Five stories up. Not a lot of height to get airborne. Nian didn’t care. He needed to fly. To shift into dragon form, feel the rush of frigid air and experience Prague in the predawn hours.
Arms and legs pumping, Nian sprinted toward the edge. Street lights flashed in his periphery. His magic flared, swirling in the center of his palm, warming the air around him as he transformed and leapt skyward. The burnished gold of his interlocking dragon skin glimmered in the gloom. With a growl, he unfolded his wings and rotated into an ascending spiral. Pushed south by the north wind, frost rushed over him, stripping away the city filth. The tri-headed spikes running along his spine rattled, shivering down to touch the tip of his barbed tail. Baring his fangs, he hummed, reveling in winter’s sweet smells as urban lights fell away beneath him.
Oh, so good. Better than good, actually. Perfection. Bliss. Excellence wrapped up in open skies and the brutal stretch of taut muscle.
Fast flying took him out of the city, over thick forests and rocky terrain. Nian sighed. Almost there. Another few minutes, and he’d be where he yearned to be… home. Safe within the confines of his mountain lair. Away from the demands of his many businesses and all the Archguard tripe.
Fine golden mist rising from his nostrils, Nian shook his head. Something needed to change, and quickly. He couldn’t stand much more of Rodin’s foolishness. The leader of the Archguard was out of controclass="underline" arrogant, overconfident, infected with idiotic notions driven by twisted ideology. So blind. So stubborn. So very foolish. The depravity—the female slave auctions… the fight clubs with ten-year-old boys playing gladiator—turned Nian’s stomach, driving him to the point of rage.
Not good. Or the least bit productive.
Showing his cards too soon wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Neither would anger or grief. Only deliberate action and a clever plan would achieve his end. He wanted so much better for his race. But change would never occur with Rodin at the helm. Fact, not fiction. He’d watched and waited since ascending to his position, searching for a light at the end of the tunnel. It hadn’t come. Now—after three months of enduring the Archguard’s corruption—Nian knew it never would.
Disgust settled deep. Frustration followed, tightening his chest.
He banished both and, eyes on the treetops, dove toward the forest below. Seconds before he collided with the canopy, Nian dodged, slicing between two enormous tree trunks. Increasing his velocity, he swooped beneath the outstretched arms of ancient beeches, navigating tight turns in the towering Eastwood. Snowflakes drifted like glitter only to fall away as he rushed the cliff face. Rising like a pale wraith in the dark, the mountain wall rose, calling him home, calming his mind, helping him decide the way forward.
Time to face the facts. The entire Archguard must be executed. Right alongside Rodin.
Necessity and honor—the health of his race—dictated the path. He must do what needed to be done. No doubt. No room for hesitation. No leaving it to someone else either. Just sure knowledge coupled with the wherewithal to deal the final death blows. Nian shook his horned head. Christ. What a waste. All the violence. All the death. All the destruction to come. If only he could convince the Archguard to listen. If only the council would abandon the old ways and send Dragonkind down a new road… a safer one, a better one for future generations, one without the threat of war.
War. On a global scale.
Nian knew it was coming. He smelled it in the air. Felt it in the wind. Saw it in the tension and mistrust between Dragonkind packs the world over. All eyes turned to Seattle and the feud raging between Nightfury and Razorback. Members of his race were picking sides—supporting one pack over the other—and soon… very, very soon… each commander would decide. Make their allegiances known. Draw the battle lines. Allow the fighting to spread from its epicenter—Washington State—to other areas of the globe.
A state that would put all of Dragonkind in jeopardy.
Stretching his wings to capacity, Nian came up over the last rise. A quick flip. An elegant twist. A whisper of sound. Nothing more, and he hung, suspended in midair, his eyes fixed on the manor house nestled into the curve of the mountainside. Built by a duke centuries earlier, his home perched on a wide-faced ledge, its foothold on the rocky outcropping more certain than a mountain goat’s. Neither the mountain nor the howling winds challenged its dominion. The house simply belonged, growing out of jagged stone like a tree from the ground. And as Nian set down on the balcony overlooking the valley below, he blew out a long-drawn breath.
His razor-sharp claws clicked as his paws touched down on worn stone. Without thought, he shifted, moving from dragon to human form, and conjured his clothes. As the baggy workout pants and long-sleeved T settled against his skin, a shadow passed behind the bank of French doors along the far side of the balcony. His mouth curved. A dead-bolt clicked. The doorknob turned, and his trusted servant stepped out into the winter chill.
Dressed in his usual fair, tuxedo and tails, the Numbai bowed his head. “Welcome home, my lord.”
“Lapier.”
“What news?”
“None,” he said, moving toward the only male he considered family. The Numbai served him well, caring for him as he had every male of his line for generations. Thank God. Nian didn’t know what he would do without him. Friend. Confidant. Caretaker. Lapier did it all, more than his fair share most nights. “The council is blind to Rodin’s ways. They remain loyal to the bastard. I can find no crack to slip through.”
“Then it is as we feared.”
Worse, actually. But Nian refused to argue the point. “Any word from our other pursuits?”
“Not yet.”
“Christ.”
His hands curled into twin fists, Nian scowled at the awakening sky. It shouldn’t be this hard. He was trying to do the right thing, but as was her habit, fate intervened, turning her tiresome wheel. Getting in his way. Mucking up an excellent strategy. And as he raged at the setbacks, mind churning to see all the angles, to adjust and forge a new way forward, to somehow salvage—
“My lord.” Concern in his eyes, the framework of glass and stone archways rising behind him, Lapier paused, and Nian knew what he was thinking. The “look”—the one Lapier reserved for when he misbehaved—said it all. The Numbai didn’t agree with his plan… or the ambition that drove it. Nian sighed. Lapier clasped his hands together, making the rings he wore wink in the low light. “Perhaps, it’s for the best, Nian. A sign to leave well enough alone.”
The best? Not a chance.
Leaving Rodin to his own devices wasn’t a good idea. The bastard corroded everything he touched. Not that Lapier gave a damn about the big picture. The Numbai’s duties extended to him… and him alone. He didn’t care about the greater health of Dragonkind, just that Nian lived to see a new night.
Biting down on a curse, he padded across the balcony on bare feet. “I’ll be in my study.”
“Would you like a bourbon?”
“Bring me the bottle.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Nian huffed. As you wish. Right. As if. If only… what a load of BS. So only one thing left to do. Get roaring drunk. Find some oblivion and stay there for a while. At least, throughout the day. Maybe blunting his thoughts, forgetting his troubles, would help jump-start a new strategy. Frustration and fixation weren’t a good pair. Both made males act in unpredictable ways. Not something a warrior in his position could afford, so… why not? Hitting the bottle for a few hours was as good a plan as any.