Page 408 of Fated to be Enemies

“That’s right. My clan has the power of healing.”

“The Nightwings. What about them?” I had to know.

“The Nightwings are direct descendants of King Radomis and Larkos. Their gift is sheer dominance. No opponent ever wins against them. No one. Their dragon is too strong.”

I mused about the clans that came about after King Radomis took a human as his bride and his queen. History told that other dragons saw fit to take human brides, thus populating the world with the varied clans of Morgons. When Larkos let loose his rage on his father and dragonkind, he allowed the Morgons to live, desiring them to become the superior race.

What gift did the Moonring clan have? There was a story behind those fey eyes, and I was going to discover it. Soon.

“Devlin Wood,” he continued, “was a place of ritual and sacrifice. The witches I speak of are dragons who sought to use their innate gifts and amplify them with perversions of nature. Thereafter, there were a few Morgon witches. There actually still is one coven, the Syren Sisters. They live far to the north in the frozen Wastelands of Aria, outside the dominion of human and Morgon civilization. And the Syren Sisters profess to practice only good magic, using only animal sacrifice for their rituals. As far as I know, they speak the truth.”

“But,” I protested, “could there be others who’ve perhaps strayed from the natural path, who might still practice some sort of dark rituals?”

“Like what, my dear?”

“Like the sacrifice of blood brides.” My mouth had gone dry. “The Larkosian ritual to honor their god, Larkos.”

He smoothed his thumb and forefinger along his white beard. In deep thought, he grimaced. “The Larkosians used the site of Devlin Wood for ritual, as have many others before them. The original Larkosians used the deep caves of Mount Obsidian, but Devlin Wood has always held an air of mysticism. Dragon witches used spells, binding their powers with the sacrifice of flesh and blood, to gain more power. The witch Balsheba was one of the most prominent in dragon history.”

“Funny, I just told my nephew the story of Balsheba and the Poisoned Cup.”

The old Morgon’s smile reminded me of one who’d seen too much of the world and wished he hadn’t. “Of course, that fairytale you speak of is more fact than fiction. I bet you tell it where she dropped a ruby into the chalice, lacing the wine with poison.”

Sitting straighter, I replied, “Yes. That’s the story.”

“Ah, but my dear girl. The truth is that the ruby wasn’t poisoned.”

I frowned. “Then how did she drink from the cup before she passed it to the queen?”

“The Bloodbacks were a clan with a dark gift. Poison pumped through their veins.”

“Were?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m afraid their kind died out. Because of their lethal ability, they were feared. Few of them mated because other Morgons feared their fatal kiss, until eventually, there were none left. The last two daughters of the Bloodback clan disappeared almost a century ago. It is believed they were murdered, though bodies were never found.”

“What do you mean by fatal kiss?”

“They had glands in their mouths that could release venom directly into a victim with a bite. Or a kiss.”

My eyes widened. “Or with a sip into a cup.”

He nodded. “In the story, before her attack on the queen, Balsheba had always been a vain creature, obsessed with prolonging her beauty and her life, one reason she sought a bond with the king. Naturally, dragon kings live longer than the average.”

“Our history books claim he was nearly seven-hundred years old when Larkos killed him. Is that true?”

“Closer to eight-hundred actually.”

I set my tea to the side. “Wow.”

The average Morgon lifespan was three-hundred years old. This was why it was always so difficult to guess their age. Petrus must be nearing these upper years. I glanced at Kol, suddenly wondering if he was twenty-five or one hundred and twenty-five. One could never tell once a Morgon reached adulthood.

My hand went to the medal at my neck, fingering my most precious possession. Petrus shifted in his chair, watching me. “May I see your pendant”

I paused. No one had ever asked to see it before. “Um, sure.”

I unclasped it and passed the coin-sized medallion on the silver chain to him. He examined it closely, a broad smile creasing his weathered face. “Saint Portia. The female avenger.” Shrewd eyes fixed on me. “The martyr who sacrificed herself to save us from the evil of Larkos.”

I straightened, proud of my patron saint.

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