“Then what precisely was your intention?” Carlyle had a false sweetness to his voice, as if he were genuinely intrigued.
Asher’s hands nervously rubbed together. “I didn’t really have one… I hadn’t been sleeping well, and I guess blew a fuse. Went riding around, searching on my own, before finally passing out and sleeping in the back of the rental.”
There was a pause as Carlyle swigged from the glass, followed by chuckling, completely unnerving Asher. Much to his dismay, the chuckles erupted into a roar of laughter. No longer did Asher have the luxury of looking away from his father. He was drunk and delirious—anything could happen. Carlyle was so tickled by whatever it was that he actually had to wipe tears from his eyes. He then polished off his drink and poured yet another.
“How very typical,” he said through his dying chuckles. “You can’t even handle searching for a mortal woman. You would have an episode if I stationed you at the driveway gate, wouldn’t you? Why, standing all day in the sun, you would simply melt into a puddle.”
Asher didn’t respond, knowing better than to try something so foolish.
Carlyle shook his head and wiped his damp mouth with a handkerchief drawn from his pocket. “You absolutely amaze me, Asher. You and Sebastian both. There had once been a time that I could hold my head high, knowing that my Kingdom was flourishing, and I was well-respected. Respected and feared to the extent that anything I willed would come to fruition. However, the two of you have cast a great shadow of shame on our family name.
“You’re weak,” he continued. “The both of you. Even when you were a warrior, you were never a dedicated fighter. Instead, you fancied traveling and staying in your own little world. At least Sebastian was fierce at one point or another. Then again, perhaps that should embarrass me more. My great warrior son, fit to be a king, subdued, and his nose in books of poetry.” He shook his head. “I give you this opportunity to prove yourself, to regain a sense of nobility, and not only can you not handle it, but you’ve made me involve more people in this operation so that others can go and look for you!”
Like the flick of a switch, Carlyle’s temper returned. Without warning, he hurled the glass of liquor into the fire, the flames rising to great heights briefly before setting back down. Then he was on his feet, pacing toward Asher with a finger pointed at him.
“Do you know what you are meddling in, child? Do you?” he hissed. “We have to find that baby, we have to! Our nobility, our lives, our power is all at stake, and you’re fooling around on me!”
“What are you talking about?” Asher finally spoke. “I understand that the child could help us understand how to reproduce again, but—”
“Do you truly think I want the masses finding out about this monstrosity at all?” Carlyle let out a laugh. “I know you keep to yourself, Asher, but are you oblivious to everything going on within the Kingdom?” he questioned. “Our family is hanging onto power by a thread—a thread. Seems like every week I catch word of rebellions trying to form. They want a new king. Apparently, they feel as though everything’s fallen flat in the last century, and it’s time for a change.”
“What does that have to do with reproduction?” Asher challenged, not following his father’s train of thought.
“They are looking for a reason, any reason, to overthrow me. What do you think would happen when they hear of a miracle child being born?”
Asher’s eyes brightened, seeing a window of opportunity to come clean about Olive and the baby and to calm his father’s woes. The so-called miracle child was his, and so it could exemplify their family’s destiny to rule.
Only that Carlyle continued first. Shaking his head, he fetched a new glass and polished off the last of the canister. “We have to find that woman and kill the bastard child. I have no Earthly idea how this came to be, and frankly, I do not want to know. No one needs to know. It would reanimate the people. New generations bring forth new rebellions, and I will simply not allow it.”
Asher ogled at his father. Was he actually willing to kill a baby? Not only that, he wanted to rob their people of the chance of having families once again, of their ability to expand? Carlyle didn’t know it, but he was speaking of killing his grandson. Frankly, Asher got the impression that it wouldn’t phase him to know that. In fact, it would just enrage him that Asher hadn’t dragged Olive back to the estate the moment he realized it was her.
“I want you to go back out there and find that woman, do you understand me? I don’t care if you stay up for a week and go so insane that you should be committed. Do not return to me before she is found.”
You won’t have to worry about me ever returning here. Asher stood from his chair and headed for the door.
“And I want her brought back to me alive!” his father called out. “T
hat way, I will know first-hand that this issue has come to a close.”
Asher’s stomach churned as he realized what his father meant: he himself wanted to be the one to kill the child. Images of Carlyle holding Olive down and gutting her for their son played in his head, and he couldn’t shake them. Olive had been right to fear his father. Carlyle was officially a mad king. Asher gave his father a nod before closing the door behind him.
Dizziness plagued him, and his chest heaved. This couldn’t be happening. Asher had never been blind to his father’s obsession with being in charge, but it was only then that he realized Carlyle was completely out of his mind. He had to get out of there, he had to get back to Olive. He no longer cared about finding out how Olive had gotten pregnant. All that mattered was that he had to protect his own family.
Asher ran for the nearest exit of the house and into the yard. He had to force himself to pause long enough to strip off his clothes. Wasting no time, he was in his dragon state and in the sky in the next few seconds, his clothes dangling from his claws. The same thought played on repeat in his head.
Have to get to Olive. Have to get to Olive. Have to get to Olive.
14
A hot hand touched Olive’s cheek as she slept.
“Olive, sweetheart, you have to wake up,” a voice called, but it was somewhere far in the distance. Olive had been in a deep, sound sleep. “Babe, come on,” the voice urged. It was only when her arm was shaken repeatedly that she finally pulled out of her slumber. However, her eyes didn’t even open at first, being far too heavy to lift.
“What is it?” she croaked, searching for Asher with a sleepy hand. When it rested on his leg, she gave it a squeeze.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but we… we have to leave. We have to leave right now.”