by Rene Folsom
I touch her hair, my fingers wrapping around the strawberry strands as I continue to stare at her through the mirror.
“Why are you helping me? You could just as easily report me for not being able to meet your needs.” Pausing, I try so hard to keep my eyes glued to hers through the reflection. “So why help me?”
After a beat, she closes her eyes, breaking our visual bond. It’s not until her eyelids are squeezed shut that I see the moisture pooling beneath her lashes.
She doesn’t take but a few deep breaths before opening them and catching my gaze once again.
“You’re from the colony. And you’re a good person. Even I know that.” She shakes her head, closing her eyes again, almost as if she is clearing her brain of my presence. “Plus, it’s not that hard to teach an imbecile to braid.”
And there is the true guise of Greann. It didn’t take long, and it doesn’t shock me.
I try to pretend the last few words didn’t tumble from her mouth. I won’t let her, or the people of House Kincaid, get to me. I’m not weak. I’m not beneath them. I’m a person with the same blood as theirs. We are no different. In her eyes, as well as many other Primes, our stations in life are the only thing that defines us as servants. In my opinion, everyone should be treated equally.
As far as I know and have learned over the years, the time of war between dragons and men is over. What’s left are those who remain behind to pick up the pieces, even if all the pieces don’t fit together nicely. Greann acts as if she accepts me and all my faults… or at least what she presumes to be my faults. I know her game, and I will do what needs to be done in order to survive her and this place. I can’t really fault her for being selected. She has always been awful to me and anyone around her. The one thing I never considered before now was that maybe her brash unkindness is a horribly misguided coping mechanism of hers. Maybe she needs to point fingers elsewhere in order to feel better about herself.
Our society has been breeding the way of the selfish for decades now. Why would I expect Greann to be any different? Clearly, as she uses her own fingers to pull her hair back, the nimble appendages working their way through her silky mane, she’s showing me just how malleable and kind she can be. It’s all an act, but I fall in line anyway.
She’s teaching me how to braid.
I do as she says, following her fingers until I get the hang of the action. Over and over, alternating sides and making her highlights catch the light, I finally feel like I can do this. I can play my part and bide my time. Confidence builds in me that I can make Lady Greann happy enough to suffer through this assignment…
At least long enough to escape.
6
I feel proud as I watch the ceremonies from the sidelines, the brilliant lights of the ballroom swaying and glistening just inches away from where my toes hide in the shadows. To know I am the one who dressed Greann is an odd pleasure I never thought I’d feel. It’s not like any of us back at camp bothered with appearances—except Greann an extent, though there wasn’t much she could do. So to see her shine on stage and know I am one of the many reasons she looks so glamorous is what puts the small, half-timid smile on my face. That, as well as the fact I’m not the one up there. Not so long ago, I had different plans. My plan was to be chosen, to become a select, or at least to become a worker. But then my mother’s voice would go off in my head, reminding me of what it was to be free. It was burned in my brain, ingrained into every fiber of my being, that one day, I would taste the fresh air of freedom. No matter the cost.
This is a blip on my radar. I allow myself to enjoy the moment. To soak it in.
I guess I can teach myself to tolerate her. Hell, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. Maybe I can even teach myself to like her just long enough to get myself far, far away from this place.
House Kincaid. What a joke.
There are five brothers, two of which aren’t even here to receive her, and all of which are completely and utterly spoiled to live like they have been their entire lives. I would love to see one of these men spend a day—just one day—in the slums of the colonies.
I’ll bet my left eye they won’t survive a single day back at my camp.
And while I know I have it better off here in House Kincaid, I can’t help but miss my home. After all, it’s the only home I’ve known my entire existence. I need to push that out of my mind, though. It’s not like there’s anything or anyone waiting for me back there.
I’m lost in my thoughts when I finally spot him—the man from the hallway.
He stands in the center of the room, flanked by two other men who are all similar in looks to him, though he’s the tallest. It takes me longer than necessary to see he’s staring right at Greann, a grin plastered on his face.
Shit.
He’s a brother.
He’s a Kincaid.
I should’ve known at once. He’s almost identical to the man who was leaving Greann’s room.
And the way I spoke to him about Lady Greann just a few hours ago means I’m a fucking goner. Of all the times to open my big mouth, it figures I would do it in front of one of the Primes while insulting the new lady of the house.
This is an epic disaster.
I can no longer hear what’s going on in the massive ballroom, though there are many sounds to absorb. Sick to my stomach, I can’t believe I couldn’t even manage to last one single day at my new post without placing my own head under the guillotine.
Shit.
Here I go again, getting myself into situations I can’t pull back from.
Just as I’m about to step deeper into the shadows, the male I saw leaving Greann’s room pins me with his red-hot stare. What was his name again? Greann told me. Vulcan?
I don’t know if he can see me, but it feels like he can. The smile from his lips is replaced by a devious smirk. He nods in my direction before turning his attention back to Greann.
I back farther into the darkness of the side stage. “Seneca, Vulcan, and Graham Kincaid,” the orator’s voice booms, making my bones vibrate. “Do you three, along with your absent brothers Drake and William, take Greann Nessy as your new ward?”
The whole ceremony sounds like a damn wedding, and I don’t bother to wait for it to conclude. Talia said we weren’t even supposed to attend, so no one will miss me. Initially, I couldn’t help myself—I wanted to see what the hype was all about.
Making my way down the hall, I hurry into the servants’ area. I haven’t met everyone, nor do I care to. I have no intention of forming roots in this place.
I want out.
I wasn’t meant for this. Hell, no one is meant for this. Life is different now, though. There was a time when civilization was harmonious. It was way before my time, of course. My mother spoke of gatherings and trading among the different trade routes. Before the Great Awakening, there was balance. Now the world is all out of sync.
Since the awakening of the beasts, the earth has been scorched and people have been enslaved. Only those chosen are allowed to become part of the upper echelon of society.
I’ve never seen a dragon up close, but during the day, while back at the colony, I swore I could hear the flapping sound of wings as they cast shadows into the sky, blackening out the sun as if we were to endure a momentary eclipse, even if only for a fraction of a second. I’d always chalked it up to my imagination spurred on by stories of magic and lore. We’d been told there were hundreds of them in the beginning, but they’ve all since died out. Rumor has it that only a few have survived, their numbers dying down dramatically. No one really knows for sure how many are left, though. All that I know is what my mother told me before I lost her. It has been told there was a time when they did block the sun daily, the wing-shaped solar eclipses dwindling over time along with them. The ones that still remain are hidden, the memory of them active to remind the humans of our place in the world.
Man against beast.
We work for them.
Or so we�
�re told.
Despite the tales, it is clear the majority of us are lowly lambs for the slaughter. My mother and her family were lucky enough to end up in our colony. Was it really luck? That’s the actual question. I’ve never met my father, and when my mother was captured, she spoke of her two sisters and her mother. As far as I could tell, the men in her life were never part of the scenery. My aunts and grandmother were separated from my mother when the guards realized my mother had the potential to breed. What she didn’t tell them was that she was already with child. I was born in the colony, and I survived. There are kids there, but not because they arrived with their parents. They were rounded up, then brought to the colony in hopes they would one day be fertile and able to give birth.
Here in House Kincaid, my room is better than any place I’ve ever slept. Even though this place is not somewhere I intend to stay, I look forward to tomorrow’s shower.
To stop myself from dwelling on past memories, I shake the thoughts from my mind and pull my cap off my head. I’ve been sweating in this thing all damn day. It’s such a relief to finally be able to remove it.
I finger comb my hair in a desperate attempt to get the knots out of the curly strands. That’s when a flash of something bright red catches my attention.
What the hell?
How did I get red in my hair? My hair isn’t red. It’s black. But maybe this cap belonged to another servant.
I pull on the strand.
“Oww.” The hair is mine. But the change in colors makes no sense.
Talia showed me earlier, in passing, that servants have a small vanity area in their rooms. I try to slow my pace as I walk into the alcove beside my closet that houses a toilet, a small sink, and a mirror. It’s not the clearest mirror, but it does the job for what I need it for. Peering into the dingy reflective surface, I check my hair. I find three more strands. Not liking this turn of events at all, I pluck them out without hesitation. It’s one more thing for the house to complain about.
I’m hoping I found them all, but still continue my search for more of the rouge bastards. Thankfully, I don’t see any more. At least I hope there isn’t anymore.
“What are you doing in here?” Talia’s sharp voice interrupts my thoughts, her rail-thin frame taking up residence in the doorway of my meager restroom. “And why isn’t your cap on your head? You must wear that at all times.”
After putting the cap back on, I shoulder my way past Talia and wonder why it’s such a crime to have my cap off in my own room. I don’t even know why she’s in here to begin with. Angry, I only allow my internal self to comment on the fact she is being a bitch and blocking my exit. “I thought there was something in my hair. It won’t happen again.” To her, my words are pleasant, even if I can feel by the frown that my face doesn’t seem to get the memo.
“Make sure it doesn’t. You don’t want to learn the consequences for stepping out of line.” Talia’s arms are crossed over her chest, and she’s glaring at me. Still, I don’t pay her any mind. In my short time here in House Kincaid, I’ve observed the hierarchy. Talia, while it appears she’s been here the longest—to me, at least—doesn’t have any pull over anyone else. She’s as low on the totem pole as I am. However, anyone can snitch on another servant, and that would be the only threat from her.
Being caught without my cap on? Probably not a huge violation.
Being caught at the ceremony, though, would more than likely result in me being punished, or worse.
Her snobby voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Vulcan Kincaid has requested your presence in the gathering hall. Fix your cap so your hair isn’t escaping the sides and follow me.”
That explains why she’s in my room.
Well, I can honestly say my little stint in this house has been good while it lasted. Being called on by one of the men may be grounds for dismissal. There is no other reason he’d demand I come to him. He saw me at his ceremony. I wasn’t supposed to be there.
I had no business being there. Also, I should have kept my mouth shut when the brother I now know is Graham approached me. No matter how much trouble I get into by telling the truth, I still always manage to put my foot in my mouth. It’s a curse. After seeing those brothers together on stage, I am sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that Graham blabbed to the scary one I now know to be Vulcan.
I follow Talia down the hall, past the staircase, and into a larger open room. The brothers are all standing there—well, only two of the three. The one from the hallway isn’t present.
Greann is standing next to Vulcan and Seneca, the brother I haven’t met but saw introduced at the ceremony. He studies me with his golden eyes before dismissing me.
“There she is,” Greann says. “Vulcan, Seneca, this is Zhavia.” Her hands are held out toward me, and I suddenly feel like this will be my last few breaths as Vulcan’s red eyes bore into mine, forcing me to step toward him against my will.
I want to scream for my body to stop moving, yet my brain seems to have no control over my muscles.
“Stop resisting.”
The demand comes from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. My head wants to turn to find the source, but I’m frozen, only my eyes are darting around me with each step I take.
“It’ll be so much easier if you will just cooperate.”
There’s no way to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. It’s as if it is originating in my head—in my mind.
It’s overwhelmingly clear to me now that this man—this family—is full of power.
The power of the nearly extinct tarragon.
Tarragons were one of the most powerful clans. One thing I paid attention to was my mother and her lessons. Each time she spoke of dragon magic and the dragon’s handlers, I listened. It wasn’t the stories that fascinated me. It was the lore. The questions that still haven’t been answered. Like, where did all the magic go? The few surviving dragons don’t have the power to change into their human form any longer. But they still have the power to communicate and enforce their will over others. The houses that remained standing are wards to them. People who are deemed worthy of the gifts bestowed upon them. Some dragons were even said to have mated with humans, and it is those humans—humans born into the dragons’ bloodlines—who are now in charge.
If what my mother suspected is even a little true, that means the stories are probably based in fact and the people of House Kincaid really are dragon ancestors. And, as with any family, genes are passed down over the generations. So who is to say the magic can’t be passed down, too? Either way, I’m not going to start getting any fanciful ideas in my head. Because hearing voices is not something I am accustomed to, nor do I want to become a frequent, willing participant.
7
One would think being overwhelmed by a creature who has, for lack of better words, been extinct in our world for more than fifty decades… well, one would think of it as an honor.
But as I stand before the brothers and Greann, I have the overwhelming need to toss my hands in the air and cry party foul. It’s something my mom would say when everything went sideways.
None of it can be true.
The dragon magic has been dormant for a long time. While the Tarragon clan still exists, their powers have long since been depleted from their bloodlines. Growing up in one of the camps in the outer sectors of this land, I have heard all the mythical stories and fairy tales about the beasts and just how dangerous they used to be to a human’s mind. The Tarragon stories are more horror than majestic, and the mere thought I could be standing amongst dragons has my heart beating clear out of my chest. But dragons no longer take human form. They can’t. But there are rumors, or what I thought were rumors, that the creatures’ human relatives could take on some of their physical attributes when focused to do so.
Vulcan still has his red eyes homed in on mine, yet I’m the first to break the trance. Pushing against the need to keep my eyes glued to his, I make my lids close and shake my head in a very weak attempt to clear my t
houghts.
When I feel as if I can resist him, I open them to see he seems perplexed—confused by my actions. I suddenly feel foolish with where my imagination has taken me. There’s no way he can have Tarragon in his blood. The members of the Federation would be all over him and his brothers if they even so much as suspected their magic was still intact.
Attempting a strength I don’t feel confident in… not in the slightest… I lift my chin up high and feign ignorance.
Now it’s the brother who dismissed me with a glance capturing my gaze, his stare nearly as fierce as Vulcan’s, even with its golden hue—a damn near opposite of Vulcan’s crimson irises.
“The name is Seneca, and I need you to stay calm. Greann doesn’t know a thing, and we would like to keep it that way.”
Know a thing about what?
“What it is you suspect.”
Again, the words originate from my head, though I don’t bother to react. I know what’s going on now, and the fact I’ve been dragged into the middle of it will mean my certain death. I don’t want to know anything. I can’t involve myself at all with these matters.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
Said the tiger to the mouse.
I nod my head once, almost imperceptibly. I can only hope the men won’t involve me once it comes time for them to pay the piper, and I’m way too frightened to be the reason they’re outed.
“Well?” Greann screeches toward the men, her arm outstretched toward me like she’s holding a tray full of food to display.
Seneca shrugs.
“You mean to tell me you’re going to let this little ingrate steal from me?” Her voice seems to be increasing in octaves with each heated word.
“What?” I gasp. “I’ve never stolen from you, Lady Greann.”
But I already know it’s no use. I can’t argue my way out of anything if a lady of the house accuses me. Hell, she can accuse me of wearing her ass for a hat and I’d still be guilty in the eyes of their law.