The Dream Thief (37 page)

“And I
your bravado, though no doubt it grows tedious over time. Lady Amalia informs
me you’re no earl. In fact, you’re not even a lordling. Best of all—you’re not
wed to her.”

“Not yet. We’ll be remedying that
very soon.”

Imre
sat back in his chair and began to laugh. “You
are
bold, peasant—or else
simply a madman. Why in God’s name would you return here? Was a bullet in your
body not message enough?”

“I’ve come for Amalia, and for
Draumr,
”
Zane replied peaceably. “I won’t be leaving without them.”

“Pity I
don’t have my pistol on me. Ah, well! Lady Amalia, how are you feeling? Are you
quite rested, my dear?”

“Quite,” she said, her face
turning to his.

“Excellent. Then listen to me,
please. I want you now to Turn into a dragon and slay this man before me. Try
not to damage the walls.”

Lia glanced back at Zane. She was
his and not his, changed since the last instant he had seen her— not from
scales to flesh, but from something soft and real and earthly to something
else: jewels and gold, rice powder and cool sparkling eyes. She was more
gravely beautiful than ever. Her head tipped as she gazed at him, as if he
puzzled her, only slightly, a small conundrum that warranted merely the pucker
of her lips and a downward sweep of chocolate lashes.

He loved her. The thought that
she was going to be his kept him standing upright even as the blood slipped
from his fingers.

“Still you smile!” exclaimed the
prince. “A madman, just as I thought.”

“No.” Zane curled his fingers
into his palm. “It’s just that I know what you don’t.”

“Oh? Have you some magical spell
tucked up your sleeve? Some wizard’s potion to stop a dragon in her tracks? I’m
all agog. Pray, do tell.”

“No spells, no potions. Nothing
so dramatic. What I know…is the future. And you’re not in it.”

Imre’s expression hardened. He
took the diamond from his pocket and clamped it in his fist. “Amalia. Kill
him.”

She rose to her feet. She stood
behind the table, a perfect gentlewoman with smooth powdered curls and ebony
lace rucked at her sleeves.

“Lia,” Zane said. “My heart. I
don’t want to fight you.”

“I
rather think you don’t,” agreed the prince. “She’s about to have a significant
advantage. Lady Amalia. Obey me, if you please. Now.”

Her
eyes closed, opened again. Her cheeks were bloodless, her breathing slowed. The
moment spun out, shining, delicate, and Zane thought,
She won’t do it, she
won’t—

“Zane.” It was a whisper. And
then, with a cheerful tinkle of falling rings, she Turned, smoke, sinuous shape
rising to the air and coalescing down again, and he was looking at the other
side of her, a creature so bright and gorgeous it nearly hurt to see, shimmer
and color and very long claws.

Behind the table, Imre picked up
his wineglass. The princess never moved.

A lovely woman, a lovely dragon;
he’d seen them like this, the
drákon
of Darkfrith. He knew their ripples
and turns, their long lashes and grinning fangs. He knew their lethal grace,
but this was Lia, his Lia-heart, and when she turned her head and fixed him
with eyes of molten gold, he did not flinch. When she swept her tail toward
him, a blur of gilt and violet-purple, he skipped back a single step, and it
was enough to save him.

She’s not serious. She’s not
truly serious.

Her head whipped about,
iridescent blue scales, a silky ruff framing her face. She lunged at him,
snapping her teeth, and missed him by a hairbreadth. He leapt once more, truly
leapt, a shade too slow, a pitch too awkward, and like lightning she struck
again, this time whirling to connect the thick of her tail with his left leg.

He heard the bone snap. It didn’t
hurt; there was no time for that. He fell to the floor and tucked his body into
a tight tumble, instinct taking over, moving him away to swift safety. He
reeled back to his feet amid dizziness and more blood and couldn’t seem to find
a certain balance again.

There was a scarlet handprint on
the floor from where he fell. His shoulder was afire. He hobbled and turned his
back to the blood and thought of all the sly weapons he still possessed:
Knives. Picks. Wire-thin blades meant to carve up a heart beneath rib bones, or
slice out an eye.

He wouldn’t use any of them. She
wasn’t going to kill him. Despite his leg and his shoulder, there was no force
on earth that would make him act against her.

Lia spun about, striking the
table with one impressive white wing, tipping it over in a great mess of
shattered china and jasmine and spilled wine. The prince jumped back. The
princess still did not rise, not even when the broken vase ruptured flowers and
water at her feet.

Lia narrowed her eyes at him,
every inch of her bristling. She drew one curved golden claw slowly across the
floor in front of her, leaving a scratch mark an inch deep.

Zane began to rethink his
strategy.

Someone beyond the lake was
controlling her muscles. Someone beyond the lake sang a chant in her ear,
Obey
me, obey me, obey.
She was the song, she was the melody and the harmony,
the clever death that swept up and down through the score, sideways, bending, a
chanson
that lifted wings and air and forced the human man battling her
to duck small and fling himself hard away.

He had no sword. He had no gun.
It hardly seemed fair to kill him, but the hot scent of his blood filled her
nostrils, and that was exciting. She’d already wounded him, and that was good.

He spoke her human name.

Lia!

Something
cold stirred in her heart. A worm; a doubt. Something as deep as sinew and
marrow protested, rusting her in place. It forced her to pause, to examine the
man limping before her, returning to her despite the fact that she was about to
take his life.

He lifted his eyes to hers, his
lips pulled taut, his hair spilling over his shoulders and down his coat. He
held up a bloodied hand to her, keeping his weight on one leg.

And then…she remembered him. The
sight of his hair, long hair—too long for a man—the glint of honey and of
sable, blond and richly brown. She knew that color. She knew his face. His set
jaw. His yellow eyes.

Yes. She’d known him all her
life.

She had a sapphire because of
him. She had a dream, many dreams, and a family and a home— because of him.

Lia saw him in a different place,
a land of green hills and gentle streams. A land with ponds, and children, and
fishing poles that struck circles into flat water.

She shook her head. She glanced
wildly around the foreign room and felt herself begin to shrink inside.

“Snapdragon.” The man was not so
hardy as he appeared; he listed sideways and dropped to one knee, his skin beaded
and pale. Blood had splashed a circle of red raindrops around him. He looked
very ill.

She Turned to smoke. She Turned
to woman. Beyond the placid lake someone thundered her name, and she put her
hands to her ears, crouching down, rocking in place, not listening.

No, no, no—she’d rather drown,
she’d rather die—

A hand met her shoulder. The man
drew her to him with one arm, this mortal man, smelling of sweat and fox and
fresh blood, clasping her to him with a faint, faint noise in his chest.

All the water smothering her fell
away in a silent rush. She flung her arms around his neck. She pressed her face
into his hair and felt Zane’s rough inhalation.

“I’m sorry,” she was gasping,
“I’m sorry, it wasn’t me, oh, God, what happened? I’m so sorry—”

“Hush,” the thief murmured, his
arm very tight. “Sweet girl, I’ve got you. Hush now.”

The
drákon
prince lifted
his voice in time with
Draumr
’s dark tune.

“Lady Amalia. For every second
you disobey me, there is a knife stabbing you in the heart.”

She took a long, shuddering
breath—and felt the blade sink into her.

“It hurts you like fire. It
scorches your skin. You’re burning, Amalia. You must kill him to stop the
pain.”

Her throat closed. Her eyes
teared. Her fingers clenched and her head fell back and she could not breathe.

“Fire,
Amalia. All you have to do—”

Zane
said urgently, “Lia. Don’t listen.”

She was
blistering. She was smoking. She twisted against the hard floor and felt her
flesh begin to melt. Zane’s hand at her shoulder was a smoking iron, crisping
down to her bones.

“Lia!
It’s not real!”

“But it
is, my lady. End it. Turn to dragon. He is nothing to you. You’ll be whole
again.”

So here was the other side of the
lake: a sheet of fire. Here was an aspect of
Draumr
she’d never even
imagined, that it could be used to set her nerve endings alight, that it could
whisper,
Burn to ashes and embers,
and she would.

“Destroy him, Amalia, and the
pain will cease.”

Zane was trying to stand. “Damn
you! Stop hurting her!”

She ripped at her hair; she
couldn’t scream. She could only shake her head, over and over, not even
managing a moan.

From a very great distance, she
heard the prince sigh.

“Maricara. Finish it.”

A chair was pushed back, scraping
the stone.

Lia found her voice.
“No.”
The word came hoarse, broken with rage. It sounded inhuman, an animal voice,
but it was hers. “I’ll kill you. I won’t let you.”

Traitor,
sang the diamond.
Burn merry,
a merry burn….

Maricara moved to obey like a
mermaid beneath the sea. She was slim and lissome; it was one of the reasons
she made such a fine dragon. She glided in front of her husband in the orange
brocade gown he’ d picked out for her this morning, her arm reaching up, the
supper knife firm in her grip. She struck him deep beneath his third rib; he
was tall and she was not; she could not reach much higher than that.

Imre stared down at her with an
expression of astonishment. She felt, interestingly, absolutely nothing. His
hands closed hard over hers, jerking her close, so that her skirts swept his
legs and her chest met his belly. Red ribbons spurted over their joined
fingers; the diamond blazed hot against her skin. But it loosened his grip on
her and she jerked back, stepping into a tangle of jasmine stems.

For a
long instant her husband stood alone, his blue eyes clear, his handsome face
blanched. He swallowed and pulled the knife free, frowning at the blood-smeared
metal.

“You didn’t say how,” Maricara said,
as the prince collapsed to the floor.