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FORGET

R hennic and I exit the vast amphitheater, and Mikkel trails us. As we move out through the hall’s towering archways, into the dappled shade of the late afternoon, I can hardly enjoy all the beautiful summer fruit trees, berry fields, and grape arbors of Chambord.

Because I’m stewing that I nearly made a spectacle that would go down in Storm Dragon infamy from my uncontrolled magic. It puts me in a dark place now, as my cousin leads me towards the palace, away from that near debacle in the fight hall.

My darkest power roars, furious that I didn’t get to consummate things with Mikkel. I churn now, as I feel Mikkel’s own darkness at our hijacked mating push through our bond, coiling into mine.

My emotions are unstable as they roil and wrath with his; moving from one shitstorm to another, I begin to fixate on the Black Dragon Knights now, and the diabolical Excommunication curse they laid on me, which is the entire reason we’re down here in the first place.

Nothing the Storm Dragons have tried this week has helped. Not only that, but it’s only been half a day since Strom and I had our last slam-bam- thank-you-ma’am at dawn to renew my mind, and already, my memories are pouring out of me again, like some kind of fucking sieve.

My recollections are almost faded now, as my inner drakaina gnashes her teeth that everything in my life will soon be gone once more.

Even the faces of my enemies—whom I swore I’d never forget.

As the void of my current predicament washes back in yet again, I fight to not let despair swamp me. As my memories of Sweden slip like a riptide now with the oncoming evening, I feel Bjorn wake inside the palace, countering it.

He hurls his exhausted magic through our bond, his gold-red Blood Magic roaring through me. I can breathe again and think again from my snarling blackness; as an oilslick and burning violet halo around me ceases, Bjorn’s magic surges like thunder inside my veins.

It’s soon gone, though, burnt out to his current exhaustion. Because whatever’s been done to me is so dark, it’s like his and my Blood Magic has to work ten times harder to foist it off.

Draining Bjorn to the max.

As Chateau de Chambord rises above the trees now, its opal lightning-stone flickering throughout its white and black facades, I can’t even enjoy the beautiful sight.

Rhennic feels my churning as he glances at me. I don’t make eye contact, only watch the gargantuan brutes of Storm Dragon guards who wind around the upper pinnacles of the palace’s opulent turrets and exquisite French Renaissance halls, in beast form.

They roar and heave lightning all through the sky, viciously eyeballing those who pass by. Like those fierce protectors, both sides of my magic are rioting at what’s been done to me; I have to rein in the void-black drake of my Bone Magic hard now, to prevent it from making oilslick droplets of pure wrath haze around me as I walk.

Even my brighter Blood Magic snarls at the prospect of forgetting everything I love—again. It’s a wicked combination, making my magic riot, despite everything. Because both sides of my Bloodwalker power know that what was done to me was beyond cruel.

Inhumane—though I struggle to even recall it now.

It doesn’t help that my Third Drake has a bloodthirsty streak a mile long. I feel Mikkel’s snarling lust for retribution against the Knights blaze as he walks behind me, sensing my interaction with Bjorn and wanting to punish those who did this to me.

Though I felt some iota of goodness inside Mikkel today, the darkness of his habitual mind slithers through me like the blackest riptide now, wanting to make those who did this suffer endlessly for their crimes.

But I know I can’t succumb to this darkness, as Aesa’s silver Truthstone hums upon my chest, urging me to hold on. I have to solve this wipe-job the Black Dragon Knight’s Council laid upon me and grow stronger from it. Not to mention kill my actual foe, the black Dragon of All Souls.

Before it can end me, my mates, and everything I love—forever.

I focus on that now, keeping my memory of the Black Dragon firmly in my thoughts as everything else departs. My sense of justice is who I am; I can’t lose it, as Rhennic and I finally slow, nearing the main palace of Chateau de Chambord.

As Rhennic and I arrive at the palace grounds, I weather a prickling, ants-biting-the-skin sensation of passing through Storm Dragon security. It comes from a towering lightning-blitz barrier around the palace, as the Storm Dragons’ electrifying magic approves me.

Mikkel gets similarly approved, as we reach ornate black iron gates that flicker with lightning. Those gates roll back now—admitting us to the Grand Palace of the Storm Dragons of France.

It’s a sight, even despite my current mood. I never tire of seeing the Twilight Realm’s version of Chateau de Chambord, with its towering white and black lightning-stone walls and turrets.

Though the French Renaissance false fortress was never finished in the human world, it’s complete here. Twenty times the size of the palace in the human world, it’s beautifully intimidating in the Realm where it was originally conceived.

As we move into the manicured grounds around the outer bailey, Storm Dragon guards in charcoal Victorian-styled uniforms with long pikes give us calm watchfulness. They eyeball us with their dark blue, storm-flickering eyes, however. They’re interested in why we’re here, and just what caused this small, elite group of Blood Dragons to rush down into their territory a week ago.

But though we’re foreigners in this place of endless storms and lightning-filled skies, the guards make way. As cousin to the Storm King, everyone knows me here. It’s one part of my memory that’s solid as stone: that myself and anyone with me are always welcome here, thanks to the long-standing alliance my family have had with the Storm Dragons of France.

I can’t recall the Blood Dragon King I’m related to who made an alliance with Queen Justine Toulet, Rhennic’s late mother. I do know that King is also Rhennic’s father, however, and that Rhennic has a close bond with his Blood Dragon family. They’re family he would protect just as hard as any of his Storm Dragons.

Harder, because of his love.

“Rikyava. Let’s head to your suite, where Bjorn is recovering,” Rhennic says as he escorts me up the lightning-stone steps and through a massive set of ebony doors, into the palace proper. “I’ve already had some dinner sent up—let’s go eat there so we can have a chat, like family.”

I nod as Rhennic flashes me a quick, kind smile, rubbing my chest where Aesa’s silver Truthstone sears upon my skin. But I know Rhennic’s cordial words are code for, let’s go talk in private so I can discover just what the actual fuck is going on here, before shit really hits the fan .

Though he says no more, a thousand questions flicker through my cousin’s lightning-storm eyes. His gaze is even more intense as he peruses Mikkel, though he extends a hand, inviting us into his towering, incredible palace .

I nod, heading after him. I do calming breaths now, to keep my shit under control, as we walk through ornate French Renaissance halls decorated in purple, gold, and storm-blue.

Walking upon crushed lightning-stone gravel paths, we cross the beautiful bailey courtyard, festooned with lush French gardens, manicured topiaries, and burbling dragon fountains.

We head up a set of stairs into the towering inner bailey now, where the King’s suites are. Moving down a lofty corridor draped with banners of state featuring snarling, stylized Storm Dragons, we’re inside the central keep where the Throne Hall is.

It’s where the royal state rooms are, plus intimate quarters reserved for visiting dignitaries and family. As we head up the double-helix staircase to the third floor, then down a wide hall to our current apartments, a wall of Storm Guards greets us.

With everything happening in the Blood Dragon Lineage right now, Rhennic is taking no chances; his guards are here for our protection and nod as they bash silver and gold pikes on the flickering lightning-stone floors, admitting us to our rooms.

Rhennic enters with us, shutting the towering oak doors. As we come into the royal blue and silver French opulence of my room with Bjorn and Strom, however, I feel like everything is heightened by my intense state.

The lightning that flickers through the agate walls is too bright; the massive spread of French delicacies waiting for us on a trestle-table near the roaring fireplace smells too intense for my nostrils. The fireplace is huge, big enough to walk into. I consider it now, because something inside me feels cold to my marrow, despite the roaring fire.

A coldness that seeps into my very blood and bones—blacker than black.

“Rikyava. Tell me what’s going on.”

Rhennic’s firm words startle me, even though I know it’s finally time to talk. I’ve been here a week and my cousin and I have barely had ten minutes to catch up; he’s so busy with ruling his Lineage, and I’ve been so preoccupied with my shit.

He’s given me amnesty here in his home; but after that public spectacle today, it’s time to discuss what’s happening with me and my drakes. Strom comes to back me up now, stepping to my side from where he was attending Bjorn, asleep again in the massive cobalt silk canopied bed and snoring to beat the band.

But Mikkel’s presence triggers me anew as he steps too close. His old-world cocktail and aromatic bitters scent explodes across my tongue from his nearness, producing a vivid recollection of what we nearly did in the amphitheater.

That, plus my black mood from losing my memories again, suddenly mixes into a disastrous bomb inside me. As a tremendous, wrathful fury takes me, both my inner dragons riot—and a rush of Bloodwind with dark crimson, burning violet, and oilslick black droplets scalds off me in a ferocious wave.

My drakaina pours enough blood-heat through me to explode a volcano now, as my darker drake boils behind her. Mikkel’s lust for vengeance makes all that power go supernova inside me suddenly as I grip my heart, roaring with all the overtones of my dragon in my voice.

As the black void of my Bone Magic seethes like a leviathan of night, I know I’m fighting my dragon’s shift. A bad thing, if I lose my shit inside the Storm King’s palace—guards flood into the room now, from my roar and the power surge that accompanied it.

I don’t know when Bjorn woke; I only feel his massive warmth as he surges to my back, wrapping his big arms around me. Growling, he raises his dragon-aura around us in a seething tirade of gold and crimson Bloodwind as his power bites the neck of my inner drakaina, hauling her back from going Berserk.

But I’m being pushed too hard by all the wrathful Bone Magic coursing through me, courtesy of Mikkel. As Bjorn fails to get my drakaina under control, thanks to his exhaustion, I feel Strom step to me, gripping my hand and pouring his deeply calming energy through me next.

It does almost nothing now, as I go black inside with wrath. Only Mikkel getting in front of me and taking up my hands, staring me down with eyes that burn with a furious ring of copper around them, does anything.

As he arrests me with his mind, both physically and metaphysically, I feel Mikkel’s control command me. The Thorsen twins aren’t old, but whatever they’ve lived in their lives has made them hard; Mikkel’s indomitable control over his own power heaves through me like an iron battering ram now, hammering my dragon’s shift back.

I gasp as clarity returns, along with something of my memories, just from touching Mikkel’s hands. But it leaves a dark imprint on me, seething with Mikkel’s own wrath as our inner dragons coil up into a black mamba-dance together yet again. I know I’ve paid the cost for this control over my inner dragons as I stare up at Mikkel’s dark eyes.

And feel nothing but retribution, deep inside.

“Yava. Come back. Come on back,” Strom says now as he tugs me away from Mikkel. My Third Drake lets him; Mikkel watches me go with copper fire in his eyes as Strom caresses my face to look at him instead, and Bjorn wraps his big arms around me.

The combined righteousness of my First and Second Drake is barely enough to return my sense of goodness and heroism. Mikkel is just that powerful, as his dark scent like old-world cocktails and whiskey floods me, full of exotic bitters.

That bitterness devours him, I know, and gives his magic its flavor. Still, I roll it over my tongue as I breathe, calm but not happy. As Rhennic clears his throat, my eyes snap to him.

Vicious with my beast, even for me.

“Let’s all take a breath—all five of you. Rikyava… you especially. Please,” Rhennic says as I feel him note how many of his Storm Dragon guards witnessed our little shitshow. I blink as he says five . I had almost forgotten Mikkel’s twin sister, L?rke Thorsen, as we all struggled with our bond’s new power dynamics.

Dressed in a chic little black cocktail dress, she’s standing just behind Mikkel with an iron hand clamped on his shoulder. L?rke is holding him back with her body-paralyzing magics, so he won’t just rush in and jump me, having entered the room sometime during my little explosion from the adjacent suite she and Mikkel share.

Her restraining magic works, barely. As Rhennic waits for us all to get calm again, I see him lift his eyebrows at what our magic’s doing. All his guards do, too. Tension fills the room—the tension of good guards evaluating if our group is going to shift up and go batshit inside the palace with the need to fight, fuck, or some combination of both.

It beyond sucks that the one who can help me most is Mikkel, but that even touching him at all leaves us insane for each other as I go amok in our seething, mutual darkness. I can’t let that happen. Even now, some deep part of me knows that if I lose my sense of honor, of goodness and chivalry, there will be nothing left of me.

Nothing left at all of the Rikyava I know and love.

“Rikyava… I don’t know what’s going on, cousin, but I want you to know I’m here for you. Whatever I can do.” Watching me, Rhennic’s lavender eyes are serious as he stares me down hard. But even as he holds my gaze, storms of doubt flicker through his eyes.

I know my cousin; he’s assessing the risk he’s taking right now, housing our seriously unstable group within his walls. But Rhennic is nothing if not a white knight; he won’t rescind his hospitality unless we do something truly heinous. I heave a deep breath and nod, my shit mostly back together, and see relief flood him that I won’t just shift up right now and rip his palace apart.

As a sudden fatigue fills me from our magical shenanigans, however, deeper than anything I’ve felt, I know it’s Bjorn. I glance back and see his wry, tough-guy smile. He nuzzles my cheek, unable to hold back an exhausted sigh as he holds me. I pull his hands around me, feeling frustrated and helpless.

And wish I was a Storm Dragon, so I wouldn’t have to concede to the Black Dragon Knights and what they’ve done to me.

“Thanks for not just tossing me in the cells after all the towering fuckups I’ve made today.” I glance at my cousin as I hold Bjorn close. “Are you sure you want to take our little shitshow on any longer, with everything we’re putting you through by staying here?”

“I’m sure,” Rhennic says as he stares me down, decided, though I tried to give him one last out. “You’re family, Rikyava, and I’m here for you. Whatever you need… the Storm Dragons of France will provide it. I swear.”

“Don’t let your mouth sign checks your butt can’t cash, cuz,” I say, warning him with wry humor as I crack a hard smile, though nothing inside me feels light.

“I’m Storm Dragon King. I can cash any checks I want,” Rhennic assures me.

And then he’s opening his hand, inviting me and my drakes to come sit by the fire and talk. We go, though I have no clue what we’re in for, as Mikkel’s dark eyes pin me.

Promising everything he and I could not finish today.

Blacker than black.