Dragan

by Plum Pascal

  “Does this mean you trust me?” I ask, deciding to push my luck.

  “No,” he replies with drawn brow. “It just means I don’t believe you’re going to get yourself into any trouble anytime soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cambion nods and takes another sip of his mead, eyes watching me over the rim of his cup. I finish the contents of my own glass.

  “Be careful you don’t drink too much,” he warns. “There’s quite a bit of alcohol in the mead.”

  A streak of mischief flutters inside me and I decide to take advantage of this rare moment when Cambion is actually being somewhat decent to me. The truth is that I want Cambion to like me. I want him to trust me and understand that I’m not the horrible monster he believes me to be. If he’d just drop his walls and let me show him…“I could say the same to you,” I say with a little giggle that turns into a hiccup.

  Cambion pins me with a glare that sends a wave of heat up my neck, where it settles on my cheeks. “Don’t concern yourself with what I’m doing.”

  I smile to show I’m only jesting, and he exhales sharply. “I wish I could ease your burden,” I tell him, somewhat unexpectedly.

  “Burden?” he repeats, eyeing me narrowly. He’s definitely more relaxed with the others but there are still huge and impenetrable walls up where I’m concerned.

  “You carry so much hatred and pain in your heart, that it consumes you.”

  Cambion downs the remnants of his glass, swallowing hard. He doesn’t say anything in response but walks away from me. I can tell I’ve alienated him, and I regret my decision to push him. He isn’t ready.

  I know Cambion. Perhaps not in the way Dragan and Baron know him, but I’ve seen the light smiles he allows himself when no one’s looking. And Flumph told me of the way he cared for his people back in Geldingstock. Cambion can be kind. But he doles out his affection in scraps of compassion that make me wonder what it’s like to be showered in his adoration.

  ###

  Cambion

  Earlann

  Something is changing.

  The anger that once wedged itself between my companions is slowly dissipating.

  As I lay on the too-soft bed and listen to Dragan snore from his reclined position on the floor below me, I ponder this change we’re all experiencing. Maybe it’s simply the promise of hope that has put us all into better moods? Or perhaps it’s just the mead…

  The fire died long ago, and I sit up and glare down at Dragan’s meaty head, which rests on a pillow on the floor. There’s nothing that displeases me more than snoring—a completely artless and quite vulgar trait.

  I unfold my long limbs and walk to the end of the bed, where I open the large trunk which promises a change of clothing. Of course, the trunk has been magicked so whatever suits our particular taste is made available to us. I dress quickly, trying to stow my irritation at the hideous racket coming from the gargoyle. Really, I don’t understand how the demoness was able to bed him. I suppose that’s Succubae for you.

  I walk out of the room, leaving the infernal racket behind me. Immediately, I hear whispered voices which lead me down the corridor toward the stairs, but I don’t descend them. Instead, I stand at the top of the narrow staircase and listen.

  “We can’t, Saevel!” Raflamir hisses in a whispered tone.

  It’s my old friend and his housekeeper, bickering back and forth. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to banish the hangover currently wreaking havoc on my brain. I don’t often imbibe, but when I do, the effects are tenfold.

  “Variant has launched a witch hunt for them!” Saevel retorts, and my stomach drops. “He’s rounding up the angels again! And that girl is an angel. I’m sure of it...”

  “We don’t know that,” argues Raflamir.

  “What other creatures possess white hair and looks the way she does?” Saevel demands, and when Raflamir doesn’t respond, she continues, “Cambion is putting you in danger by asking for your help.”

  I creep soundlessly through the corridor and return to the bedchamber I share with Dragan. When I walk in, the gargoyle is awake. He blinks up at me from where he sits on the floor, a perplexed expression on his pillow-creased face.

  “What the hell are you doing up at this hour?” he demands.

  “Elves don’t sleep,” I respond as I chew my lower lip and recall the conversation I just overheard.

  “Right, but they also don’t skulk around unless they have reason.” He eyes me narrowly. “Were you attempting to visit Eilish?”

  “No, you bloody prick!” I rail at him in an angry whisper. “Contrary to your opinion, not everything revolves around that fucking Succubus!”

  “I didn’t say it did,” he grumbles but he appears embarrassed all the same. As well he should! The asshole can’t seem to get his goddamned mind off that girl. It was more than obvious at the dinner table this evening. The two of them and Baron were up to something. I find the whole subject quite irritating.

  Rolling my eyes, I kick his foot to get him to move his massive body out of the way so I can walk to the bed. Dragan frowns as he then glances up at my newly acquired outfit.

  “Your taste in clothing really leaves something to be desired,” he mutters.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I ask and look down at myself to take in my baggy velvet trousers that are quite a lovely shade of emerald green. The trousers terminate at my knees and tuck into a pair of tall, black leather boots. My sleeveless brocade tunic is open in the front and features a paisley pattern in mustard yellow and scarlet red. I wear a black leather belt atop the tunic at hip level, and a white, frilly poet’s shirt beneath. To finish the stately ensemble is a royal blue overcoat, tailored at the waist and made of supreme velvet.

  “You look like a fucking story-book pirate,” Dragan chuckles. “But then, I guess you’ve never left Geldingstock until most recently, so you have no idea about modern conveniences, let alone modern fashion.”

  I look at his long black, leather jacket that trails to his ankles, his black tight-legged trousers and his black, fitted cotton shirt with disinterest. “If modern fashion is exemplified by your getup, I’m grateful for my banishment.” Then I clear my throat and glare at him. “We have more important things to discuss than my sense of fashion and your lack thereof.”

  “Continue,” Dragan responds with a grunt.

  “Variant’s men are searching for angels.”

  “No shit.”

  The big ape doesn’t get it. “That means anyone who sees us will notice how much Eilish resembles an angel.”

  “Because she is one,” he points out unnecessarily.

  “Half one.”

  “Regardless…”

  “Regardless, yes, she certainly looks full-blood angel,” I admit. “Thus, we have to ensure she’s out of sight at all times.”

  “Agreed,” he says as he stands, apparently ill-at-ease with me looking down at him. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “I overheard Raflamir and Saevel discussing the Succubus just now.”

  “Can you please call her by her fucking name?”

  “No,” I answer snidely.

  “Jesus, you’re such a constant fucking thorn in my side.”

  “The feeling is mutual, my barbarian friend,” I respond. “Regardless, Saevel apparently recognized the demoness to be an angel immediately.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “And?”

  “And she believes Raflamir should turn us over to Variant.”

  “Fuck,” Dragan whispers. He falls silent again but begins pacing the small room, which causes my nerves chagrin.

  “Would you please stop pacing? You’re making me nervous.”

  “You and your fucking nerves,” he rails as he shakes his head, coming to a stop next to me. “You sound like an old woman. Are you feeling faint, as well, Cambion? Do you require smelling salts for fuck’s sake?”

  “Haha, very funny,” I mutter. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe Ra
flamir will follow Saevel’s advice.”

  “It’s no consolation, because you don’t know for sure.” Dragan starts pacing again. “We must confront Raflamir,” he continues, his expression harsh. “If either of them tries to sound an alarm, we kill them or we take them hostage.” He pauses and looks over at me. “The Steward of Earlann has to be worth something, right?”

  I stand up and grip the bloody fool by the lapels of his long, duster jacket and try to talk some sense into the blithering savage. “We aren’t taking anyone hostage, you fucking ape!”

  “Then what do you propose we do, you fucking dandy?” Dragan spits the words back at me and breaks my hold on his jacket. “I told you this was a bad fucking idea!”

  “Let’s talk to them first,” I suggest as I return to the bed and take a seat again. “See if we can get anything else out of them before we access desperate measures.”

  “Fine,” Dragan scuffs bitterly as he eyes me with heated irritation. “But, if talking gets us nowhere, we’re doing things my way.”

  “Talking will get us where we need to go.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “I am.”

  He throws his hands into the air and shakes his head, throwing open the door as he disappears into the hallway.

  ###

  Dragan and I meet Raflamir at the table for breakfast. Eilish, Baron, and the sprite are still within their bedchamber and I notice Dragan looks up the stairs repeatedly, his expression one of concern. The stupid fool is just as head over heels for the Succubus witch as he was before we discovered she was demon. Good thing I’m now in charge…

  Saevel walks out of the kitchen and offers us coffee and tea. Her smile seems tight and forced, as though she wishes she was anywhere but here, with us. She fills our cups, then makes herself scarce by keeping busy in the kitchen.

  “I overheard part of your discussion with Saevel earlier,” I address Raflamir, deciding not to beat around the proverbial bush. Raflamir’s eyes go wide.

  “Saevel did not mean what she said,” he assures me as he shakes his head and raises his hands in a supplicative sort of way. He glances at Dragan a few times which leads me to believe he’s fearful of the brute.

  “I would hope you wouldn’t turn on your own kind,” Dragan interjects as he eyes Raflamir.

  The elf clears his throat and shakes his head. He’s perspiring along his hairline and picks up his napkin to blot the sweat away. The sounds from the kitchen cease and I imagine Saevel is listening in on our conversation, which is just as well. She needs to understand we know where her loyalties lie.

  “Tell us what you know,” I request.

  “I don’t know much,” Raflamir responds with a shrug. “There was an announcement early this morning that Variant is amassing his forces to hunt you down.” He takes a deep breath.

  “And?” Dragan pushes him.

  Raflamir faces Dragan and nods. “Anyone aiding you will be punished.”

  “We won’t tarry here long,” I promise.

  He nods again, then continues. “Variant’s been kidnapping fae, not just angels.”

  “Why?” asks Dragan.

  Raflamir shrugs. “For reasons only known to Variant.” He takes a deep breath and faces each of us. “He’s becoming unhinged. Even the sentries of Earlann whisper about the instability among his supporters.”

  “This means he’s insecure and desperate to appear as though he’s still in control,” I explain. Dragan and Raflamir both nod in agreement. “In some ways, this is an advantage.”

  “But it also means traveling undetected will be close to impossible, and meeting with allies is even more risky,” Dragan points out. “Anona and the rest of Variant’s lackies will be hot on our trail.”

  “Not to mention the bloodthirsty mercenaries,” Raflamir adds.

  “Mercenaries?” Dragan echoes.

  “They’re the worst of the worst,” says Raflamir with a clipped nod. “Bounty hunters, essentially. They’ll make Anona look like your fairy godmother.”

  Dragan appears deep in concentration. Just then, Eilish and Flumph appear at the top of the stairs, with Baron right behind them. Eilish is dressed differently today—no longer wearing a gown. Instead, she wears tight blue trousers which show off her small waist and wide hips. The trousers tuck into high brown leather boots not unlike my own. On top, she wears a slim-fitted, long-sleeved white cotton shirt, which does little to conceal the swell of her cleavage. She’s braided her hair behind her, drawing extra attention to her lovely, heart-shaped face.

  She smiles to us all as she approaches the table, the sprite flitting around her all the while. Baron doesn’t offer any form of greeting, but simply takes the furthest seat from the rest of us, as he did last evening, and leans back into his chair, watching us with little interest.

  Dragan watches him with more interest.

  “We need a plan, and fast,” I say, wanting to resume the conversation. I level my gaze on Raflamir. “Reach out to your allies as soon as you can.” Then I face Eilish, as she takes her seat next to Baron. “You can’t leave this house, because you’re a dead giveaway.”

  “Dead giveaway?” she repeats, frowning as she takes a sip of hot tea.

  “You are angel?” Raflamir asks her bluntly.

  She looks back at me as though to question whether or not she can or should respond, and I turn to him. “Yes, she is,” I answer.

  “But she’s legal,” Dragan quickly adds. “She bears the marks.”

  I can feel the sprite’s eyes on me and when I turn to face him, I find him studying me.

  “What the fuck you be wearin’, elfie?” he asks, as he glances from my head down to my feet. “You look like you battin’ fer the other side or somethin’.”

  Dragan chuckles beside the offensive creature and Eilish hides a giggle behind her hands. Screw them both! And that fucking annoying sprite too!

  “Will both of you pay attention to the conversation, please?” I ask, irritated. I turn my attention back to Raflamir.

  Raflamir nods, but appears nervous. “It no longer matters if an angel bears the marks. Variant has issued an edict—”

  “That all angels be returned to him,” Dragan interrupts. “We already know.”

  “Then why do you travel with—” Raflamir starts.

  “That’s our business,” Dragan interrupts again and Raflamir merely nods, although he doesn’t appear happy with the lack of information.

  “What are the chances that Variant’s emissaries would come here, to Earlann?” I wonder.

  Raflamir shrugs. “There have been more visits of late.”

  I watch my old friend closely. His shoulders sag and the pride I once associated with the elf no longer lingers in his eyes. He appears defeated, exhausted and older than he truly is. I can only imagine Variant and his men have made life in Earlann a living hell.

  “How many visits of late?” I ask.

  Raflamir shakes his head. “It’s too difficult to guess.”

  “How many visitors crossed into Earlann before we arrived?” asks Dragan. “In the past lunar cycle or so?”

  Saevel comes out of the kitchen then and places a large tray in front of Raflamir, piled high with fruit, cheese, and bread. Raflamir reaches forward and places a bread roll on his plate, but he doesn’t eat it. Nor does he reach for anything else. Instead, he busies himself by picking apart the roll. Raflamir’s gut is large and round—clearly, the elf is fond of food. Clearly, he’s on edge.

  “I couldn’t say,” he replies.

  Baron leans forward in his seat. A menacing air surrounds the vampire as he smirks. “The Steward’s duties are to oversee the day-to-day activities within Earlann and keep close eye on visitors, correct?”

  “Yes,” Raflamir confirms, offering the vampire a quick nod.

  “You, yourself, man the entrance into and the exit out of Earlann?” Baron continues. Raflamir nods again. “Do you not keep records of all who pass through the gateway?”
>
  “I… I keep record, but it’s difficult to say how many visitors we’ve had over the last month or so.”

  “Get the record book,” I order.

  Raflamir’s eyes shift about the room, but he stands and walks over to a large, wooden cabinet that stands at the far side. After he whispers a charm, the cabinet doors open, and he retrieves a large, leather-bound book. Raflamir places the book in front of me and folds his hands in his lap as he takes his seat.

  I open the book and immediately notice the final entry is listed as number 150. Of course, there’s no mention of our group.

  “One hundred fifty entries?” I repeat. “That’s quite a lot of visits?” I ask.

  “It is,” Raflamir agrees.

  “Why is it that Earlann has managed to draw so much attention recently?” I flip through to the beginning of the book and take note of the entrances that occurred within that month. “Thirty…” Then I skip back to the middle of the book. “Ten, twelve…”

  “Since your escape from your… banishment,” Raflamir begins, keeping his gaze glued to his plate, “Variant’s men are searching for you high and low. They’ve repeatedly visited Earlann, most probably because—”

  “Variant knows you were loyal to our side during the war,” I finish for him.

  He nods. “Anona and her men are the most frequent visitors.”

  “Anona’s name isn’t listed in the book,” I point out as I study the entries.

  The accusation in my tone doesn’t go unnoticed by my companions. Baron and Dragan are alert, watching me with inquisitive expressions.

  “Variant t…told me n…not to put Anona’s name in the logs,” stammers Raflamir, wiping the sweat off his brow.

  “Why?” Dragan asks.

  Raflamir faces Dragan for a second before dropping his attention back down to his untouched plate. “Variant said if Anona failed him again, he would kill her.”

  “What does that have to do with Anona not appearing in your book?” Dragan presses.

  “Variant didn’t want any official record of Anona’s visits here, in case someone came asking.”

  “Why?” I cut in.

  “Variant’s c…convinced the precinct l…leaders are trying to b…band against him and start their own rebellion,” Raflamir starts. He takes a deep breath.