Waking the Dragon (4 page)

“You’re a good listener. Princess Morga was fated to marry a man of her father’s choosing, a cruel prince from a western kingdom. On the night before she married, she planned to escape during the traditional rite of bathing beneath the full moon.”

One of Julian’s wings lifted and fell higher against the pillow, his voice rising with excitement. “That’s when King Radomis swooped down, shifted into a man, and rescued her.”

I nodded. “Would you like to tell
me
a story? Or shall I do the telling?”

Sheepish, he mumbled, “But I know all that part.”

“Well, let’s skip further ahead to the part you don’t know.”

He nuzzled his head into his fluffy pillow. I combed dark locks away from his face. Brilliant eyes were intent on mine.

“When Princess Morga of the human kingdom in the West became Queen Morga of the dragon lair in the North, she was hated. Despised by all.”

“Hated?” Julian stifled a yawn and curled a fist under his cheek.

“Because she was human.”

Julian frowned. I knew he thought of his own human mother. And perhaps of me. “Yes, they did not share the more sophisticated views of today where humans and Morgons live peacefully alongside one another.” I wouldn’t burden my precious nephew with the fact that only
some
shared this view in our world. He had time enough to learn of hatred and ignorance.

“So what happened to her? They were mean to her?”

“Stop talking and listen, Julian.”

He snuggled deeper as I caressed his bare cheek, sweeping gentle fingers along his shoulders and the thin arch of his wing, soft as suede. Having put him to bed so often, I knew what would send him into an easy sleep. I lowered my voice and drew out the syllables into a sonorous roll. What Julian called my
story voice
.

“It was worse than being mean to her. A rival female dragon, one who was pledged to marry Radomis before he fell in love with Morga, despised her so much that she plotted to poison the queen.”

He opened his mouth on a gasp but said not a word.

“However,” I continued, “Queen Morga was a smart woman. She knew envious eyes watched her all the time. There was a gathering of dragon royalty from every realm, dressed in full regalia in their human forms. When her rival, Balsheba of the Bloodback clan, toasted in her honor at a gathering of the courtiers, she suspected something at once. Balsheba raised a goblet in front of the whole assembly, saying, ‘I drink to our new queen’s health and long life, honoring her with this blood-ruby, my family heirloom.’ After sipping the wine, she dropped the scarlet ruby into the chalice, passing the drink to her queen. Now, it was a longtime custom of the dragons that when a toast is made in honor of another, the receiver must accept by drinking of the same glass. Queen Morga had already realized the ruby was laced with poison. If she drank from the poisoned cup, she would die. If she did not, she would stir Balsheba’s entire clan against her husband’s house. Morga had no fears that her love, Radomis, would fight to the death for her. But she didn’t want to be the one to divide the kingdoms, to be the cause of so much violence.”

“What did she do?” murmured Julian before opening his mouth in a wide yawn.

“Well, it just so happened that King Radomis had been detained from Balsheba’s toast by one of her minions. He walked into the throng the moment the queen took the chalice from Balsheba’s hands, unaware of what had transpired. Morga turned to Radomis, raised the chalice and smiled at the assembly, saying ‘Balsheba does me a great honor, and I accept her gift on behalf of my loving husband, Radomis. But it is a human custom that the king always drinks before his queen. My love, would you do the honors first?’ Now Morga would never have let a single drop touch his precious lips, so she stood close by his side lest her plan not work. Balsheba’s face blanched white, realizing that her deception would now kill the object of her desires. King Radomis took the goblet and tilted it in the air. ‘To my queen.’ And just as he lifted the drink to his lips, Balsheba’s father leaped from the crowd and knocked the cup from the king’s hands, sending it clanging across the stone floor. The blood-ruby bounced and rolled to Balsheba’s feet, leaving a trail of poisoned red wine in its wake. ‘What is this?’ asked the king, his eyes blazing, realizing at once there had been some malevolent intent toward his queen. ‘The drink was poisoned, my lord.’ Balsheba’s father knelt before the king. ‘It was not intended for you. Forgive me. Forgive us.’”

Julian’s droopy eyes slid closed. I waited for them to reopen to tell the rest of the tale. How Balsheba’s father and three of her brothers were beheaded for the crime of treason, how Balsheba was exiled into the wastelands of the north and was never heard from again. But Julian slept sound. I tucked the covers close around his chin.

Jessen leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, a small smile creasing her lips. “Not your typical bedtime story,” she whispered.

“Not your typical child.”

“That’s for sure.”

We walked down the hall toward the dining room, arms linked.

“He loves you so, Moira.”

“As I love him.” I smiled to myself, catching my sister’s watchful gaze.

“Haven’t you thought of a family of your own yet?”

“Oh, come on, Jess. I’m twenty years old. I don’t think my ovaries have shriveled up just yet.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that ever since Mikal, you’ve not once dated another guy. Are you still heartbroken over him? Or what?”

I let out a heavy puff of air. “I was the one who did the heartbreaking with Mikal, remember? He was a great guy. Seriously. He just wasn’t…enough. I don’t know how to say it. And I’m more interested in my career than I am in being a baby-making factory.” I glanced down at the small swelling just starting to show. “No offense.”

“None taken. I like being Lucius’s baby-making factory.” A naughty look.

“Gross. Too much information, thank you.” Voices from the dining area drifted into the hallway. “So go ahead and tell me who you’re setting me up with tonight.”

Her cheeks flamed pink as she spit out a quick, albeit brief, description. “His name is Kraven Silverback. He works with Nightwing Security and is a friend of Lucius and Lorian’s. He’s a really good guy. He’s intelligent and easy on the eyes. Just give him a shot. I know you’ll like him.”

I rolled my eyes. Jess didn’t get it. Guys complicated my life, steering me farther off-course from my goal of becoming a serious journalist. They always wanted to put me in a corner where they could take care of me and keep me safe. Investigative journalists didn’t sit in corners. They got in the muck of it right along with detectives sometimes, seeking the truth, no matter the cost. And now, she was setting me up with some overprotective Morgon who works for Nightwing Security. Not what I needed.

Hmm. Wait. Nightwing Security. Maybe this could be to my advantage. They supplied security for the Vaengar Games. And I needed to get into the games and mix with the Morgon crowd in order to find the man Cremwell described to me in our interview—
the
black-haired, black-eyed guy with a facial tic—
who kept buying them drinks at an after-party in the basement of the Stadium.

“Just be nice, Moira. Please.”

“I’m always nice.”

She arched a brow at me, making a face I often made myself, meaning
I don’t believe you
. “What are you plotting? I know that look in your eye.”

I scoffed. “I do not plot. I plan.”

“Hmph. Like when you planned your sixteenth birthday by sneaking out with Kris and going to a Morgon bonfire, getting grounded for six months.”

My best friend, Krissa, who preferred Kris, and I had gotten into some trouble a time or two in our teen years. “Grounded? It was more like house-arrest. You’re one to talk. I do believe you were the one sneaking out of your college dorm which landed you in a particular nightclub on the Morgon side of town. The night which got you all this.” I gestured around us to the sprawling home.

Jessen heaved a sigh, one hand rounding her belly. “Do you always have to be so verbal when you’re annoyingly right? You know, subtlety might do you some good.”

“Not in my nature, Jess, and you know it.”

“What happened to that little, wide-eyed girl I used to take to the park and buy ice cream for?”

I gave her a squeeze as we entered the dining room. “She grew up.”

Lucius and Lorian Nightwing stood near the bar, drinks in hand, alongside another Morgon man. The brothers mirrored each other in stature and huge, arching black wings, both bearing an air that made most people want to take one step back in their presence. Lucius held himself with more grace than Lorian, Sorcha’s mate and husband. Lorian’s gaze often troubled me. With one bright blue eye and one amber-gold, it was hard to keep my features schooled into nonchalance. It wasn’t just his eyes, but an unsettling predatory air that filled the room when he walked in. I asked Sorcha about it once. She simply whispered with a salacious grin, “It’s his dragon. His beast keeps to the surface.”

Though I didn’t quite understand what that meant, I felt it clearly enough. While Lucius was certainly dangerous in his own right, he exuded confidence and a stoic charm. Lorian was a bit more…wild.

The silver-winged Morgon with his back to me turned as we entered. Brawny and broad-shouldered, typical Morgon build, his stony features relaxed into a smile when his eyes met mine.

Sorcha practically hopped across the room, her clingy green dress swishing with her hips. “Moira. There you are.” Barely coming up to my shoulder, she swooped me into a hug. “Damn, girl. What is this? Shabby-chic week or something?” She stared at my plain black top and tattered jeans. “Girl, if I was you with those legs, I’d wear the shortest skirt I could find.”

“Good thing you’re not me.”

She laughed at my sass, looping her arm through mine. “Come sit, so I don’t get a crick in my neck from looking up.”

“You have to look up at Lorian all the time.”

“True.” She added in a low voice with a smirk. “But my neck and head are typically resting on the mattress.”

I punched her lightly in the arm.

“Ow! Are you still doing that body punching class or whatever?”

“Body boxing. And yes. It keeps me in good shape.”

“And keeps plenty of highly attractive bruises on your skin.”

I touched the bruise at my neck, remembering how my sparring partner and brother, Demetrius, had landed a swift kick yesterday. I shrugged. “It’s worth it.”

“There are better ways to blow off steam and keep in shape, Moira.”

Sorcha was no longer looking at me, but gazing across the room at her Morgon man, a lascivious grin creasing her face. I shook my head, trying
not
to imagine what she was imagining.

Jessen waved us over. “Kraven, I’d like you to meet my sister, Moira Cade.”

I withheld a heavy sigh. “Hi.” I extended my hand. Thankfully, he shook it like a real person, not like I was a dainty flower that might break under the slight pressure of a man’s handshake. No initial sparks, but I had to give the guy a chance.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He walked with me toward the table, held out a chair, and took the seat on my right, folding his wings tightly against his back. If Morgons let their wings extend in the seated position, they could easily brush the person next to them—a gesture, either protective or suggestive, depending on the situation, saved for those in more intimate relations. Glad he wasn’t being pushy on that score.

The table was set elegantly with bone-white china rimmed in gold. Glass votive candles lined the table runner of crimson brocade. Candlelight sparkled off the crystal-cut wine and water glasses. I unfolded my napkin in my lap, offering a small smile to Kraven as he did the same.

Jessen had hired two servers. The two human women, dressed in black and white livery, served us bowls of rich, brown broth with mushrooms and flanks of steak.

“Mmm. This smells great,” said Sorcha, spooning a bite. “Did Ruth make this?”

Jessen’s face contorted in mock-horror. “Do you think she’d allow any other cook in my kitchen? I’m sorry,
her
kitchen.”

They prattled about cooks and domestic stuff, while my mind wandered. Cremwell had said the Morgon who seemed overly friendly, buying them drink after drink at the after-party, never did give them a name. He had gotten distracted by a fight in the Pit between two Morgons—some sort of main-event fighting match of the after-party—and when Cremwell looked back to the bar, the guy was gone. So was Maxine.

“I understand you’re studying journalism at the University.”

Kraven’s brown eyes watched me as he stirred the soup around, not eating. He had a square jaw, and his nose crooked slightly to the left, a bad break that had never healed quite right. Still, it didn’t mar his appearance much. Though rough, he had a calm, kind face.

“Yes. I graduate next year. And you work for Nightwing Security, correct?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“I’m sure your job is interesting.”

“Sometimes.” He continued to stir the soup, never taking a bite. I glanced at Lucius and Lorian, both drinking glasses of red wine, ignoring the food.

“Is there a reason you don’t like this particular dish?”

Morgon men had healthy appetites, so something was up. His expression showed surprise for a split-second before settling back into nonchalance. “You’re quite observant, Moira.”

“I’m a journalist. A writer. We tend to be watchers.”

“Ah.” He smiled, leaning closer to whisper, “Well, don’t tell the cook, but meat cooked this thorough actually turns the stomach of most Morgons.”

“Really?” The flank steak was tender and delicious, but it was indeed cooked completely through. “Why is that?”

He shrugged one shoulder, his wings relaxing a fraction. “I suppose it is the dragon in us. We like our meat bloody, I’m afraid.”

“Interesting. I’ve never heard that before.” I lifted the heavy glass goblet and took a sip of water.

“It’s not something generally known or, should I say, confessed in mixed company.” By mixed company, he meant humans and Morgons. “Not everyone likes to be reminded of our less civilized ancestry.”