Shana Abe - Queen of Dragons

Zane was a man who enjoyed the more exquisite aspects of life. At this moment, that consisted of the cup of African coffee steaming fragrant in his left hand, and the lemon cream eclairs arranged neatly upon the plate near his right. He stretched out his legs and allowed himself the brief luxury of imagining that very first bite. The instant rush of sweetness on his tongue; the tart concurrence of lemon zest, silky filling and lightly fried dough—

It didn't seem so long ago he'd been one of the many starving urchins crowding London's streets, and sugar remained his weakness. He could walk away from platters of ham and beefsteak and marrow puddings; his body was one of his best weapons, and Zane kept it as fit as a wire. But sweets...

The eclairs were from a bakery set like a jewel in the exclusive heart of Mayfair, made by the very best French pastry cook the city had to offer. They had been delivered to this extremely innocuous and unremarkable safe house in Clerkenwell by means of a livery boy who'd accepted the five shillings Zane had tipped him and left without squeaking a word.

The boy was one of his own, of course, the son of one of his more prolific cracksmen. He'd never trust anything so important as this address to anyone he didn't control.

The fine fellows of the sanf inimicus had settled into the parlor of the house with hardly a grumble. They'd shunned the bitter strong coffee Zane favored and devoured the pastries until there were only two left.

They were both on Zane's plate.

He picked up his silver fork. With all three men watching him, he used the side of the fork to slice into the eclair, speared it, lifted it with deliberate slowness to his mouth, and closed his lips over the bite.

Magnifique.

He hardly ever ate cream. Too rich, too intoxicating. But he needed to consider carefully his next move and so made certain to chew as slowly as he could.

Not that these men would leave him in any case. He was the magos Englishman, the man who controlled dragon magic, and they had yet to unravel how he'd kept two of the most powerful of the drakon anyone knew in his thrall. But with their prey so obviously in hand, they might begin to wonder a tad about why Zane seemed so loath to make the kill.

He would, in their position.

The ring on his hand was solid gold, a significant weight, the diamond chips in its bed releasing constant slivers of pale blue brilliance. It was not a wedding ring; it had, in fact, taken the place of one, and it had been more difficult than he'd even imagined to remove that ring that had tied him to Lia, to wear this one in its place. This band never left his finger. He'd learned some time ago to sleep with his dirk clutched in that hand.

Not that he'd slept much lately. Bloody drakon.

"If we kill her right away," he murmured at last, "we lose a most valuable asset. She'll be mated by now. The English tribe will be searching for her; she's almost certainly the bride of their Alpha. They will be scattered, their defenses weakened. I've told you how formidable they are as a group, much stronger than the Zaharen you know. The longer we keep her alive, the greater our advantage."

Another difference between Zane and his new comrades was that of language. The very loose affiliation of the sanf inimicus relied upon a complicated patois of provincial French and Hungarian for both written and spoken communications. It was jumbled and confusing and one of their first requirements into the brotherhood. It had taken him nearly eight months to master it, and for him, that was significant.

Zane's French was fuent. So were his German, Italian, and Spanish. So was his Hungarian. And his Romanian.

No one else knew that, of course. He was ruddy good at keeping his mouth shut when he should. He would not make the mistake of underestimating any of them, not even Graytooth.

The sanf were exceedingly particular about whom they accepted into their realm, and their leader downright gave him chills. That was damned well saying something.

"It was a stroke of great fortune," he continued, sipping his coffee, "that she came to us as she did. No one knew she was so near, and we could not have asked for a better capture. Even if she wished to do so, she won't be able to pinpoint the location of the hut, or of Rhys Langford."

It was, in truth, about as much the opposite of good fortune as Zane could imagine. Rhys had been a planned capture, a deliberate calculation that flowed nicely into his hidden scheme of things. Maricara, however—

Trust the princess to scramble the works. She'd always had a way with surprises.

"I don't like it," said one of the other men. Clem, Zane had privately named this one, for the man who had once trained Zane in all the lovely dark arts of thievery—and subsequently did his best to murder him afterward. This Clem had the same guileless blue eyes and bluntness of features as the man from Zane's childhood. He could very easily imagine the bloke sticking a knife between his ribs in a moment of inattention, and Zane had enough scars as it was. Another reason to sleep with his dirk so close.

Clem never took those eyes from Zane's face. "They'll come for her whether she's dead or alive. She's a danger alive. Not so much dead."

"Do you truly imagine they can't tell if she's alive while on the hunt? That they cannot sense her heartbeat, or her breathing?"

"Then all the better—"

"No. We kill her now, they may steer off; there's nothing left to save. But they'll hazard a great deal if they know she's living. I can keep her tame enough until they come. They'll never Turn here in the city. You'll get your chance at them then, man to man. No more stealing about the countryside. No more hiding in taverns or barns. You'll deal a blow to their core like none other, the bride of the Alpha destroyed. When the rest of us arrive, imagine their faces as you show them the dragon hearts."

He could see how that appealed to them, these brawny, devious men. He could see it in the way they exchanged looks, in how they opened and clenched their fingers and shifted in their fine new English clothing.

"Think on it," he said mildly, and lifted his fork for another delicate, lemony bite.

"Good evening, Princess," said the voice. "I'm going to raise this hood enough to release your mouth. Do me the very great favor of not attempting to kill me as I work. I have a knife in my hand, and the edge is very sharp. So kindly hold still."

The thin, eldritch music punctuating his words ensured she did as told, stretched out on the bed, her hands curled into fists. The fresh air on her skin felt cool and wonderful; the diamond on his hand brushed her neck, and that felt like fire.

"It's time we talked," he said in a low rush of Romanian.

Mari licked her dry lips. "Speak English. I hate the sound of my language on your tongue."

Zane began to laugh. "Very well. I suppose I should have anticipated you'd learn English. You were a most precocious child."

"Lift the hood," she said, using her darkest voice. "Let me see your face."

"Alas, not that precocious, I must suppose. Persuasion, is it? One of my favorites. But your Gifts won't work on me, Maricara. You do realize that. And you realize why. Draumr 's not quite what it used to be, but with enough of the pieces set together, it still does the trick of controlling unruly drakon, at least for a while. I'll tell you what, pet. I'll lift the hood. You will not Turn. Agreed?"

You will not Turn, echoed the remains of the diamond called Draumr, a spell sinking through her in rolling waves. You will not Turn...

"Yes," she managed, against that slow, dire ricochet of notes.

"Excellent."