Queen of Dragons

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Explain to me again," Kimber said, in his most aggravatedly patient voice, "how a woman weighing no more than nine stone, and reaching no higher than my forehead—a foreign woman—has been able to elude an entire population of the finest hunters on this earth. For eight days."

"Did you actually think," responded Audrey politely, "that she would be easy to find because she is a woman?"

"No." Kim placed a careful hand upon the crinkled newspaper spread open before him on his desk. "I thought she'd be easy to find because she is a dragon. "

The Marquess of Langford had made a point of subscribing to every periodical available that might contain news of Darkfrith, in addition to several of the London weeklies. Preventive measures, he would tell his son. Don't drown in the comforts of the shire. Pay heed to the outside world before it pays heed to you.

The Morcambre Courant. The Durham Chronicle, the York Afternoon Advertiser. Three papers carrying stories about a pack of savage, mysterious beasts that carried off cows and pigs—and according to one, an entire gaggle of fat geese—in the black of night, leaving behind only feathers and ravaged bones.

But the worst one, the worst one by far, was a small article that had appeared in the Whitby Daily News. It detailed the account of a tinker and his kin who all declared they saw a giant, winged "Serpent Fiend" in the sky Friday evening as they'd camped in the North York Moors.

Not wolves, not feral dogs. None such creatures could travel from town to town at the speed of flight. Trust a bloody tinker to get it right.

It was the princess, or her guard: another taunt. Kim couldn't imagine why she'd hazard exposure in such a blatant manner, but as she'd said, their ways were different. No doubt in the ruddy Carpathians dragons flocked the skies as common as blackbirds, but out here, in this rural and sleepy land.

She was putting his people in danger. She was jeopardizing all of Darkfrith, all for a ludicrous wager.

None of the papers were less than four days old. He was fortunate they'd reached the shire in that amount of time, actually. It usually took almost a week for even the Courant to wind its way through the gates of Chasen Manor.

It was the late afternoon of the eighth day of the hunt. He'd been out with the others, searching day and night, following scents and trails, doubling back, guessing at routes that seemed to evaporate midflight. It was as if Maricara had managed to erase every trace of herself, magically, utterly. He was still sensitized to her, he knew he was; all he had to do was close his eyes and imagine her face, her voice, the shape of her hand—and the elements of her rushed back to him, sent goose bumps along his skin.

But except for a fleeting hint of her by an old yew in Blackstone Woods, there was nothing of the Princess Maricara left in Darkfrith. And there had never been even the slightest indication of a guard. It was baffling. Beyond that. It was infuriating.

He'd come home that afternoon to see if there was anything new; every day brought a fresh batch of periodicals. Cows, sheep, that prized pig. Men with guns.

Kim pressed a hand over his eyes, rubbing against the gritty ache until his lids flashed red. Slanted light from the Tudor windows behind him felt far too good at the moment, soothing warm across his taut shoulders. He needed to shave. He needed to eat, and to sleep. He needed to shake the worry that gripped him, that itched across his skin and sent evil whispers into his brain: Something was wrong. Something she'd not anticipated had caught up with her, a farmer with a pistol and excellent aim. Human men who wanted to pluck out her heart.

He imagined her wounded. He imagined her shot, plummeting to the ground, her wings torn apart, her body broken.

Kimber was developing a healthy abhorrence of the press.

"You'll find her," said Joan. She perched on a corner of the mahogany desk, covering his free hand with her own. "You will, or Rhys will. Or one of the council. I'm sure she wants to be found. It's just a game to her right now. It will play out."

Both of his sisters had, naturally, been anticipating his return. They'd found him in the marquess's study—Kimber's study—staring blankly at an untidy stack of newspapers and old mail, with his elbows on his desk and his fingers clenched in his hair.

"I can't wait for that." He rubbed his eyes one last time—it only made them hurt worse—then sat back in his chair, frustrated. "I can't wait for her to decide she's won." He waved a hand at the papers. "For God's sake, have you read any of this?"

"Yes," said Joan. "All of it. She's gone far beyond the pale. So we've decided to join the hunt."

That got his attention; Kim looked up. "You have? What does Erik have to say about that?"

"Erik," she answered stiffly, "gave me a peck on the cheek this morning and wished me the blooming best of luck. Did you think he wouldn't?"

"No." Almost against his will, Kim felt his lips curve. Joan was fire and passion, as surely as Audrey was calm, cool water. Together they made a frighteningly crafty duo. He glanced at his twin. "And you?"

"Of course. I won't be left behind. It seems you need everyone you can get. Perhaps, as the other two females who can fly, we may offer some insight into her patterns."

"A few feminine suppositions," added Joan, with a slight, steely smile.

Audrey matched it. "Quite."

"All I need," said Kimber, "is one damned good guess."

Audrey nodded. "Fair enough. I daresay we're up for it." She stood and locked her fingers together, stretched her arms out before her and then up over her head. She was wearing her chestnut hair loose, he realized, long and uncurled, a style that would be shockingly inappropriate just about anywhere else in the world.

Joan stood and began to work free her rings. "Oh," said Kim evenly. "Did you mean right now?" "Have you a better time?"

"I suppose not." But the truth was, he was done in, and it made him uncomfortable to see them like this, preparing to Turn; he couldn't get the image of Maricara's empty dress, her chemise and stays, from his mind.

Kim dropped his head back to his hands and stared instead at the postmark of a letter peeking out from under the corner of the Chronicle, just as Joan kicked off her shoes.

Seaham. Who the hell did he know in Seaham? He reached for the letter with one hand, broke open the seal with the edge of his thumb, and began to read.

"Kimber?" Audrey dropped her arms to her skirts. "What is it?"

"You're going to want to put your hair up," he said slowly. "She's staying in the Crown Suites at The Bell & Star. In Seaham."

"What? How on earth can you be certain? Did she actually write you to say so?"

He glanced up with a hand still propped to his head and held out the letter so that the script showed clear in the bright July light.

"Not exactly. But she was kind enough to have them bill it to me."

Like every other people on the planet, the drakon had legends.

There were legends of diamonds, of course. Diamonds had been linked to them since the birth of time, and the tribe had its share of mythic stones. Herte, Dramada, Eloquise—each with its own dark glimmering story, each kept in the mansion's most secret places, treasured and adored.

And there were legends of dragons. The ragged, long-ago leaders who had brought the tribe to the shire from a place since forgotten, who had struggled and forged a home for them all. The Alpha who had first touched claw to the land that would become Darkfrith was named Nadus, red-haired, mighty; by force of will alone he'd pulled his kind from the Continent to this rough and untested isle.

Ulan, who'd captured and loved a Celtic princess, and claimed her as his own.

Clarimonde, whose Gifts were said to include Fire and Water, and who once charmed an entire legion of human soldiers who had set out to kill her.

Theodus the Mystic.

Kieran the Unfortunate.

William the Blessed.

But of all those great dragons who had come before, perhaps the most famous of the drakon were two who still lived.

Christoff, Marquess of Langford. And the Smoke Thief, his wife, Clarissa Rue.

The king and queen of England could hardly command more esteem from their subjects; Kim had grown up in their shadows, and he'd never even realized it—how tall and strong they had both stood for the tribe, trouble after trouble, year after year, putting out every little fire, containing every new threat—until they had left.

Until they had abandoned him and everyone else.

There were times he sat behind his father's desk and wondered if he could ever manage half what Christoff had done. He did have the respect of his people, he knew that. He had his title, and his place in the order of things. But the drakon were splintering along their edges, every day a little more, and it seemed no matter what Kim tried, he could not stop it completely.

It was as if when his parents had fled, they had left behind an open door to the outside, and more and more of Kimber's tribe looked back out at the human world and wondered: What if?

Maricara, young and lawless and born of that outside place, was like a windstorm blowing past the opening, and everyone had gathered around.

He had to close that door, lock it, before it was too late.

The English were a people who embraced everything pastel. That's what Mari noticed most about this country, aside from the sticky air: the colors. Walls, furniture, gowns and breeches, even jewelry, everything pale and pallid, as inoffensive as boiled oatmeal in the morning. In Transylvania—even Hungary, Austria—no one was afraid of scarlet or turquoise or black. Fashion meant enjoyment; saturation of color meant life. In her gown of sleek cocoa satin, in sapphire bracelets and clips of yellow diamonds in her unpowdered curls, Maricara lazed like a panther in a garden full of placid doves in the stylish seaside resort she'd chosen for her retreat.

The other guests here had no idea she was a panther, naturally. But the man walking through the glass-and-gilt doors leading to the patio did.

He lingered a moment there as one of the waiters stationed nearby intercepted him with a bow. A breeze swept in from the beach below, heavy with salt and sand. It lifted the tails of his sage-gray coat, stirred loose strands of gold against his cravat; like her, he hadn't bothered with a wig.

The Earl of Chasen handed over his gloves and cocked hat without glancing at the waiter. His gaze went past the palm fronds and twisting vines of the artfully arranged potted plants to Mari at her table, relaxed on a chaise longue set beneath a wheat-and-white-striped umbrella. Its large, square shadow protected her—and the tableful of delicacies she'd ordered—from the rays of the noonish sun.

She smiled at him, lifting a hand. The sapphires at her wrist winked in band over band of faceted blue radiance.

He began to weave past the other patrons toward her. Eyes cut to him as he walked, men and women both, a flurry of whispers in his wake. Even the fiddler in the string trio sawing at a sonata in the corner missed a beat when the earl passed by. He was clearly aristocracy, clearly gorgeous and well moneyed, even for this plump and pretty crowd. Ladies snapped their fans to their heated faces. Gentlemen began to stretch a leg beneath their wrought-iron tables, their chests puffing, peacocks trying to seem bigger than what they were.

No use, she thought. Kimber Langford outshone them all, and he wasn't even trying.

"Bonjour," she greeted him, holding her smile. "A lovely afternoon, isn't it? I've discovered I very much enjoy the ocean."

"Your Grace," he said, and presented her with his own elegantly turned leg, a bow that would have done credit to a real princess. "A pleasure indeed to discover you once more."

"You're very kind. Please, do sit down. Will you take tea?"

He settled into the chair she indicated, his handsome face neutral—his eyes sharp, frozen green. "No."

"No? Oh, dear. I've ordered a great deal of food for you, and it wasn't easy to do so in French, let me tell you. It's a shockingly provincial place. I fear the caviar alone is going to cost you at least four pounds. It would be a pity to let it go to waste."

He sent her a smile that didn't thaw his eyes. "You ordered for me? How very thoughtful, if somewhat implausible. Especially since you had no idea when I'd come."

"Lord Chasen," she said cordially, "I felt your approach more than three hours past. Are you sure you won't have any tea? I'm really rather proud of my timing. It's still hot, you see."

She reached for the Maricoline teapot, her fingers closing around the handle of ceramic fruit and leaves with all the supple skill she'd learned from Imre's most polished Russian mistress. The earl said nothing as she poured. The tea was mint, sugared and fragrant; she didn't spill a drop as she leaned from her Cleopatra pose to pass the cup and saucer to him.

Their fingers brushed. Mari was glad she was already seated. The jolt of power she'd received from just that short, swift touch felt like lightning to her toes.

"Thank you." "Of course."

He did not drink. The sonata ended on a long, resonating note; the trio launched at once into a minuet.

Mari poured her own cup and held it close, letting the steam rise up to sting her senses.

"I think I begin to understand why you English enjoy this beverage so much. At first I found it quite bland. But really, once you learn not to expect good coffee or a decent pot of hot chocolate, tea can be nearly as fine." She took a sip, placed the cup back by her flowered plate. "I like it very much with this particular pastry, as it turns out. What do you call it?"

"A scone."

"Yes. Scones. Delicious. I must take the recipe back to Zaharen Yce when I return."

"Why are you out here, Princess?" Kimber asked, abrupt. "Why not inside, a private parlor? We'll have a much better conversation alone, I assure you."

Mari made a small gesture to the sweeping wide terrace, palm trees and a pink-granite balustrade, the rushing ocean a deep navy strip beyond. "But this is so much more entertaining. Do you see that good sir over there, for example? The one in the pea-colored coat and the wig that's slipping askew? He's been thinking for the last half hour about how much he'd like to abandon his poor plain wife and join me over here."

"You can read thoughts," said the earl, still so neutral.

She laughed, startled. "No. That would be quite a Gift, wouldn't it? But no. It's more that he can't take his eyes off my jewelry." She paused to break off a piece of scone. "Or perhaps it's my decolletage."

Kimber gave a very slight smile. "Both, I would say."

Maricara inclined her head. She wasn't so unwise as to think that this smile was any more genuine than the last. There was a coiled rigidity about him, a suggestion of aggressive action just barely held in check. There wasn't a chance in Hades she was going to leave this very open, very public patio to go anyplace more private with the Earl of Chasen right now. God knows what he'd try.

She'd worked too hard for this moment to let it go quickly. He had no idea what measures she'd taken just to be able to recline on her chaise and look like a panther.

"Well, if you're certain you won't eat any of this," she said with a sigh, "I suppose we can leave it to the birds. The maitre d'hotel warned me of the gulls. But really, they seem to be hovering at a very civil distance."

"Please. Begin without me."

"Hmm. I'm not actually hungry. For some reason, I find myself particularly satiated these past few days."

That arrow struck home, she saw that it did. His beautiful eyes narrowed; she rushed on before he could speak.

"Perhaps you'd like to invite your friends to join us, then. The ones waiting in the lobby. There are.. .three of them there. One is your brother. And, let me see.. .five—no—six more drakon outside on the street with the carriage. Poor fellows. They must be very hot."

The earl drew in a deliberate breath, still staring at her. The salt breeze returned and sent the corner of the umbrella flapping; he was highlighted with light and dark—brows and cheekbones, unshaven skin, the pleasing arc of his lips. Then he pulled his chair closer to her, back into the shade, and sat forward with his forearms braced to his knees. His hair swept gold again by the line of his jaw.

"Who else can you feel?" he asked quietly.

"Everyone. Nearly everyone. A few more easily than others."

"And me?"

"Yes." She looked at him from beneath her lashes. "Definitely you."

He drew back, his face impassive. After a moment, he picked up a croissant stuffed with cheese and began to tear it apart with his fingers.

"It's interesting that I don't feel your guardsmen anywhere, though."

"Perhaps you're not as skilled as I, my lord."

His slight smile returned. He didn't glance up at her. "Perhaps not. But you've put me in something of a bind. We had a wager. Obviously you've won. Yet I can't leave you here."

Mari pushed a plate beneath his hands, catching a barrage of flaky crumbs. "No?"

"No. The council's adamant about that. Too much press, my love."

"The press knows nothing."

"Too much danger," he emphasized, and lifted his eyes, pinning her with that sharp green look. "They've assembled a throng of human men to kill the 'beasts' running wild. You'd be surprised how fond people are of their livestock."

"A few cows gone—"

"My dear princess," he interrupted, his voice lowered to whispered steel, "you have deliberately broken a host of our most sacred laws. Drakon in the past have been put to death for a fraction of what you've done. You've appeared as a dragon in public—repeatedly—you've flown openly in the skies, and it's pure fool's luck that the only people who've sighted you so far happen to be gypsies, so no one will believe them anyway. I can't imagine what you were thinking. If you wanted my attention, you've certainly gained it, but there were better ways, my lady. We don't.. .we do not expose ourselves like that here. This is not Zaharen Yce. This is not your home."

Mari turned her face to the blinding luster of the ocean, staring out until her vision blurred. "No," she said. "I know that."

"Every time you break our laws, every time you plunge into the human world as dragon, or as smoke, you put my entire tribe at risk. I'm sorry. The council demands your return, and I concur with them."

"I'm not of your tribe, Lord Chasen."

"Yes, love," he said, more gently. "I'm afraid you are."

She glanced back at him. There could be little mistaking what he meant, or more significantly, how he was looking at her.

Like she was his already. Like he had her already locked up, with chains and a new title and the weight of all those unknown English formalities. Her gaze fell to his left hand, his empty ring finger there, and then down to her own, where she would swear the small indent from her own wedding band still lingered, a scar that would never pass.

"You're stubborn," she said, dispassionate. "I understand that. But so am I. You won't persuade me."

"It's not about persuasion, Your Grace. It's about primal nature. It's about who we are. You cannot change that."

"Did I say stubborn? I meant, actually, pigheaded."

Kimber shifted forward in his seat. "Maricara," he began—but broke off at the approach of someone new to the table.

"Hallo, there you are." Rhys had apparently decided no longer to wait in the lobby. He pulled out the nearest chair and collapsed into it with a luxuriant sigh; two fashionably dressed women trailed behind—dragon-women, Mari sensed. The other sisters, no doubt. One wore a gown of silver, the other wore gold, like they were baubles from a vault, iridescent and rare.

Mari ignored them all, lifting her eyes to center upon the earl. She kept her words very soft.

"There is nothing you can do to me here. There is nothing you can say that will compel me to rise from this seat and leave with you. So you truly are in a bind, my lord. I summoned you here with an innocent heart. But I will not be at your command, and I will not be subject to your laws. No lasting harm has resulted from my actions or those of my men. We may be friends yet. I suppose it's up to you. You may have my goodwill or not. I suggest, very sincerely, that you consider your next move with the utmost care. I won't be trifled with. And whatever happens next, I won't forget."

At the end of Mari's speech one of the women hesitated, then sank into the next nearest chair. The other followed. They were lovely, with complexions of alabaster and rose, both older than Mari by several years. They wore elaborate wigs and cosmetics and strong, singing gems. The one in the silver gown had dark brown eyes and a tiny patch for beauty by the corner of her lips; she smiled at Maricara, taking charge of the teapot, beginning to pour.

"I regret we've not yet been introduced. I'm Audrey. This is Joan. It is a singular honor to meet you at last, Princess." She refilled Mari's cup, still smiling, and switched smoothly into English. "It wouldn't take much, Kim. We've both blindfolds and hoods, and a hat large enough to conceal her face. Just a small instant alone, that's all we need."

"There is no way to get her alone," replied the earl, in the same relaxed tone.

"There's always a way," murmured the other woman, green-eyed, like both her brothers.

"Certainly," agreed Maricara, also in English. "For instance, you might shout the word 'fire' to the crowd. Humans do tend to panic over that. You'd have me to yourselves nearly at once. Of course, that would be a waste of this rather marvelous luncheon. I was looking forward to the raspberry tart."

No one said anything. The faint cries of the gulls over the surf sounded very distant.

"And," Mari continued, "you should know that I have no qualms about Turning right here and now, in front of all these cow-witted people, if any of you make the slightest move toward me. How will your council like that?"

The earl recovered first. "You speak English."

Maricara tapped a nail against her teacup, exasperated. "Naturally I do. I've had years to study it. Wouldn't you have?"

Rhys began to chortle, and then to laugh. It lit his face with a dark, wicked charm; when he tipped back his head his throat worked and the emerald at his ear flashed like the eye of a cat. He held a hand to his brow, and when he could draw enough air, he spoke.

"None of you thought of that?"

"Apparently not," said Maricara. She took a final sip of tea, set it back in its saucer, then slid from the chaise longue. Both the men automatically stood. The sisters remained as they were.

"Well, let's have it packed up, then," she said, surveying the platters of food. "There's something I'd like to show you all anyway."

Kimber had gone frozen again, staring at her. He was hardly alone; half the men on the terrace had lapsed into silence as soon as she'd taken a step from the table.

He cleared his throat. "What in God's name are you wearing?"

"Oh—do you like it?" She lifted her arms, turned a small, neat pirouette; the cocoa satin made a closed bell at her feet. "It's called a chemise dress. No hoops. Very freeing. It's all the rage in Paris."

"I like it," said Rhys.

"Shut up," snapped the brown-eyed sister, and came to her feet with a lithe, contained movement, standing face-to-face with Maricara. Both wore heels; both stood tall with their shoulders back; it was complete chance that they happened to be exactly the same height. "Please, Princess," the sister said, without a trace of inflection. "Won't you lead the way?"

"Yes," answered Maricara. "I will."