Page 27 of Dragons' Mate
“I had a dog like that once,” Bianca adds in a strangely musical voice. “A decent mutt until he got bit and went rabid. Putting him down was the best thing for him really.”
My bond mark flares and I’m suddenly vibrating with the same rage that has Quinton snarling. I don’t know where his anger ends and mine begins. I’m not even sure I care. My blood seethes, my vision stained crimson. All I want is to claw Bianca’s eyes out.
Three out of four. I know this is wrong, but can’t bring myself to care. My hand reaches for the knife nestled against my waist. I imagine sinking the blade into Bianca and the satisfyingly grisly thought fuels my fury even more.
The thunderous drumming of my heart amplifies, the crescendo reverberating through the tether of my bond with Quinton.
"Enough." Cyril's voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding like a steel blade.
I didn’t even see magic start to gather around Cyril, before an invisible blast knocked me flat on my ass. Me, Quinton, Tavias, and all of Geoffrey’s pack, we all fall like dominos away from where Cyril stands his ground, his palms extended in either direction.
Power dances around him, something that I feel more than see. His eyes, molten sapphire blue, burn with a ferocity that is both terrifying and mesmerizing. A muscle twitches along his jaw, the only sign of his contained fury. His lips press into a hard line, a final, stern command that brooks no argument.
And there is none. Not from anyone. There is hush passing through the clearing, every eye in the trial grounds fixed on who I realize is the strongest dragon here.
Cyril.
CHAPTER12
Kit
“That’s enough.” Cyril enunciates each word. He doesn’t shout, yet his voice carries over the clearing with an awesome finality. It’s the Cyril I saw on the quarterdeck of the Phoenix, only more so. “We are here to compete and we shall do so in a way that honors the dragon line. All of us.”
Several heartbeats of silence answer Cyril’s command, as everyone in the meadow gathers themselves together. Geoffrey rises off the ground first, jerking his chin at his pack. They move away without another word. Then we do the same.
The crowd of onlookers parts before Cyril, letting us pass. His silence bodes no argument or comment from anyone. Not even me.
We are just at the edge of the clearing and about to start onto the mountain path when I pull my wits back around. What happened at the clearing, both with Quinton and me and then with Cyril… we needed to talk about it. Except that if I know anything about the dragons, they’ll turn vegetarian before they start a conversation.
I draw breath, ready to ask my first question.
“I’ll take the high view,” Cyril tells Tavias suddenly. “Give you top cover.”
“I can do that,” Tavias says, but Cyril is already moving farther away from us. He isn’t looking at me. At anyone. There is a flash of light then, and a great blue dragon unfurls its wings in the place where Cyril just stood. The iridescent scales glimmer in the sunlight showing off the dragon’s belly as he climbs into the air. The sight is so gorgeous, I can’t look away until Tavias nudges me into motion, grumbling about that elusive high ground we need to secure.
Both my burbling thoughts and my relief at a chance to stretch my legs after hours in the carriage keeps my attention for only a little while before my body starts to protest Tavias’s pace. He’s switched into his military general mode and is searching for an optimal defensive position as if the wellbeing of the whole realm rests on finding just the right stretch of dirt on which to settle our asses.
He wants elevated ground, he explains curtly when I ask. With natural concealment but good outward visibility. Something with access to water but not in wetlands. A place far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to the citadel to allow quick access. Enough foliage to camouflage us but not so much that the males can’t shift.
I stop listening to his explanations as the incline steepens, becoming as much mountain as forest. The smell of damp earth fills my nostrils, a comfort amidst the growing burn in my calves and lungs. My fingers scrape over rough bark as I use a tree for support, the sharp tingle of resin sticking to my skin. I want to ask how we can be hiking for hours to find a place within thirty minutes of the citadel, but I’ve no breath to spare—nor any real desire to listen to the answer.
Despite his wounds, Quinton moves over the land with ease and Tavias appears not to notice the incline at all. Which is getting irritating. When my foot slips on a patch of wet fern leaves, l let myself go down on one knee instead of trying to regain balance. A sneaky way of clawing a short break for myself without having to ask for one.
Quinton gives me a hand up too quickly for my taste. We are hiking in stars blasted circles. We have to be. Just like the circles the insects buzzing around us are keeping to.
The forest is a riot of green now, the foliage so dense it blots out the sun and dapples the ground in shadow. The light plays tricks on my eyes, the underbrush appearing to shift and move while the towering evergreens hem us in. Sweat pours down my back, my only reprieve coming when small gusts of wind brush my heated skin with their tang of pine and the sharper, slightly acidic note of the towering spruce.
I lick my lips, my mouth dry despite the damp forest air. I really wish for a gulp of water, but that requires canteens, which we don’t have. Or at least a pause at one of the creeks.
As we pass a burbling brook I’d really like to wash my face in, Tavias makes an evaluative sound with the back of his throat. “You are at your limit.”
He doesn’t say it as an insult, but I still bristle. “What are you talking about?” I protest. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“It’s not my first day in the field, wildcat.” Tossing the bundle of supplies he carries to Quinton, Tavias hauls me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Hey!”
Ignoring my indignant protest, the prince proceeds up the incline, his steps sure and steady despite the rough terrain and my added weight.
