The dragon rears up on his haunches, arcs his head toward the sky and spits out a stream of red fire. With deliberate steps, Lincoln closes in on the beast’s mouth. Raising his baculum high above his head, he blocks the dragon’s stream of fire with his sword. A shower of red-hot sparks cloud the air. The dragon gags, shakes its head, and hops backwards. Its neck becomes level with the tournament green.
Lincoln crouches into a body roll and slides under the beast’s belly, reappearing by the beast’s tail.
My eyebrows pop up. That’s a pretty neat move.
Baculum sword in hand, the Prince scales the dragon’s back, the beast howling and flailing beneath him. I watch the play of muscle on Lincoln’s chest and legs as he climbs up the dragon’s body. My skin flushes with desire and heat. Damn, that’s one gorgeous man, even if he is a creep sometimes.
Cissy touches my shoulder. “Are you okay, Myla?”
“What do you mean?”
She points to the wooden fence. I’ve gripped it so hard, there’s now a crack in the wood. I loosen my grip and shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. That’s just a really cool demon.”
“You and demons.” Cissy sniffs. “Well, be careful with that fence. It doesn’t look too sturdy.”
“Sure.” My gaze sweeps the crowd. Queen Octavia sits in the front row of the largest pavilion, her mismatched eyes fixed on me. I shiver and return my focus to the fighting grounds. The Prince still rides the dragon’s back as the beast twists and rears.
“Nat!” Lincoln waves to a sturdy thrax at the sidelines. “Toss me a muzzle!”
The man throws at Lincoln what looks like a thick leather net. The Prince slips it over the dragon’s mouth and pulls on the attached leash. The animal quiets. Shaking his head from side to side, Lincoln slides off the dragon’s back, the fire-sword still firmly in his grip.
A cry rises up from the pavilions. “Kill! Kill!”
Lincoln steps around the dragon, checking its jaw and hind legs. He raises one hand; the crowd goes quiet. “Nat, come here!”
The barrel-chested man jogs onto the tournament green. Sturdy and fit, he wears black body armor like Lincoln’s.
The Prince nods his head to the dragon. “Nat, how old do you say this beast is?”
Squinting, I take a closer look at the dragon’s body as well. He’s right. That dragon’s way too young for tournament fighting. No true warrior takes on anything but a fully-grown opponent who’s in attack mode. A lesson the Earl of Acca should learn, pronto. I tilt my head to one side. It takes a lot of control to stop in the middle of a battle. I almost hate to admit it, but I’m impressed.
I return my attention to the fighting grounds, where Nat checks the creature’s teeth. “The beast is four, maybe five years old, My Prince. Still a pup.”
Lincoln pats the beast’s hindquarters. “What would you say about these marks?”
Nat whistles through his teeth. “Stinging nettle, very painful. Would have driven the poor beast wild.”
Stinging nettle? That’s cruel stuff. Even some demon communities forbid it.
Lincoln raises his hands, addressing the crowd. “This beast is not yet of age and has been mistreated. Killing it would be dishonorable.” The crowd responds with a grumpy murmur. Lincoln passes the muzzle’s leash to Nat. “Take him back to the Menagerie. Tell the Master of Creatures I’ll speak with him shortly.”
I watch Lincoln march off the tournament green. Unlike the Earl of Acca, Prince Pompous knows there’s no glory in pummeling a weaker someone who’s not attacking you. Who would’ve thought?
Another touch brushes my shoulder. “Hey, Cissy.” Turning around, I see that it isn’t my best friend beside me, but Bera, Queen Octavia’s handmaiden.
“The Queen would like to speak with you.”
Shock explodes through my body. “The Queen wants to speak with me?” I shoot a startled glance at Cissy. Her tawny eyes stretch wide.
“Aye.” Bera grips my sleeve, yanking me away from the wooden fence. “Now.”
My hand wobbles at Cissy in a half-hearted goodbye. “Catch you later, I guess.” What in blazes does the Queen want with me? Anxiety zings through my nervous system.
Cissy’s voice comes out as a squeak. “Sure, see you.”
Bera turns toward the royal pavilion. “Follow me.”
The crowd parts for us as we walk along. My heart hammers anxiously in my chest. What in unholy hell is going on? I hike up the steps to the pavilion’s main platform. King Connor and Queen Octavia sit side by side in throne-like chairs. The Scala Heir lounges beside the Queen, a nasty scowl on her face.
“Come here, Miss Lewis.” The Queen snaps her fingers and glares at the Scala Heir. Adair scurries away. Octavia nods to the now-open chair. Her crown slips forward a bit with the movement.
I slip into the high-backed seat beside her. “Hello, your Highness.” I wave to the King. “And your Highness.”
The King nods his head slightly. “Miss Lewis.” He looks regal with his shock of white hair and silver crown.