The Blood King

by Abigail Owen

  Hopefully that could be fixed.

  “Father.” Merikh entered the room. His only son. The son his witch had whelped him. One who’d taken on Pytheios’s dragon nature, rather than his mother’s magical gifts.

  But magic and his mother’s blood still cascaded through the man’s veins. Pytheios was counting on it.

  Merikh moved to his side. “The phoenix will pay for what she’s done,” he promised.

  Yes. The phoenix would pay. He’d take her and her sisters, and he’d make her watch as they siphoned off each of her sisters’ power, draining them of their life force until they withered and fell away like dead leaves. After the dark-haired phoenix witnessed that, he’d take her life as well. Slowly maybe. Over eons.

  But first, he needed his witch back. An act that would take great sacrifice.

  A knock thumped against the heavy door.

  “Enter,” Pytheios called.

  Jakkobah, his faithful councilor, came in dragging a woman with him. One gagged, to silence any unwanted magical spell from slipping from those lips. Jakkobah dragged her around the slab to the wall where a heavy iron chain already hung, irons for her wrists and ankles dangling at the ends.

  As soon as she saw them, the witch increased her struggles, screaming around her gag and flailing in Jakkobah’s arms. But the puny human was no match for a dragon shifter, even a physically weaker one. A thinker, not a fighter.

  In short order, the woman was chained to the wall. Warded, of course, to prevent her escape, and to force the witch to do his will. Those chains were a gift, many ages ago, from his own witch.

  “What is this?” a man asked.

  Pytheios turned to find Brock Hagan standing just inside the door. Jakkobah had brought him, as requested. “I heard you were dead,” Pytheios said.

  Brock glanced from the woman in chains to the woman on the slab before moving his gaze to his High King. “I escaped under the cover of the battle. The shifter my men claimed to be me was someone else of like coloring.”

  Pytheios glanced to Jakkobah. The man had ears in every clan, every colony. “They believe he’s dead?”

  Jakkobah dipped his head in that birdlike way of his. “Yes, my lord.”

  With a pained grunt, Brock dropped to his knees before Pytheios. “I lost. I should have done better. For you, my king.”

  True. “Normally, I’d execute you where you kneel.”

  Brock paused, as if considering those words, then lifted his head. “But you won’t?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Father—”

  Pytheios silenced Merikh’s interruption with a venomous glance, and his son choked back his protest.

  Brock slowly rose to his feet. “If I may ask, why not?”

  “You shall see in a moment.”

  With that, he turned his back on the man and nodded at Jakkobah, who removed the witch’s gag.

  Immediately pagan words tumbled from her lips in a spell most likely intended to end his life.

  “Silence,” Pytheios thundered.

  The warding on her chains turned them red and glowing in an instant, the flesh at the witch’s ankles and wrists sizzling with the heat, her screams of agony piercing air now filled heavily with the scent of burning flesh.

  Almost as quickly as it started, the iron-cast shackles cooled, and she glared at him through a tangle of hair almost as white as Rhiamon’s, her chest heaving and tears streaking her cheeks. “I knew my grandmother should never have trusted you,” she spat.

  Most likely true. “Bring her back.”

  “Is that possible?” Merikh demanded. Pytheios ignored his son.

  The witch’s eyes widened, her gaze dropping to the woman on the slab. “I will not.”

  Pytheios sighed. “Jakkobah.”

  Immediately the man pulled out a small device, showing the witch the image on the screen. Pytheios didn’t need to look to see it. He knew what she’d find. A dozen men, women, and children surrounded by bloodred dragons. Her coven.

  “No,” she begged. But he heard what he needed in her voice. Defeat.

  “Your grandmother was the only thing keeping your coven alive. You want your people to live? You do as I ask.”

  The witch closed her eyes, more tears seeping from the seams. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I do.”

  “She may not come back as herself. She could be…an abomination.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Rhiamon’s grandchild, from a line of children started before she’d met him, shook her head. “Do you know the blood sacrifice that must be made?”

  “Yes.”

  “It can’t be me,” she warned. “I must finish the spell.”

  “A blood sacrifice?” Brock spoke up behind him. “Is that why I am here?”

  Pytheios did not deign to answer.

  The witch swallowed convulsively. “Still you wish me to do this thing?”

  Pytheios nodded.

  She shook her head for a long minute, as though silently arguing with herself. One more glance at the screen Jakkobah held before her convinced her, though. He could see it in the way her shoulders came back. “I have your word. My people will live. You’ll leave them alone in peace?”

  He dipped his head. “You have my word.”

  The witch swallowed again, then started murmuring words. Words that made no sense, even to his own ears, familiar with many tongues. Words that seemed to wend their way around the room, filling the chilled space with whisperings.

  A pressure started to build, tension thrumming through the room. Then Rhiamon’s body began to glow with a blinding inner light that hurt to look at directly. The younger witch’s mutterings grew louder as she wove the spell over her ancestor, pouring her magic into the woman Pytheios desperately needed if he was to continue.

  Rhiamon’s body began to twitch. A terrible crack sounded as her head jerked to the side, the broken bones of her neck realigning. The blood pooling under her skin dispersed, flowing back into her veins.

  She was close. He could almost feel his witch’s presence, though he had yet to hear the beat of her heart.

  Pytheios raised his gaze to her granddaughter, still chanting, filling the room now with a thunder of words. Magic flowed from her into Rhiamon in a glittering, cresting wave of white-gold light.

  She lifted her gaze to him, her eyes pleading with him one last time to give this up.

  But he could not. This sacrifice was one he’d gladly make.

  Seeing his resolve, the witch’s expression fell, even as she continued her chanting. He watched her for the sign that the time had come.

  Finally, she nodded.

  Without hesitation, Pytheios whipped out the blade he kept hidden in his sleeve at all times, stepped behind Merikh, and sliced open his son’s neck with a clean, sharp stroke, the blade hitting bone, he cut so deeply.

  Merikh’s cry was a bloody gurgle, his life’s essence pouring from him over his mother’s body, where it glowed and twitched within the power of the spell.

  Pytheios held his dying, flailing son there, emptying his blood over Rhiamon until Merikh went limp, then he allowed his son’s body to slip to the floor. Merikh stared at his father with wide eyes, his blood-soaked hands held to his neck, mouth opening and closing around words that would not form.

  Then Merikh sucked in one last rattling, spluttering breath before everything about him went still.

  At the moment of her son’s death, Rhiamon sat straight up, gasping in air, her heart thundering back to life. “Pytheios?” she croaked. “What happened?”

  Then her eyes rolled back in her head as she dropped back to the slab, out cold. However, the steady beat of her heart told Pytheios everything he needed to know.

  The spell had worked.

  In t
he silence after the storm, darkness stole back into the room as the glow of magic receded.

  He looked to where the witch hung limply from her chains. Still alive. Barely. “Take care of that thing,” he said to Jakkobah. “And have my witch moved to her rooms and tended to. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Jakkobah nodded.

  As he turned to leave the room, Pytheios didn’t bother to glance at Merikh’s body, already turning to ash where he’d fallen. He stopped at where Brock still stood, revulsion in his eyes, his gaze snared by the woman raised from the dead and Merikh’s pile of ashes on the floor.

  Pytheios clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are my son and heir now.”

  Slowly, Brock turned his head to stare back with glittering golden eyes. “You’re insane.”

  “I assure you, I am not.”

  Brock scoffed. “Why kill your son and not me?”

  “Because the sacrifice had to be someone of Rhiamon’s blood.”

  Brock shook his head. “I’m dead, as far as anyone not in this room is aware.” He held up his hand, which bore no mark. “Rogue. Without a clan.”

  In a move akin to a striking snake, Pytheios snatched Brock’s hand and raised the dagger still clutched in his hand. Brock didn’t even have time to take a breath before Pytheios slashed a deep cut across the man’s palm, then across his own before clamping their hands together.

  After a second of stunned silence, Brock hissed, his face contorting in pain. Still clasping the man’s hand, Pytheios flipped it so they could see the new, white-hot mark etching into Brock’s skin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “My blood. My mark. My clan… My son.”

  Brock’s eyes grew wide, then his lips drew back in a cold smile. “How will we take Ormarr, Astarot, and their phoenixes down…Father?”

  Pytheios chuckled. “We’ll bring our own phoenix to the fight.”

  That pulled a frown from his new heir. “How?”

  “You don’t rule for centuries without learning a few tricks.” Pytheios dropped his hands and turned to look at Rhiamon. The color was coming back to her face. “We made our own phoenix. Like a Trojan horse, she sits among our enemies now. A poison gift, waiting to be opened.”

  …

  Ladon flew at speeds even his own guard could hardly keep up with as he navigated the twists and turns of the canyons leading to the entrance of his home. He’d left them behind along with white dragons who’d joined their cause, including the two who’d sworn loyalty to Skylar. He had two allied kings, and soon Ben Nevis would look like the colonies with their integrated groups of dragons from each clan. More came to their cause daily, and he’d be grateful later.

  Right this second, with Skylar close but not close enough, he didn’t give a shit. Every kilometer between when the fight had ended and this moment had dragged, the need to be with his mate eating at him.

  “I’ll be there in two minutes. Have them open the door.” He shot the thought ahead of him to Skylar.

  “Already open and waiting.”

  She was waiting for him. The realization sank deep, tugging at both the primitive satisfaction that came with knowing she needed him as much as he did her, as well as the need to hold her, confirm for himself she was unharmed, then bury himself in her sweet body. Maybe for weeks.

  Fuck, he needed her. Needed to touch her, hold her, assure himself she was okay.

  Despite being a man of few words, he’d been in constant contact with her throughout his journey, needing that invisible connection like he needed air.

  She’d filled him in, confidentially, on her location with a Chimera of gargoyles located deep in the Ural Mountains. How her sister had been staying there, and how Meira returned her to Ben Nevis using a form of teleportation that used reflective surfaces like mirrors…and apparently ponds. The notoriously cautious gargoyles had not deigned to come to Ben Nevis with Meira, too wary of the danger, despite Ladon’s request to thank them for saving his mate’s life face-to-face.

  Again, that bone deep ache to hold her and claim her at the same time pulsed through him. No way should they have any audience for this reunion. “Meet me in our chambers.”

  “But everyone has gathered to greet their returning king.” Amusement tinged the words.

  “I don’t give a shit. I need to see my mate. The clan can greet their king later.”

  “Impatient much?” she teased.

  “Yes.” He was in no mood to laugh. The journey to get here and having her separated from him time after time drove him almost to a frenzy now. “Have Kasia teleport you to our room and then tell her to get the hell out.”

  He bulleted straight through the entrance, over those gathered on the training room floor. They raised a shout that quickly died as he kept going through into the main cavern, tipping straight up and flying fast until he landed on his perch.

  Even his shift took too long, that now-familiar sting itching at him as he forced it, but he didn’t care. He had to see her.

  Ladon burst through the doorway and into the living area. “Skylar?” He was calling her name before he cleared the door.

  She didn’t have to answer, because there she was. Launching across the room in two hurried strides he lifted her off her feet, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. He breathed in her smoke and cloves scent, his body tense with the rush of finally being able to hold her.

  “You’re here,” he murmured into her hair.

  “So are you,” she teased.

  He didn’t lift his head. “You’re safe.”

  “I’m safe.” She feathered a kiss over the side of his neck.

  Ladon pulled back, drinking in the sight of her, memorizing every feature, then ran the back of his hand softly down her cheek. “You’re mine.”

  The words came out harsh, but he didn’t pull them back or apologize. He slammed his mouth over hers, claiming those lush lips in a possessive kiss. He relished her sweet taste, both familiar and new, with every sweep of his tongue as he hungrily claimed her for his own.

  He drew back only slightly. “Say it,” he demanded.

  “Say what?” she panted, peppering his face with kisses.

  “Say you’re mine.”

  Skylar drew back and grinned, her eyes dancing even as she shook her head at him. “Dragon shifters can be so alpha.”

  “Skylar,” he urged and warned in the same breath. He needed this, needed to hear this with her in his arms and not thousands of miles away.

  Skylar placed her hands on either side of his face. “I’m yours and you are mine.”

  “You love me.” Say it. He’d never known he would need to hear those words so much, crave to see her lips form them and know they were true.

  Her eyebrows went up, though the grin stayed. “Oh? Who says?”

  “You said.”

  She cocked her head. “When?”

  “When you disappeared under that dragon and I thought you were dead.”

  She blinked at him, as if trying to remember, then her eyes went wide.

  “Say it.”

  Only this wasn’t her dominant king talking, or even the hardened warrior. The man addressing her now needed to hear those words. She had to be able to tell in the way he held himself so rigidly against her, his arms a tad tighter, his eyes focused on her face.

  She swallowed. “I never wanted to believe in the fates, because if I did, that would mean giving myself to another person.”

  Ladon nodded, waiting.

  “But it’s not like that. Is it?”

  Now he slowly shook his head, still searching her expression.

  “I don’t have to give myself to you, because I’m already yours…and somehow always have been.”

  His arms tightened another hair. “You have my heart and my soul, woman. I love you so much, thes
e days without you hurt like the fires of hell.”

  Skylar smiled, and he felt her ease in his arms, as though everything released inside her. Through their connection, he could almost touch a sensation, relief maybe, pouring through her, cool and serene and yet fizzy with anticipation. He’d known she needed to hear it first.

  She lowered her head until her lips hovered over his, close enough to feel his warmth. “I love you, and I want you, too.”

  She didn’t need to close that gap. He did it for her, claiming her lips as though he was laying claim to all of her—body, mind, heart, and soul.

  With her still wrapped around him, and their lips fused together, he moved, striding confidently across the room in the direction of their bed. She giggled as he tumbled her to the mattress, following in a flash, covering her with his weight and heat.

  He went to kiss her, but Skylar held a finger to his lips, then traced them over the cleft in his chin. “You should know that I’m not some sappy, holding hands, says I love you every time she leaves the room, mushy sort of person.”

  Ladon captured her finger in his mouth, sucking on it in a way that shot arrows of pleasure straight to his cock, before releasing her with a wicked grin. “You think I am?”

  Skylar grinned right back. “As long as we have that straight…I’m all yours.”

  “About fucking time,” he growled.

  EPILOGUE

  Samael followed his master, the shifter who’d taken on a paternal role when Samael had been a young man and had lost his own father to his mother’s death. Cancer, it seemed, was not only a human affliction. With a dragon’s accelerated healing, few succumbed to the disease…but some did.

  Gorgon had given a man with no royal lineage—a commoner—a chance. Samael had worked damn hard to prove himself a true warrior, earning his post as captain of the king’s guard. A role he took seriously.

  He watched his king, Gorgon, out of the corner of his eye as they flew up the inside of the mountain to a perch belonging to another king.

  “What is it?” Gorgon’s voice echoed through his mind, both familiar and commanding.

  “I don’t like that we are still here.” They had their own clan to protect, and given their location in Turkey, closer to Pytheios, they, more than the Blue or Gold Clans, were exposed.