Dragon Heartstring

C
opyright
© 2016 by Juliette Cross

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

F
or my readers
,

who love the paranormal romance genre with devotion

and know that even stories of fantasy have value for the mind, heart, and soul.

I
fidgeted
, tapping my thumb against my pant leg while watching the numbers on the elevator panel. I exhaled a lungful of air. Adrenaline amped up my heartrate the closer I came to the first floor. For Morgons, that was at the top.

The doors opened, and I stepped out onto the marble foyer of Nightwing Tower where my sister Jessen lived with her husband, Lucius Nightwing. No. Her mate. The thought still turned my stomach, but not for the same reason it had when she first abandoned our family for him.

My father, Pritchard Cade, had taught me from a young age that Morgons were monsters. Animals. Though they held a mostly human appearance, their dragon genes ran strong, manifesting in more ways than the great wings that sprouted from their backs. Their pretense at civility was merely a cover to hide their beastly natures. That was what I was told.

On the day Jessen was nearly killed by Aron Grayson, the man our father had planned for her to marry, I realized there was a beast in us all. Humans and Morgons alike. It was Lucius who saved and protected my sister that day, but I never had the chance to tell him how thankful I was. If I ever did get the opportunity, I doubt I’d be able to muster the courage.

And so here I stood on their doorstep once again, nausea churning in the pit of my stomach, the shame of that day having never left me.

My first visit to their home had been on their newborn son’s homecoming from the hospital. Julian had opened my eyes fully to the truth—that my father had fed me nonsense. My nephew was not a monster or an animal. He was everything bright and good. And he was Morgon.

Lucius had tolerated my presence on his son’s birthdays each year since then. I preferred to visit with Julian and Jessen in City Park away from the death-glares of her husband. I deserved his disdain, but I hated confronting a wrong I wished to be buried and forgotten.

But I wouldn’t let my own shame and guilt keep me from my nephew’s birthday. Just as I wouldn’t let my father’s overbearing hate-speeches deny me this bond with my own blood, Morgon or not. Though Father’s ranting tirades against the “money-hungry” and “domineering” Morgons had waned, he still refused to welcome Jessen and her family. I could never agree with my father in abandoning my sister.

Tucking Julian’s gift under my arm, I knocked on the door. Their house servant opened it at once.

“Welcome, Mr. Cade. Come right in.”

“Thank you, Brant.”

“I’ll take the gift for you. The party is on the terrace.”

With a stiff nod, I strode across the opulent living room decorated in cream and gold with red pillows on the sofa and a scarlet chaise near the fire. I always tried to ignore the painting on the ceiling, but as usual, I could not. The image of a nude couple standing at a castle window looking out at a snow-swept mountain with dragons winging into the distance was too captivating to ignore. The woman, pale and beautiful, stood several feet shorter than her bronze-skinned lover, his hand upon her waist beneath the fall of her long, black hair. She watched the dragons flying into the moonlit night. He had eyes only for her.

This was the image of the human Queen Morga and her husband, the dragon king of the North, Radomis. History taught humans that Morga was kidnapped and forced to marry the king. But my sister told me another story, one that is not written in human texts but is known well by all of Morgonkind. One of love and sacrifice, which was etched into every brushstroke of the painting above me. Their marriage gave birth to the Morgon race. When the dragons were all gone, the Morgons lived on.

Stepping out onto the terrace, almost as wide as the rooftop, I scanned the crowd filled mostly with people I hardly knew. I caught sight of Julian chasing a human girl with blond braids in a circle. His nascent wings flapped furiously but never lifted him off the ground. His infectious laugh echoed across the terrace as did his playmate’s squeal.

“Gonna get you!” he yelled as she dodged behind a woman who must be her mother. Then he caught sight of me. “Uncle Demetrius!”

He barreled toward me in that carefree, jaunty way of his. I scooped him up and tossed him in the air before settling him in my arms. More giggles.

“Now, Julian. What were you doing chasing that poor little girl around and frightening her to death?”

He hooked his hands around my neck. “She’s not a poor little girl. That’s just Celie.”

“Ah. I see,” I said, walking toward the crowd near the edge of the awning where little Celie still peered from behind her mother’s white skirt. Her mother was distracted and laughing in conversation with a Morgon woman. “And is Celie your friend?”

“Of course, she is.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t try to scare her so much when you play. Girls don’t like to be chased.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” came a snarky, feminine voice behind me. “But you’ve spent most your life being wrong, I’d say.”

Gritting my teeth, I turned. “Hello, Sorcha.”

“Aunt Sorcha is right,” added Julian. “Girls like being chased.”

“Oh, you little scamp,” said the fiery redhead who was my sister’s best friend and the spawn of the devil. “Girls
love
to be chased. Take it from me.”

“Isn’t he a little young for the wisdom of dating according to Aunt Sorcha?”

“He’s never too young to know what girls like. Right, Julian?” She took him from my arms and brushed her nose to his.

“I’m not sure Jessen is ready for her three year old to hit the dating scene.”

“Don’t be such a bore, Demetrius,” she said with a sigh. “Overdressed as usual, I see.”

“I came from work.”

“Of course you did.”

“Why’d you call him a bore, Aunt Sorcha? And what’s a bore?”

“Oh, never mind,” she told Julian. “That’s nothing. You should hear the names I used to call him.”

“Why would you call Uncle Demetrius names? He’s nice.”

Sorcha laughed with a toss of her head and flaming hair. “Mmm, nice. Yes, well—”

“Sorcha,” I warned.

“Run along, Demetrius. Go see your sister. Julian, your dad has a game for you and your friends.”

“A game?” Julian’s eyes lit up. “What’s it called?”

Sorcha took him off to a gathering of children near Lucius who’d spotted me and given me a nod in greeting. I suppose that was better than the fuck-you glare. I scanned the party to find Jessen seated under the awning next to a Morgon woman who looked familiar, though I couldn’t place her. Jessen was engrossed in the conversation, which seemed intense with their vehement whisperings. She didn’t notice me until I was there by her side.

“Hello, Jessen.”

“Demetrius!” She leaped out of her seat and hugged me with the kind of joy I longed for. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Of course, I came. You thought I wouldn’t?”

Hands on my shoulders, she pulled back, giving me a solemn look, then said quietly, “I’m always afraid you won’t. That Father might—”

“Sister, you overestimate our father’s power over me.”

She arched a brow. “Really?”

I sighed. “I won’t ever forget my nephew’s birthday. Ever.”

She smiled, knowing good and well what I truly meant, that our father had kept an ironclad grip on my will for many years. He still did at times. But I’d not let him come between me and her again.

“Besides, you might be surprised to know that he’s not quite the curmudgeon he once was.”

“Oh? Now that
is
shocking.”

“Well, not entirely,” I added. “Moira didn’t make it?”

“No. She brought Julian a present yesterday. She’s got a hard deadline with the paper she can’t miss.”

I nodded in understanding. Our youngest sister was growing up fast, climbing the ladder at
The Herald,
the college paper for Gladium University.

The woman behind us cleared her throat softly.

“Oh.” Jessen swiveled. “You remember Shakara Icewing, don’t you?”

Unusual that I should forget a face like hers—high cheekbones, heart-shaped lips, sea-green eyes that looked on me with a steady gaze. She wore her platinum blond hair down around her delicate shoulders. Her pink blouse and tight jeans accentuated a slender frame.

She smiled and stood, tucking her white wings close to her back. “I’m afraid he doesn’t, Jess.”

“Oh, come on, Demetrius. The Unity Ball several years ago. And she came to Julian’s party last year.”

“No, I missed his second birthday,” she said. “I had that emergency at the clinic, remember? But I was at his first. Apparently, I didn’t make a big enough impression,” she teased, offering her hand. “Hi. I’m Shakara Icewing.”

I took her hand in mine. “I’m so sorry. I believe I do remember you now.”

It was the Unity Ball I remembered her from. Three years ago to be precise. But my mind was on other things than beautiful women that night, such as my father’s business negotiations with the Morgons and my sister’s refusal to marry the man whose family alliance would strengthen the Cade fortune. Yes, I’d been obsessed with work and business then, much like I was now. Except now, I steered clear of the Grayson family. Particularly Aron, the one who’d almost killed my sister in the process of staking his claim.

The sleeveless top Jessen wore revealed the edge of the swirling pattern of the iridescent scar on her shoulder. Jessen had told me once this was the mark left behind when a wound was healed by a Morgon healer, an Icewing, though she gave me no other details.

“No need to save my feelings,” said Shakara. “I’ve got tougher skin than it looks.”

I admired her milk-and-cream complexion. She caught me staring and glanced away, a pretty blush flushing her cheeks.

“Jessen,” called Sorcha near the crowd of giggling children, Julian in the center with a blindfold on and spinning around. “Come see!”

“Excuse me,” she said, disappearing toward them.

“Would you like to go and watch?” I asked.

“I’m comfortable watching from here.”

When I leaned to stand beside her, I accidentally brushed the bottom of her wings with my hand. She flinched and tightened them against her back.

“Sorry,” I said, always a little uncomfortable about a Morgon’s wings, the obvious physical difference between our species.

To be honest, I still felt uncomfortable around Morgons. In business, I recognized that my anxiety level heightened in meetings when Cade Enterprises was negotiating with various Morgon-owned companies for distribution or exports. I kept these meetings direct and short. Cade Enterprises hadn’t yet hired a Morgon on staff, and my father would never approve the notion.

“It’s okay,” said Shakara with a shake of the head, though I noticed her lean away to be sure and avoid contact.

I clasped my hands in front of me to give her space. “So, you work at a clinic?”

“Yes. I run the clinic on Sable Street.”

I paused, knowing exactly which clinic that was. “In the Warwick District?”

“Yes. You know of it?”

“I do,” I said, glancing her way with curiosity.

The Feygreir Healers Clinic on Sable Street was the first one opened on street level. Most Morgons kept their clinics in high towers.

“Go on,” she said. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Don’t be coy, Demetrius.”

I straightened and tucked my hands in my pants pockets. “All right then. Why did you decide to place your Morgon clinic on the street-level?”

“I thought that was rather obvious. I treat humans as well as Morgons.”

Her answer was surprising and more direct than I expected. She looked at me, then laughed. “Have I shocked you?”

“No. I mean, yes.” I shook my head, rarely addled by anyone. “I just thought, or actually I didn’t think…” I was never at a loss for words, but I couldn’t seem to find the polite response.

“You didn’t think Icewings would want to treat humans with our healing gifts.”

Her wings drew my attention once more—delicate yet strong—much like the woman standing next to me.

“Quite frankly, no, I didn’t.”

She smiled and returned to watching the children, but I couldn’t stop looking at her.

“It was your sister who gave me the idea.”

“Really?”

She gave a little nod. “I was the Icewing who healed her wound.”

“You?” My pulse pounded faster. She was the one who had saved Jessen that horrific day. “I never found out who it was.”

“It was a serious injury, but Jessen is a strong woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

At that moment, Jessen carried out the cake and set it on a center table.

Shakara continued. “Afterwards, I realized something.”

“What was that?”

She angled her body to face me. I did the same since an intensity in her expression seemed to require my attention.

“Our gifts weren’t meant only for Morgonkind. That all people, humans as well as Morgons, should be given the same opportunity for treatment and care. To be honest, I felt rather selfish keeping it to our own kind.”

For a moment, I was struck utterly dumb, transfixed by sea-green eyes and the strength of will in this woman. A pause stretched between us. She didn’t fill it with small talk or try to flirt or giggle as so many women did in my company. Rather, she remained silent as if awaiting judgment for her lofty ideals. For wanting true equality among the species.

“You know,” I said cautiously. “I admire your candor and certainly your willingness to do some good, but I’m afraid you’ve set yourself up for disappointment.”

She arched a brow. “Oh?”

“I think you give humans too much credit. They will not accept your help. The world isn’t quite ready for it.”

She laughed and turned a pitying look on me. “Oh, I hate to break this to you, but I already have human patients. Regulars, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay, Julian!” called Jessen over the murmur of the party-goers. “Time for your birthday cake.” She bent to light the three candles.

Shakara took a step toward the gathering crowd, then turned back to me. “The world is ready, Demetrius. The question is, are men like you?”

Completely baffled, I watched her go. She thought I was prejudiced, and that bothered me. Immensely. Sure. I’d had my hang-ups with Morgons in the past, but I’d come to accept our coexistence. Hadn’t I? The woman had me rethinking my own beliefs, all in the course of a five-minute conversation.