Page 8 of Storm of Blood and Shadow

The young female looks straight at me, pain and panic in her voice. “Don’t just sit there. Do something! Help me!”

I recognize that helplessness, that despair. These men plan to harm her, and she cannot stop them.

I couldn’t save my mother, nor could I spare Grimmaw, Vylar, and Mordessa from their fate. But I can save this tiny human woman.

With my teeth, I seize the man who’s pawing at her clothes, and I toss him off the roof. A couple of small void orbs make quick work of the other two.

The girl sits limply against the wall of a building, watching as I approach her. Many of Vohrain’s warriors wear their hair like hers, in a plaited rope-like form called a braid, and I’ve always enjoyed the style. I like her braid even better, with its unusually vibrant color.

Yes, I think I will take this one. She is mine.

I extend one claw and touch her plaited hair.

She doesn’t cringe, but she says hoarsely, “What do you want?”

My nostrils quiver, catching her sweet scent, and instinctively I lick my lips. “You.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “No—”

But I don’t give her a chance to protest. Persuasion can come later—right now I must fly. Most of the other dragons have chosen their women already and they are circling above, eager to fly back to Ouroskelle.

We haven’t returned to our island in several weeks. During that time, all we’ve known is war. My void magic has swallowed more humans than I care to count. Between battles, we’ve kept our distance from our human allies, preferring to hunt and roost on our own. It’s been a strange existence, and I’m eager for it to end. I want to go home.

I seize the red-haired human in my front claws and leap into the sky, beating my wings hard until I catch an updraft. As we soar higher, I can hear faint screams from the captives of the other dragons.

My woman does not scream, and I’m proud of her for that. She is brave. I chose well.

The last few males rise into the sky, each carrying a human, and at Kyreagan’s roar, we assume our traveling flight formation and head east, toward Ouroskelle.

The red-haired girl in my claws shouts up at me. “Take me back! Right now!”

“I cannot do that.”

“You could set me down anywhere. Please.”

“Why are you so desperate to return to a city that will soon be overrun by your enemies?”

“Overrun... oh god, I have to go back. There are people who need me.”

“You are needed elsewhere,” I tell her.

“Needed?” Her voice is thin, strained, like she doesn’t have the strength to keep shouting above the wind of our speed. “Needed for what?”

“I will explain more when we reach our destination. For now, please try to relax. Am I holding you too tightly? Or perhaps I should hold you more firmly, if you do not feel secure.”

“Fuck you,” is her only reply. I barely hear it over the rush of the wind.

She doesn’t speak again for a long time, but I swear I can feel her thinking, plotting. It makes me uneasy, but the unease is a pale shadow next to the thick, oozing darkness of my grief.

I’ve known Mordessa since I was small. We hatched during the same season, grew up together, learned to fly and hunt together. We carved stories into the rock faces of Ouroskelle, words in Dragonish and in the Eventongue. Vylar and I watched her fall in love with my brother, and it pleased us greatly when he accepted her as his Promised, his future life-mate. They would have coupled for the first time this spring, during the mating heat, which occurs every twenty-five years among those of our kind.

I would have found someone to mate with as well. The mating heat would have come upon me and compelled me to choose a willing female. But they’re all gone—every dragon I might have joined with.

Even though I know the truth, I cannot quite believe it yet. I still half-expect Ezelda to be darting above our group, out of formation as usual. I imagine that if I look back, I might see Ixtrelle and Syeldor deep in conversation with each other or gossiping with Hinarax about the strange habits of humans.

My sister should be flying at Kyreagan’s other side, the setting sun illuminating the white patches on her wings.

The image of Vylar as I last saw her flashes into my mind. When she fell, she was impaled by the spiked peak of a tower, her body draped over the roof tiles, hanging limply.

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