The Morcambre Courant. The Durham Chronicle, the York Afternoon Advertiser. Three papers carrying stories about a pack of savage, mysterious beasts that carried off cows and pigs—and according to one, an entire gaggle of fat geese—in the black of night, leaving behind only feathers and ravaged bones.
But the worst one, the worst one by far, was a small article that had appeared in the Whitby Daily News. It detailed the account of a tinker and his kin who all declared they saw a giant, winged "Serpent Fiend" in the sky Friday evening as they'd camped in the North York Moors.
Not wolves, not feral dogs. None such creatures could travel from town to town at the speed of flight. Trust a bloody tinker to get it right.
It was the princess, or her guard: another taunt. Kim couldn't imagine why she'd hazard exposure in such a blatant manner, but as she'd said, their ways were different. No doubt in the ruddy Carpathians dragons flocked the skies as common as blackbirds, but out here, in this rural and sleepy land.
She was putting his people in danger. She was jeopardizing all of Darkfrith, all for a ludicrous wager.
None of the papers were less than four days old. He was fortunate they'd reached the shire in that amount of time, actually. It usually took almost a week for even the Courant to wind its way through the gates of Chasen Manor.
It was the late afternoon of the eighth day of the hunt. He'd been out with the others, searching day and night, following scents and trails, doubling back, guessing at routes that seemed to evaporate midflight. It was as if Maricara had managed to erase every trace of herself, magically, utterly. He was still sensitized to her, he knew he was; all he had to do was close his eyes and imagine her face, her voice, the shape of her hand—and the elements of her rushed back to him, sent goose bumps along his skin.
But except for a fleeting hint of her by an old yew in Blackstone Woods, there was nothing of the Princess Maricara left in Darkfrith. And there had never been even the slightest indication of a guard. It was baffling. Beyond that. It was infuriating.
He'd come home that afternoon to see if there was anything new; every day brought a fresh batch of periodicals. Cows, sheep, that prized pig. Men with guns.
Kim pressed a hand over his eyes, rubbing against the gritty ache until his lids flashed red. Slanted light from the Tudor windows behind him felt far too good at the moment, soothing warm across his taut shoulders. He needed to shave. He needed to eat, and to sleep. He needed to shake the worry that gripped him, that itched across his skin and sent evil whispers into his brain: Something was wrong. Something she'd not anticipated had caught up with her, a farmer with a pistol and excellent aim. Human men who wanted to pluck out her heart.
He imagined her wounded. He imagined her shot, plummeting to the ground, her wings torn apart, her body broken.
Kimber was developing a healthy abhorrence of the press.
"You'll find her," said Joan. She perched on a corner of the mahogany desk, covering his free hand with her own. "You will, or Rhys will. Or one of the council. I'm sure she wants to be found. It's just a game to her right now. It will play out."
Both of his sisters had, naturally, been anticipating his return. They'd found him in the marquess's study—Kimber's study—staring blankly at an untidy stack of newspapers and old mail, with his elbows on his desk and his fingers clenched in his hair.
"I can't wait for that." He rubbed his eyes one last time—it only made them hurt worse—then sat back in his chair, frustrated. "I can't wait for her to decide she's won." He waved a hand at the papers. "For God's sake, have you read any of this?"
"Yes," said Joan. "All of it. She's gone far beyond the pale. So we've decided to join the hunt."
That got his attention; Kim looked up. "You have? What does Erik have to say about that?"
"Erik," she answered stiffly, "gave me a peck on the cheek this morning and wished me the blooming best of luck. Did you think he wouldn't?"
"No." Almost against his will, Kim felt his lips curve. Joan was fire and passion, as surely as Audrey was calm, cool water. Together they made a frighteningly crafty duo. He glanced at his twin. "And you?"
"Of course. I won't be left behind. It seems you need everyone you can get. Perhaps, as the other two females who can fly, we may offer some insight into her patterns."
"A few feminine suppositions," added Joan, with a slight, steely smile.
Audrey matched it. "Quite."
"All I need," said Kimber, "is one damned good guess."
Audrey nodded. "Fair enough. I daresay we're up for it." She stood and locked her fingers together, stretched her arms out before her and then up over her head. She was wearing her chestnut hair loose, he realized, long and uncurled, a style that would be shockingly inappropriate just about anywhere else in the world.
Joan stood and began to work free her rings. "Oh," said Kim evenly. "Did you mean right now?" "Have you a better time?"
"I suppose not." But the truth was, he was done in, and it made him uncomfortable to see them like this, preparing to Turn; he couldn't get the image of Maricara's empty dress, her chemise and stays, from his mind.
Kim dropped his head back to his hands and stared instead at the postmark of a letter peeking out from under the corner of the Chronicle, just as Joan kicked off her shoes.
Seaham. Who the hell did he know in Seaham? He reached for the letter with one hand, broke open the seal with the edge of his thumb, and began to read.
"Kimber?" Audrey dropped her arms to her skirts. "What is it?"
"You're going to want to put your hair up," he said slowly. "She's staying in the Crown Suites at The Bell & Star. In Seaham."
"What? How on earth can you be certain? Did she actually write you to say so?"
He glanced up with a hand still propped to his head and held out the letter so that the script showed clear in the bright July light.
"Not exactly. But she was kind enough to have them bill it to me."
Like every other people on the planet, the drakon had legends.
There were legends of diamonds, of course. Diamonds had been linked to them since the birth of time, and the tribe had its share of mythic stones. Herte, Dramada, Eloquise—each with its own dark glimmering story, each kept in the mansion's most secret places, treasured and adored.
And there were legends of dragons. The ragged, long-ago leaders who had brought the tribe to the shire from a place since forgotten, who had struggled and forged a home for them all. The Alpha who had first touched claw to the land that would become Darkfrith was named Nadus, red-haired, mighty; by force of will alone he'd pulled his kind from the Continent to this rough and untested isle.
Ulan, who'd captured and loved a Celtic princess, and claimed her as his own.
Clarimonde, whose Gifts were said to include Fire and Water, and who once charmed an entire legion of human soldiers who had set out to kill her.
Theodus the Mystic.
Kieran the Unfortunate.
William the Blessed.
But of all those great dragons who had come before, perhaps the most famous of the drakon were two who still lived.
Christoff, Marquess of Langford. And the Smoke Thief, his wife, Clarissa Rue.
The king and queen of England could hardly command more esteem from their subjects; Kim had grown up in their shadows, and he'd never even realized it—how tall and strong they had both stood for the tribe, trouble after trouble, year after year, putting out every little fire, containing every new threat—until they had left.