Page 101 of The Artist and the Dragon

He was against the dragons, trying to stop them—like Malik, like Drystan.

“Then why are you making such a fuss? Surely, you can’t think I’m one of them?” she asked, taken aback.

His look turned almost sorrowful. “It’s not all code. Not the end. You didn’t read it all, did you?”

An unexplainable tremor gripped her limbs as she unfolded the page once more.

“I’d wager one of these was delivered to many of the noble houses this morning,” Mr. Yarwood said.

A deep sense of foreboding landed heavily in her stomach. As she skimmed the page, her eyes landed on the looping signature at the bottom.

A signature she knew.

Impossible.

Yet…

Signed, Alistair Malikant Ithael.Prince of Castamar. Rightful heir to the throne. The Dragon.

“It can’t be.” The denial was far away, said beyond the buzzing hum beginning in her head and rising to a scream. “It can’t. He wouldn’t.”

Weakness gripped her legs. Her skin tingled. The world spun.

“It’s his signature, is it not? And seal?”

It was the seal that she couldn’t look away from. Wax red as fresh blood stamped by the ring he always wore.

“It can’t be.”

If she said it enough maybe it would make it true. Maybe it would stop the breaking of her heart, her soul, as it crumbled apart and fell around her in a heap. Maybe it would stop the tears as they slipped down her cheeks.

But she couldn’t deny the words on the page. The confession.

Malik was the Dragon.

Chapter 42

Malik

Malikswirledthebloodin the crystal tumbler as he waited for the rest of the dragons to arrive. Perrault’s was closed during the day, or, it usually was, when it wasn’t housing a private meeting for traitors to the crown. They’d pulled the curtains, casting the room in shadow, and relied instead on the gas lamps to illuminate the wood-paneled room with their yellow light. Everything in the damn place was dark: dark floors, a painted ceiling, furniture of dark wood and leather. Only the occasional brass button and wall sconce added a glimmer of something more. The tang of cigar smoke from evenings past still lingered in the air, though if Malik had his way—and he usually did—there would be no smoking today.

He lifted the glass and took a sip, lips wrinkling at the taste. Nasty business, drinking blood, but necessary for dark magic. Nothing else fueled the burn of power within, granting additional strength, speed, and access to spells otherwise off-limits.

Lord Osric acted as doorman, admitting two men, then a third. Their ability to adjust their schedules and arrive on time was quite admirable, he’d give them that. But then, when faced with a grand reveal and the promise of more wealth and power … well, who wouldn’t jump to attention when the best carrots were dangled in front of them?

Two more arrived before Malik checked his pocket watch and ordered Lord Osric to lock the door. This lot would have to do. Unfortunately, they were all a bit demure. Surprised, to be sure, but restrained. No one had yet entered with the …enthusiasmhe’d expected.

“Wait!” came a call from the hall. Lord Osric admitted one last man before locking the door.

“It is you!” the latecomer, a Lord Buell, stammered. His eyes practically bulged out of his round face when he spied Malik, who sat reclining in a cushioned chair with a glass in hand and his heels propped on the table.

“The one and only.” Malik smirked. “Pour yourself a drink and join us.”

There was only one vintage on offer. One only dragons consumed.

A humorless laugh caught in his throat. Ironic that, according to legend, the mythical beasts of old would have abhorred such a thing. Actual dragons were said to be noble creatures favored by the Goddess. There was nothing noble about dark magic or the methods used to wield it.

Where several of the others who’d arrived had been quieter and more reserved, Lord Buell was the opposite. A talker, that one. His squealing laughter had grated on Malik’s nerves at more than one event, but hopefully, there wouldn’t be too much need for it today.

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