The Dragon Lord

by E. G. Foley

  How hideous they were, all of them identical, about four feet tall, with small gray bodies, oversized, hairless heads, and long, spindly limbs. Oh, but their eyes. Their huge, almond-shaped eyes were soulless and black.

  Given their obvious technological advancement, Wyvern suspected they’d been Zolond’s little helpers when the Dark Master had gone about creating his various monsters. Like the locust army still gestating even now in the sands of Karakum.

  Wyvern could not imagine how the Dark Master had managed to befriend them. Perhaps Zolond’s own scientific pursuits had established some sort of commonality.

  All Wyvern knew was that his own Nephilim blood made him a highly interesting specimen to the ice grendels. They were eager to study him. He supposed he should be grateful, for at least their curiosity gave them a reason to keep him alive.

  They moderated the temperature of his cell; otherwise, he would’ve long since frozen to death. They gave him water and offered food, but he had spit it out.

  They seemed surprised by his willfulness to not eat. It had taken ten of the ugly little creatures to hold him down, then they had sedated him with some unholy potion that had put him in a state of waking paralysis.

  He was only able to breathe and watch in terror as they had restrained him in a contraption like a dentist’s chair and began their experiments. They drew his blood—many samples—poked and prodded at his powerful physique, examined his six-fingered hands and six-toed feet. (Wyvern noticed they had four fingers on each hand.)

  Then they explored his internal organs with long, slim tools he could never have imagined.

  It was this loathsome denigration that made him hate Zolond with a tenfold resolve.

  As their long, chilly fingers examined and measured him and sought to calculate how he was made, Wyvern could only let out another mental howl of enmity and rage.

  But when two of the little monsters approached on either side of him, he cowered, in no way able to guess their next intent.

  “No, no, no,” he babbled, to no avail.

  One made sure that Wyvern remained secured by the straps as the other began cranking a metal wheel attached to the dentist’s chair.

  Plead as he might, Wyvern could not stop them. He began turning upside down on the contraption.

  Though he bellowed with fury at this deliberate insult to his pride, there was nothing he could do. He had tortured others in his day, like Derek Stone, Celestus…

  Now it was his turn.

  PART III

  CHAPTER 21

  A New Day

  All night—or, at least, what was left of it—Jake dreamed of battle. Over and over again. Smoke. Screams. The sky pirate plummeting to his fiery death.

  Nightstalkers floating by with their scythes overhead. Strange little monsters scampering through the shadows. And all the while, a huge, horned demon with red eyes stalking him through the darkness.

  When he saw Wyvern reaching out with a freakish six-fingered hand to grab him, Jake awoke with a start, jolted upright, and lifted his hands to fend off the warlock with his telekinesis.

  Instead, he only managed to knock a fancy vase off its pedestal across from his bed. “Ack!”

  He caught it in the nick of time before it hit the floor. Still groggy and a bit confused, he floated it back up onto its pedestal against the wall on the other side of the unfamiliar bedchamber.

  With the crisis averted, and no new threats popping out, he slowly recalled where he was. “Ugh.”

  Lord, I’m a menace. The pale fingers of morning plucked at the sheers, but he did not even remember dozing off.

  Then Jake sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, waiting for his thunderous pulse to return to normal. Slowly, as the nightmare faded, he remembered where he was.

  Right. Buckingham Palace. The guestroom he had been assigned.

  Blimey, he thought, scanning it. The royal decor was fit for a visiting head of state, not some former street urchin.

  Burgundy silk damask wrapped around the walls. Gilt-framed paintings glowed here and there. The fancy marble fireplace had a huge mirror over the mantel, where gold statuettes held up cut crystal lampshades.

  Poufy draperies framed the window in dark green velvet; they matched the canopy over the very comfortable bed. A crystal chandelier dangled from the twenty-foot ceiling, while a lavish carpet in creams, purples, and greens stretched across the floor.

  Jake spotted his jacket slung across an elegant wooden chair near the bedroom door. He vaguely remembered casting it there when he’d finally stumbled in from the sitting room last night, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

  Then he looked down at himself and saw he was still in his clothes from yesterday. He had kicked off his shoes, loosened his neckcloth, and unbuckled Risker from around his waist, but hadn’t bothered undressing—or even turning back the covers.

  Instead, he had been so exhausted he’d collapsed on the duvet, fully dressed. He must’ve slept like the dead (except for his nightmares), for he’d hardly made a wrinkle on the mattress.

  With a yawn and a scratch of his chest, he wondered what time it was, whether the others had risen yet, and if there had been any news from Merlin Hall.

  Last night, he and his friends had struggled to stay awake as long as they could, waiting for any sort of word, but one by one, they had nodded off.

  Well, today, he intended to get answers. He reached for his knife lying beside him on the mattress, then rose and stepped into his shoes.

  After splashing his face and putting himself into basic order to tackle the day, he left the bedchamber, well aware he was still pretty rumpled, all things considered.

  His clothes smelled like smoke, he hadn’t even noticed the hole in the knee of his trousers until this morning, and his hair (of which he’d admittedly become rather vain of late) refused to behave.

  So be it.

  Buckingham Palace was an embarrassing place to look so disheveled, but he was too tired to care. He needed to sleep for a week.

  Grabbing his coat off the chair, he left his chamber and stepped out into the short hallway where the three boys had been given rooms.

  The girls’ rooms were down the opposite hallway that branched off the huge parlor at the center of the private suite where Queen Victoria had deposited them last night. Her Majesty had told her staff to wait on them, then posted soldiers outside the door for their protection.

  Jake had no doubt they’d be safe as houses here. Still, deep down, he would’ve rather remained at Beacon House and eaten eight bowls of Mrs. Appleton’s soup.

  Speaking of food…

  His belly grumbled as he smelled bacon. Then the sound of laughter reached him; he stepped out into the gilded white parlor and was shocked to see that everyone else was already up.

  “Am I the last one?” he blurted out.

  They all stopped talking and looked over.

  “Jake!” Dani jumped out of her seat at the long cherry dining table where the lot of them were having a kingly breakfast feast.

  Puzzled, he drifted toward them as they all hailed him with great cheer. His best girl ran to him across the dusky rose carpet full of swirling flowers, and Teddy followed, yipping at her heels. The next thing Jake knew, the carrot-head threw her arms around his neck in a huge hug.

  Jake hugged her back uncertainly. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “It is a good morning. Oh, Jake!” She pulled back, her emerald eyes shining. “We’ve had the most wonderful news!”

  “What? Tell me. I could use some.”

  She beamed at him. “Everyone’s all right!”

  “Well, not everyone,” Nixie grumbled, nibbling a triangular piece of toast. She was not a morning person. “Balinor’s dead.”

  “Yes, but we already knew that,” Archie said from the head of the table. “We’ve heard from Merlin Hall, coz. Everyone we care about is safe. The Dark Druids fled; the Order drove them off.”

  Jake’s eyes widened. �
��Really?” He headed at once toward the table, capturing Dani’s hand and bringing her with him. “When did you find out?”

  “About half an hour ago,” Archie said.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Jake cried.

  Dani poked him in the arm. “You needed the sleep.”

  “Humph.” Busybody carrot-head, always looking after him.

  “Our parents are safe.” Archie nodded at his sister, who sat at the foot of the table. “Aunt Ramona’s fine. Derek and the twins made it through all right, as well.”

  Relief washed through Jake. “Janos?”

  “Unscathed,” Isabelle said with a grateful glow in her cobalt eyes.

  “What about Maddox? And Ravyn?”

  “A little beaten up—you know Guardians—but they’ll be fine,” Dani said.

  Brian chuckled as the redhead sat back down across from him.

  Jake, however, furrowed his brow, skeptical. “There had to be casualties. Sir Peter? Tex? Finnderool?”

  “They all made it through, coz,” Isabelle said gently.

  “Even Aelfric? It looked like he got crushed.”

  “He’s alive.” Izzy shrugged. “He told the Elders he thinks he’ll be all right.”

  “What about the Green Man? He got awfully close to the fire,” Jake said, “and he is part tree.”

  “His leaves got singed, but don’t worry, Dr. Plantagenet is doing fine.” Izzy smiled with a hint of mischief. “I’m sure he’s annoyed, though. Apparently, the Dreaming Sheep escaped their pen in the chaos. The flying sheepdog is still trying to gather them all back.”

  “No word on Malwort, though,” Nixie said, staring into space. “I hope he’s all right.”

  They all looked at her then started laughing at the thought of the talking spider. Malwort had left Uncle Waldrick to become the witch’s self-appointed familiar. Dani explained this to Brian.

  “Don’t worry, Nix, I’m sure he’s fine,” Archie said, patting her arm. “I daresay the little fellow’s been through worse.”

  Jake chortled. “I know. He’s constantly complaining about his tragic past.”

  “Complain? My little Malwort? Never,” Nixie teased, throwing her last bite of toast at him, but her dark eyes danced.

  Jake gave the scrap to Teddy, who scarfed it down. “So, how did you hear all this? Another Inkbug message?”

  “No, Henry wrote us a letter as soon as he was able,” said Archie, “and Gladwin delivered it.”

  “Gladwin was here?” Jake asked, sorry he’d missed her.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Dani smiling at the mention of their favorite fairy courier.

  “Briefly,” Archie said, then sipped his little Italian coffee. (He’d abandoned good English breakfast tea months ago for the stronger stuff.) “She could only stay for a moment before Queen Victoria sent her off again to deliver another message. The whole kingdom’s abuzz this morning, I’m sure.”

  “I can only imagine the Clairvoyant’s headlines,” Nixie said.

  “By the way, Jake,” Dani said, “Gladwin asked us to tell you that she hopes you’re all right, and that everyone was so amazed at how you crippled the airship last night.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a roguish grin. “Oh, really?”

  “Here.” Archie reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It’s Henry’s note, if you want to read it for yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Brushing off a brief whiff of pride over his own heroics the night before, Jake accepted the letter from Henry du Val, the boys’ shapeshifting tutor. A mild-mannered scholar in his human form, in times of danger, Henry could change into a vicious wolf bent on protecting his charges.

  Likewise, his twin sister, the girls’ governess, Miss Helena du Val, could teach piano and etiquette lessons one moment, and then change into a lethal black leopard if anyone threatened the Bradford children.

  The genteel, French-born shapeshifter twins had been hired years ago by Uncle Richard and Aunt Claire, the glamorous Viscount and Viscountess Bradford, to look after their children. As diplomats for the Order, they were often gone from home, visiting faraway kingdoms to smooth over conflicts, help solve problems between different magical peoples, and charm possible enemies into becoming allies.

  Until Jake had seen his aunt and uncle’s work up close in recent weeks, he had always thought that being a Lightrider was the best, most adventurous life a person could ever want. But now he wasn’t sure.

  From what he’d seen, the diplomats were the ones who were really at the center of things.

  In any case, he skimmed Henry’s letter, comforted by their tutor’s steady tone—honest, but reassuring. That was Henry. He had made sure to list everyone they’d want to know about.

  Relief slowly seeped into Jake’s bones as he realized things really were as much under control now as could be expected, under the circumstances. The Dark Druids had been driven back, and finally, it seemed like the adults had matters in hand. Took ’em long enough.

  “Well, then.” He handed the letter back to Archie. “No wonder I found you all celebrating.”

  “Indeed. Here, coz.” Izzy handed him a cup of breakfast tea—sugar but no cream, just the way he liked it. She really was an angel. “Cheers,” she added, lifting her own cup.

  Jake gave her a hearty smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Careful!” Dani warned him, and he remembered just in time not to chip the fine royal china, and tapped his teacup ever so gently against Izzy’s, both of them chuckling.

  Then everyone shared a whole round of cheers with their various morning beverages—tea, coffee, juice, hot chocolate—for truly, they had much to celebrate.

  Jake felt the tea already starting to revive him.

  “Well!” he said brightly. “It seems we’re all alive, then. This really is the most excellent news.”

  “This is the most excellent food,” Brian replied, shoveling Belgian waffles into his mouth.

  Dani smiled and pulled out the chair that she had saved for Jake between her and Isabelle. “Dig in, Jakey-boy. Before the Yank eats it all.”

  “Who, me?” Brian teased through his mouthful.

  Isabelle arched a brow. Jake sat down, still in shock that there hadn’t been any additional disasters for him to absorb this morning. Lately, it seemed like it had just been one horrible blow after the next.

  But this was a new day. And things must be getting back to normal, for, right on cue, his belly growled insistently.

  “Crikey, I’m starving. What time is it, anyway?” He glanced around the opulent parlor for the grandfather clock, but couldn’t see its face from where he sat.

  Archie pulled out his fob watch. “Half past ten.”

  Jake lifted his eyebrows. “I did sleep in.” Derek usually had him up at six for his rigid daily regimen of physical training before his lessons with Master Henry.

  “You fought battles last night, coz,” Izzy said, reaching for the butter. “You earned it.”

  “I suppose.” Jake’s mood darkened briefly at the grim reminder, but he brushed it off. “Anything else I should know?”

  Dani shrugged. “Just that your Aunt Claire sent an Inkbug message a little while ago telling us we’re to wait here until Derek and Miss Helena come to fetch us.” Then she passed him the bacon. To be sure, the lass knew him well.

  “Mother and Father can’t come themselves,” Archie explained. “She said they’re already being sent off on a mission to tell some of our allies what happened last night.”

  “Huh.” Jake began helping himself to bacon, eggs, toast, waffles, fruit. “I wonder who they’ll choose to be the next head of the Order. Sir Peter?”

  “Oh, we already heard!” Dani said eagerly, passing him the syrup next. Sometimes he’d swear she really could read his mind. He thanked her with a wink. “Wanna guess?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re not going to believe this, coz.” Archie peered over his spectacles
at him. “They’ve chosen Aunt Ramona.”

  “What?” Jake laughed and set the syrup boat down. “They’ve made the ol’ girl the chief Elder?”

  Izzy couldn’t quite stifle her giggle. “Poor woman. She must be miserable.”

  “She’s gonna hate it.” Nixie nodded.

  The young super-witch had come to know Aunt Ramona well, ever since the Elder witch had become Nixie’s official mentor in her magical studies.

  It was rare for Aunt Ramona to choose a new protégée, but Nixie’s powers would’ve made the girl very dangerous if she did not learn from the best.

  Well, Aunt Ramona’s outstanding abilities had now landed her the headship of the Order, and the kids couldn’t help chuckling to realize how disgusted the old curmudgeon probably felt about that.

  Having come to mistrust magic long ago for her own mysterious reasons, the Elder witch usually preferred not to get involved.

  But, of course, everyone knew the Dowager Baroness Bradford would not refuse such a momentous duty. Someone had to lead, after all, and she had the most experience—that was putting it mildly, considering she was over three hundred years old.

  Doubtful half the time that he, for his part, would live to see the ripe old age of twenty, Jake shook his head at all these unexpected developments. “Strange times, my friends. Strange times,” he remarked, and picked up his fork. But then he paused and set it down again.

  Having loaded up his plate, he paused, lowered his head, and sent up a mental prayer of thanks. He had so much to be grateful for this morning.

  Like the fact that he was even alive. The long, awful night was over like his bad dreams. The warlocks had been driven back. His friends and relatives had been spared—thanks, in part, to Celestus and his fellow angels.

  The battle at Merlin Hall aside, if the Light Beings hadn’t shown up with their Brightwields to deal with the Nightstalkers, Jake doubted he and his friends would even be here.

  And so, before his prayer was done, he put in a good word for the trusty guardian angel. He’s a right proper chap, Lord. You should probably promote him.

  Jake could’ve sworn he heard an amused voice say, “Thanks for the suggestion.”