Shana Abe - Queen of Dragons

"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.