Page 11 of Deadly Maiden (Dragons and Darkthings #1)

Rorsyd

Ahhh.

How the blood thunders. How it churns through the chambers of my cavernous heart.

I exult in being dragon.

The panorama seen through my dragon eyes is lush with the mauve, purple, and orange hues of sunset.

Below my vast wings birds flock, arrowing to the darkening treetops to roost for the night.

I exhale, sighing, casting off the lost years and decades of my grieving.

I inhale and revel in the complexity of the scents—the musky hints of faraway wood-smoke, the veins of tree sap and unfurling blossoms, the freshness of high-altitude water, the splash of distant ocean depths. With dragon strength, endurance, and wings, the join of land and sea is less than an hour to the west.

I have missed this. Pined for this.

Wept for it.

I have sorrowed long and lonely with an exquisite wine in my goblet as I drank myself into unconsciousness. That was not worthy of a dragon.

The other fae are but specks on the land unrolling beneath me.

I and I alone rule in this domain, the sky.

Oh, the exhilaration of flying after so many years of humdrum existence with my feet glued to the land in man shape.

I need this. I need this to be who I am.

Without this, I will slowly die. My heart will die.

It was already happening.

And now? I ponder recent events. I have also been exchanging flirtatious banter with the vexatious fae girl who now sits upon my back. She is daring and headstrong, but not reckless? I like that in a female.

I am ancient, and she is young.

I vowed to destroy the child of the necromancers who killed Orish, and that is she. Yet here I am…flirting with her.

I must destroy her if she shows any signs of turning evil.

And has she? No. To the contrary.

I find I am not sad over this. I rejoice instead. One should never ever take life without due consideration of the good and the bad in such a situation. One cannot retrieve a life once it has fled the world.

Wait, no. That is what necromancers do, is it not?

Curiously, I don’t know. Do they retrieve life or merely re-animate a lifeless body?

Nonetheless, it does not change my vow and should not alter my decision if I ever need to decide to kill her for evilness.

She has questions for me. I feel we both seek answers.

Below, I spy the winding, darkening shine of the Georgie River. That clearing looks adequate, so I spiral down, scanning for other living creatures. If anyone sees me land, they will know she, too, is here, if they have seen the posters or heard the news about us. We are a pair, at the moment.

And she has questions.

I stutter to a halt, my feet thumping down, skidding, and tearing up the grass, leaving parallel furrows in the earth.

For these questions, I need to be prepared. But should I abstain from this flirting?

She slides off me and backs away. Despite the descending gloom, her dark leggings and shirt, despite the added shadows of the cloak, my dragon eyes discern the curves of her thighs. Her curves higher up also.

I react to her femaleness, and flirting becomes a minor worry. Luckily, my dragon phallus is well hidden in a sheath unless I choose to reveal it.

Fuck me, though, I am aching. Shifting back will cure me of this erection. It will not answer my own question—why am I becoming so enamored of this girl’s body?

I have had no mate for fifty years and more. A necromancer’s spawn is not an appropriate creature to rut with.

Rutting. Argh. Why did I have to think of that. Another second and I would’ve sprouted below notwithstanding my sheath. I’m out of practice with this love stuff.

I bellow at her, “TURN ASIDE! I MUST SHIFT TO MAN SHAPE.”

She runs off and claps her hands about her ears.

“SORRY. I mean, sorry.”

As always, the shift feels instantaneous, and I find myself on one knee. I am naked, of course. I should’ve remembered that too.

“Do not look! I must find clothes.”

“Okay,” she squeaks.

I eye her, suspicious of her intent. If she is peeking past her hands, I cannot be sure. Though lying about looking is not exactly bad, is it? I stride to where I dropped our gear and shuffle through the bags.

When I shifted on the road, I lost my sword, along with the shredded clothes. I will need another sword if only to appear normal when in a town. Next time I must prepare myself better. Though…

Will there be a next time? Fear stirs in my chest. I don’t know because I also do not know why I regained my ability to shift.

“Are you decent?” she asks.

“When am I never not decent?” I pull a blue shirt from my bag, one with tarnished silver buttons, then a new pair of black breeches. A belt. Two sets of clothes are all I have left. “I have no damn boots. I burst them when I shifted. Luckily my feet are tough.”

“Are. You. Decent?”

“Yes.” I’m doing up the last button on my pants when she looks. And stares.

I find myself assessing her, yet again. I’m dreaming about handling Wyntre when I am supposed to be impartial and assessing her for evil doings. I drag my gaze off her and point to the riverbank, as if something good or interesting sits over there.

What is wrong with me?

“Let’s make camp here. Morning, we will start walking. The next town is about two hours away. Venin. I will not risk being dragon so close to a town, until we know more.”

She nods vigorously, and I see how red her cheeks are. She blushes often and visibly.

I breathe slower, feel my nostrils expand as I take in her scent, and I turn once more to the river. “You wanted to bathe?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“And to ask questions, I recall. Bathe first. I have gold but we cannot eat that. Also, we have drinking water, and some smoked meat, some dried fruit and nuts. We have no need for a fire, thankfully.” That might attract people, bandits even.

“Okay. Though I am cold.”

I study her again, an intentionally thorough study, for she’s wrapped her arms about her chest. It makes that part of her bulge…prominently. Her blush deepens. Perhaps this questioning at close quarters will have benefits.

“The river will be cold. If you bathe, we will need to huddle together for warmth. There is only one blanket.” There might be two, but perhaps I should hide it. “I shall also cut your hair.”

“Tomorrow. You’d have to be mad to cut it at night.”

No protest at the huddling? I am almost shocked.

I nod curtly. “True.” My night vision is excellent but I’m not informing her of this. Plus she will be comforted by the sun. “Go bathe. I promise not to look.”

I lay out some of our minimal rations while she is away. I do as I promised and keep my eyes averted. If she gets eaten by some river creature, so be it. I lower myself into a cross-legged seated position and contemplate the last sliver of sun as it sinks below the hills.

The meditation helps me understand my own situation. Not only have I strayed from what I vowed and into the area of lust, I have changed for the first time in twenty years, and I’ve not thought to wonder why. Or not adequately.

Why can I now shift?

Why am I lusting after this necromancer-spawn female?

Are these two changes related because what are the odds that both would happen at once and not be connected?

When she returns, pale and shivering, though dressed in clean clothes—a pair of dark green leggings, a tan shirt, and that cloak—I wait for her to sit opposite, on a log I pulled over beneath a large tree.

“Let’s eat.” I indicate the cloth with its meager food. I offer her a cup that she takes. “Venin will have places where we can buy more civilized food.”

“More horses?”

“Yes.” I’m wincing inside at the thought of spending more gold. There is never enough gold.

“What’s civilized food?”

I shrug. “This depends on you and your tastes. Wine, for starters. Cheese. Venin has great cheese.”

“Oh. I never thought of cheese being anything but for…” She raises her shoulders. “Cheese?”

“My gods.” I don’t bother elaborating, though she seems astonished.

This girl needs educating.

Not that I’m likely to be able to do this.

Between bites of rather disgusting dried fish, hard cheese, and sips of water, I consider her. She looks at me while she nibbles on smoked meat and bread, then chomps into an apple.

When we’re done and have flung the cores and scraps far afield, so the critters leave us be tonight, I dust off the tops of my pants.

“We come to the questions, Wyntre Gothschild. I have some also.”

“Diamond,” she bites out.

“Annoyed at that surname?” Is this telling?

“Landos will always be my father, first.”

“Okay. I cannot fault that.”

“Nor should you.”

I raise my hands. “I am sorry. I will remember this preference.”

Even that seems to stir an almost growl. She is touchy about her parents. I don’t quite understand why. With the moon risen and my night vision I can see every subtle change in her expression. I doubt she can do the same.

“Shall we trade questions?”

She shivers and rubs her arms. “Yes. Let’s. I will go first as I feel mine outnumber yours.”

“Sure.”

A new question occurs to me. How do we sleep? The bedrolls were left on the road since they were still tied to the saddles.

“I was going to ask if I could trust you, but that seems a useless question now. You have defended me…us and risked injury, or I guess you did? You’re better at fighting than I am. And at killing.” Her mouth parts then she nibbles at her bottom lip. “Thank you.”

A tiny central frown line forms when she’s anxious. The crease is the only blemish in the perfect heart shape of her lower face. Sometimes a sadness flits across her face then is gone. I yearn to smooth that crease with my thumb, lean over and?—

“You are welcome.” She’s rubbing her arms again. “Would you like to sit closer, share my log? It would be warmer.”

“I suppose.” She shifts across, settles herself then glances at me. “I meant that thanks.” Then she dares to place her palm on my thigh.

It is electrifying.

Though light in weight, her offending hand consumes me. I strive to appear calm, but when she removes it, the sensation remains, a ghost of the desire she stirred.

“And your first question is?” If only we could start a fire. It would give me a distraction so I would not be quite so aware of her body. Of her scent. Her thigh bumps into mine.

I reach down for the blanket and stretch it over both our laps.

“Why are you helping me, Rorsyd? What’s in it for you?”

“That’s two questions. Or is it?” I contemplate this. “One question begets the other, and for most people getting something in return is a primary reason for doing something. Especially if it entails risk.”

She says nothing, allowing me to muse on this.

Should I be truthful? Of course I should. Lying would lead to a mess.

“You’re aware that I’ve watched you since you were a babe.”

“Yes, and that you did not hurt me then, or at any time since.”

In the shrubs several yards away, something runs through, rustling the leaves. A lizard, perhaps. Or a fox. Clouds drift over the moon. It gazes upon me, as if ready to condemn any falsehoods.

Very well. I will say no lies, but I will not tell her everything. Yet.

“I knew your parents were necromancers and that they were slain at the Battle of Orish.”

Expressionless, she merely waits. She knows this.

“And I will confess it gave me a hatred for necromancers.” At that she makes a small noise. I cannot tell if it’s an angry one. “So, here is the truth, and remember my vow was made a long time ago.” By normal reckoning. “I vowed to watch over you and to kill you, if you turned evil. There. I am pleased to say you’ve done nothing wrong. And I don’t hate you. I like you.”

I like you. Saying that feels explosive. I do not simply like her.

I try to soften my confessions with a smile, though it is a weak one.

She blinks about ten times, and I’m on edge here, an unusual feeling. She might tell me to keep away from her, might march out of here. Not that I wouldn’t follow but I prefer this—her inches away, near enough that I can hear her breathing, see the rise of her chest, the hair wisping over her ears, and the shine in her eyes.

“You were going to kill me. Yikes. But you never did, so that’s good?” Her voice squeaks. “And you’re helping me because…if I’m arrested you can’t watch me?”

Liking her has no credibility? Still, she hasn’t screamed or hit me.

I suck in air through my teeth.

“Yes. And no.” Again she proves herself adaptable and sensible. “I’m not okay with your persecution by others if you’re innocent.”

“Okay. I think?” She sounds puzzled. “That’s almost weird and, on reflection, definitely honorable.” Her smile is brief but there.

Amused, I snort. “Dragonshifters have a reputation for weirdness.”

Shyly, she adds, “I like you too. Your question?”

This is good.

Now I’m stuck. I was going to ask her what she has done to me to make me so willing to track her every movement, to imagine us together.

Her beneath me. Rutting in her. Filling her full of my seed and watching it spill from her pussy. I swallow. My pants grow tighter.

I cannot ask that. Not one single word of that filthy montage. Perhaps if she were sitting opposite, I could say some of it.

There is also my resurfaced shifting capability.

“Do you know why I can shift now? It seems stupid to suggest this, but is there a reason why partnering up with you…” Now I pause to blink. Partnering has more than one meaning. “Has restored my shifting ability?”

I have been avoiding meeting her gaze, but I scrape up my courage.

The blanket has slipped, and I catch her staring at my bulge. I clear my throat and pull the blanket back over my lap. Perhaps it was only for a second, but I’m sure she looked.

She whips her focus higher. A blush roars in. “Oh. Ahh. I don’t. No. I’ve no idea why. I don’t.” She clamps shut her mouth, her eyes kept wide. “Sorry.”

“Okay.” She is flustered, and because she is, I can’t tell if she’s being truthful. Then again, how would this na?ve, untrained girl ever have any influence over my shifting?

“My next question then?” she prompts.

“Next, yes.” It’ll give me time to figure out how the fuck does anyone ask a female, politely, how she’s controlling their cock like a marionette.

“Right. So you’re being my protector slash bodyguard because currently you think I’m sweet and innocent.” She throws me a cheeky smirk.

I guffaw. “Untrue. You are an irksome brat. But continue.”

“Okay, so I’m bad, but not that bad. Question…do we know why the Aos Sin are after me?”

“It is probably for the same reason I was watching you. You are the child of two people who were great necromancers. They think you’ve inherited their skills. Before you say more, I am unsure why that matters. But here is some new information. That undead raven that visited you arose from near Slaedorth Fortress. Someone there alerted King Madlin, and they figured out what path it was taking. The enforcers were sent to arrest you, and this was what triggered that to happen.”

She nods.

“Where is that raven now?”

“I haven’t seen it since it appeared at our house. It flew out the window.” She shakes her head.

“So you don’t know why it sought you?”

“No.”

I almost apologize for that invasion, but it’s in the past. I showed my disgust and saved her.

“We’ve done a lot of things together since then.” The moon has risen enough that she should be able to see my face quite well. “Though my vow stands, I will help you journey safely to wherever you wish to go.”

“I…I’m at a loss there.” Her face falls into the most despairing expression yet. “Where can I go? How do I stop what is happening when people are trying to earn that huge reward? They even implied it was fine to kill you. I’m sorry, Rorsyd.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Those are indeed the best and most important questions of the night.”

“Are they?” Her little frown line is back.

I nail my hand to my thigh to stop myself touching her face, her trembling mouth.

“I have suggestions as to where to go. Those we can talk about while we walk tomorrow. Stopping the Aos Sin King though—difficult.”

“I thought it would be so. I cannot imagine he will listen to me explaining my innocence. After what happened today, I’m tired and need desperately to sleep, but another question I need to discuss tomorrow is this. You say you will kill me if I do evil, Rorsyd, dragonshifter.”

Oh no. May I be buried in the dung heap of a rhinobear.

“It is my vow.” Our eyes meet.

“What exactly is evil?”

I open my mouth. She said tomorrow, but this should be easy to answer.

Should be, but is it?

“Don’t. Don’t reply. I want more than some shallow, poorly-thought-out answer. This, you owe me.” There is a hardness to her voice.

“I could say?—”

“Shhh.” Then she places her finger over my mouth in a fleeting gesture that nevertheless turns me to stone, because I don’t know how to react.

I’m tempted to bite her finger.

That might wreck everything.

Calm thyself, Rorsyd Targram, this is not the time or the place for such impetuosity. She removes the straying finger.

“Let us sleep then. Tomorrow, I will give you that answer, Wyntre Diamond.” Seated though I am, I give her a small bow.

The sleeping arrangements—how to I discuss this?

Then she stands and casts her gaze about as if she has lost something. “The bedrolls, damn. I left them with the saddles, didn’t I?”

“You did. We can share the blanket?” There it is.

Which is how I end up back-to-back with her, on the grassiest part of the ground, with the cloak under us to stop the twigs and pebbles digging in. Sleeping like this will be difficult. Wyntre begins to gently snore after a few minutes. I find myself strangely content. This is proof she trusts me more than anything else she has said, and it wakes a glow, deep within.

I lie awake half the night, then fall asleep, then wake again to discover we have rolled over and face each other.

And by early morning…I wake to find she’s snuggled into my front, with her rear nudging into me. She’s warm and soft. When I surface properly and realize this, I almost choke. I’m definitely hard, too hard. I move out from under her before dawn truly breaks.

I meditate again, while observing her sleeping.

I remember what Thander Munk said about me helping her ‘on this very long and difficult journey that will test your resolve and your morals’. Those words sounded prophetic. Prophecies are for princesses and heroes. The only princess I’ve known was Jennae, the daughter of King Madlin and Queen Ruelle. She was killed at the Battle of Orish. I heard King Madlin was sobbing and distraught when he was told of her death—pulled out his hair even.

Wyntre isn’t a princess. Perhaps she will become a hero?

I have such a terrible role here. Twenty years ago, I appointed myself as her judge. Who am I to judge her fate? She is a person, not merely the offspring of two others.

Who am I to so easily forget Orish?

These maudlin thoughts keep me awake. I’m not really meditating, but I am thinking. With my knees up, I prop my forearms on those knees and rest my chin.

What is evil? Is it she? Can it ever be?

Such a cute and pretty female lying before me. Is there such a thing as too perfect to be evil? The blanket is clutched in her fist and bunched under her nose, though she’s pulled it too high. Her rear is exposed. The leggings will keep her warm. Alas, I’ve no excuse for fixing the blanket.

I think back to Orish and what he would do in this situation. He would not blame me for helping her. And that is enough to satisfy me.

He would encourage me to do so, and probably join me in bed with her if invited. His morals never stopped him taking any females who fawned on him.

I’m still pondering this when a wayward fairy buzzes in and lands on her ass. From the shriek, it has bitten her through the cloth. I stride over to shoo away the feisty critter but she’s on her feet. The fairy takes off, heading left into the tree line. I stop, torn as to what action is best.

“Ouch. I’m allergic to them.” She pouts at me, hand on the affected area.

Folding my arms, I probe for more information. “And? I’d suggest applying salve to the spot.” I smirk and raise a finger, indicating her lower anatomy. “I’d rub it in for you even. Sadly, I have none.”

“Sadly?” Wyntre laughs. “I bet you would. It’ll just itch. I’ll survive.”

“We can eat fast and get something to treat your rear in Venin. As I said yesterday, it should be a two-hour walk.” Then I remember. “First, I have to cut your hair.”

She winces. “That, too, I can survive.”

Eating our meagre breakfast takes little time. I dig in my bag and find the scissors I tried to use at the town then sit her on the log. I go behind her.

“You’re ready to be pruned?”

“Yes. I’ll count to one hundred and think of butterflies.”

“Not of fluttering fairies?” I gather her hair. Lying across my palm, the silky length weighs more than I expected. When allowed to fall naturally, it reaches her waist. It is a pity to have to do this. “Sorry.”

I start to cut. The pieces slide away from the slicing blades, falling to the log and to earth, until around her lies a zone carpeted with long sections of blue hair.

“There. This should fit under the hood, and that will do until I buy disguises from the illusionist in Venin.”

“Disguises?” she murmurs, sounding quiet and calm. “We’re visiting an illusionist?”

“Yes. A friend who won’t betray us.” I splay my hand over the back of her neck, indulging my senses. Her warmth spreads to my skin, and with each breath she takes, my hand rises and falls. I’m loath to step away. “After that, we can journey onward without being recognized.”

“Are you done?”

I raise the scissors. “Just a little more.” I pretend to find more hair, trimming miniscule amounts. “How is your fairy bite?”

“It’s less stingy. We should address my question from last night. What is evil? Though first let me explain what I think on this.”

“Okay.” I love hearing her talk. The rhythm of her words and her tone soothes me. Standing so close to her only makes the effect worse. If I kiss her shoulder, her cheek, or her mouth what would she do?

The urge to shield her from this harrowing personal hunt the king has begun has blossomed over these past few days. And as she speaks about what evil is, that need strengthens.

Why is it you see necromancy as evil? Is the bringing of the dead back to life always bad? Why is that so? It is surely only the creation of new life.

If it is evil, then so must be war, where thousands are made dead. Yet you fought in a war. I know, so did my parents. I do wonder, though, if all killing is therefore evil.

Of course, here I am with my vow to kill her.

I don’t think you really know where bad ends and evil begins. What makes you qualified to be judge and executioner?

That last part hits home. I’ve thought the same.

I stand behind her, making encouraging sounds and let her ramble, laying out these thoughts, making me reconsider everything I’ve chosen to do.

Then she tilts her head backward and looks up at me, curious and innocent and beautiful.

“Yes?” I tug on her hair. “Go on.”

“If necromancy is evil that must make me evil, because I am certain I have some abilities you would call necromancy… And if so, kill me now.”

“A provocative statement from a provocative female.”

She pops up an eyebrow. “True.”

I’m convinced. I don’t know the answers. I’m not sure she has these abilities, but she’s convinced me. What the fuck is evil?

I thought I knew, but really, I never thought much on the subject. War is completely, utterly wrong, but do we condemn everyone who takes part? No.

“You’re right.” Though I still believe I will know true evil when I see it. “And I could never kill you.”

Am I smitten? Gods, I love how she said all of that. I’m smitten to the core.

I tighten my hand on her neck and her expression sparks, focuses down on me, on my mouth. When she swallows, I feel the movement of her muscles. “Upside-down girl,” I say quietly.

Then, inhaling, I slowly lean over her. I shift my hand until it circles her throat at the front, and I nudge her chin even higher. Her mouth is directly beneath mine.

“Wyntre?”

“Yes, Rorsyd?” The tremor in her voice thrums against my hand.

“I like how you say my name.”

“Oh.”

I’m barely inches away when her tongue sneaks out and she wets her lips.

“Oh? That’s it? I swear I am staring down at you wistfully, and I’m never wistful.”

I cover her mouth, kissing her hard. I thrust in my tongue and firm my grip on her throat. She whines and reaches up, slips her hand into my hair, and pulls me even closer.

This. This is what I need.

Her, moaning into my mouth.