Page 42

Malik

M alik swirled the blood in the crystal tumbler as he waited for the rest of the dragons to arrive. Perrault’s was closed during the day, or, it usually was, when it wasn’t housing a private meeting for traitors to the crown. They’d pulled the curtains, casting the room in shadow, and relied instead on the gas lamps to illuminate the wood-paneled room with their yellow light. Everything in the damn place was dark: dark floors, a painted ceiling, furniture of dark wood and leather. Only the occasional brass button and wall sconce added a glimmer of something more. The tang of cigar smoke from evenings past still lingered in the air, though if Malik had his way—and he usually did—there would be no smoking today.

He lifted the glass and took a sip, lips wrinkling at the taste. Nasty business, drinking blood, but necessary for dark magic. Nothing else fueled the burn of power within, granting additional strength, speed, and access to spells otherwise off-limits.

Lord Osric acted as doorman, admitting two men, then a third. Their ability to adjust their schedules and arrive on time was quite admirable, he’d give them that. But then, when faced with a grand reveal and the promise of more wealth and power … well, who wouldn’t jump to attention when the best carrots were dangled in front of them?

Two more arrived before Malik checked his pocket watch and ordered Lord Osric to lock the door. This lot would have to do. Unfortunately, they were all a bit demure. Surprised, to be sure, but restrained. No one had yet entered with the … enthusiasm he’d expected.

“Wait!” came a call from the hall. Lord Osric admitted one last man before locking the door.

“It is you!” the latecomer, a Lord Buell, stammered. His eyes practically bulged out of his round face when he spied Malik, who sat reclining in a cushioned chair with a glass in hand and his heels propped on the table.

“The one and only.” Malik smirked. “Pour yourself a drink and join us.”

There was only one vintage on offer. One only dragons consumed.

A humorless laugh caught in his throat. Ironic that, according to legend, the mythical beasts of old would have abhorred such a thing. Actual dragons were said to be noble creatures favored by the Goddess. There was nothing noble about dark magic or the methods used to wield it.

Where several of the others who’d arrived had been quieter and more reserved, Lord Buell was the opposite. A talker, that one. His squealing laughter had grated on Malik’s nerves at more than one event, but hopefully, there wouldn’t be too much need for it today.

“I can hardly believe it.” The chair groaned as Lord Buell plopped into it, drink in hand. “I thought for sure you were against us.”

A few murmurs of agreement fell from the other men.

Malik grinned. “That’s the purpose of a secret identity, isn’t it? To hide one’s true motives until all the pieces are in place?”

Lord Buell took a long sip and sighed, showing the red still on his teeth. “Well, I’ll be. The younger Mr. Caddick swore you were on to him and were going to end him. Er, you as the prince, that is. And then when he disappeared a week later? Well, I was sure he was right.” He let out a small version of that hated, grating laugh.

Malik slid his feet from the table and leaned forward. “I did end him.”

Everyone drew silent, staring at him.

Malik shrugged. “He let fear get the better of him and turned traitor. He was willing to rat anyone out to save his own skin, and we can’t have that, now, can we?” Really, he’d done them a favor with that one.

“Of course not,” Lord Osric said, voice brimming with confidence. “We all knew the importance of secrecy and holding to the cause. Your father ingrained that lesson in us.” At Malik’s flat look, he added, “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“He taught us all in different ways,” Malik admitted.

“Goddess grant him peace.” Lord Buell set his glass aside and made the sign of the Goddess in front of him.

Malik’s nose curled like he’d smelled something foul. Such praise for his father had that effect.

“What happened to Mr. Davies?” one of the men asked. “He was the one of us who really knew you. When he died, I feared the movement might end with him.”

“So little faith in me, Harold?” Malik tsked. “An unfortunate loss, yes, but he’d been seen by too many people. And, as you say, he knew me. What would have happened had he been taken alive? Forced to speak against us all? There’s a reason I was waiting backstage that night and was present at many of our other demonstrations. Who else would be better positioned to make sure our tracks were covered? To assuage doubters and push the nobility to see that the current monarchy is weak and ill-suited to protecting them?”

Rising assent filled the silence. The fervor of it tingled in the air.

“You’re right. I couldn’t see it before, but you were always there,” Lord Osric acknowledged. “I, for one, would rather die in the service, at your hands, Your Highness, than be turned against you.”

“Just as well it was Davies,” Lord Buell said in his booming voice. “Always bothered me that one without our gifts had such privilege.”

Lord Osric looked at him, aghast.

Malik raised a careful brow. “You question my choices?”

“I…” The man’s throat bobbed. “Apologies, Your Highness.”

“Now”—Malik sat back in his chair—“if you’re done doubting me, let’s get on to business. But first, a toast.” He grabbed his glass and raised it high in the air. “To the future!”

He watched in satisfaction as each man took a long sip.

Only when they finished did he continue. “Now, the fruit of our labors is beginning to ripen. After all, what sort of king runs off on a wedding moon when there is such upheaval in the capital? When the people rally for the change that we can bring?”

The fervor rose again, a heady sensation that one could easily get swept up in, and Malik stoked it higher.

“The nobility are primed for change. I hear it. I see it daily. And so, I have revealed myself to all as I did to you.”

A heavy pounding came at the door, and silence fell over the room.

Malik stood, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. The other men turned toward the sound as it came again.

“Uncle Pembroke, cousin Perry, are you in there?” called a voice.

The two men, father and son, startled. “Nevitt?” asked the elder.

With a sigh, Malik strode to the door. Young upstarts had the worst timing. He unlocked it and swung it open. The young man stormed in, nearly knocking him down in the process. Just as well. Malik closed and locked the door once more.

“You have to leave!” Nevitt cried. “This is a sham!”

“Is it?” Malik asked.

The boy turned, eyes widening. Could he truly have missed him? “You are not the Dragon!” He pointed an accusing finger at him.

“Am I not?” Malik crossed his arms. “How curious, I thought I was.”

“It’s a trick!” Nevitt yelled. “I’ve met him, and he is not you. You’ve done nothing but sign your own death warrant!” The man pulled the sword strapped to his waist. “You were always in the way,” he snarled, as if Malik was something he’d stepped in. “He’ll be relieved to know I’ve removed you from his path.”

Now this was getting far more interesting.

The sword shook as Nevitt held it aloft. Poor fool. He certainly had more experience wielding a cigar or quill than a sword. He wasn’t even holding it right. Yet, somehow, he’d become a close ally of the Dragon. Curious.

“Help me, you idiots!” Nevitt shouted to the others, not bothering to look back at them.

“Such disregard for family or rank,” Malik tsked. “Though … I don’t think they’ll be much good for anything now.”

He gestured toward the small cluster of men still gathered around the seating area. Chairs fell back and tumblers were dropped as the final step of Malik’s plot went off without a hitch. Lord Osric stood, swaying on his feet, gaping. Blood ran from his nose and coated his hands. Another man already slumped in his seat, motionless. Lord Buell’s face was purpling at an alarming rate.

Nevitt turned, his features paling. “You! What did you do to them?”

Malik wiped at the trickle of blood running from his own nose. “What I must to protect those I love.”

“I—” The young man looked toward the door, but Malik had already blocked the way.

“Now, then.” He pulled two of his concealed daggers and angled them at the newcomer. “Finally, someone with the information I need.”