Page 10 of The Dragon Sacrifice

Seela tentatively put her hand in his. He smiled, flashing white teeth before turning and pulling her away down a dark tunnel at a fast clip.

They plunged forward at a pace that was terrifying. Seela couldn’t see anything, and she had no idea how Jerrard could either. Yet, he was able to draw them through a series of tunnels, lefts and rights that Seela could not name if her life depended on it.

He skidded to a stop, and she nearly plowed into him. Though she couldn’t see him, she pictured the glimpse of his naked body in her head, firmly muscled thighs, washboard abs, and hardened chest.

Phew. Was it hot in this cave?

“Where are we?” she asked, turning her head only to see inky blackness in all directions.

“We’re here.”

She opened her mouth to ask where here was when the wall in front of them began to glow.

A green pulsing light that matched the hue she had seen in Jerrard’s eyes slowly filled the cavern, illuminating her surroundings. The cave walls and floor were what she’d expected, but what was in front of her transcended her wildest imagination. A large wooden door with a rounded arch sat in front of them, glowing with green runes. The ancient symbols meant nothing to Seela, but Jerrard appeared familiar with them. He moved his hand over each symbol, touching them before continuing to another.

Before long, the door swung wide.

The room on the other side was as dark as the tunnel behind them. Jerrard gave her a reassuring nod. “In here, we’ll be safe. They can’t come in.”

She asked the only question her addled brain could form. “Who are they?”

“I’ll tell you inside,” he said, gently tugging on her hand.

Seela swallowed, letting him lead her inside.

The boulder rolled back with a loud grinding sound, sending fear up Seela’s spine again. Now she was locked inside with this strange man. Pulling her hand from his grasp, she took a big step back until her shoulder blades scraped against the now-closed door.

Jerrard didn’t seem to notice. He was busy lighting the room with a wave of his hands.

Magic, that was what this was. Old dragon magic that she thought was extinct, along with dragon shifters. They hadn’t been seen in… what? A hundred years?

Of course, the stories of the ancient ones still circulated, children’s stories about times when dragons roamed the skies and mothers hid their babies. But Seela had also been told that dragon shifters had died off long ago, poisoned by Good King Yarrow in the year of the liberation. Yarrow had found the dragons’ weakness, a berry from the south sea that when smashed into a poultice and rubbed on dragon eggs caused them never to hatch. With no way to hatch new babies, the dragons died off, freeing the people from their tyranny.

Only one had survived, the dragon king, and he hadn’t been seen since his people died.

Yet, here was one before her. Either that, or she had gone entirely insane.

As Seela stood immobilized, Jerrard grabbed a bundle of clothes and disappeared behind a door, giving her leave to take in her surroundings. The entryway, dining area, and kitchen were all one big room, small and well-kept with expensive rugs on the stone floors and carved wooden furniture. A large kitchen table dominated the left-hand side of the room, topped with a bowl of apples and dirty plates as if someone had gotten up from eating and hadn’t cleaned up their mess. A very expensive-looking antique settee sat before an ashy hearth. Twin end tables on either side held elaborately gilded oil lamps straight out of history book, though they still somehow functioned. The warm flickering light from their wicks let her see the bookshelf across the room, which was filled with dusty tomes. On the far wall, an oil painting of three men in royal dress drew her attention. Leaving the safety of the door, Seela started toward it.

The painting was as ancient as everything else in the room, likely a hundred years old, though the frame was dust free and the canvas unmolested. What drew her wasn’t the age of the painting, but the subject of it. Three handsome men, brothers from the looks of things, standing together, heads high. They seemed like royalty in princely jackets decorated with war medals and glinting stars. Seela studied the face of the one on the right, his lime-green eyes. He greatly resembled the man who had just come to her rescue.

“Ah, the good old days,” a voice behind her said.

Seela whirled around.

Another figure stood in the room with her, male, similar appearance to her rescuer, but with distinct features that let her know he was someone else. Lighter hair and a higher brow, this man also looked like he was one of the strapping young princes in the painting, though now in threadbare clothes.

As she stared, he walked toward her with his eyes on the painting.

“It was commissioned by Sir Runimade, the best painter in the day, though… I don’t know; I just don’t think he got my nose right.” The man angled his face to Seela so she could inspect his profile.

“The nose is definitely wrong,” Seela said, still a little afraid.

“I knew it.” He smacked his hand on his sizable thigh, smirking. “He’ll have to be fired. Oh wait, that’s right. He died one hundred years ago.” The man winked, mirth in his eyes, before holding out his hand. “I’m Stenton.”

“Stenton,” Seela said, shaking his hand as her brain tried to process this next surprise.

“Your name is Stenton as well? How unfortunate a name for such a beautiful woman.” He pulled her knuckles to his full red lips, then kissed her hand.

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