Page 3 of Storm of Blood and Shadow (Merciless Dragons #3)

When I was young, I failed to save my mother’s life.

She and I shared a love of flying on cool, moonless nights, under the bright eyes of the stars. We had to be careful, because our home island of Ouroskelle is home to voracious predators called the voratrix, creatures whose cores reside deep underground while their snakelike necks emerge at night to hunt prey. The voratrix have long, transparent tongues that can stretch far into the sky and entrap dragons who fly too low.

Once caught by the tongues of a voratrix, a dragon has almost no hope of escape. Tiny barbs along the tongues rip out his scales. The creature binds him ever tighter, breaking his wings, crushing his body, and eventually dragging him down one of its many throats. He is swallowed into the monster’s stomach, deep underground, where he is slowly, agonizingly digested.

Our clan shares the knowledge of every voratrice den so we can avoid those locations after sunset. If a voratrice is young enough, we can burn it out; but once the monsters pass their first year, they become toughened, immune to dragon fire.

My mother and I thought we knew all the danger spots, the hillside dens to avoid. We were wrong, and she was ensnared, bound by dozens of tough, transparent, barbed tongues. Pulled away from me, dragged down. I clawed and screamed and slashed with my teeth, but nothing would make the monster release her. I watched as it broke her wings and swallowed her whole.

I couldn’t use my void magic—it would have destroyed her along with the creature. Half-mad with grief, I retrieved a claw of hers that ripped free during the fight, and I flew back to the cave of my father, the Bone-King. He went back out at once to search for her. But the voratrice who took her was old, cunning, and deeply buried. No matter how much fire my father and the other dragons sent down its holes, they couldn’t burn it out. No matter how deeply they dug, they could not find its core. Eventually they had to give up.

My mother was gone.

That was the worst time of my life—until the events of last night. Until the moment I saw my grandmother Grimmaw, my sister Vylar, my brother’s promised mate Mordessa, and every other female dragon fall from the sky, dead instantly, prey to a cowardly spell cast by an enemy sorcerer.

In that instant, I experienced the same horror and helplessness I felt on the night the voratrice swallowed my mother. I had hoped never to feel so powerless again.

When the females plummeted to earth, I thought Kyreagan would go mad. Of the three of us, he hatched first, and though we have shared the rule of the clan since the Bone-King’s death, he feels the responsibility most heavily. Our father made him swear to finish out this war, and in doing so he has driven himself to the brink of mental and emotional collapse. Knowing that every female dragon is gone, with mating season only one week away—I thought it might finish him.

But Kyreagan did not break. Instead, he devised a plan. A foolish one, perhaps, driven by grief and rage, yet I agreed to it, and so did the other males.

The war is practically over. Guilhorn was the last stronghold, and it fell to the armies of Vohrain just moments before the Supreme Sorcerer’s wicked curse took effect. With Guilhorn defeated, nothing can stop the King of Vohrain from conquering Elekstan, which means our pact with him is fulfilled. We served him in the war, and now he will give us the Middenwold Isles to be our new hunting grounds.

With the contract completed, we are free to return home to Ouroskelle. And by Kyreagan’s decree, each male dragon will bring with him one human female of breedable age, stolen from the Elekstan capital city. In this way we will enact vengeance upon Elekstan by taking their daughters in tribute, and we will protect our own future by securing females for mating season.

When we descended upon the royal city, resistance from the humans was weak at best. Their forces, weapons, and supplies have been depleted, and they are no match for us.

I saw Kyreagan snatch up a girl in a pink dress, and several other dragons have claimed women as well. I flew low over the buildings, looking for a place to dive down to street level and seize a female—but before I could do so, I was distracted by a piercing scream and a flurry of activity.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have descended to investigate. But I’m here now, perched on the rooftop, watching the interaction among three human males and a female. Two of them are restraining her while the other one stands a few steps away. I don’t understand what they’re doing, but something about the young woman intrigues me. Her hair is the color of flames, and her eyes are light brown, almost golden in the sunlight. She’s wearing something filmy and blue, the soft hue of a spring sky. Her arms and legs are thin as twigs, fragile and breakable. I’m concerned that the males might damage her by holding her body so tightly, especially since she keeps bucking against their grip, a defiant fire in her gaze.

One of the men howls, “If I’m going to die, I’ll do it with my cock in a cunt!”

He grabs for the filmy blue clothing of the girl. I’m not sure what he’s planning to do, but something about his manner sets my scales on edge.

The young female looks straight at me, pain and panic in her voice. “Don’t just sit there. Do something! Help me!”

I recognize that helplessness, that despair. These men plan to harm her, and she cannot stop them.

I couldn’t save my mother, nor could I spare Grimmaw, Vylar, and Mordessa from their fate. But I can save this tiny human woman.

With my teeth, I seize the man who’s pawing at her clothes, and I toss him off the roof. A couple of small void orbs make quick work of the other two.

The girl sits limply against the wall of a building, watching as I approach her. Many of Vohrain’s warriors wear their hair like hers, in a plaited rope-like form called a braid, and I’ve always enjoyed the style. I like her braid even better, with its unusually vibrant color.

Yes, I think I will take this one. She is mine.

I extend one claw and touch her plaited hair.

She doesn’t cringe, but she says hoarsely, “What do you want?”

My nostrils quiver, catching her sweet scent, and instinctively I lick my lips. “You.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “No—”

But I don’t give her a chance to protest. Persuasion can come later—right now I must fly. Most of the other dragons have chosen their women already and they are circling above, eager to fly back to Ouroskelle.

We haven’t returned to our island in several weeks. During that time, all we’ve known is war. My void magic has swallowed more humans than I care to count. Between battles, we’ve kept our distance from our human allies, preferring to hunt and roost on our own. It’s been a strange existence, and I’m eager for it to end. I want to go home.

I seize the red-haired human in my front claws and leap into the sky, beating my wings hard until I catch an updraft. As we soar higher, I can hear faint screams from the captives of the other dragons.

My woman does not scream, and I’m proud of her for that. She is brave. I chose well.

The last few males rise into the sky, each carrying a human, and at Kyreagan’s roar, we assume our traveling flight formation and head east, toward Ouroskelle.

The red-haired girl in my claws shouts up at me. “Take me back! Right now!”

“I cannot do that.”

“You could set me down anywhere. Please.”

“Why are you so desperate to return to a city that will soon be overrun by your enemies?”

“Overrun... oh god, I have to go back. There are people who need me.”

“You are needed elsewhere,” I tell her.

“Needed?” Her voice is thin, strained, like she doesn’t have the strength to keep shouting above the wind of our speed. “Needed for what?”

“I will explain more when we reach our destination. For now, please try to relax. Am I holding you too tightly? Or perhaps I should hold you more firmly, if you do not feel secure.”

“Fuck you,” is her only reply. I barely hear it over the rush of the wind.

She doesn’t speak again for a long time, but I swear I can feel her thinking, plotting. It makes me uneasy, but the unease is a pale shadow next to the thick, oozing darkness of my grief.

I’ve known Mordessa since I was small. We hatched during the same season, grew up together, learned to fly and hunt together. We carved stories into the rock faces of Ouroskelle, words in Dragonish and in the Eventongue. Vylar and I watched her fall in love with my brother, and it pleased us greatly when he accepted her as his Promised, his future life-mate. They would have coupled for the first time this spring, during the mating heat, which occurs every twenty-five years among those of our kind.

I would have found someone to mate with as well. The mating heat would have come upon me and compelled me to choose a willing female. But they’re all gone—every dragon I might have joined with.

Even though I know the truth, I cannot quite believe it yet. I still half-expect Ezelda to be darting above our group, out of formation as usual. I imagine that if I look back, I might see Ixtrelle and Syeldor deep in conversation with each other or gossiping with Hinarax about the strange habits of humans.

My sister should be flying at Kyreagan’s other side, the setting sun illuminating the white patches on her wings.

The image of Vylar as I last saw her flashes into my mind. When she fell, she was impaled by the spiked peak of a tower, her body draped over the roof tiles, hanging limply.

When dawn came, her scales and flesh would have returned to dust, leaving only her bones behind. Such is the way of dragons. Our bodies dissipate, and our skeletons remain, to be honored by those who loved us. Normally we would collect bone-tribute, pieces of bone by which to remember our fallen. But we didn’t wait for dawn this time. We headed for the capital of Elekstan, with a brief hunt along the way to bolster our strength. Kyreagan said we must hurry and take our prizes from the city before Vohrain’s forces arrived.

He was right to insist we act quickly. But I wish I had bone-tribute from Grimmaw or Vylar, some piece of them to lay in my cave, to honor them. Kyreagan has a bone from our father and our mother’s claw—the one I brought back after our encounter with the voratrice. I let him have it, because I did not deserve to own a memento of Zemua, life-mate of Arzhaling, the Bone-King.

My captive lurches in my grasp, as if she’s trying to break free or wriggle out. I tighten my grip at first, but she begins whimpering so loudly and pitifully that I fear I’m crushing her, and I loosen my hold again. Immediately she squirms between my claws, trying to climb my foreleg. With a growl I shift my hold and manage to pin her securely in both front claws once more.

She keeps struggling, attempting to work her way out of my clutches.

“You’re going to fall, human,” I warn her. “You’ll be injured.”

She doesn’t answer.

We fly over the beach and soar above the ocean while the last golden light of sunset fades among pink clouds.

“The rest of the flight will be in darkness, above the sea,” I tell my captive. “If you wiggle free and fall, I won’t be able to save you.”

“I’ve had quite enough saving from you ,” she snaps.

Her lithe body worms out of my grip again. She’s so fucking slippery and pliant, like an eel. I try to recapture her, but she wraps her limbs tightly around my foreleg. Then she starts climbing, using my elbow spurs to claw her way up my shoulder and grasp my neck spikes. With a scrabble of tiny feet and a cry of pain, she manages to pull herself high enough to get astride my neck.

“We’re going back,” she says breathlessly. “Turn around.”

“No.”

“I’m riding you now. I’m in charge.”

I swerve suddenly, and she gasps, but she manages to hold on. I swerve again, then dive sharply and bank upward quickly. Still she remains on my back, immovable.

“Are you done?” she asks.

I fly straight ahead without responding. She pulls and twists at my spikes, but the most I feel is a distant throb of discomfort.

“Ride me as hard as you want, little one,” I tell her. “You will not alter our destination or your fate. I am one of the dragon princes of Ouroskelle, and we have determined that your race shall make reparation for the destruction of ours.”

“What destruction?” she exclaims. “You dragons are the ones who have been decimating Elekstan for weeks.”

“Your Queen’s Supreme Sorcerer knew our victory was inevitable. He cast a spell last night—one that killed every female dragon, everywhere, both in our army and back on Ouroskelle.”

“Shit,” she whispers.

“We dragons mate every twenty-five years to produce eggs,” I continue. “Our numbers are already lessened because of disease, war, and lack of prey. If we miss a mating season, we will become extinct. That is why we must take new females with whom to breed.”

“That’s what you want from us?” She vents an incredulous laugh. “Dragons can’t impregnate humans.”

“My brother knows of a sorceress who can transform all of you into female dragons,” I reply. “You will become members of our clan, mothers to a new generation of hatchlings.”

“Even if that were possible, you chose the wrong female. I’m infertile, so you won’t be able to breed me.”

She must be lying. Everything about her feminine fragrance sings to the latent mating instinct inside me. And even if she believes herself to be infertile, perhaps her transformation to dragon form will alter that situation, rendering her breedable.

I should be focused solely on whether or not she can produce offspring, and yet I find myself caring less about that and more about keeping her with me, whether she is fertile or not.

“Nevertheless, you are mine,” I tell her.

She is silent for a long time. Finally she asks, “How do you know it’s all the females, even the ones back on your island? Perhaps there are some left with whom you could mate.”

“The older males who have been through a mating season are emotionally connected to the females of the clan. They felt each one of them die. Can you imagine what that must have been like?” I groan deep in my chest. “It is a loss beyond the capacity of grief.”

Another pause. Then she leans forward and says, “Take me back to the coast. You can choose someone else, maybe even two or three women. Wouldn’t that be better?”

“I do not want two or three others. I have chosen you.”

“Why?”

“I like your hair.”

“You—like—my hair ?” Her tone drips with incredulity. “We can find you someone else with red hair.”

“Red hair in a braid?”

“Yes, yes, red hair in a braid.”

“With a blue dress?”

“Why not? We can find her a blue dress, or I’ll give her mine.”

“And with eyes like dark honey, and a mouth like a red flower, and skin pale as sea foam?”

“I… um…” She shifts astride my neck. “I’m sure there’s someone else. A replacement.”

“She will not smell the same,” I say, low. “She will not have the same light of pain and defiance in her eyes. She will not be so fierce and so beautiful.”

She’s silent again as we soar through the darkness. My vision is good at night, and I can discern the shapes of the other dragons flying around us. They are distant, yet part of the same formation, with the same unshakeable purpose. The rest of the males carry the humans in their claws. No one else’s woman is riding them.

Once again, I feel less powerful than I should be.

The girl speaks so quietly that I have to swivel my pointed ears backward to hear her. My ears look very similar to my spikes, and I think their movement startles her, because she jumps a little and her voice trembles.

“I think it’s safe to say that I’m your type, if a dragon can have a ‘type’ among humans,” she says. “So maybe a replacement isn’t possible. But you seem reasonable enough, capable of understanding family bonds, so I’m going to ask you one more time to take me back. Not for my own sake, but for the sake of the children I left behind.”

I miss a wingbeat and we drop a little. The girl releases a faint, surprised squeal, and her legs tighten around my neck.

“You have offspring?” I ask.

“They’re not mine, they’re my niece and nephew, but they rely on me.”

“Is your sister still living? And the children’s father, is he alive?”

“Yes.”

“And are both parents with them?”

“Yes, but—”

“Hatchlings are precious indeed. These little ones you speak of are in the care of family, so they will be safe and well. My clan has not had any offspring in twenty-five years, and we must have a brood this season, or our kind will perish from the world. Do you understand?”

“ You don’t understand!” She kicks one foot against my scales and yelps with pain immediately afterward. “Fuck you, fuck! If you won’t listen to reason and take me back right fucking now, I’ll have to kill you.”

“Kill me?” I snort, and a dark chuckle rolls through me. “How do you plan to accomplish that? You have no weapons. Even if you did, they wouldn’t be of much use against me.”

“You must have a weak spot,” she mutters.

“You’re welcome to try to find one,” I reply. “As for you—you’re a walking weak spot. Soft skin everywhere. So tender, so… lickable.” I hum deep in my throat after the last word. “When we reach my cave, you will remove your clothing so I can see all of you.”

“I will not ,” she replies. “Perverted dragon.”

Perhaps I am a perverted dragon. I’ve always known that there is something odd about the way humans affect me… especially the reaction I have toward their females.

The first time I saw a human female was with Hinarax and Aidrek, when the three of us were about seventeen years. We had flown to the coast by ourselves, without a prime or an elder, and we saw three human women lying naked in the sun on the sand. When they saw us, they screamed and ran away.

The sight didn’t seem to affect Hinarax or Aidrek. But the shape of those soft naked bodies gave me a strange thrill deep in my belly, near the root of my tail. I did not tell anyone about the reaction, not even my brother. The pulsing thrill happened again whenever I thought of the incident, until at last the memory grew stale.

Over the next several years I returned to the coast now and then on my own, looking for fresh sights, fresh stimulation. Usually the people I found were clothed, or they were men, the sight of whose bodies did not have the same effect. But one time, in a secluded cove I found two naked women lying on a blanket. One of them was licking the other’s genitals, and both of them seemed to be enjoying the sensation. When they fled screaming, I was disappointed. I did not wish to hurt them; I only wanted to watch.

That sight provided a fresh thrill that occupied me for a while. When I was thinking of human women, experiencing new sensations, I had no space in my mind for wretched memories, like the crack of my mother’s bones as the voratrice swallowed her.

Sometimes I dreamed of mating a human, and though I always woke up ashamed, those dreams were far better than the nightmares about my mother, the dreams where she called out for me as her wings, scales, and flesh dissolved in the acidic belly of the monster.

After a mating dream involving a human female, I would often wake with my cock stiffened and protruding from its protective slit—something my father told us should only occur every twenty-five years during the mating heat. Dragons do not experience sexual need except during the appropriate season.

Those dreams and reactions confirmed my belief that something is deeply wrong with me. I was born late, hatched weeks after my siblings, which is rare among dragons. Perhaps that is why I am different—perverted, as my captive claims.

And perhaps that is why I did not protest Kyreagan’s plan. Secretly, wickedly, I have always wanted a human woman.

I must keep control of myself. I must not allow my deviant desires to become apparent, or permit them to affect the way I treat my captive. I will care for her with the kindness and respect she deserves.

“Hold on tightly,” I warn her. “We are approaching Ouroskelle, and the route to my cave will require some maneuvering.”

Her body jerks a little, as if she was slumping over and has snapped upright at the sound of my voice. We’re both lucky she did not fall asleep and tumble off.

“I hate you, dragon,” she tells me as we race toward the cliffs of the island.

I give a low hum of understanding. “As you should.”