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The Gladium Province is on the verge of civil unrest as humans and Morgons, the dragon-hybrid race, clash once more. But amid disorder can also arise passion…
When the bodies of three human women are discovered in Morgon territory—with the DNA of several Morgon men on the victims—it’s just a matter of time before civil unrest hits the Province. But for ambitious reporter Moira Cade, it’s more than just a story, and it may mean risking her own life.
Descending into the dark underworld of Morgon society, Moira is paired with Kol Moonring, Captain of the Morgon Guard, for her protection. Fiercely independent, Moira bristles at his dominance, and defies his will at every turn. Yet resistance proves futile when passion flares between them, awakening powerful emotions within both, body and soul. But as the killings continue, can their fiery newfound bond survive an even greater evil—one that threatens all of humanity, Morgonkind, and Moira’s very soul?...
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Books by Juliette Cross
Nightwing Series
Soulfire
Nightbloom
Vale of Stars Series
Waking the Dragon
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Waking the Dragon
A Vale of Stars Novel
Juliette Cross
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
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Copyright © 2015 by Juliette Cross
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First Electronic Edition: June 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-723-7
eISBN-10: 1-61650-723-3
First Print Edition: June 2015
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-724-4
ISBN-10: 1-61650-724-1
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Rachel, my childhood friend and adulthood soul sister.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my beta girls—Julie, Jessen, Rebekah, Rachel, and Brooke—I love you ladies like the sky is wide. As always, I must thank my editor, Corinne DeMaagd, who is superwoman of the editing world, in my opinion. Your meticulous attention to detail and tireless efforts are more appreciated than you know. To my friend, Cora Cade, whose encouragement has lifted me up time and again. And finally, to the readers of fantasy romance—you are the reason writers like me are able to let our imaginations soar into the creative unknown, to craft heartfelt characters who yearn for true love, and to build worlds where dreams do come true. A heartfelt thank you from this humble writer.
Prologue
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The beautiful blonde froze.
Silence.
She peered down the darkened corridor of the cellar beneath the Vaengar Stadium. No one.
The Morgon with black hair and black eyes at the bar had told her the restroom was this way. The only sound was the wafting crackle of the torches. The only sight was long shadows cast by flickering flame. An eerie tendril of fear snaked up her spine. Even half-drunk, something primitive warned her of danger, like the innate foreboding a deer senses when the tiger stalks unseen from the trees.
She shook it off, flipped her long hair over one shoulder, and walked on, knowing the restroom must be just around the bend up ahead.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She stopped again and spun around, unable to tell from which direction the sound came.
“Bennett? Is that you?” A hollow echo of her voice reverberated down the empty corridor. “Stop it! You’re scaring me.” The last came out a faint whisper. A presence—corporeal, malevolent, and drawing closer—plunged her into icy fear. Her pulse quickened. A hiss of wind pressed the thin fabric of her mini-dress to her thighs. The flame on the wall guttered to nothing, then relit anew.
Tick.
Tick.
Directly behind her. She whirled and stared up at a massive Morgon man who stood only feet away. A behemoth silhouetted by the flambeau. His pointed wings, half-open and huge, kept the rest of him in shadow, as if the light itself repelled him. She could see nothing but his eyes—amber orbs with serpentine slits, bright as the torch-flame. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fell back against cold stone, scraping her bare shoulders against the rough cavern wall.
He passed near a sconce, the light illuminating hard, angular planes, the ancestral lines of the dragon sculpting his face in stark relief—more beast than man. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage.
“I—I lost my way, I think. I should go.” She gestured in the direction she had come, inching along the wall.
He moved with lethal grace, angling closer in slow, even steps.
Tick.
Her gaze dropped to his large hand. Claw-tipped fingers spread wide, the sharp nail of the index tapping the stone. She bolted left, only to find a wall of six Morgon men blocking her exit. They’d materialized out of the shadows in silent stealth. Unmoving, watching. Backing against the wall, she swiveled her head from those blocking her path to their master stalking closer.
“What—what do you want from me?” Her voice cracked, primal fear ripping through her gut.
By now, she’d reached the pinnacle of terror, petrified in place. Tangible evil seeped into her skin as the sinister creature loomed, enveloping her in his shadow. Something screamed for her to run, while a compelling power rolling from the beast kept her pinned in place. It was as if his very presence demanded obedience, subservience.
The beast braced one arm next to her head, her panic filling up the confines of their space. He inhaled a deep breath, drinking her fear in like the sweetest nectar.
“Will she serve, my lord?” A voice of authority from one of the Morgons in shadow—sultry but edged like a razor.
Her chest rose and fell, drawing the beast’s gaze. He leaned closer, trailing one claw lightly over her swelling breasts. Viper-swift, he clamped her mouth with his other hand, stifling her screams, and continued his exploration of her naked skin with the blade-like nail. Her rapid pulse beat frantically at the base of her neck.
“Perhaps.” One word, grating and broken. The voice of a monster.
He snaked his claw across the bottom of her throat, then down the line of her cleavage, pressing just enough to scrape the skin, a thin line of red rushing to the surface. Keeping her immobile with his crushing weight, he scraped a drop of blood from her breasts. He opened his mouth, revealing a row of sharpened teeth, the canines most prominent. Reeking of menace and power, he licked the tip of his claw.
“Perhaps.” His voice fell to a raspy whisper. A rumbling growl rattled her bones. A flas
h of flame and shadow and all was black.
Chapter 1
I paused the image on the comm screen, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. Pale and naked, the mutilated woman was splayed spread-eagle on her back in the snow, her bloodless skin only a shade darker. Dirty-blond hair, matted and tangled, covered her face—all but one glassy, green eye. A slit made with precision and patience opened her entire cavity from throat to pubic bone, exposing internal organs. What seemed to be left of them, anyway.
“Did you get any close-ups?” I asked Macon.
“Yes. Your favorite smuggler is getting better at his illegal activities.”
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
“Stop sucking up. It doesn’t suit you, Moira.”
“But I do appreciate it,” I said, setting his comm device in my lap. “Seriously.”
“Well, when I get fired from my job, you can hire me here at The Herald.”
“First off, you don’t get paid as an intern at the precinct. And secondly, you can’t write or edit worth a damn, so what could you do at a college paper?”
He rolled his eyes. “True. But payback for this will be you helping me pass my Ancient Lit class.”
“Done. Now, show me what else you got.”
Macon tapped the comm screen to play. “Here. Look.”
Sure enough, his video panned to photos of the victim’s hands and ankles, bruised from restraints. Just like the others. The last shot zoomed in on her lower torso and legs. Bright blood stained the inner slopes of pale thighs. I heaved in a deep breath and blew it out. “This blood doesn’t look like it came from the mutilation.”
“No. I asked my boss, Torrance, about that.” Macon’s voice dropped, grave and thick. “The tearing came from the sheer violence of the, uh…”
Macon swallowed hard. He seemed to be struggling to find words to describe such brutality to one of his best female friends. Finally, he cleared his throat, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and continued in a professional manner. “I heard our forensics guy talking to Torrance. Said the DNA evidence proves there was a multiple-rape. Like the others. But this time was much worse.”
“Dear God.”
I set down his comm device on the desk. Standing up, I stared out the window, unable to look at the images for one more second. My hands trembled. I crossed my arms and closed my eyes in an attempt to steady myself. But the images kept flitting through my mind on instant replay. A horror movie come to life. The torture and terror these young women suffered wouldn’t leave me. Raped. Multiple times. Then torn open like sacrificial lambs. The fear they must’ve felt in those last moments. Anger welled inside, demanding justice for these young women. I twisted the medal that dangled on a silver chain at my throat, rubbing it for comfort between thumb and forefinger. Knowing that emotion was the one inhibitor of a journalist’s investigation, a fault that could make me lose focus, I wiped away the thoughts and forced myself to the task at hand. Investigation.
“How—how many?” I asked. “Six of them, like the last two victims?”
“This time there were seven.”
I whirled. “Seven?” Based on my theory that these heinous murders were committed by an exclusive cult of some kind, a new member didn’t quite fit.
“Yeah. The DNA on the first two are from six different Morgon men, but the new victim has a seventh.” The DNA for the human-dragon hybrid race was so distinct, there was no denying the murderers were Morgons. Macon pointed to the comm screen. “And look at this.”
I sat back down while Macon scanned the photos, then paused on a shot of the dead girl’s thigh. I frowned.
“Bite marks?”
“They slashed her carotid artery, then bit her. Well, one of them did.”
“Let me guess. The new guy.”
“Yep. The DNA around the bite mark matches that of the seventh culprit.”
I peered closer at the photo on screen. “Why bite her? The Devlin Butchers have been methodical up to this point. Violent, yes, but also precise.”
Some reporter had coined the phrase after they found the first body, saying she was split open like a slaughtered lamb. The horror these girls must’ve endured was one thing, but the repercussions for Gladium were exponential. While our city was one of the few which implemented desegregation laws for both species to live alongside one another, it was only in the past few years that amicable relations had begun to build beyond business. It wasn’t uncommon to see interracial couples together in public these days. My older sister, Jessen, for example.
Since the Dixon Desegregation Act two decades ago, named for the former governor who founded the law and pushed it through Parliament, the dividing line between races began to blur, opening doors for cooperative trade and for businesses to flourish. Opening the door for even more. Humans and Morgonkind merged, throwing Gladium into a bright spotlight, whether we liked it or not.
When my sister, the eldest daughter of a powerful Gladium family, and Lucius Nightwing, the eldest son of the most powerful Morgon clan, united in marriage, our world tilted. Rumors of dissent and criticism from provinces abroad filtered into the city. Even so, professional and personal relations between the races had never been better.
But now, these Morgon murderers were specifically targeting human women. Why? There were plenty of human-only and Morgon-only provinces to reside if you didn’t care for the mixing of races. And the murders carried some odd, ritualistic traits. Like the rapes by the same six Morgon men. And the precise slicing open of the victims’ cavities. All the same. Until now.
I blew out a frustrated breath. “The bite doesn’t fit our profile. A cult or gang ritual is precise and exact, like the first two killings. This new player is the one amping up the violence.”
I stared up at the two young women smiling from their pictures on my bulletin board. One kicked the surf on the beach, mouth open wide in laughter. The other curled up on a park bench with a book, looking up as if someone just called her name. I kept them there to remind me what had been lost, what the world had lost now that they were no longer in it. And now I’d be adding one more picture to the board. A familiar anger burned through my gut. No more. It needed to stop. And if that meant me diving head-first into the Morgon world to find these fuckers, then so be it.
I sighed and turned my attention back to Macon. “The violence has escalated. We’ve got to look at this from a new angle. Figure out why the change with this victim.”
“This one is a blonde, the others were brunettes,” he added. “Another break from the pattern.”
“I don’t think our killers are seeking a particular type, except for—” I gazed back down at the comm screen, moving to more detailed close-ups of injuries.
“Except for?” Macon prompted.
“Except for the young and pretty.”
A nascent thought, a memory from when I babysat my nephew two years ago, flashed to mind. Upon returning from the Vaengar Stadium where a popular Morgon sport was played, my sister’s best friend, Sorcha, made a snide remark. Yeah, doesn’t matter if they’re tall or short, human or Morgon. Vaengar players just like them beautiful, like that fucking blood cult. Jessen had shushed her up, eyeing me in the corner of her kitchen. My overprotective sister had always been secretive about the Morgon world, though I never understood from what she was protecting me.
I sat back in my chair, staring at the morbid remains of the latest victim on the comm screen, one I still suspected was the result of some ritual cult. Perhaps the very one Sorcha mentioned with a slip of the tongue that time a few years ago. The signs were all there. I knew I was right. Whatever instinct policemen and detectives had, so did I. “I’m assuming her body was found in Devlin Wood. In Drakos.”
“Yep. No different than the other two victims.”
Drakos, a Morgon-only province to the north of Gladium. “And where was she last seen?”
“At the Vaengar Stadium here in Gla
dium.”
“Just like the others.” I combed my hands in frustration through my long hair before pulling a hair tie off my wrist and piling the dark mass into a messy bun out of my way.
“Well…” Macon straightened, his eyes following my impromptu hair-styling, “I think she—”
“These are much better photos than the others, Macon. Nice work.” I scrawled some notes inside Maxine Mendale’s folder, victim number three, then plugged my printer cord into Macon’s comm device to get still photos for my file.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. I interrupted. You think she what?”
“Uh, I overheard Torrance say Maxine didn’t leave with her whole party that night.”
“I know that, Macon. She was abducted from the premises, so of course she didn’t leave.”
“I mean, they interviewed some guy named Bennett Cremwell, a friend of hers. He said they stayed behind for an after-party, some kind of hush-hush event. You have to know the right Morgons to be invited.”
He had my full attention now. I stopped scanning the comm screen. “Okay. Let’s go over this step by step.”
I flipped open my journal with handwritten notes scribbled on every square inch and in no certain order. Not to the average eye, anyway.
“Why don’t you just use your comm device for all that? It’d be much more efficient.”
“I like paper and pen. Helps me think better.” Macon scrunched up his brows, shaking his head at me. I flipped to a clean page and wrote Maxine Mendale’s name at the top. “So victim number one, Sasha Blake, was also last seen at the Vaengar Stadium. However, her last contact with her friends was during the game itself. She disappeared when she went to the bar.”
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