by Tessa Dawn
Drake drew in a labored breath and shuddered.
“Who?” Dante’s voice was deceptively calm. “The humans?” He laughed then, and it was a hollow, piteous sound. “Are you kidding me, Mina? Have you ever seen a human in the clutches of a warlock? I have. It wasn’t a pretty sight. And the shadows? Do you know what they would do with human souls if they were allowed? They would devour them, absorb them, suck the life-force right out of the men and place the souls of the children on their tables as desserts, even as they chained the women to their beds and used them to repopulate the Realm.”
Mina felt her heart harden. “If they are that evil, that unredeemable, then couldn’t the Dragonas destroy them all?”
Drake whistled low beneath his breath, and Mina shot him a furtive glance of apology. By all the gods, she sounded like a traitor, even to herself.
Curiously, Dante answered her final question. “All the warlocks? All the witches? All the gargoyles and shades?” He smiled, yet the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “And then, when the Lycanians come from across the sea, there will be no armies to stand in their way, no warriors to meet them on the sands. Are you seriously advocating the destruction of our world and everyone within it?”
Mina bowed her head. “I…oh gods, my prince.” Her eyes sought his for the first real time, honest, unchallenging, and raw. “I understand.”
And for the first real time, his authentic gaze found hers as well. “I should slay you, Mina. Right now. Right here.”
She wanted to protest, to plead for absolution, but the dragon prince was right. All those years being raised in the Keep, being taught more about the Realm than her non-Ahavi, human counterparts, she had actually been sheltered from the truth. She had been pampered and privileged and raised for one purpose, and even that, she had failed. Dante loved the kingdom she resented, and he served it, while she only rebelled. He kept her mother and her father and her sister…alive. “I’m an idiot,” she whispered. “A willful, ignorant, idealistic idiot, who only thinks of herself.”
Dante shook his head. “If that were true, I would have let you die in the Great Hall when my father caught you, when Damian suggested it.” He took two measured steps away from the bedpost, rounded the bed, and reached out with a self-assured hand to finger a lock of her hair, and then he stroked the underside of her chin and bent to her ear. “One day, I will be as powerful as my father,” he whispered, so that only she could hear. Well, perhaps, her and Prince Drake. “You may not live to see it, but you may still live to raise our sons. That is not a small thing.” He stepped back, stood up straight, and regarded her squarely. “If you want to help me, Mina, feed the dragon’s fire until he is strong. Pray that I live to come of age. Give me sons…many, many sons…so that one day we might have impartial princes to rule. But do not ever ask me to commit sedition or high treason, to take on a primordial dragon that cannot be destroyed, or to oppose my brother at the expense of the Realm—to save one beautiful slave who would die anyway, at the hands of our enemies, should her persecutor be destroyed. Do not question me as your prince.”
Drake sighed and clasped his hands together. As always, he injected compassion into the dialogue. “You can’t avoid Damian if he calls you.” He turned to regard Tatiana. “Neither of you can.” He tightened his interlocked fingers like a single fist. “And you wouldn’t be the first to suffer at his hands. If we can heal you, we will try—send a missive through the squire—but never, ever, approach my father’s lair. Never break our laws. Try to avoid Prince Damian if possible. If not, then try to appease him, to please him the best you can, and pray to the gods for mercy. That is all any of us can do.”
Tatiana emerged from the shadows like a specter rising from a grave: silent, ominous, and hauntingly alone. She padded to the foot of the bed, where Prince Drake still sat, and slowly fell to her knees. Bowing her head, she whispered meekly. “My prince. I have a question of my own.”
Prince Drake sat forward, still clearly fatigued and waning, but he gave her his full attention. “What is it?” he asked. “Speak your peace.”
The Ahavi swallowed repeatedly, her narrow throat convulsing in waves. “Only you know what is best for Castle Commons, what the province needs the most, but if all things are equal…” She began to tremble uncontrollably, and her eyes spilled over with tears. Struggling to keep from crying, she wrapped her slender arms around her waist and pressed on. “But if all things are equal, would you ask your father for me when the time comes? To make me your consort, instead of Damian’s?”
Mina felt her chest constrict; her heart was breaking in two. Tatiana sounded so wretched and ashamed. She waited with bated breath as Drake inhaled sharply and stared at her companion’s face, seeming to study each one of Tatiana’s features in turn.
“So much has happened…I…” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. “Look at me.”
Tatiana met the prince’s hazel gaze, and her lips trembled as she waited.
Like all the Dragonas, Drake was both handsome and robust. He kept the front edges of his midnight hair plaited in masculine braids, and his striking features were both noble and refined. Although not quite as tall as Damian or Dante, he was just as imposing, but his eyes were different—they were unusually kind. Just the same, he was a dragon by birth, a territorial predator at heart, and Tatiana was no longer pure. She had been used, and thus marked, by Prince Drake’s brother.
He stared at Tatiana until Mina thought her own heart would cease beating, and then he simply nodded his head. “I will ask,” he said.
Tatiana buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Touched by the moment, Mina turned toward Dante and offered him a smile, as paltry as it was. “And you,” she said, “thank you for what you did tonight. All of it. There are no words.” She folded her hands in her lap. “And I’m truly sorry.”
He lowered his head in the barest inclination of a nod. “Then we start again?”
She rose from the bed and approached him cautiously, until their toes were nearly touching. “We start again.”
Dante held her seeking gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then, gesturing toward Tatiana, he lowered his voice. “I think your friend is a bit overwhelmed. If you please, go fetch the blood slave. My brother, your prince, has waited long enough.”
Without hesitation, Mina fell into a curtsey, spun on her heel, and headed for the chamber door to do the dragon’s bidding.
Chapter Twelve
The next day
“I asked Matthias Gentry to travel to the royal province.” Margareta Louvet rested her elbows on the old wooden table and dropped her head in her hands, waiting for her husband’s reaction. When he stared at her blankly, not saying anything, she added, “I asked him to try to get a missive to Mina.” And then she simply waited…for the brunt of his anger.
His voice rang out, irritated but calm. “You did what?”
She sighed and lifted her head. “I spoke with Matthias.”
Soren Louvet kicked back his chair, stood up, and paced to a nearby window where he stared out at the fallow pasture, his face a mask of disbelief. “When?” he snarled. “Why?”
Margareta turned around in her chair to face him and rubbed her tired eyes. She had no tears left to shed. “Yesterday, outside of the market. Why?” She shook her head sadly. “Why do you think, Soren? Why do you think?”
Soren crossed his arms over his broad chest and continued to stare out the window. “Matthias and Mina were best friends growing up. Hell, they were promised to each other in marriage by age five, before the Dragons Guard came for Mina, and you know that he is still very fond of her…” His voice trailed off, and he sighed. “What could possibly come of involving Matthias now? Do you wish to get the boy killed? Do you wish to get Mina killed?”
Now this set Margareta off.
She slammed her open palm down on the table, wincing from the pain, and stood to face her husband, even if she was only staring at his back. �
�They were never old enough to fall in love,” she protested, planting her hands on her hips. “But yes, they were true friends, and Matthias may be the only one left who cares about Raylea! If anyone can get word to Mina, Matthias can.”
Soren spun around, regarding his wife cautiously, his own bloodshot eyes drooping beneath heavy-burdened lashes. “Margareta…”
“What?” she huffed. “What would you have me do? The constable has done nothing! The insensitive fool simply took a report and filed it away.” She turned her nose up in disgust. “We are so sorry for your loss, Miss Louvet. We mourn what has happened to Raylea along with your family, but we have no extra resources to send on a fishing expedition. We will, however, look into the matter, as the slave-rings are a top priority for this province.” She gestured angrily with her hands, her voice rising in angst. “What the hell does that mean, Soren? The slave-rings are a top priority? They basically told us to forget Raylea and go on with our lives. She’s gone.” Margareta slumped back into her chair and lay her head down on the table, as if it were too heavy to hold up. “Raylea is gone,” she repeated in a forlorn voice. “She’s just…gone. And so is Mina. What was I to do?”
Soren stepped away from the window, crossed the room in three long strides, and stood behind his wife, placing two firm hands on her shoulders. Despite his best attempt at valor, his hands trembled against her dress. “We will continue to search for her, ourselves. By all the gods and goddesses, I promise you, I will not stop looking. I’ll never quit. Never. Not until we bring her home, or find out—”
“That she’s dead,” Margareta supplied.
Soren shut his eyes and shook his head. The mere possibility was unthinkable, and Margareta knew the stubborn man would never give voice to such a possibility. “She has to be alive,” he said with conviction. “She has to be all right.”
“All right?” Margareta echoed, her voice catching on a sob. “No, Soren. She is not all right. You and I both know how the raiders work, the purpose of the slave trades.” She swallowed hard and searched for her own brand of courage, a bravery she could no longer find. “Why they would take her…what they would want of her…what they will do to her…eventually.” She tugged on a lock of her hair, carelessly twisting the ends into knots. “And that is why we cannot wait, Soren! Every minute, every hour, every day we procrastinate, Raylea is in the hands of monsters. Even if we find her—”
“When we find her,” he growled, his face a mask of iron determination.
“Even if…or when…we find her, she may not be the same. Her soul may not be the same. Her laughter, her joy, her spirit may be gone.” Margareta’s tears fell freely then, and she made no attempt to hold them back. “Oh, gods, Soren! She survived the loss of Mina—we all did—but how can anyone survive this? How?”
Soren pulled a chair in front of hers and sat down to face her, taking both of her hands in his own and squeezing them far too hard. His knuckles turned white as he grinded his teeth, trying to find the right words, and it was as if the entire humble cabin groaned in response. The old wooden floor-planks creaked; the dilapidated shutters settled with a grumble; and the rundown shingles, high above their heads, seemed to sigh with an audible moan. The cabin, like their lives, was falling apart. “Raylea is our daughter, and her spirit is strong. She will survive intact. She has to. And so will Mina. We haven’t lost her yet; there is still the Autumn Mating and—”
“And the Sklavos Ahavi belong to the Realm, not to their families,” Margareta mocked. “They are not permitted to maintain contact with their kin, at least not until after the Autumn Mating; and even then, it is at their lord’s discretion. That’s what he said, Prince Drake, and he was the kind one!” She felt her expression harden, even as her ire rose like a sudden gust of wind, swirling upward in passionate eddies, fanning out in frustration and rage. “The kind prince, the one who showed even the barest amount of compassion, looked our daughter right in the eyes and told her that Mina belonged to him. And the other one, Prince Dante, he was like a block of ice or a slab of stone. We are nothing to these dragons! Nothing, Soren—you didn’t see his face.” She clutched a potted urn that was sitting on the table, serving as a centerpiece, and ran her forefinger along the petals of a single pale rose, planted in the center. “And Damian Dragona, our future prince of Umbras? He was the Dark Lord himself, Keeper of the Forgotten Realm. He was evil incarnate, Soren. There was nothing in his eyes: no soul, no compassion, no mercy. He held a dagger to Raylea’s throat—a ten-year-old child!” She stood in a sudden storm of fury, tossed the pot across the room, and watched as so many shards of clay scattered about the cabin, ricocheted off the walls, and dispersed across the floor in a dissonant pattern. “Who do they think they are? What gives them the right? To take our children, our little girls, and use them like common whores!” She fisted her hands at her sides and glared at her husband with scorn. “You are not a woman, Soren.” She felt horrible saying it, but she just couldn’t help it. “I know you love your daughters, of course you do, but you can’t possibly imagine. I would rather slit my own throat than be forced to breed a son for the Realm with one of those princes. And now, Raylea, too? Oh great Spirit Keepers, why? Why!” She slumped to the floor in a ball of anguish and began to weep uncontrollably.
Soren knelt down before her and tried to wrap his arms around her quaking shoulders, but his own anger, his barely concealed helplessness and rage, rose from his being like fog from the sea, and joined her fury in the room. He was coming apart, about to break down, utterly mired in feebleness and contempt. “I…I…” He bowed his head and shuddered. “I don’t know what to say. I would kill them all if I could, but it wouldn’t bring our daughters back.” He tightened his grasp around Margareta’s slender frame and buried his fingers in her long, auburn hair. “I swear to you, my love. I will find Raylea or die trying.” His deep, masculine voice broke then, giving way to anguish and tears. “I’ll bring our baby home…or I’ll die trying. I swear.”
Margareta clung to her husband as if her life depended on it—and maybe it did—because in this fateful moment, she no longer possessed the will to go on. She had no idea how to get up in the morning, how to stumble through each day, or how to carry on with the business of life and farming when all she had lived for was gone.
Hell, she didn’t even know how to draw her next breath.
By all that was holy—or unholy—the Realm had stolen the most precious gifts she had ever been given: her babies, her angels, her daughters…
First, Mina.
And now, Raylea.
It was just too much to bear.
And even though Margareta had escaped the attack in the forest with her life, just barely, she did not wish to continue, not like this. Not without her youngest daughter. It was hard enough to accept the fact that Mina was living on the other side of what felt like the world with those three demonic dragons, but to give Raylea up, too? It was simply impossible.
She was just about to pry Soren’s hands from her hair when she heard a hard, crisp knock on the door, and she froze. Oh gods, what if it was the constable, or worse, a member of the Dragons Guard? The words she had just spoken were treason, and they wouldn’t hesitate to take her away. She stared at Soren blankly and shrugged her shoulders, her lip beginning to quiver.
“Miss Louvet? Master Soren? Are you in there?” Matthias Gentry’s deep, melodious voice reverberated from the other side of the panel.
“Matthias?” Margareta called out, quickly rising to her feet and ushering her husband to follow. She hurried to the door and unhitched the latch.
The boy, who was now a proud and formidable man of twenty summers, stood on the front stoop like a soldier: his angled chin held high, his proud shoulders pulled back, his deep blue eyes narrowed with steadfast purpose. His familiar crossbow was slung over one of his broad, muscular shoulders, and his long, wavy blond hair rustled in the wind as he fixed his gaze on Margareta’s. “Ma’am. I’m here to retrieve that missive. I’ll
be heading out for Castle Dragon come morning.”
Margareta took a cautious step back and gestured for the youth to come in.
He stepped past her like a cool, welcoming breeze on a scorching, unforgiving day, and immediately regarded Soren. “Mr. Louvet,” he said by way of greeting.
Soren nodded. “Matthias.” He shook the youngster’s hand. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, son.” He leveled a crosswise glance at his wife. “We can’t ask you to get involved in our private affairs, to do something this dangerous. My wife was distraught, and she—”
Matthias held up a gracious but firm hand to silence him. “With all due respect, sir, I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions.” He pitched his voice a bit softer out of esteem. “Mina was—is—my friend. And Raylea is like a little sister to me. So if you think I can just go on with my life as if nothing has happened or changed, well then, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”
Soren appraised Matthias carefully then, his mouth turning down in a frown. “Son, this has nothing to do with your character or the place you have in our hearts. You desire to speak man-to-man, then I’ll speak to you with candor: If you go to that castle, you’re gonna get killed. You might even get Mina killed in the process. My friends and I, we will continue to search.”
Matthias’ bright blue eyes turned dark with disapproval. “I understand that, sir. I’m not a fool.” He tapped his crossbow. “My aim is not to storm the castle like some lunatic or to try to get to Mina, but I’ve got a really strong arm, and I can thread an arrow through the eye of a needle at two hundred yards. All I need to do is get the missive to her, somehow. I’m thinking of attaching it to the end of an arrow—she’ll recognize my fletching.”
Margareta cast a hopeful glance at Soren, waiting to hear his reply.
He shook his head in consternation. “Aren’t you engaged to be married next summer to the Walcott girl?”