Shana Abe - Queen of Dragons

The earl drew in a deliberate breath, still staring at her. The salt breeze returned and sent the corner of the umbrella flapping; he was highlighted with light and dark—brows and cheekbones, unshaven skin, the pleasing arc of his lips. Then he pulled his chair closer to her, back into the shade, and sat forward with his forearms braced to his knees. His hair swept gold again by the line of his jaw.

"Who else can you feel?" he asked quietly.

"Everyone. Nearly everyone. A few more easily than others."

"And me?"

"Yes." She looked at him from beneath her lashes. "Definitely you."

He drew back, his face impassive. After a moment, he picked up a croissant stuffed with cheese and began to tear it apart with his fingers.

"It's interesting that I don't feel your guardsmen anywhere, though."

"Perhaps you're not as skilled as I, my lord."

His slight smile returned. He didn't glance up at her. "Perhaps not. But you've put me in something of a bind. We had a wager. Obviously you've won. Yet I can't leave you here."

Mari pushed a plate beneath his hands, catching a barrage of flaky crumbs. "No?"

"No. The council's adamant about that. Too much press, my love."

"The press knows nothing."

"Too much danger," he emphasized, and lifted his eyes, pinning her with that sharp green look. "They've assembled a throng of human men to kill the 'beasts' running wild. You'd be surprised how fond people are of their livestock."

"A few cows gone—"

"My dear princess," he interrupted, his voice lowered to whispered steel, "you have deliberately broken a host of our most sacred laws. Drakon in the past have been put to death for a fraction of what you've done. You've appeared as a dragon in public—repeatedly—you've flown openly in the skies, and it's pure fool's luck that the only people who've sighted you so far happen to be gypsies, so no one will believe them anyway. I can't imagine what you were thinking. If you wanted my attention, you've certainly gained it, but there were better ways, my lady. We don't.. .we do not expose ourselves like that here. This is not Zaharen Yce. This is not your home."

Mari turned her face to the blinding luster of the ocean, staring out until her vision blurred. "No," she said. "I know that."

"Every time you break our laws, every time you plunge into the human world as dragon, or as smoke, you put my entire tribe at risk. I'm sorry. The council demands your return, and I concur with them."

"I'm not of your tribe, Lord Chasen."

"Yes, love," he said, more gently. "I'm afraid you are."

She glanced back at him. There could be little mistaking what he meant, or more significantly, how he was looking at her.

Like she was his already. Like he had her already locked up, with chains and a new title and the weight of all those unknown English formalities. Her gaze fell to his left hand, his empty ring finger there, and then down to her own, where she would swear the small indent from her own wedding band still lingered, a scar that would never pass.

"You're stubborn," she said, dispassionate. "I understand that. But so am I. You won't persuade me."

"It's not about persuasion, Your Grace. It's about primal nature. It's about who we are. You cannot change that."

"Did I say stubborn? I meant, actually, pigheaded."

Kimber shifted forward in his seat. "Maricara," he began—but broke off at the approach of someone new to the table.

"Hallo, there you are." Rhys had apparently decided no longer to wait in the lobby. He pulled out the nearest chair and collapsed into it with a luxuriant sigh; two fashionably dressed women trailed behind—dragon-women, Mari sensed. The other sisters, no doubt. One wore a gown of silver, the other wore gold, like they were baubles from a vault, iridescent and rare.

Mari ignored them all, lifting her eyes to center upon the earl. She kept her words very soft.

"There is nothing you can do to me here. There is nothing you can say that will compel me to rise from this seat and leave with you. So you truly are in a bind, my lord. I summoned you here with an innocent heart. But I will not be at your command, and I will not be subject to your laws. No lasting harm has resulted from my actions or those of my men. We may be friends yet. I suppose it's up to you. You may have my goodwill or not. I suggest, very sincerely, that you consider your next move with the utmost care. I won't be trifled with. And whatever happens next, I won't forget."

At the end of Mari's speech one of the women hesitated, then sank into the next nearest chair. The other followed. They were lovely, with complexions of alabaster and rose, both older than Mari by several years. They wore elaborate wigs and cosmetics and strong, singing gems. The one in the silver gown had dark brown eyes and a tiny patch for beauty by the corner of her lips; she smiled at Maricara, taking charge of the teapot, beginning to pour.

"I regret we've not yet been introduced. I'm Audrey. This is Joan. It is a singular honor to meet you at last, Princess." She refilled Mari's cup, still smiling, and switched smoothly into English. "It wouldn't take much, Kim. We've both blindfolds and hoods, and a hat large enough to conceal her face. Just a small instant alone, that's all we need."

"There is no way to get her alone," replied the earl, in the same relaxed tone.

"There's always a way," murmured the other woman, green-eyed, like both her brothers.

"Certainly," agreed Maricara, also in English. "For instance, you might shout the word 'fire' to the crowd. Humans do tend to panic over that. You'd have me to yourselves nearly at once. Of course, that would be a waste of this rather marvelous luncheon. I was looking forward to the raspberry tart."

No one said anything. The faint cries of the gulls over the surf sounded very distant.

"And," Mari continued, "you should know that I have no qualms about Turning right here and now, in front of all these cow-witted people, if any of you make the slightest move toward me. How will your council like that?"

The earl recovered first. "You speak English."

Maricara tapped a nail against her teacup, exasperated. "Naturally I do. I've had years to study it. Wouldn't you have?"

Rhys began to chortle, and then to laugh. It lit his face with a dark, wicked charm; when he tipped back his head his throat worked and the emerald at his ear flashed like the eye of a cat. He held a hand to his brow, and when he could draw enough air, he spoke.

"None of you thought of that?"

"Apparently not," said Maricara. She took a final sip of tea, set it back in its saucer, then slid from the chaise longue. Both the men automatically stood. The sisters remained as they were.

"Well, let's have it packed up, then," she said, surveying the platters of food. "There's something I'd like to show you all anyway."

Kimber had gone frozen again, staring at her. He was hardly alone; half the men on the terrace had lapsed into silence as soon as she'd taken a step from the table.

He cleared his throat. "What in God's name are you wearing?"

"Oh—do you like it?" She lifted her arms, turned a small, neat pirouette; the cocoa satin made a closed bell at her feet. "It's called a chemise dress. No hoops. Very freeing. It's all the rage in Paris."

"I like it," said Rhys.

"Shut up," snapped the brown-eyed sister, and came to her feet with a lithe, contained movement, standing face-to-face with Maricara. Both wore heels; both stood tall with their shoulders back; it was complete chance that they happened to be exactly the same height. "Please, Princess," the sister said, without a trace of inflection. "Won't you lead the way?"

"Yes," answered Maricara. "I will."

All creatures born are burdened with a fatal flaw. The nimble rabbit, with its bobbing white tail. The clever fox, with its conspicuous red coat. Fat fish in shallow streams. Tiny birds in slow flight. Clams that can never bury themselves too deep in the sand lest they suffocate.

The drakon must see to Turn. Take away our sight, and we're trapped in our human shapes. Hoods, blindfolds, searing pokers to the eyes—these are all weapons we have good reason to fear. Even old age can defeat us; when our vision clouds over, our days of soaring under the sun are done.

We cannot speak as dragons. We cannot communicate but by the language of our bodies. In war, we fall into battle silent as snowfall, only the sound of the air around us revealing our fury.

And you, with your cocked pistols and your knives, and your hoods in waiting. You're learning, aren't you?

She took them up to her rooms. She made certain she did not go first, but instead instructed them down the airy, sea-scented corridors to the proper set of doors as she trailed behind. Beneath the glass canopy capping the lobby she'd turned to give the key to Lord Chasen. He'd taken it from her hand with just a hidden, sideways look from beneath lashes lit the color of warmed ale.

The lobby was open and quite crowded, teeming with Others, everyone jostling around a real pond set in the middle of the chamber filled with lily pads and restless orange carp.

"After you," Maricara had said, and the earl smiled—that slight, unnerving smile—his fingers barely grazing the center of her palm as they curled around the metal.

And it was there again, that fleet shock of sensation, that undeniable, sensual pull. It was getting stronger.

It made her think of inappropriate things. It made her think of what his hair must feel like, freed from its queue. How the muscles of his jaw would flex under the stroke of her finger. How her lips would fit against his.

His lashes lifted; he held her in a gaze of ice-pale green. Maricara took a step back.

"Princess," he'd acknowledged in English, and only moved away, shouldering through a clutch of dandies waving their handkerchiefs against the heat.

The Crown Suites took up the entire third story of the hotel, plush and expensive, the best the place had to offer. She let the others file in first so they could take in her precautions: the curtains tied back with their jade-colored sashes, the windows all open, that current of ocean air lifting and pulling at the tasseled corners of the duvet on the bed in the next room. She lingered in the doorway as they gathered in the front parlor, four watchful, sophisticated dragons surrounded by pongee silks and marble-topped furnishings. A large cloisonne urn stuffed with lilacs and tea roses lent a soft, thick spice to the wafting breeze.

It would be easy to Turn here, to be gone in an instant. Mari knew it to be true, because she'd done so every single night.

Every night. She'd walk to the old-fashioned windows, running her hands over the ripples in the glass. She'd close her eyes and inhale the sweeter aroma of ocean and the night-blooming jasmine growing wild in the dunes below, thinking of what it would be like in the mountains now. How the peaks would look with the wind blowing moonlight across their faces. How the stars would beckon with fierce shining brilliance.