Dragon's Fire

by Gwynn White

  Ignoring the alcohol on her dress, Kestrel pulled herself a little taller. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you. I know you love me too, or why would you have been my lover so consistently for all these years? Your other women come and go, but I’m constant. Please, I beg you, marry me. Make me your empress.”

  “There’s the chenna talking.” He stood and moved over to his writing desk and slid open a drawer where he kept a stash of jewelry for times like this. “I have slept with you for one reason and one reason only: If the candles are really dim and I stretch my imagination to the absolute limit, I can sometimes fool myself into believing it is your sister making love to me.”

  Her face crumpled into tears.

  He waited expectantly for her next outburst.

  She didn’t disappoint.

  Hands clutching her dress, she wailed, “I hate you, you swine. I’ve given you everything.”

  He pulled out a sapphire-and-diamond necklace and tossed it at her. “You’ll get over it. You always do.” He started to the door and then turned back to her. Voice mocking, he added, “Come now, dry your eyes. I don’t want a blotchy mistress when I return.”

  She stamped her foot in frustration.

  He laughed and was about to leave when someone knocked. He recognized the deferential sound.

  Morass.

  His Lord of the Rack knew not to bother him unless it was vital. The blood rushed from Lukan’s extremities, leaving him weak and impotent. Had the boy died? Was Axel winging his way back to Cian to kill him even now?

  Icy with fear, he staggered back into his chair.

  It was left to Kestrel to say, “Enter.”

  Morass bowed low and closed the door behind him. Mouth closed, he looked at Kestrel.

  Lukan didn’t have time to dismiss her. Not when he could be facing his death sentence. He barked, “What?”

  Morass snapped to attention. “Sire, I am not sure if this is significant, but I was discomfited enough to—”

  “Is he dead?”

  Morass blinked. “Dead, sire?”

  Did everyone have to mimic him? “The traitor! Is he dead?”

  A light sparked in Morass’s dead eyes. “When I last checked my informa, he was breathing, sire.”

  Lukan expelled the air from his lungs with relief. He pulled himself up tall in his chair and asked with disdain, “Then what are you doing here?”

  Morass cleared his throat. “Sire, I saw something at the lake drawbridge that I found disturbing.”

  Lukan sighed, but he knew Morass would not be here for a trifle. “What was this disturbing thing?”

  “I had just brought Count Felix back from the forest, and I went to check on the princes. They were at the lake, as usual, but then I heard a commotion at the drawbridge. For a few seconds, I could swear I saw the two princes there. Then they were gone.”

  Lukan’s eyes widened. “But you saw them at the lake just moments before?”

  “Yes, sire. I am positive of that. Cameras confirm it.”

  “Then you must have been mistaken about them being at the drawbridge,” he said coldly. “Seems you have wasted my time for nothing.”

  Another bow from Morass. “I would agree, sire, but I was not alone. Arkady was with me. He wanted to remind the boys about some schoolwork due tomorrow. But when he interrupted their fishing to speak to them, neither prince answered him. He swears he saw them at the drawbridge, too. Those two boys had diamonds next to their eyes.”

  Lukan clenched his hands together to stop them shaking. “Diamonds? Did you check the footage at the drawbridge?”

  “Of course, sire. It shows nothing. And none of the people on the bridge saw anything, either.” Another bow. “I would not have worried you, but—”

  Lukan stood. “I know I said you are to take care of Nicholas, but I also want you watching my heirs. Tell me if anything else happens.”

  “Of course, sire.” Yet another obsequious bow, and the man backed out of the room.

  Lukan waited in rigid silence for the door to close.

  As much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t. His worst fear regarding Grigor and Meka had been realized. Despite promising never to trouble him again, his reprieve from the interfering Dmitri seemed to be over.

  Who else could move unseen through space and time? Who else could make things appear and disappear at will? Lukan still had vivid memories of Dmitri magicking a book into existence.

  He had always known it was only a matter of time before Dmitri dropped in on Grigor and Meka.

  How long would it be before he told them about Nicholas and the curse? Before he enlisted them for his cause? Instead of having docile nephews, who lived to fish, they would become enemies, right here in his breast. Yet more people who wanted him dead.

  His heart raced as panic took over.

  With Dmitri’s help, Axel could even use Lukan’s heirs to help flay him. He saw the three of them with blood on their hands as they tore his skin off his quivering flesh . . .

  He gulped.

  There was nothing he could do about the threat; the Fifteen demanded legitimate heirs to secure the succession—a succession that would end with Lukan, if Dmitri and Axel got their way.

  It was yet another reason he had wanted a second Burning, to rid himself of all who tried to dictate how he lived his life.

  He told himself to calm down, to breathe.

  It didn’t help.

  Calm could only come if he knew what Dmitri was telling them. That was the only way he could arm himself.

  He walked to the sideboard, picked up the chenna decanter, and hurled it out the window. Kestrel gasped and took a step in its direction.

  Lukan grabbed her arm and spun her face him. “You say you’re concerned about your sons. Well, here’s a chance to prove it. Be a mother to them. Find out what is happening in their lives.”

  “Why?” Her eyes flickered to the window.

  “Your chenna drinking days are over. I will make an announcement that no one is to provide you with drink.”

  Kestrel’s face flushed, and she tried to tug away from him. The threat must have been grave indeed.

  “Don’t you dare humiliate me like that!”

  He pushed her away, and she stumbled into the chair.

  “I need you sober. Your sons need you sober.”

  A flicker of fear darted across her face. “Y-you—you aren’t going to harm them, are you? Please, Lukan, they are my children.”

  “That depends on you. Sober up. Find out what’s happening in their lives and then report to me.”

  Kestrel licked her lips and mumbled, “I—I can do that.”

  Lukan had his doubts, but she was all he had.

  “You had better not fail me. Or them.” He threw her a threatening look and left the room.

  Unable to face the solitude of his bunker, observatory, or archive, he headed for the salon. One of his other mistresses would take the edge off his day.

  Chapter 17

  Talon stirred. The floor beneath him was hard. Cold. Stone?

  Water dripped.

  And dripped.

  His nose twitched. The air was stale. Dank. That have must been because of the drip. Nowhere in the cottage did it smell this bad.

  Or have that annoying drip.

  Where was he? And how did he even notice all those strange things with the throbbing in his head? Or the nausea curdling in his stomach? He lifted his hand to brush his forehead. It came away tacky. Just like half-dried blood.

  Why was he bleeding?

  He sat bolt upright and opened his eyes—and saw nothing. Not even a glimmer of light. Gasping against a combination of shooting pains in his skull and mind-bending dizziness, he forced his eyes to focus for long enough to study the . . . whatever this place was.

  A shaft of gray light bloomed to his left. It was so bright in the pitch blackness that he winced and turned away quickly. The movement made him vomit. He collapsed back onto the floor until th
e retching stopped. Gingerly, he eased away from the contents of his stomach, now spread in a sticky, acrid-smelling puddle on the floor.

  Why was he so sick? Where was Mom? Uncle Tao?

  And then it all came back.

  Lukan had brought men to the cottage to kill Uncle Tao and to attack him and Mom. The pain of his Uncle Tao’s death buckled him even more than his aching head did. He choked back tears of rage and sorrow.

  Where was his mother? Dead, too?

  He gasped breath after breath of the foul air to steady himself against his panic that something terrible had happened to her.

  Stop it! he commanded. She had been alive when he had attacked Lukan. He had to cling to that fact.

  But perhaps she was injured too, like him. If so, she would need him to help her. To do that, he had to get out of here so he could find her. To protect her like he had failed to protect Uncle Tao. During the attack, Mom had told him to run. To find Axel. He had failed her in that, too.

  He could not fail her again.

  Not when she could be in mortal danger.

  Head swimming with pain and dizziness, he staggered to his feet.

  A door. There has to be a door. Or a window.

  If he could just get his feet moving to find them. He wavered, swaying like leaves in the wind, and then collapsed onto the ground. The pain in his head exploded, but even as a fog of unconsciousness threatened to descend, he fought it.

  Mom needed him. And he needed her, too.

  Against the tide of internal blackness matching the darkness around him, he fought his way onto his knees and crawled toward the gray light. Each infinitesimal shuffle rocked another explosion in his head, and he had to stop and breathe until the pain ebbed. But at last, he reached the light.

  It wasn’t a window. Or a door.

  He honestly didn’t know what it was. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it. His fingers slipped into a hole. Carefully, painfully, he ducked down to look into it and up—and cried out as brilliant white light seared his eyes.

  He waited for that pain to pass. It didn’t, merely joining the clamor of other agony beating in his head. Teeth gritted, he bent down again to peer up at what he assumed was the midday sky at the top of a lengthy pipe.

  It had been night when he had attacked Lukan. How long had he been here? How long had Mom needed him? And who would have burned Uncle Tao and Thunder?

  Thunder . . . Dmitri.

  The seer had said to call him if he needed help . . . but the seer had also said Talon was to kill Lukan and overthrow his father’s empire.

  Right now, there was nothing Talon wanted more than to kill Lukan. But how was that ever to happen when he hadn’t even been able to stop the bastard and his friends from killing Uncle Tao? He hadn’t even managed to inflict enough damage on Lukan to stop him screaming for that man Morass to save him.

  And Morass? Where did he get that power? He and Uncle Tao weren’t weaklings, but they could never have done what Morass did.

  That wasn’t something Talon could defeat.

  Talon wasn’t a fool. And he wasn’t a coward, but he knew when he was beaten. Beaten before he even started. How did Dmitri ever think Talon could overthrow his father?

  No. It would be better to leave the seer well alone. Talon’s face hardened. And anyway, I don’t need help. I’ve managed most things on my own my entire life.

  He would escape from here the moment he could, and he would find Mom. That was his work, not worrying about Dmitri and his curse.

  The distant clomp of feet.

  Talon froze and cocked his head, not sure if he had heard correctly.

  He had. Definitely footsteps echoing through an empty space with stone floors. The person was headed this way. That meant there had to be a door.

  He grimaced at his stupidity. Of course there was a door. How else had they gotten me in here?

  Using the wall for support, he edged his dizzy, throbbing body along the wall until he brushed steel. His fingers explored its surface, finding two big hinges, one close to the floor, and the other about halfway up what he assumed was a door. There was no handle, only a narrow steel flap. He considered flicking it open to see outside, but the person was almost at the door.

  Metal jangled and then scraped.

  At first, he couldn’t imagine what the sound was, but it was familiar.

  Mom’s trunk.

  Mom had an old trunk that had a key, and it sounded just like that when, as a lad, he had played with opening and locking the lid.

  It had to be a key in a lock.

  He made a quick decision. When the door opened, he had to escape. This was not an opportunity he could let slip, because he might never have another chance. Willing his head to stop throbbing and his feet, knees, and legs to keep him steady, he slunk back against the wall, grateful for the dark.

  The door swung open, and a hand-held light swept across the stark, stone-walled room.

  Talon cursed silently. In that light, he would stand out like a full moon. There was nothing to be done. He had to take the gap.

  Someone grunted. “Where’ve you gone, then?”

  The owner of the voice stepped inside. It was Morass.

  Talon suppressed a gasp.

  All the more reason to go.

  Like a shadow—he hoped—he slipped behind the monster and darted, light of foot, down a stone passageway. Years of hunting had taught him to move silently.

  He rounded a corner when Morass swore. And then the sound of the brute’s boots echoed through the building. Morass charged down the passage after Talon.

  A burst of adrenaline had Talon careening ahead. In his anxiety to escape, he hardly felt his head. He had no idea where he was going, and could only hope he didn’t come to a dead end.

  A vast room opened before him, hung with saws, hooks, and other tools for slaughtering animals. He ran for it, trying to put as much distance between himself and Morass as possible.

  But as fast as he half-stumbled, half-ran, the monster seemed to move faster.

  Talon would never make it outside in time to escape. He looked for a place to hide. A wooden cabinet filled with ancient tools near the door to the slaughterhouse caught his eye. It wasn’t the greatest cover, but if he could get behind it, perhaps he could fool Morass into thinking he’d dashed out into the sunlit yard. Which was exactly what he would do when Morass ran outside to look for him. Hopefully, he would manage to slip away while the brute searched for him.

  He dove behind the cabinet, just managing to squeeze between it and the wall. He closed his eyes, praying that his roiling stomach wouldn’t betray him by retching.

  Then it struck him. Morass had stopped running.

  In fact, the monster laughed.

  “Come, my boy,” the brute said, menacing close to Talon, “come to Morass.”

  Talon sucked in a silent breath and waited as Morass’s slow, measured steps approached.

  How had he seen where Talon had hidden? He hadn’t even been in the passageway when Talon had ducked behind the cabinet.

  But on he came, step by relentless step.

  A shadow passed over the side of the cabinet, blocking out the daylight, and then Morass’s dead eyes stared directly in Talon’s.

  Despite the hopeless odds, Talon clenched his fists.

  Morass smiled condescendingly. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

  Talon’s skin crawled at the man’s voice. “Go hang yourself.”

  He looked past the monster, but there was no way he was slipping by him again.

  Morass laughed. “Feisty. Like your mother.”

  Talon’s heart clenched. He didn’t want to talk again, because that seemed to give this animal power, but he desperately needed to know about his mother. “How do you know her?”

  Morass peered down at him. “We’re old friends. I helped your father, our glorious emperor, banish her to the forest.” He spoke with pride.

  It incensed Talon, but he fough
t for control. “Where’s she now?”

  “That is not your concern. Now, come.”

  Talon slunk even farther behind the cabinet.

  And then the cabinet flew across the room. It hit the opposite wall and shattered into kindling, scattering tools everywhere.

  Through the screech of metal on stone, Morass crooned, “No matter how much I would like to, I’m not permitted to hurt you, so let’s do this easily, shall we?”

  Exposed as a skinned rabbit, Talon braced himself for a fight he knew he had no chance of winning. But by the Winds, he wasn’t going to let this savage take him back to that dark, filthy room without inflicting some damage, no matter how inconsequential.

  Morass leaned down to grab him, and Talon shot his hand up to gouge the man’s eyes. Morass didn’t even dodge his attack. Unexpectedly, Talon’s fingers slid into warm jelly. Morass barely murmured—he felt no pain? How was that possible? But Talon didn’t waste time pondering the imponderable. He clenched his fingers around the gooey mass.

  Morass’s eye trailed streamers of nerves and blood as Talon yanked his hand away.

  “You animal!” Morass yelled, clutching his face as he staggered back, but he still made no move to harm Talon. “Feral! That’s what you are.”

  Revulsion at what he’d done to another human being—even if Morass was a murderer—had Talon retching, but he tossed the eye away and tried to run.

  A hand scooped down to grab him by the neck. Even though Morass’s fingers gripped like a vise, they didn’t crush his spine.

  What gave the beast such control, even when he should have been in agony with a lost eye?

  Talon had no idea, but still he squirmed, punched, and kicked at the brute as he sailed through the air beneath Morass’s hand—back toward the room. And then he saw how Morass had found him—a trail of his haphazard footprints in the dust had led straight to his hiding place.

  He had never stood a chance.

  Were all of Lukan’s supporters as strong and as impervious to pain as this brute? If so, Dmitri really was out of his mind to suggest that Talon could have any impact on any of them.

  Morass tossed him into the room. Before Talon had even struck the floor, the door had closed. The key turned in the lock.