Auctioned to the Dragon

by Kayle Wolf

  Dust scattered as a dragon landed heavily beside her—Samuel, she recognized him immediately, his huge golden eye at her level as he lowered his head to inspect her.

  “I’m fine,” she answered the unspoken question, almost laughing. Dragons could communicate telepathically, but not with dragons in human shape. But she knew Samuel well enough to know what his first question would have been. “Listen—this collar’s stopping me from shifting. Can you bite it off?”

  He rumbled, doubtfully—then lifted one great claw, carefully extending one talon, so its razor-sharp edge was held vertically next to her. She eyed it for a moment. What choice did she have? Carefully (she knew full well what those talons could do to soft flesh) she bent her head, exposing the back of the collar to his claw. The tiniest slip of the claw could send it deep into her spine, paralyzing her. She felt the touch of his talon, unbelievably light, rasping back and forth across the surface of the collar, as though he were scratching an itch. She fought an absurd urge to laugh. But as he wore away at the collar, she felt it begin to vibrate, heating up and cooling down randomly as Samuel wore his steady way through the collar. She gasped as the vibrations accelerated—then seemed to stop completely.

  Helena looked up at Samuel, who was peering down at her, clearly anxious about going any further with the collar. She took a deep breath, reached deep inside herself—and with a burst of exultant joy, she felt her shoulder blades begin to swell as her wings took shape. The collar groaned and buckled as her neck swelled—then snapped at the point of weakness Samuel had scratched into it.

  And with more gratitude than she’d ever believed she could feel, Helena finally shifted form.

  She roared, her voice mixing with her brothers’ in the cold morning air, and sprang aloft, her powerful wings carrying her up, up and over the battlefield. She sought out Angela and Jessica, pinned down by a pack of wolves, and dove, borrowing her father’s trick, to toss two of the attackers into the river, giving Angela and Jessica the upper hand. Samuel charged to their side, surprisingly agile on the ground, snapping at wolves left and right as he fought by his wife’s side. Stephen was mid-air, spiraling as he dueled lazily with three white dragons. None of them could land a single blow on him, though the blood on their wings and bodies showed that he’d already done plenty of damage to them. He didn’t need her help.

  But Art might.

  She blanched when she saw him. The bear had finally made it to his quarry, the dragon king—and now Val’s serpentine draconic body was wrapped completely around the bear, his jaws taking bite after bite out of Art’s shoulders, his neck, even his face. Blood had formed a sticky arena around them, but as Helena watched in horror, she saw why the dragon was lashing out so desperately at the bear—he had its whole torso pinned against a rock and was digging his hind claws into the muddy ground, pressing the full, mighty weight of his body against the dragon’s slender torso. Even as she watched, Helena heard one of Val’s bones crack, heard the dragon’s shriek of pain ring out across the battleground like a gunshot. He took another huge bite out of the bear’s shoulder, but he was weakening—both his wings torn to ribbons by the bear’s claws, his body crushed and battered.

  And now, the bear’s great jaws fastened around the dragon’s throat, just below his chin. The dragon snapped wildly at the bear, but couldn’t reach. But Art didn’t bite down—didn’t put the creature out of his misery. Instead, he shook his head furiously, like a dog shaking a toy—shook Val until she heard his neck snap. Shook his limp, dying body until Helena, sickened, turned away.

  Finally, there was a resounding thud as the bear dropped the dragon’s body. A hush fell across the battlefield as first the dragons then the wolves realized that Val—that the ruler of Mossley, the organizer of the festival, their reigning monarch—was dead. The dragons reacted immediately. Those who could still fly lifted up and darted up the path and away. Those who couldn’t shifted back to human form and made a break for it, many of them limping, all running for the tree line.

  The wolves scattered too, clearly unsure of what to do now that the king had been killed, and Helena felt shock rise in her. Had the wolves been following King Val as well? She’d assumed they were simply attending the festival, but they were reacting as though they’d had an Alpha killed. Jessica and Angela looked nonplussed, too—she could see the two wolves, covered in blood, staring at one another, no doubt having a furiously fast mental conversation.

  She heard a great thud—and her heart leaped into her throat as she remembered. Art. The bear had collapsed, bleeding freely from the dozens of deep, savage wounds that had been inflicted to his body. He lay in a pool of blood, his great jaws open as he gasped for breath. She landed, moved towards him, her serpentine neck extending to snake her great head closer. God, she’d missed this body. But would he recognize her? His dark eyes opened, and stared into hers, uncomprehending.

  Art? The telepathic touch was instinctive—it was how she always spoke in this form. She had no idea whether he’d hear her, but she had to try.

  Oh. There you are.

  The voice was him, and it wasn’t. It was older than him by far—older even than her, older even than her father. It was ancient and frightening; wild and wise. It was what she saw when she looked deep into his eyes, it was the strength of his body, the gentleness of his hands as he taught her to build a fire, his lips against her forehead the morning he’d left her sleeping to bring them some breakfast. It was him, and it wasn’t him. And as he looked at her, his dark brown eyes began to slide closed.

  She needed hands. She needed her hands and her voice back. She shifted again, felt her wings shrivel and retreat, felt her scales disappear, giving way to soft, vulnerable human skin. She didn’t care. She needed her hands—her fingers—she lunged forward on her human legs and ran to his side, threw her arms around his great neck, buried her face into his fur, heedless of the blood that was pooling around him.

  “Don’t die, don’t you dare die, don’t you go anywhere, Arthur York. You’re not just this bear, you’re—you’re a person, too, you taught me to build a fire, you threw me over your shoulder while I yelled at you, you told me about your people, about your life, about your mom, Art, you told me to call you Art, not Arthur—Art—come back. Please, come back.”

  His eyes didn’t open. She was kneeling by his side, heedless of the dragons crouched behind her—her brothers, her father, the two wolves standing side by side, all keeping a wary distance. She buried her head in his fur and wept, clutching at him as though she could somehow bring him back. Clutching at the fur—clutching at—less fur. Less fur, and less. And beneath it… skin. Was his fur coming out somehow? No—she opened her eyes in disbelief, stared down at what had been a bear, and was now shrinking, rapidly, back into the distinctly familiar form of a man, his head in her lap.

  And those dark eyes opened, staring up at hers in absolute wonder.

  “How’d you know how to do that?” he breathed, then coughed, wincing as it jarred his ribs. He was badly hurt, she could see through the tears—but he was alive. He was still alive, thank all the gods.

  “We have to go,” she whispered. “You need rest. Come home with me?”

  He stared up at her, not comprehending. “Home?”

  “These are my brothers and sisters. That’s my dad. This—this is my family.”

  “Helena? What’s going on? Who’s this?” Jessica, blunt as always. She’d shifted back, stood there in jeans and a T-shirt—Helena had taught her how to shift while keeping her clothes on—for all the world as though it was just a regular day. But the bloodstains running from her mouth down her front suggested something else.

  “I knew it! I knew there were bears! I told you there were!” Angela had changed too, and she was shouting up at Stephen, who maintained a dignified silence.

  “I’m—” Art winced again, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. She leaned in close to hear what he was trying to say. “I’m—I can’t meet your family naked.”<
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  Helena’s laughter echoed all the way across the river.

  Chapter 14

  Art had never flown before. He had to admit, it took some getting used to.

  Helena had sprung into action like a seasoned war general. Once she’d ascertained that he wasn’t literally about to bleed to death, she’d mobilized her family—most of whom were still in the form of enormous and extremely intimidating dragons—to take Mossley completely apart. He’d been moved to a bed in one of the few cabins he hadn’t destroyed on his rampage, and a set of clothing had been located for him—he hadn’t asked whether it belonged to someone he’d killed, not particularly wanting an honest answer. A first aid kit had been located in the reception hall, and the very frightened wolf who’d signed him up for the fights had been prevailed upon to tend his wounds.

  Meanwhile, one of the dragons—Samuel, Helena had called him, though Art hadn’t been able to tell them apart for the life of him—was on collar removal duty. All of the women who’d been collared and sold were still, thank God, at the camp. Helena found all fifteen of them. He watched from his little bed, covered in bandages and bundled up in blankets, as she hugged each one, spoke low and intently with them, then gestured to Samuel. The dragon sat patiently behind her like some kind of terrifying, obedient pet dog—then extended his claw to ever-so-gently scratch a rivet in the collars. The scratching seemed to damage whatever interior mechanism it was that prevented the shift—without harming the women inside the collars. Then, in turn, each woman shifted, snapping the collar off entirely. Most of them were wolves, though among them were a few white-eyed dragons—and even a few creatures that Art hardly recognized, including a woman who seemed to briefly take the form of an enormous feline. It was a big world, he was realizing. Even Noah didn’t know the half of it, so he’d said. And shifters were a naturally secretive bunch. Who knew what else was out there?

  “I know what to do with the camp,” Art told Helena when she came in to check on him. They were planning on flying back to their home once he was strong enough to travel, even if that took a few days, but his more severe injuries had been sustained by the bear, not him. He’d murmured a word of gratitude, but the Wild side of him didn’t care much for words. It was deeply asleep and healing, now. And fair enough, too. The bear had earned a break.

  So he found himself, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, wrapped in two layers of blankets like a strange little burrito, and clasped gently in the talons of the woman he loved. Takeoff had been rocky, and a little frightening. But it was nice to see Mossley disappearing below them, wreathed in bright flames with smoke rising up with them towards the heavens.

  “Dragons don’t breathe fire, that’s an old wives’ tale,” Helena had explained to him when he proposed burning the place down. He’d simply smiled, holding up his box of matches and gesturing to the cabin she’d stashed him in—which happened to be where the settlement stashed its fuel cans.

  So for the second time in as many weeks, Art had looked behind him as the fire blazed, claiming everything that happened there. It was cleansing, fire. There was something very pure about it. And though it felt a little frightening being up so high, he trusted Helena with his life. She’d saved it already, hadn’t she?

  The valley was unbelievable. She’d described it to him, in a break in their lovemaking the night before—the peaks of two mountains forming a steep, rocky valley which humans were yet to discover, and other shifters found too inhospitable to inhabit. Caves were carved out of the rocky sides of the valley, and it was the largest of these that they were headed for—it was almost a shame to land, he’d been gazing down at the valley with such amazement. The view of the other dragons was fairly spectacular, too. Helena had told him that the members of her family were larger than the white dragons from Mossley, but he hadn’t understood what that actually meant until now. Seeing them soar through the air, their powerful wings bearing them up and on, the two wolves on their necks laughing and whooping as they flew…

  He was glad he’d lived to see such a sight, that was all. A strange feeling. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

  Helena had half-carried him down long, twisting stone hallways to her quarters, despite his laughing insistence that he could walk. She’d settled him in her bed, checking on his wounds every few seconds, it seemed, then, promising she’d return to him as soon as possible, had bustled out again. He gazed around the little space, fascinated by how she kept her room. It was stuffed full of books, for a start, as well as all kinds of strange little knick-knacks. Sculptures, carvings, strange objects with esoteric functions—but before he knew it, the exhaustion of the previous twenty-four hours had caught up with him, and he’d been fast asleep by the time Helena returned.

  When he woke, she was asleep in the bed beside him, and he felt such joy to look down at her face that he thought his heart might burst. She stirred awake as though she could sense him looking at her, and opened those gorgeous golden eyes to smile sleepily up at him. He simply smiled back, thinking of the great golden eyes of the dragoness she’d become. The unbelievable power of her, the fury with which she dispatched her foes. A lot of what he’d seen and done in Wild shape was blurry, but not that. Not her.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better,” he murmured. “Hungry. How long did I sleep?”

  “The better part of a day,” she said. “I’ll bring you some food, if—”

  “No,” he protested, sitting up. “I’m healing. I’m alright. A walk would do me good.”

  “Are you feeling up to being interrogated by a bunch of stuffy dragons and two incredibly nosy wolves?” she inquired, looking a little sheepish. “Because that’s what’s waiting in the dining room.”

  He grinned. “I’d like to thank them for their help.”

  And so he found himself sitting at the head of a table full of strangers, many with Helena’s golden eyes, all of whom were staring at him with the most intense curiosity he had ever witnessed. The silver-eyed wolves, in particular, looked like they were about to burst. The younger one—Angela, she’d introduced herself in a rush—was thrilled to bits that he was a bear. Apparently, the existence of bears had been the subject of some debate around the dinner table. It was odd to think of his people being discussed with anything other than resentment and disdain.

  “I’m so grateful you came to our rescue when you did,” he said to Alexander, not quite sure how to speak to the king of dragons—especially as he’d just murdered a very similar kind of monarch. But Alexander didn’t seem to be holding that against him.

  “Helena’s filled us in on what they were doing,” the king said seriously. He was a solemn kind of guy, with a slightly stiff bearing that reminded him of what Jesse might have been like in a few years. “You did the world a great service. A service we should have done,” he added, looking down the table. “Our people have been—isolated, for too long. The atrocities being committed in Mossley have shown us how wrong that was. And we almost paid a terrible price for that lesson.”

  “Arthur, you’re more than welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Stephen put in. The older man was Samuel and Alexander’s father, he had figured out—the enormous dragon who had made such short work of his smaller foes was such a comically unassuming figure in his human form that Art had done a double-take when he’d introduced himself.

  “Won’t your community be… upset?” he asked. “I don’t want to put you through any more trouble than I already have.”

  “Our community can deal with it,” Lisa said bluntly. The human woman had been a surprise to Arthur—definitely a queen in the making, young as she may have been. She was a spitfire like Mel, but with much more self-control. “Like Alexander said—we’ve been isolationists for way too long.”

  The king nodded. ”And we owe you a great debt. You saved our sister’s life, and spared many other women a terrible fate.”

  “The community will be gathering tomorrow evening,” Helena said, squeezing his shoulde
r. He was grateful to have her sitting beside him. “I’m going to talk to them. Tell them what happened—explain why you’ll be staying.” She must have read some of his unease in his face. “Art, it’s going to be fine. I promise you. Those dragons may have hated you just for being a bear, but everyone here? They don’t even know that bears exist. You’ll be the first one they meet—and I’ve got nothing but great things to tell them about you. They’re going to love you. They hate change, but they’re getting used to it.”

  “They’ve had to,” Jessica grinned, a little of the wolf dancing around her eyes.

  “And we’re stronger for it,” Stephen concluded, with an air of finality. “Now, let’s eat.”

  The food was delicious—roasted meat with vegetables that must have been flown up from a nearby town. It felt good to eat a solid meal that hadn’t been cooked over a fire, and Art dug in, listening rather than speaking as his hosts chatted amongst themselves. Helena was so much more relaxed around her family—he saw much more of the sparkling, effervescent woman he’d gotten to know over the last few days. Then she glanced at him and asked him a question that froze his blood.

  “What were you doing at the festival, anyway? You never told me.”

  He swallowed his mouthful of food, his heart pounding. In all the chaos of Helena’s second abduction and the battle that had resulted, he’d never gotten a chance to talk to her. To tell her about his family, about his history with King Val—about any of it. He’d wanted to talk to her in private about it to make sure he was in control of himself and his feelings as he spoke. But he couldn’t lie to her, not now—not in front of her family, who had every right to be suspicious of him. He had to tell the truth—not just to Helena, but to her family. To the people who’d taken him in.

  Art took a deep breath.

  “My father was a man called Noah York. He owned a homestead in the mountains, and he spent his life taking in and caring for young bears who’d lost everything.” His heart was pounding, and he could feel adrenalin coursing through his body. He’d never said any of this aloud, never spoken about it to another living soul. Everyone around the table had fallen silent as if sensing how difficult this was, and he pressed on because if he stopped talking, he might never be able to start again. “There were nine of us. My brothers and sisters. Noah, Levi, Nell, Eric, Yasmin, Jesse, Mel, Charlie and me. Charlie was only eight,” he added, blindly. He could feel Helena holding her breath beside him—felt the warmth of her golden eyes on him. He drew strength from that. “Val—the king—killed them. All of them. The scar on his face, Noah did that before he killed him. I was at the festival to kill him. No other reason but revenge.”