Page 5 of House of Ashes

I clutched my outer cloak tightly around me as I edged past the stranger, whose hand rested easily on the table. His cup was still full, untouched, and as I passed he tapped one claw on the wood. The hollow sound sent a chill down my spine.

But he didn’t stop me.

I silently cursed myself as an idiot for choosing a dark corner in the back of the tavern. It had seemed like a good idea when I arrived; I’d been well hidden. But now I had to weave through a crush of angry, sour-smelling exiles and ferrymen.

My throat was painfully dry as I pushed through, keeping my head down. Elbows jostled me, my toes were stepped on more than once, but I said nothing. Female voices would attract too much attention here.

The door—and freedom—was so close, only a few steps away, when a fresh bunch of exiles arrived, pouring in and pushing me back.

“The fucker’s dead!” a Bloodless man yelled with a wild grin, pumping a fist in the air. He looked down at me, standing right in front of him. “Give us a kiss, love, the bastard’s in his grave!”

In front of everyone, the man snaked an arm around my waist and ripped back my hood in the same motion. He picked me up roughly, planting a sloppy kiss on my mouth and forcing his tongue through my lips.

He tasted like rotgut whisky. I braced my hands on his chest, pushing to get away from him, but he wouldn’t let go.

So I bit down. Hard.

The copper taste of blood flooded my mouth, overpowering the whisky. He dropped me with a howl, clutching his bloodied mouth, and I hit the ground with both feet, ready to sprint to the door.

A powerful hand gripped my cloak and spun me around.

I found myself glaring up at Kalros, who wore the faintest, most disbelieving smile.

“Oh, now what is this?” he murmured, fisting the cloak so I was hoisted an inch above the floor.

I struggled, lashing out at him, but it was futile. My brittle, claw-like nails didn’t make so much as a dent in his scaled skin. Maybe in another life I could have stood up to him, but now…a dragon would not have to work hard to hurt me.

He licked his thumb and rubbed it across my cheekbone, wiping away the dirt I’d allowed to accumulate there and revealing the iridescent white shine of soft, tiny scales.

“A draga,” he said quietly, speaking to himself. The crimson dragon lifted me higher, burying his face in the hollow between my chin and throat and breathing in deep. His beard tickled horribly, the scratchiness of it against vulnerable skin making me want to scream. “A rank, filthy pig of a royal draga.”

I stopped struggling. It wasn’t fear that held me frozen, but self-preservation. Dragons had a high prey drive in either form, winged or earthbound; struggling meant they’d simply run you down all the quicker.

“Which House are you?” he demanded, dropping me to the floor again and keeping a tight grip on my cloak. He shook me hard enough to make my teeth rattle together.

“Ashes,” I whispered, lowering my eyes. Direct eye contact with an angry dragon was considered a threat. The days when I could stand my ground were long gone.

Kalros simply laughed, shaking me again. “Try again. Which House are you, little draga? Who are you?”

“My name is Miri.” I gasped out the first name that popped into my mind as the cloak tightened around my neck. Miri had been one of my childhood tutors. “I never knew my House—”

“Liar.” Kalros pulled a lock of my hair free from its braid. Even through the accumulated grease and grime, the shine of silver strands among the coal-black ones couldn’t be entirely hidden.

He examined it, amber eyes narrowed, then his gaze returned to the scales on my cheeks and my silver irises, which no dirt could hide.

Scion-marks. I bore the stamp of my Ascendant’s lineage as surely as any coin.

His own vibrant eyes widened.

“Silver and onyx? I think…” He leaned in closer, the smell of sour shine on his breath making my stomach turn. “No. It can’t be. I think I just found you…Serafina.”

“I’m Miri,” I lied staunchly. “Aurae strike me down if I lie.”

I was sure Aurae of the Fang would forgive me for taking her name in vain just this once, but I sent a silent apology to her nonetheless.

Kalros tugged a lock of ink-and-silver hair, disbelief becoming vindication, his chapped lips spreading in a slow grin.

“I almost can’t believe it. The murderer’s spawn, right here under my nose. The gods could not have been clearer.” He looked back at the rapt exiles, the bar silent and full witness to our exchange. “They’ve given me the answer.”

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