How many organs were fed to the Fen below from fights gone awry? It was a wonder that the race below the clouds hadn’t learned of Nova sooner. It was all chance that their world and the world below had been separate for so many years. It had been chance they had connected at all.
He’d been following the blood for hours now. It led him to illegal pits and questionable feeding halls that engaged in the darkest sort of trade one could imagine on Nova—imbibing off the living. It was said that when a Dragon had a taste of a living host, nothing could satiate the hunger that followed other than more blood. It ensured the feeding halls stayed in business with a slew of loyal patrons. It also drove Dragons to madness with the craze that set in when they had gone too long without their last taste.
Still, it would be in one of these places that he knew he would find her. His current Master Rider had about as much tact as a battering ram and, unsurprisingly, turned up nothing when he’d ventured under to ask questions. There were things Yveun knew he would have to do himself if he wanted them done at all. He couldn’t send another to do it, for that was no better than a half measure in the worst sort of way. The best foe was one slain with one’s own claws.
Revelries and betting flooded his ears as he neared the fighting pit. Yveun entered, unhindered, to take his place among the crowd. The runner of the ring sat at its side before a low table, deciding fighters, calling odds, and taking bets. It reminded him that was a role he still needed filled before the Crimson Court was to happen, lest Petra get the notion that she may suggest one of her own with the Court happening on Ruana. Unsurprisingly, the woman who ran the pit here was a Tam. The balance keepers of Nova were unparalleled in ensuring the best fights by sensing the skill of the fighters involved.
In the pit, two Dragons tumbled. A blue Xin with the symbol of House Rok emblazoned on his cheek and a green Tam with the same. It was a battle of underdogs, and no matter who won, all the red native-born Roks would be pleased with the outcome.
Yveun watched five fights. No one shone. No woman who stepped into the ring fought with the grace and blood lust he assumed his target to possess. Yveun departed in frustration.
He continued on until the clouds below began to turn purple with the first light of dawn. Still, the woman eluded him. Perhaps it had merely been rumor, a grand underdog story those beneath delighted in telling of a no-name, no-rank, rising above and felling those with title and prestige. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.
Yveun wound upward, climbing questionable ladders and precarious stairways. As he neared the upper side of the island, the conditions steadily improved, but the weight of the world above them only grew heavier. The whole of the rock that supported Lysip was trapped beneath a nearly palpable weight, as if the whole expanse of the island above could suddenly drop its heft into his very lungs. A physical reminder of the world above that was so close and so far at the same time.
All roads funneled into one main tunnel that cut through the island. It was gated and guarded at all times. Yveun made for it with the ease of nearly being home, pulling his hood from his face in preparation to meet the Riders who manned the portal.
A hand shot from the darkness. It wrapped itself around his neck, claws pressing into his throat. Yveun only smiled.
“There you are,” he whispered.
“Tell me, Dono,” a deep and feminine voice husked into his ear from behind. “What happens if I kill you here? Do I become the Dono of Lysip?”
“Not quite.” He made no motion away, assessing the power in the woman’s forearm, the tension in her magic, the skill required to hold him in place using her claws while not drawing blood that would alert his Riders with a scent. “Coletta’Ryu would be come Coletta Dono, as this would not be a sanctioned duel.”
“So killing you will be for bragging alone.” Her fingers tensed.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked.
“Your walk.” She inhaled deeply. “Your scent.”
“How do you know those things?”
“We know of the sun here below, even if we never see it,” she retorted. He’d allow her to keep her secrets, for now. It betrayed her cunning. There were ample plausible explanations: She’d seen him in a past Crimson Court. She’d worked at the estate. She’d been taken as a personal Anh for one of his To. She’d worked with one of Coletta’s flowers. It all mattered naught to him.
“Do you wish to see it? The sun?”
She gasped laughter, keeping her mouth by his ear. “You think you can buy your life with pretty things? With shiny baubles and the promise of ruby hallways everyone so lusts after in your grand palace?”
“I hope not. Or you are not the woman I am hoping for.” She remained silent, letting him speak. “I hope to buy your life with the promise of the one thing I hope you crave more than all else.”
“What do you think I desire?” she purred, her fingers tapping against his throat.
“Blood. More blood than you can gorge yourself on.” Dragons didn’t become as strong as this woman by remaining pure and not imbibing. She clearly cared naught for taboo and he wouldn’t shun her for it. He’d feed this little monster if it made her his pet.
“How will you give me that?”
“Come with me. Come as my new Master Rider, and I will see you have all the blood and carrion your claws and fangs would ever desire.”
She let him go. Yveun turned. The woman was cloaked as he was, hooded, and Yveun could only make out a strong chin and hooked nose from the shade of her cowl, but he could not recognize the shade of her skin in the low light. A smirk adorned her mouth, and Yveun was certain he’d won.
“I will think it over.” She turned, as if her sole intent was to prove him wrong.
“You would be wise not to disobey your King,” he cautioned, claws jutting from his fingers.
She merely glanced at them. “I gave you your life, you tolerate my disobedience. A fair exchange, Dono.”
The woman gave a small wave, dropping off the side of the wall and into the depths below. He didn’t hear her land, her movements more precise than that of a cat’s. Yveun bared his teeth into the darkness, frustrated and delighted at the same time.
He hadn’t even learned her name.
21. Florence
Florence was quite literally running out of foul language. She spat vulgarity with the same reckless abandon as she pulled on the throttle. The train went faster when she cursed at it.
She turned to the pressure gauges, only about three-fourths of which she could actually boast an understanding of their numbers. And of that three fourths, she only had a rudimentary working knowledge. Ari would have been driven up a wall. Helen and Will would laugh at the mere sight of her behind the engine. But none of them were there now.