A Dragon's Dream of Love (Song of the Sídhí Series #2)
Read A Dragon's Dream of Love (Song of the Sídhí Series #2) Online
Authors: Jodie B. Cooper
A
Dragon’s Dream of Love: Song of the Sídhí #2
YA
Paranormal Romance
By
Jodie B. Cooper
Copyright
2011
License
Notes
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Thank
you for respecting the hard work of this author.
I
Thank God
Without God’s grace
this book would not be possible.
“I
can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
PHILIPPIANS
4:13 (KJV)
NOTE:
Story
contains sexual content/innuendo and mild language.
Recommended
reading age is seventeen and up.
A Dragon’s Dream of Love:
Song of the Sídhí #2
– 23,600 words
Glossary
of Sídhí Terms – 2,200 words
Character
List – 283 words
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dragon Valley
Leah shifted and rubbed her achy
shoulders against the brick’s rough edge, trying to focus her tired mind on the
here and now. Through her newly emerging gift, she tasted dishonesty on every
dragon in the surrounding meadow. The observation left a rancid feeling behind.
Yeah, a feeling, not a taste, though the pressure behind her eyeballs called
her mixed up senses a funky side effect of the real issue.
She’d known from the beginning finding
a trustworthy dragon might prove difficult. They weren’t known for their
compassion, especially when dealing with other species. And as far as anyone
knew, Leah was vampire, not a dragon.
Disheartened, she began rethinking her
hastily made plans to search for a trustworthy dragon. Not for one moment had
she believed her search impossible. Now, she wasn’t too sure. The whole stupid
‘my mom said I'd die without a dragon's help' would go over like a ton of
bricks with this bunch of ego-driven dragons. From what she'd seen of them,
they might sell tickets to the event.
She was so screwed. She'd never find an
honorable dragon in time, certainly not one she could trust. Every single
dragon within sight would fry her to a crisp the instant she dropped her
problem at their clawed feet.
She sighed in disgust and straightened
her shoulders. Right. Stop the pity party. She desperately needed a change of
plans. Yeah, right, good luck with that one – she was so dead.
From the auras surrounding every
dragon, her pure dumb luck ranked zero to none. She glanced over the dragons
dotting the meadow and shuddered at her limited choice. She’d watched them for
hours. Her options hadn’t grown, but shrunk as dragon after dragon either lost
their temper or lost interest, and flew off in a roar or had an irrational
outburst like Mr. Crabby Pants, thirty feet due North.
Mr. Crabby’s unreasonable actions
summed up the attitude for all of the scaly skinned shapeshifters. He issued
order after order, ignoring all questions, no matter how polite the inquiry.
After every few words, with the sound of a steel trap he’d snap his jaws shut
emphasizing his current rant and splattering unwary victims with dragon
spittle; big globs of the stuff flew everywhere. It would make her day if he
accidentally bit his tongue in half. Truly, she’d laugh herself silly.
Her revulsion had nothing to do with
Mr. Crabby’s rough muddy green scales, peeling wings, or even the unnatural
ballooning deformity on the tip of his abnormally stubby snout. No, not hardly.
It had everything to do with the dark red-ish orange aura oozing in a worm-like
swarm, covering his small frame.
The slight empathic instinct she felt
in her gut, coupled with the transparent aura surrounding the swampy colored
dragon, provided her with the complete picture. Yep, the combination of color
and emotion warned her of Mr. Crabby’s innate treachery and a deep festering
hatred – among a dozen other nasty traits, all of them appeared as twisted as
the first two. The question begged to be asked, treachery and hatred of what or
who? She had no clue what the answer might be; her question hit a solid and
very blank wall.
Aura Sight was like all other 'sight'
related gifts that God blessed the Sídhí people with, whether Empathy Sight,
Foresight, Hindsight, or Tactile Sight. The information she understood popped
up a dozen more questions rather than answers. Very rarely did she get an
absolute answer. Using her gift was frustrating to say the least.
Leah blinked several times, refocusing
she pulled her eyes out of aura sight. The world shimmered before her eyes;
colors and shapes returned to normal. Looking at people’s auras made her
slightly nauseous. After using her gift on and off for the last two days she
shouldn’t be surprised. The more she used her second eyesight the easier it
became, but at the moment, seeing people with colors swirling around them gave
her the sickening view of looking through mucky colored water.
The nausea quickly faded, but her
body’s dull cramping didn’t. Yeah, her cramping muscles added a different kind
of problem to her list of woes, one needing a quick fix. She needed to feed,
but where in the world would she find a blood donor? Not feeding and muscle
cramps went hand in hand. The prim and proper residents of the Sídhí Alliance
considered feeding – on other sentient creatures – a big no-no. Recreational
feeding was a whole different story. Or, at least, that’s what she’d heard.
The sunny day didn’t help her grouchy
thoughts or her achy head. Even behind dark sunshades, her light sensitive eyes
watered from the brutal glare. The dragons should have warned them about a
delayed check-in.
If the dragons had given any
consideration to the second wave of campers arriving today, the bone-headed
morons could’ve avoided the congested check-in by bringing in smaller groups.
But no, why make anything uncomplicated? Dragons made no sense what so ever.
She snorted at her ridiculous thoughts.
Too bad she was half dragon.
Ooh laa laa! Hunk Alert!
The thought popped into her head as a
drop-dead gorgeous guy strutted past her shallow sanctuary. He was trailed by
four, no five girls. He was tall and broad shouldered with a literal full mane
of hair falling down his shoulders, all golden strands of honey streaked with
dark and milk chocolate. Sculpted muscles rippled across his shoulders and… ooh
yummy, a light wet sheen highlighted a wonderful pulsing vein.
Thump, thump, thump.
The throbbing of his jugular called to
her as it ran down the side of his golden neck, pulsing with neon intensity.
Decisions, decisions! Join his growing harem and get a speedy lick and a
mouth-watering bite or starve? It almost seemed worth the humiliation of
trailing after him. Almost, but not quite.
She groaned, thumping the back of her
head against the cool wall. She quit after several brain bashing thumps, but
only because her ears began ringing. She seriously needed some shuteye if
random, unbelievable thoughts – like chasing and biting total strangers –
started popping into her head.
She’d never bitten anyone. She drank
her daily blood allotment in a metal – totally no-see through – cup. If no one
was watching, she even pinched her nose shut.
What was wrong with her? Maybe lack of
sleep combined with lack of feeding made her mentally unstable. That certainly
sounded better than getting hot and bothered over a total hunky stranger. She
clenched her legs and to her consternation, she really did feel a tingle of
desire race through her body. That was so wrong on multiple levels.
She never chased gorgeous guys, not
ever. The PuckinKnück twins, Bart and Burt, taught her that lesson years ago.
She still carried the mental scars proving evil people hid behind outer beauty.
She definitely needed some zzz’s. Counting the time difference, she’d been up
for two nights and hadn’t fed in forever. Or it felt that way.
Leah stiffened. The once refreshing
mountain breeze carried a sickly scent, reminding her of an outhouse on a hot
summer day. The silent wisp of air gave her a moments warning. She slipped a
calm mask over her suddenly flaring anger and unwillingly gave up her shaded
sanctuary, quickly pushing through the thin Rose of Sharon bushes, a moment
before her scrawny half-brother invaded her shaded refuge.
“Leah, get into the receiving line and
get us checked in. I need out of this freaking sun,” snapped Mortimer PhñDick,
Mort for short.
The solid red of his eyes made the
pupils appear dead. But not even the blood colored eyes of a bloodsucking
vampire had total distract-ability when it came to Mort's appearance. Stringy
brown hair lay limp around his rat face, while prominent bones made points
under the silk of his shirt. He looked more like a pimply face skrivett than
the eldest son of a duke.
At nineteen, Mort was a late bloomer,
not having reached his adult growth spurt, the twenty-one day puberty period
that all Sídhí youth went through. Until he did, he wouldn’t have fangs, claws,
or the added strength of an adult vampire. Nor would he have the increased
healing ability. He was, essentially, a pre-pub easily stomped into the ground
by anyone past puberty.
She sighed, unwillingly acknowledging
his guards. Stomping Mort into the ground would be easy if his constant shadows
weren’t present.
As the golden child and heir apparent –
looks not withstanding – Mort personified the perfect slime ball through his
actions. Quite willingly he followed in his father’s vicious footsteps amid
growing rumors of him promoting pay-per-view info sessions, where he sold
viewing ‘new and improved’ torture techniques to the highest bidders.
His sick practices started as a
toddler. As with all vampire children living in one of the Dhark Valleys he
couldn’t feed as an adult vampire, but his eyes still reflected the solid
bloody pits that came from feeding solely on human blood. On more than one
occasion, she’d watched him slice open the wrist or neck of a blood slave,
slowly drinking and grinning as the life drained out of his victim, while
soldiers held the poor person still.
Any vampire could feed without killing
the donor. The only time Mort showed restraint was if he ran out of money. His
monthly allowance was hefty, but so were his perverted pleasures. And killing
two or three blood slaves per week got expensive very fast.
Growing up in the same household, she
quickly learned a harsh lesson. She never showed any servant the slightest
kindness. If she did, they ended up drained and gnawed on. At times, she
despised him more than she did their father.
“Of course, Mortimer,” we can’t have
the poor pre-pub in the sun too long, she sarcastically added in her head.
“Make sure it’s a private cabin and you
aren’t in it.”
“No worries, Mort. She causes too much
trouble and I’ll dig out my silver cuffs. I brought my new set just for her.”
Bart PuckinKnück, one of General PuckinKnück’s sons, leered at her.
“Good, father said to keep an eye on
her. If you see her causing trouble, restrain her. Oh, and remember my promise.
By the end of camp, whichever of you two gives me the best results, I’ll give
her to the winner. Father already approved my plan.” The twin elves nodded in
unison, acknowledging Mort’s words, but their eyes slithered across Leah,
making her feel dirtier by the second.
Mort’s eyes narrowed as an obvious
thought hit him in the head. “Stop calling me Mortimer. It’s Mort, Stupid.”
She absently nodded her agreement,
still in shock over his promise to the twins. She’d been handed over to the
PuckinKnück boys before. Thank God, she hadn’t been raped, but she still woke
screaming from the nightmares. According to the lecherous looks the twins gave
her, she might not be so lucky next time.
Mort dismissed her without a second
glance.
Clenching her teeth, she ignored her
simmering anger, shoving it into a deep corner of her mind and forcefully
reminded herself: today was a good day.
Turning swiftly, she left the
protection of the shade.
Once out in the open, she wracked her
brain for a reason why it was a good day. Being optimistic didn't help if she
couldn't support it. She remembered Mort’s last words and smiled, briefly
wondering if she might get away with calling him ‘Mort Stupid’ at least one
time. She knew she couldn’t. He’d flip, popping a gasket or two.
She sighed in disgust. Then he’d sic
the Adonis twins on her. It wouldn’t be the first time she ended up a bloody
pulp from opening her big mouth.
The twins looked as beautiful as a
piece of art, but under all the perfection lay rotting cores of corruption. She
knew from experience the blue-eyed twins were wickedly fast and had cinder
blocks for hands. At six and a half feet, they towered over her. For all their
cunning and sadistic wit, the handsome duo should’ve been named Lucifer and
Lucifer II. Only fear of the duke kept them from turning on Mort. The wretched
little beast wasn’t even aware of the thin wire he walked.
Shaking off her thoughts, she weaved
through the crowd, ignoring the various booths selling a mixture of Sídhí and
Earth made items. Near the end of a long row, she hesitated.
The bookseller’s booth called to her.
She shouldn’t stop. She had very little money, but the amazing covers pulled
her into the booth. Running her fingertips over raised lettering, she snatched
up the latest New York Times best seller and read the back cover. An hour
later, she had read the back cover of every book in the booth. The sales woman,
a twitchy fae, specifically a water banshee with blue hair and a hooked nose,
asked in a shrill voice – for the ten thousandth time – if Leah needed any
assistance.
“No, thanks.” Why would she need
assistance when she couldn’t buy a book? Hello? Daft woman.
Leah left the book booth with a heavy
heart. She found the check-in table and slipped into line behind two young
women. The line was much smaller than she feared. Standing under the hot sun
looking at her beloved books she could handle, but waiting in a check-in line
with total strangers with nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs under the noon
sun was torture.
Leah silently waited in line, watching
and listening. Duke PhñDick would never have allowed her beyond his territory’s
border if her name hadn’t been on the list of required attendees. A list
provided by the dragons. Thank God.
She sighed and tried making herself
unnoticeable. She did the same thing at home, quietly standing or sitting in a
corner, until she blended with her surroundings. Her mom called it a chameleon
effect, a characteristic held by the more powerful DeLeigh dragons. Whatever.
It came in handy.
Most of the conversations revolved
around the dragon’s arrogance and how only the dragons could’ve pulled off
something of this magnitude. Who else could've demanded the attendance of
youngsters, between the ages of seventeen and nineteen, primarily from
politically important families? Yeah, only the dragons had the power to force
the co-mingling of age-old enemies in a summer camp of all things.