Shana Abé: The Dream Thief

She stood. She leaned over the bed and pressed her lips to his. He let her, reclining back luxuriously, his eyes drifting closed and his hand sliding up her arm. She drew away only when both of them were short of breath.

“I think you should come over here,” he said. “It’s a very large bed. Very lonely.”

“I think you’re mad.” But she did it anyway, crossing to the other side of the mattress, climbing up to him with her skirts hitched to her knees. He followed her progress with bright yellow eyes.

“Aren’t you warm in all that mess? Wouldn’t you prefer to shed a few layers?”

“It’s cold in here, Zane.”

“Not beneath the covers.”

“I admire your ambition. But I believe I’ll stay as I am.”

She settled down by his wounded side, finding his plait, curling the tip of it back and forth inside her palm. He turned his head to see her better.

“They won’t accept me,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You know that. And they’re right. I’m not good enough for you.”

“We’ll talk them ’round.”

“Silver-tongued as I am, love, I find your family a bit formidable. Perhaps it’s all those teeth.”

She stroked the plait against her cheek, closing her eyes. “Then we’ll go to Tuscany. We’ll live in caves in the South Seas. We’ll swim the warm tropical waters-you’ll have to teach me how. Zane, they will accept you. They will love you because I love you. And that’s all we need to make clear to them.”

She was granted his profile, masculine and sharp except for those long, sunlit lashes. “Do you?” he asked, in that flat voice again. “Love me?”

“Of course.” She bunched the pillow beneath her cheek.

“You haven’t said it before.”

“Oh. Pardon me.” She paused. “I thought I had.”

“Well, just that once. Under extraordinary circumstances.”

“I love you.” She sat up and tugged at his braid until he glanced back at her. “I love you. I’ve loved you since I was little. Asleep or awake, I love you. Do you believe me yet?”

“Not quite.” He caught her wrist in his hand and hauled her closer, ignoring her protests. He cupped his palm against her nape and lifted his mouth to hers, another kiss, ruthless and hard and delicious. She balanced over him, finally sinking to brace her elbow against his pillow, as he nipped and sucked and drew at her lips.

She did what she could for him. She kissed him in return. She lost her breath and both her hearts, and finally Turned to smoke and back, so she could lay atop her gown and the blankets and feel his hand upon her bare skin.

Much, much later, Lia whispered, “I don’t snore.”

And the thief angled his gaze warm to hers, offering his lazy smile. “Aye, love, but if you did, I’d still treasure every one.”

13 January, 1774

Gentle Sir and Madame,

Forgive my presumption in addressing you. Enclosed please find a communication from your daughter the Lady Amalia, currently an honored guest in my home. She writes to assure you of her good health and happiness and that of her husband, Zane Langford.

I wish to inform you that they will both be welcome here for as long as they may desire. You need not worry about the serfs or any rumors that may have reached your shores. Our situation is quite secure.

Perhaps one day we shall meet joyfully in person. Until that day, I remain,

Your faithful servant,

The Princess Maricara of the Zaharen

Of Zaharen Yce

Of the Drákon

If you were to close your eyes and dream of heaven, what would you dream?

Angels and golden scepters, perhaps. Halos and hallelujahs. Winged beings soaring, singing amens to the pristine clouds.

When I close my eyes, I see nearly the same thing. But there are no angels flying, and the clouds are not white. They’re storm clouds, dark and violent and viscous. The creatures that tear through them have wings of scales, not feathers.

They duck and turn through the turbulent mists. They watch not the heavens but the earth, with brilliant jeweled eyes. They do not search for angels. They scrape the skies and search for glory.

There are so few of us left. Even with the discovery of the English drákon, we number so few.

Draumr is destroyed. The couple who holds its ruins are on their way back to England. One is blessed, one is not. Together they have conquered the myth, and I confess myself still amazed.

But I…I wait here. I quell the serfs and listen hard every night to the voices that sweep to me atop the winds. Soon I’ll have to leave too.

My brother is young and not quite as clever as I. But I think he will do.

The future charges closer and closer, a rousing thunder in my sleep.

I hope the English like black dragons.

SHANA ABÉis the award-winning author of nine novels, including The Smoke Thief . She lives in the Denver area with five surly pet house rabbits, all rescued, and a big goofy dog. Please, please support your local animal shelter, and spay or neuter your pets.

Visit her website at www.shanaabe.com