Page 33 of Tamhas

“I know what you mean.”

It was too difficult for her to say the word. Dragon. We were all dragons. The least I could do was let her off the hook instead of forcing her to say something her mind still had yet to wrap itself around.

Her smile was one of gratitude—albeit brief gratitude. “Right. Meanwhile, I feel like I came from nowhere. No one. I don’t even have a family medical history to rely on. What if something runs in my bloodline? I have no idea. I go to the doctor, and he asks if there’s a history of cancer, diabetes, whatever, and I just stare.”

“That can’t be easy.” I wouldn’t know anything about it. We didn’t go to doctors, and I’d lived long enough to know everything there was to know about my family’s history.

“Emelie is all I’ve ever had. I told you all about her earlier.”

“You mentioned her before, too. In a couple of your emails.”

This time, she smiled more genuinely. “You remembered that.”

“Of course. I remember just about everything you ever wrote to me.”

She sighed, nodding in the direction of our living area. “Because all you have is them. Right? I was somebody new.”

“That’s not true.”

She tilted her head to the side, smiling.

“It isn’t entirely true.”

“I thought so.”

“I was on my way to look for you,” I reminded her in a whisper. “You were more than just a diversion to me.”

She was quick to look away. “That was unfair of me. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been through quite a lot.”

“An understatement.”

I stood, suddenly hesitant. “Might I…?” I gestured to the back of my neck, then to hers.

She closed in on herself, wrapping her arms around her torso. Like a flower in reverse bloom. “I guess so. I’ve never seen this mark everybody’s been talking about.”

“And you wouldn’t, would you? How often do we look at the back of our own neck?” I reached for her, suddenly more aware of her alluring warmth and sweetness than ever before. Her hair was as soft as it looked, like corn silk which I allowed to slide through my fingers perhaps a moment longer than was necessary.

She tensed, holding her breath, waiting for me to confirm what the others had already claimed. I lifted the thick swath of hair in one hand and leaned in for a closer look, doing everything I could to ignore her enticing presence.

There it was, just at the hairline. Unmistakable. A crescent moon.

“Well? It’s there, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“What is it even?”

“A crescent moon,” I whispered, lowering her hair before the temptation to plant a kiss along the nape of that long, graceful neck became too much to ignore.

“I think my hairdresser noticed it once,” she recalled. “A birthmark. That’s all.”

“Yes, a birthmark. One shared by the Blood Moon Priestesses.”

“Who are they?” It was her turn to sit on the cot—no, sink down onto it, as though she was suddenly very tired or very weak.

She wouldn’t be accustomed to weakness, would she? As strong and capable as she was by blood, by birth.

---