Page 9 of Storm of Blood and Shadow

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 fromyou,” 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, wewill 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’sallthe 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?”

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