Kiss of Embers (The Dragon Lairds #5)

Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

ZARA

I paced in my tent and tried to ignore how the sticky jungle heat made my shirt cling to my skin. A lantern sat on a camp table, its battery-powered light casting a soft glow over the wooden floorboards that made the tent seem less like a…well, tent.

But the light couldn’t dispel the sense of doom that huddled around me. Chirping insects drifted from the tent’s entrance. Occasionally, an unseen animal screamed in the distance.

And the muffled sound of men’s voices penetrated the canvas.

Dozens of men. My competitors. Powerful males from every corner of the world had gathered for a chance to win the Elixir of Vozgadach. Representatives from all the Firstborn Races were present, their tents clustered in the clearing the Games’ organizers had designated as a home base. The competition was set to begin the moment the sun sank below the horizon.

And I had to win. The future of the Rockford Pack depended on it. Possibly, my life depended on it. Brader Ashcroft spoke the truth about other alphas eyeing my lands. If they saw an opportunity to expand their territories, they would take it. If that happened, an unwanted marriage would be the least of my concerns. So it was either win the elixir or lose my position—and maybe my head.

But the stakes went beyond my personal safety. I pressed a hand to my throat as visions of the latest victims of moon sickness flashed in my mind. The elixir could keep the horrible disease away from my pack forever. Never again would I have to face off with a drooling, snarling monster who used to be a family friend.

Drute ducked inside the tent. Fading sunlight spilled through the opening behind him and then winked out again as the flaps fell back into place. He crossed to me, a light sheen of perspiration covering the vee of gray skin exposed by his open-collar shirt.

“Everyone is gathering,” he said. “Are you ready?”

No. For a moment, the truth trembled on my lips. Then, memories of my father filtered through my mind. As a teenager, I once asked him why he held audiences with pack members in the throne room. The throne was an ancient piece, the wood so old it was basically petrified stone. Why not meet in his office, where everyone was more comfortable?

My father had given me a pointed look. “I don’t want the pack to be comfortable around me, Zara. Power is fifty percent muscle and fifty percent perception.”

I lifted my chin as I held Drute’s gaze. “I’m ready. And I’m going to win.”

Lamplight shimmered in Drute’s dark eyes. He stepped closer, and he placed a claw-tipped hand on my shoulder as he lowered his voice. “There’s no shame in being nervous. When your father was young, he used to puke before every battle.”

Reluctant amusement drifted through me. I should have known better than to think I could fool Drute. “Dad never told me that.”

Drute’s fangs showed between his lips as he smiled. “Well, it’s not very glamorous. Although, puking on your competitors might not be a bad strategy. They’ll keep their distance if they think you’re going to ruin their shoes.”

The sound of a low, mournful horn split the air.

My heart sped up. Drute dropped his hand from my shoulder. “That’s the signal. We need to go. You don’t have any weapons on you, right?”

“No weapons.” I gestured to my corner of the tent, where my father’s sword lay on my bed. The blade gleamed under the mosquito netting draped around the bed frame. “It’s here if I need it, though.” Competitors were permitted to use magic, but weapons of any kind were strictly prohibited. However, more than one competitor had died under mysterious circumstances in the past. Centuries ago, a fae lord on the cusp of winning the Games was discovered in his bed with his throat slit on the morning of the final day of competition. I couldn’t carry the sword during the Games, but I’d sleep with my hand on the hilt.

“Fair enough,” Drute said. “Let’s go.”

We left the tent and stepped into the damp, oppressive air. Even in the so-called “dry season,” the humidity wrapped around me with sticky, suffocating arms. The last orange rays of the dying sun stained the brush and leaves on the ground, which had been flattened by competitors moving around the camp. Tents lined a crude pathway, their vestibules festooned with flags bearing coats of arms and the names of noble houses.

A pair of fae with long silver hair shouldered past Drute and me.

“Pardon,” one said, a slight frown touching his arrogant features. Drute waited for the men to stride well ahead of us before leaning toward me and grumbling under his breath.

“Seelie. From the Spring Court, if I had to guess. They might look pretty, but they’re vicious.”

I nodded, recalling what my father had told me about the fae. Immensely powerful, they commanded the elements like the witches, but they were also capable of meddling with people’s minds. The Seelie insisted they shunned the dark magic their Unseelie counterparts embraced. My father called such claims “utter bullshit.” He’d always insisted the Seelie and Unseelie were two sides of the same dark and dangerous coin.

The murmur of voices swelled as Drute and I continued down the rows of tents. Other supernaturals fell into step around us. Werewolves I didn’t recognize shot me curious looks. Witches passed, their embroidered barastas swinging around tall, glossy boots. A vampire in black leather emerged from a tent. He grimaced as he glanced at the sky, then withdrew a pair of sunglasses from his front shirt pocket and slid them onto his face.

“Starting at twilight, my ass,” he muttered, his words touched with a Slavic accent. He offered Drute and me a short nod, then strode ahead, his black trench coat flaring behind him like a cape.

Light blazed ahead. My heart sped up, adrenaline joining the nerves prickling under my skin. After a dozen more steps, the pathway opened onto a large clearing filled with competitors.

No, warriors . I couldn’t afford to forget that. The challenges were different in every Games, but they were always dangerous. Only the most skilled and battle-hardened among the Firstborn Races dared to compete. Some of my fellow contestants were almost certainly thousands of years old, with strategic knowledge gained over centuries of battle.

Chatter filled the air as Drute and I approached the edge of the crowd, which looked to number in the hundreds. A raised wooden platform stood in the center of the clearing. The platform was empty except for a row of four crude wooden chairs. Warriors dressed in various kinds of tactical gear clustered around the platform’s base. A few groups were engaged in animated conversation. But plenty of the competitors stood alone, their arms folded over brawny chests and their expressions cold and unwelcoming.

Drute leaned close and put a hand over his mouth. “The witch at your twelve o’clock is Galen of House Baudelaire, the most dangerous fire-wielder in a generation. Rumor has it he’s picked up at least one arcane element through dueling. You’ll need to be wary around him.” Drute hesitated. “Actually, it’s best to avoid him altogether.”

“No problem,” I said, letting my gaze skid away from the tall, dark-haired witch standing on the clearing’s periphery. After a few more moments of observation, I turned back to Drute.

“No dragons are competing this year?”

His brow furrowed as he examined the clearing. “I suppose it’s not surprising. They’re focused on increasing their numbers now that they defeated Mullo Balfour. Cormac has no need for the elixir these days.”

“Must be nice,” I murmured.

As the chatter continued, I gazed around at the rest of the crowd, taking in the assortment of fae, witches, werewolves, and vampires. My heart lifted a little at the sight of two female fae. Dressed in skintight leather, they frowned at a burly werewolf who smiled as he spoke to them. The wind picked up, carrying his conversation to my ears.

“…but I didn’t see real results until I started counting my macros.”

One of the fae tilted her head, her hair slipping to reveal the tip of a pointed ear. She worked her jaw, snapping her gum. “Is that like crochet?”

The woman next to her tucked her chin, a smile pulling at her lips.

The werewolf blinked. “No… No, it’s about protein, carbs, and fat.” He glanced around and then lowered his voice like he was imparting sacred knowledge. “I could hook you up with a couple of YouTube videos that’ll totally change the way you see food.”

Drute snorted. “He’s lucky those two haven’t eaten him .”

I bumped my shoulder against his bicep. “Hey, maybe they’re watching their macros.” As Drute chuckled, I let my gaze wander some more. The last of the sunlight bled from the sky, plunging the clearing into twilight. Stars winked overhead. Around the rim of the clearing, netherlights appeared one by one, the blue orbs suspended by some kind of invisible magic. The competitors’ eyes glittered in the darkness, their irises as bright as the supernatural illumination.

A stir near the platform drew my attention. The crowd quieted as a group of people ascended the wooden steps. Three demons and one demoness dressed in rich clothing seated themselves in the chairs. If not for the horns curled close to their heads, they would have looked human.

A fifth demon, a balding male wearing a pair of golden spectacles, ambled to the center of the platform. He lifted his arms away from his sides and spoke in a booming voice.

“Greetings, noble members of the Firstborn Races! I am Bolveg of Vozga, and I’m pleased to welcome you to the Firstborn Games. As you know, only the strongest, fastest, and most cunning compete. You are all the best among your peers.”

A cheer went up, along with a few battle cries. The werewolf who’d spoken to the pair of fae women puffed out his chest. On the periphery of the clearing, the netherlights appeared to shiver in response to the crowd’s noise.

Bolveg gestured to the demons in the chairs. “My colleagues and I are honored to host this most illustrious and immortal competition. We’ll also serve as the Rules Committee.”

“Buzzkill!” someone called from the back. Laughter rang out, and the offender’s friends yanked him backward and slapped a hand over his mouth.

Bolveg’s chest lifted as he inhaled and then exhaled heavily. “As I was saying, we’ll serve as arbiters for any disputes that may arise. However, the Committee will defer to a higher authority when and if the situation calls for it.” He looked toward the platform’s stairs.

A woman in a flowing white gown appeared on the top step—and she most certainly hadn’t been there a second before. Voluminous skirts flowed around her ankles as she crossed the platform like it was a catwalk during Paris Fashion Week. Red waves cascaded to the middle of her back, and a soft glow emanated from her flawless skin. She stopped a short distance away from Bolveg and propped a hand tipped with cherry red nails on her hip.

“Thanks, demon,” she drawled. She waved her free hand in a languid gesture. “Continue.”

Bolveg cleared his throat. “Um…right.” He looked at the crowd. “Inessa, the goddess of victory, has graciously?—”

“And other sundry things,” the woman said. An irritated expression crossed her face. “I started using my full title after that attention whore Nike had her lawyers send me a cease and desist.” Inessa released a short, humorless laugh. “Just try getting her to oversee something like this. Her rates are astronomical. Anyway, go on.”

Bolveg smoothed a hand over the tufts of fuzzy white hair that clung to his head. “Of course… Uh, Inessa”—he slanted her a look—“goddess of victory and other sundry things, has graciously agreed to oversee the competition.” He clasped his hands in front of him, golden rings winking on his pudgy fingers. “Each participant must approach the Fountain of Truth prior to the start of the competition. One by one, you’ll drink from the fountain and swear not to use any magic you do not already possess. At the Games’ conclusion, the fountain will reflect the face of the winner. Inessa will ensure everyone drinks from the fountain as required.”

Something brushed my shoulder. When I turned my head, Brader Ashcroft stood at my side. As disbelief gripped me, he met my gaze and offered a slight smile.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” I blurted.

On the platform, Bolveg continued to speak. “Now, the Games consist of three challenges…”

“Ashcroft?” Drute said at my other shoulder. “Where did you come from?”

“He followed me,” I said, my attention divided between Brader and Bolveg, who continued to describe the competition.

“…per the rules, contestants will only learn the nature of each challenge immediately prior to the start of that challenge…”

Brader bristled as he held my stare. “I’m here to compete.” His gaze hardened. “And to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

My disbelief swirled into anger. “Are you serious? It’s none of your business what I do.”

“…this is to prevent anyone from gaining a magical edge,” Bolveg said.

“You put yourself in danger unnecessarily,” Brader said. He looked at Drute. “You should put a stop to this.”

My hand itched to slap the arrogance from Brader’s face. “No one will be stopping me from doing anything.”

“Shh,” someone hissed. I yanked my gaze from Brader’s to find a vampire glaring at me over his shoulder. He tossed Brader and me a disgruntled look.

“Keep it down. Some of us are trying to listen to the rules.”

“Sorry,” I said, and I pitched my voice low as I turned back to Brader. “Go home, Brader.”

His brows pulled together. “I told you, I came to compete.”

“You don’t need the elixir,” I said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you going to use it for?”

“Will you two shut up ?” someone asked.

Drute clamped a hand on my shoulder. “Easy, Zara. Brader has as much right to compete as anyone else.”

I shrugged out of his grip. Whose side was he on, anyway?

Brader narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll wish for you to come to your senses.”

My wolf roared to the surface. Anger curled my hands into fists. Forget a slap. Brader was asking for a well-placed right hook. I was probably fast enough to land a punch before he dodged it.

“…will take place in the Catacombs of Uzgal,” Bolveg droned from the platform. “Each competitor must solve a series of puzzles while facing their deepest fears.”

“Let me state this plainly, Brader,” I said through clenched teeth. “I won’t marry you. So you can go home.”

Brader drew a deep breath. At the same moment, a shout rose from the other side of the clearing. Bolveg stopped speaking as murmurs ran through the crowd.

Frowning, I looked toward the source of the commotion. Men blocked my view, and I went on tiptoe as the murmurs grew louder. Snatches of conversation rippled toward me.

“…two of them.”

“Late arrival.”

“…probably mated.”

“Just entered this morning.”

“Dragons.”

The crowd in front of me parted like a sea split down the middle. On the other side of the clearing, two men emerged from the jungle, their long strides eating up the ground.

The hair on my nape lifted. For some reason, my heart rate sped up. In my peripheral vision, Brader’s lips continued to move. But I couldn’t hear him. My senses narrowed to the newcomers, who reached the edge of the clearing.

More heads turned in their direction. Competitors melted out of their way. One of the men was slightly taller than the other, with black hair swept back from a broad forehead. His companion sported a crop of chocolate-brown waves. Even from a distance, power rolled off the pair.

Dragons. I’d never seen one in person. Their numbers had dwindled over the years. They were rumored to be possessive. Obsessive. When my grandfather was young, the other Firstborn Races hid their women to stop the dragons from hunting them—and stealing them.

My heart pounded. Only half aware of what I was doing, I backed up a step.

The men stopped. They gazed around the gathering. Then, as one, they frowned.

Turned their heads.

And looked directly at me.