The Dragon King and I

by Adrianne Brooks

  I was eating his soul, and it stole the light, consumed the stars, and pulled me under into an ocean of black that left me floundering, the dressing room more of a distant dream than a reality. I gloried in it, my eyes closing to savor the sense of chaos that seemed to define the world and my place in it. I belonged. Right here, surrounded by Dragon fire and the wordless music that was his magic. This was where I belonged.

  When I next opened my eyes I was no longer in the dressing room.

  Instead I stood on a stage and standing before me looking more alive than I’d ever seen her, was Seraphim 1.0 complete with torso and working arms and legs. She still wore the white dress she’d been buried in but it lacked the dirt and stains that I’d remembered. There was no paleness to her face, no signs of exhaustion or tale-tell hints of death. She even had on shoes this time, a lace up pair of cream-colored kid boots that somehow brought out the dancing lights that made up her wings. Before her eyes had been dull with death but now I saw that they were a brilliant Siberian husky blue that sparkled in time with the wings at her back.

  It was the first truly pretty thing I’d seen since being introduced into all of this and I have to admit…it made me suspicious. I got slowly to my feet and took my eyes off of the Fairy only long enough to give my surroundings a quick inspection.

  This was the same stage Seraphim had shown me earlier with Conric, except this time the seats in the auditorium were bursting with people. Both Seraphim and I stood in the center of the stage, surrounded on all sides by other players. Directly in front of us was a man with a dragon’s horned mask. To the left was the actress who’d played the role of Rachel and adjacent to her was my own Doppelganger. I turned enough to see who stood behind me only to whip back around, my pulse in my throat.

  The actor behind me was new, but it was easy to recognize who or what, she represented. Dressed in an ink black ball gown, the woman’s mask was simply a multitude of obsidian eyes that covered her face from forehead to chin.

  I looked down at Seraphim 1.0, and tried to control the urge to vomit.

  “Where am I? What is all of this?”

  Seraphim smiled and for the first time there was nothing terrifying about the attention she turned on me.

  “Your spell. This is what you’ve been working towards.”

  I raised an eyebrow and gave the player’s surrounding us a significant glance. “Really? Because it looks more like a trick than a treat.”

  Seraphim laughed her little girl voice echoing like a bell in the otherwise silent room.

  “This is no trick Alexandria Marie Greyson. You wanted a second chance.” Her arm swept out to encompass the silent, masked, watchers. “Well, here it is. All you have to do is choose.”

  “Choose?” I murmured my head cocking to one side, only to flinch inwardly when my doppelganger aped the movement to a T. I looked for some sign of life, or conscience thought, but there was none. Her face was just as dead and blank as her companions. She may as well have been wearing a mask.

  I shuddered and turned away.

  “There is no right or wrong answer.” Seraphim confided, stepping forward to brush my hand with her own. Just that simple thing, that simple sign of comfort and normalcy after everything else that had happened, cleared my head. This time, when I examined each of the players I did so without flinching. I didn’t just look at the elaborately done, all too realistic, masks but also at the men and women who wore them. If this place had taught me anything, it was that sometimes there was something much worse hidden beneath the pomp and glitter.

  No matter who I looked at, who I circled on the stage or whose mask I reached out to touch, my eye was always drawn to one in particular. It called to me. A siren’s song. A promise that rode the air and spoke of better things to come.

  I almost went to it on more than one occasion but the others always pulled me back. They begged me to look just one more time.

  To think just a little harder.

  One more touch.

  A kiss perhaps?

  They reminded me of the Goblin merchants with their constant wheedling and all too soon their voices began to grate and tear on my nerves. Only one thing remained sweet. Only one thing stayed pure.

  Just one.

  My Doppelganger was dead on the inside. She simply imitated everything I did. There was a hunger to her. A yawning emptiness that sent a cold chill down my back. I moved away from her quickly.

  The actress playing Rachel was…normal. There was nothing particularly strange or frightening about her and I found myself wandering away for the simple fact that she bored me.

  Then there was the Dragon. His mask looked real enough but when I looked into his eyes and they were dark, and brown, and unfamiliar. It was a dragon, but not my Dragon.

  But there was still one…

  I looked at Seraphim for confirmation and she hesitated briefly before shrugging, her cherubic face growing tight with worry. The expression would have given the old me pause, but I was done second guessing my own decisions or my right to make them. No matter the consequences, I would leave this place knowing I’d made the right choice. Stepping away from the Player wearing the Dragon’s mask, I wandered over to the Widow, my hand outstretched. Her arm lifted, our fingers brushed, and beneath me the stage crumbled into dust.

  * * * *

  “Maxamillian Zaran.” I’d never noticed the power it could give you, having someone’s name at your disposal. I was still on my knees in the dressing room and blood smeared the bottom half of my face and soaked my neck and chest.

  I could feel it.

  I could taste it.

  I could hear it.

  My mouth watered, but I squinted down at my hands and shoved the sensation away. I noticed in an abstract sort of way that while the Dragon burns had disappeared from my palms, they were still very much marred by Dragon blood. The heart was gone so I could only assume that I’d finished it off. I mulled over that for a moment and then lifted my head, letting my hair slide across my shoulders so that I could peek up at Zaran from beneath my lashes. He took a step back, but it was too late for that. His eyes locked with mine and his face slackened.

  “Yes?”

  I placed a hand on his thigh, enjoying the way the muscles bunched beneath the material at the contact. “I believe you still owe me a wish.”

  “Of course.” The contract and pen reappeared but I shook my head in reprimand and he frowned.

  “No. I won’t be signing any of your contracts, Trickster.”

  He shook his head, obviously confused even as he sent the tools of his trade back into nonexistence. “Apologies, little Widow, but no contract. No wish.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that and my fingers traveled a little higher along his pants. “Can your magic bring back the dead?”

  He hesitated, before shaking his head. “No.”

  “Then this is a wish you can grant without the use of your magic. I don’t want your gifts, only your cooperation.” I grinned up at him and let the part of me that was like my mother, the part that was a Widow, rise up and take control. It spoke to me. Voices whispering in my head. A chorus of knowledge both dark and bloody and beneath my skin I could feel my veins thickening, hardening, and moving. They absorbed the rest of the magic from the Dragon’s blood still coating my skin and clothes and while the power was waning, it was more than potent enough to get the job done.

  My eyes began to glow and I knew that they were neither the white of my mother’s power nor the purest black of another supernatural’s. They were gray, like my father’s, and as I leveled the full force of my magic against Zaran I watched him get sucked in by those gray orbs. I watched the last of his resistance melt away as devotion reformed him into a tool meant just for me.

  “Will you do it?” I asked. “Will you help me bring him back?” I didn’t have to fake the tears that flooded my eyes to run down my cheeks, but I added the trembling lower lip for good measure. It was just that simple

  Sam had
called me ‘little siren’. I’d never really stopped to think about what that meant before. All my life I’d hated my curse. I’d blamed it for holding me back, for making me afraid. But it was easier than I thought to accept it. Not just the curse either, but that part of me that hungered for power and blood. I could see the order in the chaos and I was finally, finally, able to make it work in my favor.

  Maybe Flo had been right all along.

  Maybe it was a gift after all.

  Above me, Zaran nodded, his hand reaching down to grip my own as he helped me to my feet. I remembered what Sam had said earlier. About how Zaran was a part of a collective unconscious, how he couldn’t really be killed, how he could heal virtually anything. I thought about that, and when I had Zaran lay beside Sam’s body, I was able to look at him and say without a shred of guilt;

  “I need you to die for me.” I leaned over him and rested the palm of my hand against his cheek. “Can you do that for me Maxamillian Zaran?”

  For a beat there was no response. Then his face creased in a grin to end all grins and he reached up to hold my hand against his face as he nodded.

  “Yes, little Widow. It would be a pleasure.”

  It wasn’t easy. Even though his mind and heart wanted to cooperate his body still struggled to hold on. To keep living. For a while I thought I may just need to help things along, and even started examining the objects in the dressing room in hopes of finding a possible weapon. But then Zaran laid his hand on my wrist and I looked down in time to see his face tighten with concentration. Then right before my eyes, he willed himself into death, his consciousness slipping from the now lifeless shell with a broken sigh.

  I knew it wasn’t his soul that I saw from the corner of my eye, all shimmering and golden. It was simply Zaran without physical form or direction. I had to coax him where I wanted him. Had to tell him exactly what was wrong. What he had to do. To fix, in order to live again.

  The shock of waking up inside of Sam’s body had Zaran letting loose a stream of curses. I had to place a hand over his mutilated chest to keep him from leaving once he realized that he had no heartbeat because there was no heart to beat. I forced him to stay, using every last vestige of my previously unexplored powers as a Widow. I knew my mother had probably started the ball rolling when she’d given me the spell to summon Zaran and eating Sam’s heart had pushed me completely over the edge.

  There wasn’t going to be a normal for me.

  But I was o.k. with that.

  Now I looked at Zaran/Sam as I knelt beside him on the floor, and smiled into those lavender eyes as whatever magic made him a Genie began to heal the body in which he’d found himself. I tore my eyes away from Zaran’s so that I could watch as a new heart began to reknit itself in place of the old one. Every strand was a string, interlocking as some invisible weaver built the heart back up from the inside out. Veins reappeared, slithering through the organ like snakes and connecting it to the rest of the body. When it finished it just lay there, blank and unmoving and I looked between the heart and Sam’s face in rising desperation.

  This had to work.

  It had to.

  If I could only…

  Then it hit me.

  Flo and her spirit fingers.

  So far I’d been using my power steadily. It was like riding the brakes when you were driving downhill. But what if I pushed. Hard and fast. What if I—

  Zaran’s body seized and he bucked on the ground as if he were having a seizure. His eyes blazed, a purple so intense it hurt to look at for long. I was sorry I’d hurt him, but it had gotten the job done.

  When it beat for the first time, it pulsed the purple of Zaran’s eyes before hardening into a stone. A jewel that represented a Dragon’s heart. It wasn’t the Garnet I’d seen before, but an Amethyst and I had a moment of doubt. Of uncertainty. I found myself wondering how something like this, something so significant, would change the man I’d grown to know and love.

  Then I realized that I didn’t care. Turning away from the sight of the quickly mending hole in his chest, I folded my arms under my breasts and bowed my head. Zaran knew what he had to do next. I’d told him. All I could do now was wait until-

  “Alexandria Marie Greyson.”

  My head jerked up and I felt my eyes widen. I felt sick with the mixture of hope and terror that seemed to spiral through me but when I spoke my voice was steady enough.

  “Is it gone? Did you get all of it?”

  For a long, silent, moment all he did was look at me. Then he gave a sharp nod and I felt my heart soar so high that it hurt.

  “Your Firebrand will live.” He paused briefly, “That is, if you can bring him back.”

  “I can.”

  “You won’t have that much time.” He warned. “Without a soul the mechanics will only work for so long before everything falls apart. When I leave—”

  “I know what I need to do.” And I did. My voice softened and I smiled, “Thank you, Maxamillian Zaran.”

  He didn’t respond. Only inclined his head, and closed his eyes. I watched, tense as his breathing slowed and that shimmering, golden presence once again took to the air to return to the prone red head not too far away.

  Turning back to Sam, I placed a hand on top of his chest. Already his breathing was slowing, his color fading. I allowed myself one more second to memorize the shape of his mouth and the slope of his nose. One more second to imprint the memory of him alive and well on my mind.

  Just in case.

  I hadn’t been lying when I told Zaran that I knew what to do. After all, didn’t all good fairytales end the same way? When I leaned down and pressed my lips against his, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a melding. A meeting. An exchange. I gave him back his soul and he opened his eyes for me and smiled as if I’d just given him the greatest gift in the world.

  “If I’m the Damsel,” he began. “What does that make you?”

  I shrugged. “Charming?”

  His laughter filled the room and I buried my face in my hands and shook in silent relief.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I can’t promise no fairytale, but you’ll be the queen in any castle I build.”

  - Ron Pope

  (Three weeks later)

  It was midmorning and the traffic outside was light enough that I could hear the birds singing.

  It was nice.

  I had a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and was just thinking about how I was too comfortable to move, even though I was starving, when warm hands slid along my shoulders. I sighed, and my head fell back of its own accord.

  There.

  A man’s chuckle.

  I closed my eyes.

  Lips, hot and firm, working patiently against my own. When my own lips finally parted, I tasted coffee on his tongue.

  He tasted like something darkly sweet. Like Hazelnut or baked vanilla.

  He tasted like home and I allowed myself to sink into him with a sigh of relief.

  Then I felt how he stiffened and pulled away.

  “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down or something?”

  I knew I sounded like a mother hen, but ever since he’d woken up I’d been…not disbelieving so much as wary. It wasn’t often that things went right for me so I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I’m fine.” He assured me, but he did pull up a seat, groaning a little as sore muscles found a modicum of relief. Despite his own natural ability to heal the stress of being torn open and then put back together again had taken a toll on Sam’s body. He’d been sleeping a lot while his body recuperated not only from the shock of losing his heart and regrowing another, but also from the healing the brain tumor.

  Once he’d died his connection to the rest of his clutch had been severed, so when Zaran healed him he’d had to use a combination of his own demon magic, Sam’s remaining dragon power, and whatever extra he could drain from me and my gifts as a Widow.

  The good news was that he was no longer going
to die, and that no more of his people had been killed. The downside was that Diedric, his second in command, was missing. Which meant that until further notice Sam still had technical control over the remainder of his clutch until they could appoint a new Alpha.

  I’d asked why he didn’t just keep the job but he just shook his head.

  “I’m ready to retire. Settle down. Lay some eggs.” The look of horror on my face at the last was enough to send him into convulsions of laughter and even now I felt the muscle in my eyelid twitch in remembered annoyance.

  Now, I put my feet up on the banister and asked, “Any news on Diedric?”

  Sam’s jaw tightened and he shook his head. “None. The last anyone saw of him he was leaving the clutch to come meet with me here. What about on your end. Has Mal the Magnificent said anything about Rachel?”

  I scowled, thoughts of the witch souring my mood despite the ridiculous nick name we’d come up for her. Despite the fact that Seraphim 1.0 had gone back to being nothing but a rotting head once I’d come down from whatever acid trip I’d been on, I still couldn’t make myself refer to Maleficent by the Fairy’s name. We’d buried the remains of Seraphim 1.0 and to my surprise I’d found that I actually missed her. Knowing that I could open up a drawer or a closet and see her creepy little face had been both stressful but oddly comforting towards the end.

  Late one night I’d found myself curled up against Sam’s back and talking about what I’d seen after I’d eaten his heart. I was happy with the choice I’d made. After all, choosing to embrace who I was had saved him. But I couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome would have been if I’d chosen another Player.

  “Well,” he’d begun, rolling over in bed so that we were nose to nose. My eyes crossed and I giggled and closed them, letting his voice wash over me. “The ‘Rachel’ was obviously the life you had been hoping for. Something normal and safe. Without magic. Dragons represent rebirth, so choosing him would have sent you back to the beginning?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You would have started over. Lived a life that had never been touched by your oh-so-endearing Godmother. You wouldn’t remember any of this, because it would never have happened. No curse, no magic, no worries.”