Waking the Dragon (8 page)

Fire lanced up my body, filling my cheeks. “Look,
Kol
.” I refused to even give him the respect of authority. “You don’t know me. You don’t know
what
I write or
why
I write, so stay out of
my
world and out of my damn business.”

I pushed past him, fuming. If I never saw him again, it would be way too fucking soon.

When my comm buzzed me awake with an invitation for breakfast and a debriefing from Lorian, I accepted immediately, knowing it wasn’t a request. I rolled myself out of bed, slipped on some sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a fleece pull-over, then headed to the Morgon district. Walking onto the terrace of Lorian and Sorcha’s high-rise home, I squinted at the mid-morning sun skimming above the skyline. A shaft of pink-gold light shot across the top of Sorcha’s copper hair, giving her an angelic halo. Of course, I knew my sister’s best friend was far from an angel.

“There’s our damsel causing distress, teasing those Morgon boys into a testosterone frenzy.” She tipped a fluted glass in the air with a mischievous smile. “Mimosa?”

I took a seat at her breakfast table, framed by tall pillars of white marble, and gaped at the jaw-dropping view of the city. On this side of town, the skyscrapers took on a different shape. Rather than straight and linear, they slanted to a flat-top pinnacle. Some were a combination of stone and steel, rather than steel alone, jutting up into the sky like Morgon-made mountains. The tip-top was flat, of course, for lift-off and landing, and terraces jutted out around the uppermost floors, but the unusual design somehow made sense. The symmetry of Morgon buildings was more aligned to nature, creating a skyline of poetic beauty, rather than a statement of human might and power. I marveled at the rising sun, shielded by puffy clouds that softened the light pouring across the blue-tiled terrace.

“I didn’t tease anyone into a frenzy. Where are you getting your faulty information?”

She giggled. “I can’t reveal my sources.”

With my words thrown back in my face, she pushed a plate of pastries toward me. I rolled my eyes and nibbled on a cream-filled one as she went on.

“The story is that you disappeared from Kraven without informing him of your whereabouts, flirted with the possible ringleader of the Devlin Butchers, then tried to follow him down the deserted corridor where two of the girls had been kidnapped.”

My blood was boiling by the time she finished. “Are you kidding me?” I dropped the pastry on the plate. “I know who your
source
is. That damn Kol Moonring.” This man was infuriating, butting in where his thoughts and opinions were most definitely unwelcome. “And I don’t want him on my detail anymore. I—”

I stopped abruptly as their house servant, Vincent, appeared at the table, carrying a silver-covered serving dish. I reeled in my temper as he lifted the cover, revealing a tri-sectioned server of fluffy scrambled eggs, sliced ham, and a fruit medley. He leaned forward with a tight bow, then stepped soundlessly back into the house.

I spooned some eggs, strawberries, grapes, and sliced bananas onto my plate. Never one to pass up a free meal, especially one smelling as delicious as this, I forked a huge bite of the eggs.

Sorcha picked up right where we’d left off. “Moira dear, you were the one who asked for help, for protection,” she remarked coolly, grinning like the wicked fiend she was, sipping her champagne-and-orange-juice breakfast, leaving the protein and pastries to me. “Begged, actually.”

“Well, I want a replacement.” I stuffed a whole strawberry in my mouth, chewed, then added, “Someone less asinine.”

“He’s the best. Lucius and Lorian insist on the best. Otherwise, they’ll block you at every turn, and you’ll never get your story. Besides, I wouldn’t allow you to get involved if I didn’t know you were sufficiently protected.” Her tone fell to a somber note before she drained the rest of her mimosa.

“This has something to do with Lorian’s outburst the other night.”

She stared off across the city, the sun kissing the top of skyscrapers in the distance. “So perceptive. You always were, even as a little girl.”

She pulled a silk wrap around her shoulders. The cool air, a whisper of winter, blew across the open terrace, brushing her reddish locks against her neck. Tucking my hands into my coat pockets, I waited as she poured another drink. Liquid courage for whatever she was about to tell me.

“Five years ago, when Lorian and I first started dating, I was abducted by a Morgon blood cult.”

I sucked in a tight breath, holding it in my chest.

“Yes. I know.” She took another sip. “It started with these anonymous gifts bearing a symbol on each card. The symbol was a sign of the Larkosians, an ancient cult that sacrificed human women to honor their god, Larkos.”

I wiped my mouth with a napkin and folded it on my plate. “As in the child of legendary King Radomis and Queen Morga.”

“The exact one.”

My major was journalism, but my minor was multicultural studies, including the elaborate history of Morgonkind. I’d done countless research, finding what information I could, though much of it was still barred from human eyes.

“Most of my information comes from old fairy tales and legends about the early Morgons. But I know the story of Larkos Nightwing killing his own father, along with annihilating the entire dragon race.”

“Not just a story, Moira. It’s fact.”

My heart pounded a frantic beat, my palms sweaty in the cool morning air. I stayed still and waited, refusing to probe for answers. I instinctually knew when someone wanted to tell their story. The smartest thing was to be patient, wait, and listen.

Soon enough, she inhaled a deep breath and continued. “My knight in shining armor came to the rescue.” She shifted, wrapping herself tighter. “Actually, he was more like a demon from hell to be honest. A marvelous demon.” One side of her mouth quirked up as she remembered, her eyes seeing something in the distant past. “I wasn’t kept long in captivity, just a few hours before they started the ritual.”

I listened in complete thrall, taking mental notes of the differences in the recent killings.

“The ceremony involved the rape of a blood bride, then the spilling of her blood to honor Larkos. They thought it gave them some sort of mystical power or something. Thankfully, they didn’t get to do either parts of the ritual.”

“So you agree with me. You think the Devlin Butchers are actually part of this blood cult.”

“No,” came a deep voice from the archway leading into the house. Lorian walked toward us, controlled and steady—the opposite of what he was the other night. He leaned against one of the stone pillars. “We killed them all.”

“But the similarities. Surely, one of them survived.”

Lorian’s eyes appeared even wilder in the morning sun. “None survived that night. I can promise you that.”

I slumped back into my chair.

“However, the bastard who took Sorcha said something before I destroyed him into nonexistence.”

I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he didn’t mean a metaphorical destruction. Lorian had surely slaughtered the Morgon, then burned him into ash. My limited education on Morgon history listed countless executions of criminals, ending with burning them to cinders, erasing every part of them from this world as final punishment.

“What did he say?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“He said ‘the Larkosians are rising.’ And they ‘pave the way for him.’ Sorcha would’ve been their first victim.”

“But I wasn’t.” Sorcha reached out and gave her man’s hand a squeeze. The memory had Lorian’s eyes burning fire-bright. The strained muscles at his throat eased with her touch.

“If this is part of the same cult,” he continued, “it’s a new cell with the same agenda.”

Sorcha and Lorian were lost in each other’s eyes for a moment. Lorian’s hand lifted, brushing a lock of hair away from Sorcha’s cheek. I felt as if I were intruding on a private moment. Whatever happened with this past Larkosian cult, it locked these two together in a steel-tight knot—one that neither seemed willing to unravel.

Clearing my throat, I reminded them I was still there. “This
him
you referred to must be a new leader of the Larkosians, I would think.”

Lorian finally shifted his fey eyes from his mate. “It can’t possibly be the same faction. But with recent evidence of a new, more deadly player among the killers, I’ve been thinking it could be old fanatics, sympathizers with the group we wiped out five years ago.”

“Then you’ve seen the police reports. The photographs.”

“Of course. We gave them to the precinct.”

I couldn’t keep the surprise from my face.

He shifted behind Sorcha, placing both hands gently on her shoulders. “How do you think the Gladium Precinct got the information they have? The bodies were found in Drakos where humans aren’t allowed or accepted. They couldn’t march in and do their own investigation. The Morgon Guard is sharing their intel to appease the families of the victims from Gladium.”

“But the Morgon Guard is leading the investigation, right?” I asked.

A slow nod. I kept my smile to myself, elated that I had such contacts. No other journalist would have access to the information I did. But it wasn’t just about telling a story. It was about justice. An exhilarating thrill swept over me since I’d be a part of stopping this evil. That is, if Lucius and Lorian allowed me to move forward with my plan.

A sharp gust of wind and swift shadow fell across the table, drawing our attention to the Morgon landing on the terrace. Bristling at the sight of our newcomer, I breathed in a deep lungful of morning air, frustrated with my immediate reaction to his presence.

In the full light of day, his wings shone with a sheen of sapphire over deep black, rippling with thick-muscled framing. He was the first Morgon of the Moonring clan I’d ever seen. Most Morgons were named for their hue of wings, but Kol’s clan was obviously named for their eyes. Unusual. In gray military-style pants and matching shirt, he stood stone-like next to Lorian, avoiding eye contact with me. If his skin were gray, he could’ve been a decorative statue on the terrace. But who wanted a scowling statue?

“Now that we’re all here, let’s debrief,” said Lorian, taking a seat next to Sorcha.

Without a word, Kol sat next to him.

“Okay,” I interrupted. “Can I finally ask why we’re debriefing here and not with Lucius. No offense, Lorian, but I thought he was in charge of this little enterprise.”

“None taken.” Actually, he seemed amused. “Lucius doesn’t want his pregnant wife stressing her mind or body about your whereabouts. So, while you’re hunting your story, I’ll be making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Kol made a grunting noise and shifted, still not acknowledging me. Whatever. Lorian gazed at me with those unsettling eyes. “Explain everything about your contact with your lead last night.”

A chill crawled up my spine, remembering him. “Well, he’s definitely got money.”

Kol’s eyes finally fixed on me with a lifted brow, an implied question.

“For one,” I continued, “his shirt. It was Primean silk. I’ve seen enough of it to know the difference between less expensive brands.”

Primean silk was a rare, shiny fabric made only in Primus, a human-only province to the west of Gladium. The irony was that Primeans still segregated themselves from the Morgons, yet they exported goods to other provinces to make their already wealthy city even wealthier. Greed, a powerful motivator.

“That’s for sure,” added Sorcha. “Seems like you and Jessen had a new dress in Primean silk for every ball you had to go to.”

I ignored Sorcha’s comment, not wanting to get into family history. “That leads to the other reason. There was an air about him. It’s not something I can exactly point to, but only the aristocracy hold themselves that way and speak like him.” I felt the weight of Kol’s stare. I shifted my gaze to Lorian. “He also said his name was Borgus.”

Lorian and Kol shared a look.

“Wait,” said Sorcha. “I know that name.”

“Borgus Fireblade,” Lorian enunciated slowly.

Sorcha’s eyes widened. “I remember! That was the cult leader of the original Larkosians.”

“Yes, baby. But Borgus Fireblade and all of his clan died out five centuries ago when his fanatical religion was put to an end.”

“Maybe this guy is a descendent of the original Borgus Fireblade, and he’s carrying the torch, so to speak, and just adopted the name,” I offered.

Kol fixed his eyes on me. “He wasn’t a Fireblade. He’s one of the Coalglass clan.”

“Are you sure?” asked Lorian.

A sharp nod. “Definitely.”

“Coalglass?” I asked Lorian. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Their name comes from the structure of their wings,” said Lorian. “They’re made for speed.”

I remembered the way his wings were extremely sharp and angular, shiny, compared to other Morgons.

Kol looked at Lorian. “All of their clan resides in the Cloven Province, so he’s far from home.”

“Why don’t you talk to Kieren, see if he’ll help locate this guy and find out who he really is.”

Kol said nothing. His face, neck, and shoulders went rigid. His hand on the table clenched slowly into a fist. Whoever Kieren was, Kol didn’t like the idea of contacting him. Lorian held his gaze, waiting. Kol finally gave him a short, sharp nod.

Sorcha piped in. “Well, why didn’t one of you just follow him and catch him? Bring him in for questioning or something.”

“We’re not dealing with regular criminals. Not even regular killers.” Kol’s voice fell to a deeper register. “Questioning one of them, even under torture, wouldn’t do a thing. They’ll die before giving us what we want.”

I swallowed hard, not realizing torture was a viable interrogation technique for the Morgons. For all my historical education on their kind, I seemed to know very little.

Kol continued, “If he is one of the murderers, we need to get him to lead us to the others. The killings won’t stop by capturing just one of them.”

“Agreed.” Lorian stretched his hand across the table, taking Sorcha’s in his own. “What else did Borgus say to you?” he asked, glancing my way.