Dragons Reign

  The more common it was to see them employed as temporary port laborers.

  Heads bowed, eyes averted to the ground, Titan, son of Thunder, and Vrega, son of Wind, boarded the large seaworthy vessel in silence, strode confidently through the confined, narrow passageways, avoiding any and all manned compartments, and lay below, directly to the cargo hold. As expected, the dimly lit underbelly was framed in wide planks of wood from the bulkheads to the overhead; the deck was littered with dozens upon dozens of barrels of wine; and Titan secured the hatch behind him as he descended the ladder, casting the hold into darkness.

  It didn’t matter.

  Unlike their human counterparts, the sons of Thieves could see perfectly in the dark.

  “What the hell is your problem!” A stout, middle-aged human demanded, jerking his head to the side and gawking at the suddenly sealed hatch. He reached for a low-burning lantern, hanging from a rope affixed to the overhead, and spat on the floor in Titan’s direction. “You one of those religious freaks, ain’t ya? Come to try your hand at lifting heavy barrels?” He nodded at Titan’s prominent biceps, instantly drawing the conclusion the legionnaires wanted. “Well, let me tell you something, mate. My name is Ansell Payne, and this here is Milo Rolfe.” He gestured toward a second mariner whose rank clothing smelled like sewage and dirty hair looked as if it had been used thrice to swab the decks. “We don’t like your kind, you orthodox freaks, sniffing around our ships! So, if you wanna eat tonight, if you plan on staying employed, then you better keep three things in mind: First, I’m the steward, and I oversee this cargo; second, Milo is my crewman, and he’s also my sister’s husband—so he gets some special privileges you don’t—and last, don’t you ever touch my ship without asking my permission. And that means turn your ass around and open that hatch before I have to tell you twice.”

  Before Titan could answer the insult with blood, the foul-smelling crewman to Ansell’s right cleared his throat. “Um, Ansell…” He sounded extremely nervous. “There shouldn’t be any laborers boarding at Merci. If these mates intend to move barrels, shouldn’t they come aboard at Lycania?”

  Titan licked his lips. So, the filthy, fetid pig is smarter than his steward. Interesting. He nodded cagily, glanced askance as Vrega, then slowly lowered his hood. As his beady red eyes glowed in the dark, and his forked tongue slithered out of his mouth to hiss at the idiot steward, his lips drew back in a snarl, displaying his venomous fangs.

  “What the hell!” Ansell cried, but the objection came too late.

  Titan’s long, flexible neck undulated backward for the space of a frantic heartbeat; lunged forward as it swiveled to the side; and struck the bewildered seaman in the throat. He drew back with the speed of lightning, opened his double-jointed jaw, and swallowed Ansell’s head, whole, biting down to crush his skull.

  Vrega lunged at Milo, taking him down to the ground and pinning him to the deck. He slid his tail from beneath his cloak, coiled it around the sailor’s torso, and squeezed until Milo’s rib cage cracked. The stinger shook and rattled as Vrega tightened his hold like a python, and then he struck and plunged and impaled the foul-smelling human…again and again…pumping venom into his now-seizing body even as he withdrew the crewman’s innards and flung them about the deck.

  Titan sighed. “Vrega.”

  The son of Wind grew still.

  “Do you intend to clean up this mess between here and the port of Lycania? Think, soldier; use your head. We still need to pull this off, and King Thaon’s castle guard will not be as easily fooled as two witless humans. We still need to find the rarest barrels of wine, the ones that were fermented in Tuvali, the ones the king explicitly ordered for his personal consumption. We still need to drain the contents into the sea and seal ourselves inside the containers before the real laborers come to retrieve them.” He stared at the bodies of the two murdered mariners. “And before we can do that, we need to dispose of these bodies. Do you really wish to add swabbing the deck and the bulkheads to our list?”

  Vrega grunted in apology, and Titan got it…

  He really did.

  Vrega, son of Wind, was a brutal legionnaire. The male could eliminate a dozen enemies without assistance, before ever drawing a weapon, and he wasn’t known for his intellectual aptitude or his rare, sage wisdom. Vrega was a killing machine, plain and simple. But at least this once, the male needed to show some reason—some restraint. This was a highly important mission. If the two legionnaires could steal inside King Thaon’s castle and manage to abduct the king while he slept, they could remove him from Castle Lycania through a tunnel beneath the moat; take him to the River Lycania, where a small, unassuming boat would be waiting; and usher him back to Thieves under the cover of darkness. And then true land negotiations could ensue between Lycania and Thieves without the need for armies and bloody battles, without the high cost of war. Not that war wasn’t a desirous and heady delicacy for the legionnaires of Thieves, but the ultimate goal was to occupy more territory, to seize more lands, and if such could be done without widespread bloodshed, then it was simply more efficient. Legionnaires who lived to fight another day would ultimately acquire more bounty than dead men.

  Vrega, son of Wind, slowly stood up, coiled his stinger, and readjusted his robe to cover the offensive member. He brushed a splattering of blood and gore off his chest and snorted before booting the body beneath him to the rear of the compartment. “Apologies, Titan,” he muttered in a surly tone. “I’ll clean the shit up myself and try to think better of it next time.”

  Titan, son of Thunder, bent his head in the barest hint of a nod.

  And then he began to sort through the numerous barrels of wine, keen to find his next habitation.

  Leah Noel drew her knobby knees up to her chest and shivered behind the concealed wooden crate in the merchant ship’s cargo hold, terrified by what she’d just seen. At only nine summers old, Captain Adlard Noel’s daughter had boarded the vessel in Merci, stowed away on her papa’s enormous merchant ship, eager to experience an adventure.

  Only this was not what she’d had in mind.

  Trembling, Leah brought her fists to her chin and tried to draw her body inward, to make it even smaller than it already was. She could not be detected by these things…these creatures…these sons of Thieves, these murdering tyrants who had just disposed of two innocent Mercian seamen as if they were nothing but rotten garbage.

  So, they really did have the heads of serpents, the bodies of men, and tails like that of a scorpion. She almost retched at the thought. Pulling a tightly woven, tarred canvas over her head and shoulders, she bit down on her lip and tried to remain calm.

  They didn’t know she was there.

  They had no reason to suspect a little girl of stowing away inside the cargo hold.

  And that also meant her papa, the captain, would not come looking for her, either.

  If she wanted to survive, she needed to remain hidden until the vessel docked in Lycania, and maybe then she could still have an adventure of sorts…

  Lost in the fanciful musings of a terrified child who needed to turn horror into speculation, if only to maintain her sanity, Leah Noel imagined that the two terrifying sons of Thieves were pirates, instead, intent upon robbing her papa’s vessel. She imagined that she was a very important passenger, perhaps a princess or a bride-to-be, on the way to unite with her intended, and she had discovered the pirates’ plot by accident, only to foil their plans.

  She would hide until the ship docked in Lycania, march valiantly up to the castle, and tell King Thaon all about the schemes of the naughty pirates. And then the townsfolk would write legends about Leah and sing clever songs in her honor.

  The stowaway who saved a nation…

  Yes, Leah thought, as icy tears of terror began to leak from the corners of her eyes, uncaring and indifferent to her make-believe story; she wasn’t a little girl a mere stone’s throw away from murderous monsters—she was the princess of Lycania, and she was going to sa
ve her land.

  If she lived to tell the tale, it would be the most awesome adventure ever.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning

  Prince Damian Dragona leaned against the edge of a sturdy ash table in his private cabinet, watching as Raylea Louvet entered the well-appointed study, gazed upon the shelves full of books, and slowly made her way toward his post.

  Her hair was like sun-drenched silk, flowing softly beyond her elegant, slender shoulders. Her dark, arresting eyes were like sparkling jewels, even as they were averted and cast to the side, and her simple dress, with its deep blue petticoat and midnight-black bodice, hugged her waist like a long-lost lover, clinging to each feminine curve in a desperate clutch, possessive fingers caressing virgin flesh…

  Um…

  Yes…

  For a moment, Prince Damian forget his station…

  Fortunately, and with indifference to his carnal dragon, Raylea’s anxiety brought it back, front and center: Every distinctive nuance in her body language reminded Prince Damian that the female’s thoughts were filled with hesitance, dread, and obvious discomfort—not passionate musings about the way her clothes melded to her body. In truth, the beautiful human, born in the commanlands’ village of Arns, despised the act of consuming dragons’ blood in order to stay healthy and youthful. It was a necessary evil as far as Raylea was concerned, and she only submitted to the vile feedings because her sister, Mina, insisted. Or at least that’s what she’d always contended.

  Prince Damian knew better.

  He knew Raylea’s secret...

  The moment she finished consuming the primordial substance, Raylea would return to Arns, prick her finger, and slip droplets of her newly invigorated blood into her parents’ morning tea in an attempt to keep them strong and vital—it was something Soren and Margareta Louvet would have never agreed to, so Raylea did it surreptitiously.

  She stopped several feet shy of the prince of Umbras and curtsied like a proper lady, and her fluid grace, her naked humility evoked a distant memory, one held by the original Prince Damian: the visage of a little girl standing in a Warlochian square, brave enough to approach her kingdom’s masters out of the desire to show them a doll. In so many ways, that little girl had never changed…

  But in so many others, she had.

  Raylea was a woman now: beautiful, strong, and smart. She had a musical laugh, a mild tongue, and the heart of a gentle dove.

  And Damian had loved her deeply for three long decades.

  “My prince.” She added the greeting to her curtsey.

  “Raylea.” His voice was a bit too deep, too raw.

  She shrugged an anxious shoulder. “Mina insists that I see you today, that I partake…that we… She says it has been too long.”

  Ah, so she couldn’t even speak the words feed from your vein, Prince Damian considered. Nonetheless, he understood the deal, and he did not want to make the ritual any more taxing than it already was. Reaching into the side of his sash, he removed a thin, golden-handled dagger from a sheath and drew it across his wrist. Raylea gulped, her throat working in anxious undulations, but she managed to stay still…and silent. When she dropped to one knee and took his wrist in her hand, he wanted to curse like a mariner. He abhorred that nonsense, the way she kneeled before him like a peasant—but it was a show of etiquette, an act of reverence, a protocol that could not be overlooked. After all, he was the sovereign lord of Umbras, and she was a common maiden.

  Custom abounded in the Realm.

  Still, to Prince Damian Dragona—to the soul of Matthias Gentry—Raylea Louvet was nothing short of a goddess.

  And as for her common origins?

  He shared them.

  As she sipped from his wrist and forced her throat to swallow a substance as foreign to a human as carrion was to a lamb, Damian glanced away. He stared at a portrait of a proud palfrey stallion on the cabinet wall: anything to avoid making Raylea more uncomfortable.

  After several strained moments had passed, Raylea withdrew her soft, pliant lips from his arm and shuffled back sheepishly before slowly rising to her feet. She curtsied again. “Thank you, my prince.”

  Damian called a thin blue stream of fire, blew it over his wrist to seal and repair the wound, and absently brushed an errant lock of Raylea’s hair behind her shoulder.

  The female instantly stiffened.

  She had a thin crimson smear along the corner of her mouth, and despite knowing better, he reached out to brush it away with the pad of his thumb.

  She jerked back as if he had burned her, and her emotive brown eyes locked on his. “Milord,” she uttered in warning. “I…uh…thank you. I’ll take my leave.”

  He reached out to grasp her by the arm, and by all the gods and goddesses of summer, his entire body shuddered. He had waited so long just to touch her…

  “Prince Damian.” She stared at his hand in stark disapproval.

  “Raylea, we need to talk.”

  She gulped. “About what?”

  His tone was breathy and ragged. “About Umbras. About the Realm. About the history of dragons and brothers. About you. About me. About us. There is so much I need to tell you.”

  Raylea’s tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, and she shifted nervously back and forth on the tips of her toes. “Prince Damian, have a care.” She smiled wanly. “Words are like arrows, as you understand. Once released, they cannot be recalled.” She struggled to regain her composure. “I saw Mina earlier, briefly. My sister looks well. I also saw my nephews, your sons, talking from a distance in the gardens. They looked very intent on their conversation—is something going on? Is there trouble in Umbras?” It was a carefully crafted diversion, Raylea’s tactful way of redirecting the conversation: yes, asking a pertinent question, but also giving the prince a graceful bridge on which to cross to a new and safer subject.

  Something less inappropriate.

  Prince Damian didn’t know where to begin.

  His own courage was waning.

  What if she pushed him away?

  As it stood, she was going to great lengths to remind him of the castle’s relationships, of Damian’s obligations to Mina—and Mina’s sons. She was trying to restore decorum. “I need you to hear me out, Raylea,” he said softly. Once again, his hands had a mind of their own, as they rose to her elegant jaw and tenderly cupped her cheeks.

  A look of pure terror flashed through her eyes, and she spun on her heels to duck beneath his arm and scurry away. He caught her by the waist, pulled her back against him, and nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck, his strong arms locking around her like a vise. “Please, wait.”

  She gasped. “Prince Damian! What are you doing? Release me at once.”

  Fire and brimstone, he had screwed this up. What was he? An adolescent boy, besieged by his hormones, unable to keep his hands—and his body—to himself? “Forgive me,” he rasped in her ear, still holding on, lest he lose her forever. “Forgive me, Raylea, and just listen.” He didn’t give her time to object. “The young princes are indeed having a serious conversation because they’ve recently learned the truth: the fact that Prince Dante Dragona is their father; the fact that he intends to succeed King Demitri as supreme lord of the Realm; the fact that I am not only their uncle, but that my soul is not as it seems.”

  As her knees buckled beneath her, he caught her in his arms, strolled across the agitated space, and set her gently down on an embroidered turquoise divan. He knelt in front of her and clutched her hands. “Raylea, I have wanted to tell you for thirty-one years, but it was Prince Dante’s call—there was so much at stake. The boys had to come of age. The prophecy had to be fulfilled. Prince Dante had to be capable of shifting.”

  “Stop.”

  Her fingers went to his mouth, and she pressed them hard against his lips. Then she reached for her forehead and massaged her temples, her eyes brimming with tears. “Back up.” Silence lingered like a ghost in the room before she finally continued to speak
. “Prince Dante is Ari’s father? He sired Azor and Asher as well?” The look on her face, the shock and confusion—the astonishment and disbelief—was almost as stark as the expression of pain. She appeared deeply, deeply hurt.

  “Yes,” Damian whispered gently.

  She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Raylea…” He tugged her palm away, needing to see the whole of her features.

  “And Mina knows this?” she asked, her voice tinged with rising anger. She sat back, threw both hands in the air, and gestured in an angry arc. “What am I saying? Of course, Mina knows this!” She looked like a startled doe, cornered and ready to run, and then her eyes locked on his, her pupils staring daggers straight through him. “How long have you known?”

  Damian fixed his gaze on a single thread in the shoulder of her bodice, unable to withstand her piercing glare. “I’ve always known.”

  Once again, silence rose like a specter from a shallow grave and simply hovered in the air all around them. It permeated the cabinet like a thick, inky fog. She bit down on her lower lip. “I see.”

  “No,” he quickly argued. “You do not see. Not yet.”

  Her angry glare turned molten. “Prince Dante intends to challenge the king?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “How? When? And to what ends—for what purpose?”

  Damian fought to quiet his mind, to answer each question in order. “With the help of the generals and his sons, with the blessing of a prophecy. Sunday, at Asher’s birthday—”

  “Stop!” she shouted again, this time clenching her hands into fists. “I don’t want to hear it, Prince Damian. I don’t care to know.” Despite her assertion, her curiosity was piqued beyond suppression—she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “What…what did you mean by that comment: My soul is not as it seems? What the hell does that mean, my noble prince?”