by Imogen Sera
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
A small woman sat in a makeshift infirmary staring at a book, surrounded by the dying, hiding from herself. She should have been doing anything else at that moment: there were eggs that needed collecting, laundry that needed washing, food that needed preparing, suffering souls that needed comforting. She ignored it all and turned her page, not absorbing anything.
This afternoon she had been scrubbing dishes and answering questions and planning things in her head and then all of the air had been sucked out of the room; suddenly she had been dizzy and couldn’t catch her breath and her body had felt too small to hold her. So she had run up here, to the most remote wing of the house, where they housed the dying and almost-dying, where she could while away the evening without anyone questioning her absence or needing her endlessly.
She shifted in her seat and sighed to herself, glancing out the large window. The sun was dipping below the horizon, far beyond the thick copse of trees surrounding her manor house, and she was reminded that tonight she was responsible for helping to cook dinner. She set her book down and rose, checking on each of the dozen patients, carefully confirming in her notebook that each had been medicated for pain recently. She paused next to the newest patient, Mira, a young woman she guessed to be about her own age. The telltale boils of the plague covered her face, but she was sure they were less dense than they’d been this morning. She squeezed Mira’s hand, pleased, and made a quick note of it. No one else present had shown any sign of improvement. After years of nursing these patients she had become adept at being able to tell who would make it, and she felt confident about Mira’s chances.
Eight years ago a plague had descended on her home, Dragongrove, with a swift fury. One day it had been a lovely, joyful place, full of light and laughter and love; a week later her entire family along with nearly fifty servants had become charred corpses in a pile that emitted smoke for weeks. Ingrid survived, untouched but alone; she had been fourteen.
In the time since, it had become a place to treat those who fell ill with the plague; they were less in number over time, but there were still many who required treatment. In the early days she had nursed them by herself, but over time more and more survivors chose to stay with her in her massive empty home, and now there was a group of nearly ten residents who all helped to nurse the ill, run the farm, and keep up on the house chores.
Ingrid collected her things from the desk where she had been hiding and headed down to the kitchen, looking forward to sharing the good news about Mira.
. . . . .
“Ingrid!” Lily exclaimed, smiling at her from in front of the sink. “All done with the patients?”
Ingrid nodded and shifted guiltily on her feet, observing that her friend had finished most of dinner already.
Lily directed her to some washed vegetables that needed chopping, and Ingrid was grateful to be the one taking direction for once. They worked together well; Lily was the bubbly, friendly antithesis to Ingrid’s solemn, stalwart self, and when they spent time together Ingrid felt like the young woman she would have been, had her life not taken the path it had.
The women chatted companionably as they chopped and stirred, and Lily turned red as she told Ingrid about the silver ring that John had just surprised her with. Ingrid laughed with delight and embraced her. John had been the very first survivor to come to Dragongrove, and he was the closest thing Ingrid had to family. Lily and John had adored each other for years now, and Ingrid was so happy for her friends that she grinned throughout the rest of preparing dinner.
Lily chattered about her day, her ears still red. She had finished her book she’d been reading forever, and regaled Ingrid with stories that she’d found in it, about ancient stories of dragons rescuing maidens and of hidden foes and secret royalty. Ingrid nodded along, trying hard to hide her disdain for her friend’s sake. Lily firmly believed in everything magical and mystical, and no matter how Ingrid tried, she couldn’t be persuaded to see sense. Ingrid had learned to nod along to prevent arguments, and when Lily gave her the book and made her promise to read it, Ingrid crossed her fingers and said she would.
After dinner Ingrid settled into bed with a sigh. When she finally slept, she dreamed of heavy chains and low ceilings.
. . . . .
Helias sat at a bar in an inn with low ceilings that smelled like liquor and piss. The room was long, narrow, and dismal, and the air felt too heavy to breathe comfortably. His room down the hall was a miniature version of this one, furnished differently, but the smell was the same. It was stifling.
He was so close to his end goal that he could taste it. He had spent nearly the last decade banished from his homeland and searching for a way back, and after following rumors for the last four years he was sure he had found his way. Less than an hour from him lay Dragongrove, the source of the plague, and he was going to find answers there. He hoped this woman he had heard so much about would be willing to grant him access, but he was desperate and would take what he needed regardless of her thoughts on the matter.
Eight years ago a sudden sickness had struck his kind. It was brutal and swift, and not a single female had survived. He’d lost his mother, his grandmother, his four sisters, all of his aunts and cousins. It had been the same in every family. Fearing for the future of their kind, Helias and his five brothers had been dispatched to all of the corners of the world, and ordered to not return without answers. He’d been following rumors of the plague at Dragongrove for nearly half the time he’d been away, and he was finally here. He believed he was getting close to understanding what had happened, and he was sure that the plague there and the sickness that had befallen his kind were linked.
He stretched on his stool and sighed. Everything in this world was just slightly too small for him, and he couldn’t get comfortable no matter how he tried. He thought longingly of home, and looked forlornly
into his stein of lousy ale. What he really longed for was to be able to finally shift and fully stretch his wings, but it seemed unwise to start more rumors when he was so close. Ordinarily his whims were all that mattered, and the lives or opinions of inconsequential mortals were so beyond his caring that he wouldn’t have dreamed of considering anything about them. He had learned over the last eight years, though, that people were much more tight lipped with strangers when they were worried about things like burned crops and dragons carrying away their livestock. It made his work easier to live as the humans did.
He had been here for nearly a week with only the old innkeeper for regular company and was eager to be on his way, but he was trying to figure out the best way to approach the lady of the house. He’d asked nearly everyone in the tiny village all he could about her, but she seemed to be very private and the most information he had gotten was that she was strict and stubborn and suspicious of outsiders. Maybe he would get lucky and she’d have a soft spot for tall, attractive men.
He sighed when the old, tiresome man behind the bar seemed to decide that Helias could benefit from small talk. Couldn’t the old man tell that he didn’t want to talk? Didn’t he have the vaguest sense of danger of the man in front of him? Mortals had a pathetic sense of self preservation.
Helias was answering questions as necessary and nodding along to the old man’s ramblings when the door opened and he sensed a strange presence behind him. He turned to look quickly, and was surprised to see a small human woman with dark hair, pointedly not looking at him. He found himself aware of her in a way that he hadn’t observed in many years.
He excused himself, with great difficulty, to a table that was too small for him and in a better position to observe the woman, and as he turned he noticed her gaze on him. He had found just what he was looking for.
CHAPTER TWO
Ingrid impatiently tapped her fingers on the bar top, watching the innkeeper talk to an extremely tall man. She admired the golden haired stranger from behind, briefly, before turning her attention back to willing the old man to notice that she was there. The stranger turned to sit at a low table that was far too small for his huge frame, and as he turned she locked eyes with him. He was very handsome, she saw, with bright green eyes, a broad jaw, and lightly tanned skin. Altogether it made a very nice picture that was unfortunately ruined by the sneer he wore. She huffed slightly, leaned against the bar and put her chin in her hand.
“Albert,” she said, smiling broadly at the old innkeeper. “Is Florence here?”
The old man started slightly, he hadn’t noticed her. “Ingrid! She just stepped out, but she’ll be back in a moment.”
Ingrid nodded politely while sighing internally. A moment to Albert meant anywhere from seconds to hours, which she knew well from her weekly visits here. Florence was an expert at plants and herbs, and she always had Ingrid’s usual order for the patients ready for to be picked up. Albert offered her a drink and she accepted gladly, then settled into a small table with Lily’s book in hand.
She read the silly book for a few minutes, shifting frequently, and then set it down. She couldn’t get comfortable, and she suspected it was the fault of the tall stranger. He was very big, and he seemed to take up more space than he occupied. Ingrid found herself very aware of him. Each time he changed position or took a drink she couldn’t help but look at him, and she was embarrassed after they caught each other’s gaze for the third time. She picked up the book to read again, and purposely ignored the stranger.
“ ‘Dragon Lore’,” read a deep, pleasant voice from far too close, and when she looked up she realized that the stranger was referring to the title of her book and sitting at her small table right across from her.
She snapped the book shut and placed it face down on the table before raising her eyebrows at him. “It’s a friend’s.”
He nodded, clearly not believing her.
She stared at him steadily, wondering why he was bothering her. He looked back, and suddenly they were sharing a long, dark gaze. Ingrid blinked and looked away, obviously ignoring him when he spoke again.
“I know who you are.”
“Hmm?” she acknowledged.
“The Lady of Dragongrove,” he said.
“I suppose that’s true,” she replied thoughtfully. “Why does that concern you?”
“I need you,” he said, his gaze hot on her face. “I need your help.”
There was an odd flutter in her belly that she ignored as she waited for him to elaborate.
“I’ve heard of your library,” he began, “and I need access to it.”
She eyed him then, taking in his worn traveling clothes and faded boots. “You’re a dragon hunter, aren’t you?”
He looked mildly amused at the suggestion, but didn’t answer.
Of course he was. They came to her at the manor several times a year, begging use of her library, the weird cultists who were obsessed with finding living dragons. She glowered at him, and looked up as Florence came through the door and waved a small wave at Ingrid.
“I can pay for access,” he said.
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t care,” she said, rising and collecting her bag.
“Wait. Ingrid, please,” he said, rising and taking her hand.
She looked down at his hand that was clutching hers, and flushed at the warmth from his grip. She sat down again.
“Do you have the plague?” she asked. “Have you ever had the plague?”
He shook his head.
“Then you can’t enter the house,” she said, and sighed at his disappointed look. “Look, I’m not trying to be unkind, but it’s not safe. It’s an infirmary.”
He leveled his green gaze at her thoughtfully. “What if I don’t care? I’m not worried about catching it.”
“I don’t care if you’re not worried. If you become infected then one of two things happens: we treat you, spending a lot of time and resources, and you probably die anyway; or you don’t know you’re infected for a day or two, leave the house and infect every person you come across.”
He watched her with no expression. “What if-”
“It’s not happening,” she cut him off, standing again. She turned from him wordlessly, collected her bundle from Florence, and walked out into the warm day.
He didn’t follow her.
. . . . .
Helias sighed at himself and sat on his too-small bed, the only furniture in this tiny room. He had grown so bitter in his time away from home. Before this intense homesickness had set in he would have gladly talked with an old man, and he never would have considered trying to woo a woman to gain access to something he wanted. It wasn’t the mortals’ fault that he was stuck among them, but he seemed to enjoy channeling his hatred onto them, instead of where it should have been directed.
He wasn’t sure what to make of Ingrid. She was everything that he had heard she was. Immovable. He was frustrated after their exchange, but he would have his way in the end. He had been more affected by her than he wanted to admit to himself, but he knew he had only angered her; she had easily seen through his thinly veiled attempts at flirting. She was beautiful in an interesting way, with a head full of long dark hair and a permanently mistrustful expression.
He scoffed at himself. He was close to returning home, so close, and he was sitting here pitying himself and being distracted by a woman. A mortal woman. But, he reminded himself, a mortal woman with a gently curved body, clear blue eyes, and the loveliest face he had ever seen.
He made a decision then. He gathered his things into his bag and carried it into the nearly empty tavern, and placed a large gold coin on the bar in front of the old man. The man’s eyes grew wide, but he clearly wasn’t going to argue.
“Thanks for the lodging,” Helias said, and after a moment’s consideration he placed another coin on top of the first. “And for the conversation.”
The old man nodded, clearly confused by this change.
“Is ther
e any chance,” Helias began, “that your wife has some time to speak with me?”
He walked out into the sunlight an hour later, a list of herbs and medicines in hand, feeling like a new man.
CHAPTER THREE
Ingrid had slept poorly, her night punctuated by thoughts of a tall green eyed man. She had realized that she hadn’t even learned his name, and she wasn’t sure why that bothered her. She dressed quickly for gathering eggs and left the house, and was startled by someone on their knees, hunched over in her front garden.
“Hello?” she called suspiciously, not knowing what to think.
“Hello Ingrid,” he said, looking up at her with a spade in hand. She ignored the way her name sounded in his deep voice.
“It’s you,” she said, staring down at him. “I told you not to come.”
“You said I couldn’t come in the manor, and here I am, not in the manor.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not changing my mind,” she continued. “You’re wasting your time.”