The Vampire Queen's Dragon Lord

Chapter 6

Declan winced as spears of pain lanced through his flesh to the bone. The rivers of blood, long caked on his skin, itched like mad. But he didn't have the strength to lift a hand and attempt to ease them. In what became a slow struggle, Declan opened his eyes. His breath seized to see a swirling gray mist clouded around him. And to see he was standing even though a shift of his shoulders proved he lay on the dungeon floor.

"What the...?"

He slammed his eyes closed. Even though his senses confirmed he still lay on the dungeon floor, he saw that freakish slog around him. Felt himself vertical. Holding his hands in front of him, he cautiously walked forward. His foot touched air and the earth fell out from under him. Wind lapped his flesh as he fell into a void. On instinct, he called upon his dragon form, hoping to shift and fly out of this vortex.

Nothing happened.

Opening his eyes wide, he noticed a small circle of red shining like a beacon at the funnel's bottom. Each passing second brought him closer to the light. Closer to the ground. Declan only had time to shut his eyes in useless but instinctual defense before he hit thick carpet with a thwack.

Carpet?

Head spinning, Declan fanned his fingers through the plush red fibers. His brow tightened as he tensed and pushed up to stand, his eyes darting about an empty room. Seeing no one, he closed his eyes and channeled his dragon senses. Again, it proved he still lay caged in that cell.

"So I'm dreaming," he said beneath his breath as he opened his eyes. Even though it was vivid, more crisp and unsettling than any dream he'd ever had. "But of what?"

With guarded steps, he moved through a large chamber. The relentless fog closed in with every step, until even the walls melted into its embrace. When the mist had nearly engulfed him, a set of elaborately carved French doors materialized before him. They opened without a sound and Declan stepped inside. The mist swelled at his approach and then parted, as if the room itself had taken in a deep breath and blown it away.

Declan swallowed hard.

A woman stood before him. A gloriously naked woman.

His eyes drank in the violin curve of her back, sliding lower, every ince of her milky-white skin glowing in the soft amber light. His palms burned to caress her and spears of heat shot through him, barreling like a rocket to his gut. Then she pivoted and he found himself holding his breath. At the sight, his heart stuttered and then stopped completely. It was her. The sexy blonde vampire who fired his lust and fueled his hate.

"Anastasia," he whispered. The flavor of her name on his lips bled into the taste of her. Tangy and rich, her phantom essence coated his throat and burst on his tongue, making his mouth water. Never had he tasted anything like her. It had taken all the will he owned to pull away from her sweet neck and he would give anything to be there again now.

Breathtakingly beautiful, her wide black eyes, pale skin and lush lips filled his vision. He stepped closer. Though part of him wanted to awaken and end this torture, another wanted to get closer, crawl inside her and never come out. Overcome, he reached for her. However, the hand that lifted and smoothed down her cheek did not belong to him. Declan frowned. His gaze fixed on the fingers closing around her neck, the wide, ruby ring on the index finger and long black claws extending from each tip.

Luthur.

Even trapped in this hallucinogenic sleep, the countless wounds and cuts on his body ached at the memory of the torture he'd endured at that monster's hands. And now they were all over Anastasia. Declan shot his gaze back to her face. The fear in her eyes nearly stopped his heart and sent protective rage simmering violently in his veins.

Don't you dare touch her!

Declan shuddered in his sleep, helpless as the vampire spun her around, and she gasped as her legs struck the metal frame of the bed's base. Luthur swiped the curtain of her hair over her shoulder, baring the back of her neck to his gaze. Declan heard a soft whimper escape Anastasia as Luthur chuckled evilly, before his claws bit into the soft skin of her neck.

"No," Declan stepped forward to help her, to stop this monstrosity, but his feet wouldn't move. It struck him then that he couldn't even turn around. Clenching his jaw and fists tight, he closed his eyes and tried to control his uneven breathing as the sound of Anastasia's soft cries filled the air. Luthur laughed out loud as a roar escaped him.

"Mine!"

Declan jerked awake. As he had realized sometime before the crazy dream began, he still lay on his back on the dungeon floor. Cold sweat covered his body. He flexed his stomach muscles, wincing at the ribbon of pain curling around his gut. Wrapping an arm around the ache, he dragged himself to sit up. Resting his back on the wall, he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. Images from the dream flashed through his mind with lucid clarity. It had been so real, vivid, like a memory. Holding his head in his hands, he pushed it back to the far recesses of his mind, trying to ignore the most unsettling aspect of it all --- the protective rage and palpable anger still quivering through every muscle of his body. A body still ready to leap to her defense and stop that terrible event from ever taking place. The need to save the little vampire who'd shot him out of the sky and caged him here.

A cross between a chuckle and a grunt bubbled out of him.

Gods, he was already losing his mind in this place.

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Anastasia braced her hands on the rocky shower wall and stood beneath a constant stream of water, relishing the warm spray sluicing down her scalp and back. Head down, she watched the water wash away the night's blood and grime, wishing it could wash away the images of that dragon lord's flesh splitting open under Luthur's whip. Of his golden body arched above her, his blue eyes, dark and smoldering, speaking volumes of what he wanted to do to her. She tilted her head to the side, wincing when the needles of water pricked her neck.

His bite.

She lifted a hand to her throat, flinching from pain and the memory it provoked. Why hasn't it healed yet? She never went more than a few minutes without self-healing. Then again, she'd never been bitten before. Was this perhaps normal?

The water automatically shut off when she moved towards the door. Pushing the beveled glass open, she took two granite steps to the main level. Stopping in front of the sink, she tucked her hair in a bun with a comb. After wrapping a towel around her, she pulled out a thin metal razor and laid it on the counter. A film of haze coated the mirror. Anastasia lifted both hands, wiping the flat of her palms on the cool glass until the condensation was gone. The reflection staring back at her stopped her cold.

Although she couldn't stand to see, she couldn't look away. The woman in the mirror looked desperate, sad and empty. Emotions she always felt, always carried on the inside, showed plain as day on her face. For a moment, she allowed the truth of those feelings to sweep over her, let them take her to a place where years ago she'd vowed not to go. Self-pity, sorrow, longing----they were all weak and selfishly indulgent emotions. Luxuries a future Queen could not afford to entertain. At the sound of her mother's voice in her ears, Anastasia allowed the wave of emotions to crest, the swell of anger to rise.

Without taking her eyes off her reflection, she lifted the razor to the glass and slid it across the reflection of her face, just below her eyes. Then she lowered her hand, slicing it across her mirrored neck. The hand holding the blade trembled. A small voice whispering through her, wishing she had the guts to do it for real.

Anastasia gasped and tossed the metal on the floor. Pinching her eyes tightly shut, she set her hands on the cool stone and hunched over the sink. A burning pit opened behind her stomach even though she tried to breathe it away. She covered the dull ache with her palm, acknowledging the cause. A shadowy space, always present inside of her, had grown over the years. The crawling darkness wound through her, digging its roots deeper, further into her soul. Although she knew it was wrong, she'd fed the shadow at first. Every act of torture, every soul she'd put in the ground, bred and nurtured it until now it threatened to swallow her whole, consume her. Worse, she'd begun to have the impression the reasons she'd been fighting all these years were not as black and white as they once had seemed.

By the time she looked back in the mirror, the haze had cleared from the glass. Crisp and clear, her reflection stared back at her. Again she regarded herself, only this time she looked fine, composed, as if a mask covered her features, betraying the emotions truly bubbling up within. She did not look miserable, frightened or desperate, despite the fact she'd felt nothing but a blended cocktail of all these feelings since the night Luthur.....

Anastasia pushed off the counter, forcing the memories back. Striding to the closet, she pushed aside her leather combat gear with more force than necessary, selecting instead a powder blue chiffon toga, befitting the presence of her mother. The fabric slid over her head, settling in no more than a whisper on her flesh. Smooth and light, the texture was shockingly airy, the antithesis of the confining gear she wore each day. At once, the air started to close around her. She felt naked. Exposed. She couldn't seem to drag enough oxygen into her lungs. Hastily, she reached back into her closet, her hand burrowing beneath a neat stack of pants. Closing her hand over a short throwing knife, she secured the blade in a thigh holster beneath her gown. With each tightening of the strap, her hands, once unsteady, became more sure and confident. By the time she'd secured the latch and stood, the threadbare line she'd been grasping tightened and drew her to the surface.

Exhaling, she moved to her bedside vanity and began methodically smoothing her hair. For some reason, the normal emptiness in the air smothered her tonight. Though the lack of men, females and children was always palpable, Anastasia did not know anything different. She hadn't seen but the occasional natural-born vampire in years. They dwelled in a different compound set farther within the cliff walls. A place she wasn't allowed to go to. Even her personal attendants were composed of Luthur's soldiers, as it was his orders to keep her and her mother separate from the colony.

Though he claimed it to be the best for their station, Anastasia believed he did it as a means to keep them under his control, under his ever-watchful eye. Either way, it made her miserable. Again, something she assumed Luthur intended. In truth, she was no different from the souls rotting in the dungeon. Granted, she wore no shackles and her cage was bigger, less filthy. But she was still a prisoner.

Like him.

Closing her eyes, she shut out the thought. Instead, she called to mind a more serene memory, one of the few she had. From back when her grandmother ruled. The long-ago, lilting sounds of laughter and children at play echoed in her mind. Images of her running barefooted through the compound flashed behind her eyes. She felt the beaming smile on her face. Saw her long hair trailing behind her like a kite. Another girl whose name she couldn't recall chased along behind her. A friend, she thought with a wistful smile. How long had it been since she had one of those? How long had it been since she smiled like that?

A knock sounded at the door, jerking Anastasia out of her memory. Standing, she rounded the stool and crossed the chamber. Ivan, one of Luthur's most trusted men, opened the door before she reached it. His broad shoulders barely fitting in the doorway.

"The Queen's been waiting for you."