by Shana Abe
There—that cloud there was Kit, she knew him—and there was the runner, not so sheer, not so fine. They flexed through the choking haze of smoke, winding together, never quite touching.
And then the runner Turned to dragon. The entire audience broke into a gasp.
He was turquoise and bottle-green, extravagantly beautiful, because all the drákon were beautiful in this form. He soared high, blowing easily through the smoke that was Christoff. Another fire sun had already been lit; it shot straight up and detonated like a Chinese bomb, freezing the heavens and the earth in cold white light, exposing the second dragon that had overtaken the first, scarlet wings, bright emerald eyes.
The people below gasped again . . . and then, in tentative pockets, began to clap.
Rue hauled Zane back with her into the thicket. “Get out of here. Hurry. Get home.”
“I can't leave you!”
“Do you truly think I can't handle myself? You see those creatures? I'm one of them. Go home. Do as I say this time! Don't speak to anyone. Just go.”
The pistol dropped to the grass. “But—”
“Now,” she snapped, and flung off the coat.
Zane flinched back, then turned and ran lightly away. Within seconds he was invisible among the bent lines of the trees.
The musicians began a military march, the final piece of the night. Rue pressed against a heady-sweet eucalyptus and searched the sky—she and everyone else, because the two dragons were still circling each other, high and deceptively slow-moving, fangs and claws and wings that sheared the smoke into ribbons. The workers in the pit had already aligned the final ten rockets. With their ears muffled and their gazes aimed deliberately at the ground, they wouldn't realize there was a battle taking place above their heads.
They were rushing now, anticipating the end of the night. All ten fuses of the final rockets were lit, blistering orange. They burned short and flared in a volley and screamed up together into the cloudy black firmament, arrows flying straight to the beasts overhead.
Kit dodged twice, three times. The runner did not. A trail of fire struck his wing. He twisted and plunged but Kit was right after him, all the dazzling color and glamour that the fireworks lacked, and the chorus of ooohs and aaahs from the audience rose to overpower the music.
The last of the fire suns died. Both dragons had vanished from view, lost behind the curtain of smoke. It cleared, slowly, to show lucid glimpses of stars and the sickle moon and nothing else, no hint of mythical beasts. Only dark. Only night.
The people in the gardens began a roar of approval that climbed and climbed, clapping and whistling, slapping tankards together in toasts.
“Cracking good show!” enthused a man nearby to his companion. “How the devil do y'think they did it?”
She floated above the pleasure gardens, another drift of smoke among the many, blank moonlight flashing over fountains, lamplight a dim warmth along the paths. People were spilling back into the shadows, or to the tavern; she saw a man in a straw hat carrying off her dress.
But she could not find Christoff. She couldn't even find another drákon. The pleasure gardens were extensive, rolling in trees and grass and that soft, buttery light, but below her all she sensed were people and small hidden creatures like wagtails and finches and mice.
The grounds were fully surrounded with a brickwork wall. The northern corner seemed especially murky. Rue glided over to it, leaving behind the fountains and ambling couples, sinking down to become fog above the long tickling grasses. She curled over a wooden turnstile and fence with a sign posted PRIVATE MATTERS ONLY, entered an enclosure where the leaves gathered unswept and willowherb and cow parsley poked their heads through old flowerbeds, and logs that had once marked out boundaries fell apart in spongy green. A weathered toolshed slumped to one side, propped up with a plank, looking only a brisk breeze away from full collapse.
She heard voices, very furtive. It was darker here than she'd anticipated, the moonlight too thin to prick through the matted trees but for a few lacy plots. She Turned, avoiding them, stepping from the path to the silent grass, winding like a cat through the brush to a stand of oaks.
Definitely voices. Men's voices. She peered around the limbs yet saw nothing but more vegetation, so she moved again, creeping from tree to tree, until at last she was at the verge of the stand. Only yards away were all the missing drákon, standing in a rough circle amid the wild clawing bushes.
Everyone was dressed but for Kit. She did not see the runner, not at first. But when a pair of men moved, the pale, lax shape of Tamlane Williams came clear through the weeds.
“. . . the carriage round here, to this wall,” the marquess was saying. “He won't be that difficult to lift over.”
“Aye, m'lord.”
“Have a care with him. He's already bruised up. We don't want to make it worse for him than it already is.”
Rue exhaled, her cheek against the tree. Christoff lifted his head.
“What of the girl?” whispered one of the men. “Do we bring her back tonight as well?”
“I'll take care of it.”
“There's an extra hood in the carriage,” offered the squire.
“Aye,” said Christoff, and turned his face directly to hers.
Rue drew back. She retreated as swiftly as she dared, past all the trees, becoming one with the inky thick night.
______
One of the panes of her bedroom window was broken, the glass rudely smashed. But more significantly, the window itself was open, letting in the murmur of wind that stirred with the coming sunrise.
Kit took it as an invitation. It was highly unlikely she'd just forgotten to close it.
He found her sitting up in her bed with her legs drawn up, the covers at her feet. She wore a chemise but nothing else; it clung to her, translucent cotton stretched over her arms and shoulders, rippled into folds across the sheets. She regarded him gravely as he took shape, her face framed with tousled hair, her eyes looking him up and down, once, before lowering to her knees. There was a vase of fresh roses upon the bureau; their scent warmed the room.
“I haven't packed,” Rue said.
“So I see.”
“And you owe me a gown,” she went on, still to her knees. “The green was my favorite. I'd like to get it replaced here.” Her lips twisted. “There's not a modiste in Darkfrith I'd care to patronize.”
“We are a bit beyond the brink of fine society.”
“Well I know it,” she replied, dark.
He approached the roses. They were pink and coral and reminded him of her lips, so he touched one, feeling the firm silky petals, imagining, with his lashes lowered, that he touched her instead.
“Will you hate it there so much?” Christoff asked.
She didn't answer, so he lifted his gaze, first to the reflection of color and sky past her window, then back at her. She'd lowered her chin so her hair spilled forward, a dusky veil over her cheeks. Her fingers clenched, bloodless, around her bare arms.
“I didn't kill the runner,” he said.
“I saw.” Her hands loosened a little; she ran her palms down her shins. “The pistol wasn't loaded. I checked it to be certain.”
“He still threatened you, Rue.”
“In his position, would you have done different?”
“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “I've never been afforded the luxury of wondering.”
She didn't have a ready response for that, and it irritated her. Rue drew the chemise taut over her legs, scowling at it, freeing it again. She didn't want to look up at him, because when she did all she saw was Kit, golden Kit, nude and warmly smiling. She would make this easy for him then, because she could not help herself. He'd sprinkle her with sugared words and kisses, all her best dreams, and she'd melt like snow under the sun. But she didn't want to make this easy. He was taking something valuable from her, no matter how much he offered in return, and she didn't want it to be easy.
“Rue-flower . . .
I release you.”
It took a moment for the words to wind through her brain. She raised her eyes, shocked. “What did you say?”
“I release you, Rue Hawthorne.” He gave her a look she couldn't interpret, cool and dim against the brighter window. “You're no longer bound.”
For a moment she only stared at him. Somewhere outside, a dog began to bark.
“Is that supposed to be a jest?”
“No.”
“What are you saying?” She sat up straighter, getting angry. “You're saying I'm free? I don't have to return to Darkfrith?”
“Yes.”
“Oh—very amusing, Lord Langford. I am to believe the council condoned this, that after everything that's happened all those mad old men merely wish me a fond adieu.”
“The council,” he said mildly, “will do as I say. In the end, it is our nature. Besides, none of them knows where you live, and I won't tell them.”
She snapped her mouth closed. The dog subsided into diminishing echoes.
“What of Zane?”
“What of him?”
“Do you release him as well?”
“My love, as difficult as you may find this to believe, I never wanted any part of your grubby street urchin. All I wanted was his silence. He's not released from that, but otherwise . . . yes. He's free to bloom into years of full-blown larceny, for all I care.”
“He won't betray us,” Rue said.
The marquess gave a very dry smile. “I'm beginning to think it wouldn't matter if he did. After last night, I doubt anyone would believe him. We've a whole city full of witnesses now, and no one seemed especially panicked about flying dragons.” He looked down at the roses. “I suspect it was quite a show.”
She traced a slow circle into the sheets with her finger. “I heard it said that you were a new kind of shadow puppet, projected up into the sky.” She shrugged. “People will believe anything, I suppose.”
“Especially the intoxicated ones.” Christoff blew his breath out in a sigh. “I tried to draw him away, God knows. I tried to keep us up high. But he just . . .” He trailed off, his features drawn harsh.
“You weren't visible that long,” she said softly.
“Is that what it was like for you?” He took up one of the roses, tapped the water from the stem, and carried it with him over to the bed. The mattress sank; he sat beside her without touching. “I heard him talking to you about the shire. Is that what it was like for you too? You felt like an outsider, like you didn't belong?”
“Every single day.” Except when you looked at me.
His hair was long and untamed, a spill of darkened gold down his shoulder blades. The muscles of his back were smooth and flat. Rue lifted a hand, combing her fingers through the strands. His skin beneath felt deliciously warm.
Kit tore off a rose petal, let it drift down to the rug. “It won't be simple,” he said. “Changing the ways of the tribe. It won't be an easy task.”
“No.”
Another petal. “Perhaps you might write to me. Offer suggestions.”
“Perhaps.”
“Rue.” He shifted around to face her; she let his hair slip from her hand. “You're not really going to make me be this noble, are you?”
“I think a little nobility might be good for your disposition, Lord Langford.”
“A little,” he said with a strange, uneasy laugh, and closed his eyes. “God. You've opened windows in my soul I never knew existed. You've made me think I have a hope of becoming the man I always wanted to be.” He looked down at the rose; his fingers cupped together and tore off all the remaining petals at once. They fell in painted silence from his palm. “Rue-flower—Clarissa—for better or worse, you've woken my heart. I don't think I can be a noble man without you at my side, prodding me along every day. I'm a damned stubborn fellow. Don't you know that?”
She didn't reply. He tossed the stem to the floor, frowning now at her knees, as if the stretch of white chemise across them vexed him. He touched her arm, his palm skimming her uncovered skin, then lifted her hand to place his lips upon the inside of her wrist. His kisses were tantalizing, a path of sweet little butterflies winding up to her inner elbow. Rue found that she was holding her breath.
He pressed his cheek against her forearm. “You do realize that if you don't end up marrying me, I'll turn out a sour old man, just like the rest of them. I need you to rescue me.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But what about my gown?”
Christoff looked up.
“It's going to take months of proper fittings. Swatches. Plates. A gown like that is not whipped together like some fishmonger's sackcloth.”
“Ah. I believe I understand.” He inched closer. “A lady's toilette is not to be rushed. If you think it's going to take so long . . . perhaps I might just stay with you. To ensure a proper fitting. I am, if I may say so, something of an expert on your figure.”
“Are you?” she breathed, lying back to the pillows, stretching out her arms.
He smiled down at her, a truer smile than before. His hand discovered the drawstring of the chemise; he wound a thin ribbon around one finger. “Aye. A most . . . loving . . . expert.” He tugged the bow loose.
“And what if I were to say to you—” Rue had to stop, because he had bent his lips to her chest, his tongue brushing her skin where the chemise fell open. “Say to you,” she went on, determined, “that I would want a few more gowns like it, every year?”
“I suppose someone must keep Far Perch in order.” His eyes were laughing, brilliant clear green, even though his tone remained bland. “It would be a crime to let it languish empty all the time.”
“I agree. And someone should also be around—periodically—to guard against the natural hazards of the city. Urchins. Purloined diamonds. Ruthless thieves.”
“Little mouse.” Christoff leaned up to cover her lips, abandoning his reserve, his body lithe over hers, pressing into her with his hard, eager heat. “Let them come. There's nothing there worth stealing. Everything of value in the world is here before me, in your eyes.”
Dawn came and left, waving green and gold and ginger, but Rue wasn't awake to see any of it. Kit watched her sleep, her lovely face unguarded, her cheeks tinted with the light. He felt an aching in his heart unfamiliar to him, and quietly perused it as he stroked the hair from her forehead. It took him a good while to realize that what he was feeling was happiness, absolute, complete.
It frightened him a little. He'd never known such a thing before. It seemed fragile, elusive, as temporal as the wash of colors that had blazed through the sky.
Her eyes opened. She regarded him with her drowsy, dark-eyed look, not speaking.
“Do you think you might love me again yet?” he asked.
She smiled at him, a woman's smile, mysteriously profound. “Ridiculous man. I've loved you my whole life. Didn't you know?”
He put his face into her hair to hide his relief. “A true gentleman is loath to appear immodest. . . .”
Her laughter shook them both. “Too late for that.”
He relaxed to his side and pulled her closer, her back to his chest, his arms going tight around her in a gradual, squeezing embrace. She hugged him back with her arms over his and her feet tucked up.
“Will you marry me, Rue? Truly marry me, before our people?”
Her answer came low. “I will.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Her body was softly rounded. Her buttocks made a warm, tempting pressure against his groin. Her breasts were a pleasing weight between his arms, her hair lay trapped across the pillows and under his cheek. Kit bent his head to hers with a new purpose.
“This is how we'll do it.”
“What?”
He nipped her shoulder with his teeth.
“Oh.”
“Tonight,” he murmured. “In the sky.”
Rue rolled over, wrapped in a sheath of lovely brown hair, white skin, pink lips,
watching him through her lashes. She smiled with slow, sensual mischief. “Why wait till then?”
And drew him back to her.
The London Town Crier
July 20, 1751
Menagerie Set to Close
The M——s of L——d has made a Private Purchase of Graham's Menagerie, Chelsea, for a sum undisclosed, citing a Desire to restore the Peace to our City. Gentle Readers may recall the Peculiar Disappearance of an Entire Company of Capuchin Monkeys June last, which have since been discovered living Feral in Rollingbrook Forest and causing a Great Deale of Havoc in the crops nearby. The M——s has vowed no further Devilment will occur, as all the Creatures are to be moved to a Secluded Location, else sent back to the Lands from which they Came, sparing no expense at the cost.
The M——s wed in April. His Bride is said to be a most avid Lover of Wild Creatures.
EPILOGUE
The truth of the stones is this: they change the chemicals in dragon blood.
Like a drug to a mortal, a diamond or ruby or mere chip of jasper can incite visions of bliss, of torment or sorrow or unbearable desire. The structure of any stone can be echoed in the dragon heart, in their very substance; both dragon and diamond are true beings of the earth. They feed off each other. They are twin reflections of a greater whole, which is why the drákon collect the stones, and why a few—a very few—mortal men collect them as well.
For if the stone can change the dragon, the dragon, too, can change the stone.
In the year 1751, for the first time in centuries, two Alpha hearts united. The power of their union shivered the very web of the drákon. Souls trembled on invisible strings. Fates shifted. And ancient ties, long forgotten, thrilled to life.
In that year, Draumr, the dreamer's diamond, transformed her song. From her hidden place in the Carpathian mines, in the dark, in the cold, her beckoning rose to flare across the skies.
Neither fortune nor distance can rend a true family. Blood calls to blood.
It was only a matter of time before the English sent their own dragon princess to find us.