Excerpt of Heart of the Dragon by Gena Showalter

Prologue

Atlantis

“Do you feel it, boy? Do you feel the mist preparing?”

Darius en Kragin squeezed his eyes tightly closed, his tutor’s words echoing in his mind. Did he feel it? Gods, yes. Even though he was only eight seasons, he felt it. Felt his skin prickle with cold, felt the sickening wave of acid in his throat as the mist enveloped him. He even felt his veins quicken with a deceptively sweet, swirling essence that was not his own.

Fighting the urge to bolt up the cavern steps and into the palace above, he tensed his muscles and fisted his hands at his sides.

I must stay. I must do this.

Slowly, Darius forced his eyelids to open. He released a pent-up breath as his gaze locked with Javar’s. His tutor stood shrouded by the thickening, ghost-like haze, the bleak walls of the cave at his back.

“This is what you’ll feel each time the mist summons you, for this means a traveler is nearby,” Javar said. “Never stray far from this place. You may live above with the others, but you must always return here when called.”

“I do not like it here.” His voice shook. “The cold weakens me.”

“Other dragons are weakened by cold, but not you. Not any longer. The mist will become a part of you, the coldness your most beloved companion. Now listen,” he commanded softly. “Listen closely.”

At first Darius heard nothing. Then he began to register the sound of a low, tapering whistle -- a sound that reverberated in his ears like moans of the dying. Wind, he assured himself. Merely wind. The turbulent breeze rounded every corner of the doomed enclosure, drawing closer. Closer still. His nostrils filled with the scent of desperation, destruction and loneliness as he braced himself for impact.

When it finally came upon him, it was not the battering force he expected, but a mockingly gentle caress against his body. The jeweled medallion at his neck hummed to life, burning the dragon tattoo etched into his flesh only that morning.

He crushed his lips together to silence a deep groan of uncertainty.

His tutor sucked in a reverent breath and splayed his arms wide. “This is what you will live for, boy. This will be your purpose, and you will kill to protect it.”

“I do not want my purpose to stem from the deaths of others,” Darius said, the words tumbling from his mouth unbidden.

Javar stilled, a fiery anger kindling in the depths of his ice-blue eyes, eyes so unlike Darius’s own -- eyes unlike every dragon’s. All dragons but Javar possessed golden eyes.

“You are to be a Guardian of the Mist, a king to the warriors here,” Javar said. “You should be grateful I chose you among all the others for this task.”

Darius swallowed. Grateful? Yes, he should have been grateful. Instead, he felt oddly. . . lost. Alone. So alone and unsure. Was this what he truly wanted? Was this the life he craved for himself? His gaze skimmed his surroundings. A few broken chairs were scattered across the dirt and twig-laden ground. The walls were black and bare. There was no warmth, only cold, biting reality and the lingering shadow of hopelessness. To become Guardian meant pledging his existence, his very soul to this cave.

Gaze narrowed, Javar closed the distance between them, his boots harmonizing with the drip, drip of water. His lips pulled in a tight scowl, and he gripped Darius’ shoulders painfully. “Your mother and father were slaughtered. Your sisters were raped and their throats slit. Had the last Guardian done his duty, your family would still be with you.”

Pain cut through him so intensely he nearly clawed out his eyes simply to blacken the hated images hovering before them. His graceful mother twisted and bent, lying in a crimson river of her own blood. The bone-deep gashes in his father’s back. His three sisters. . . His chin trembled, and he blinked away the stinging tears in his eyes. He would not cry. Not now. Not ever.

Mere days ago, he had returned from hunting and found his family dead. He had not cried then. Nor had he shed a tear when the invaders who plundered his family were slaughtered in retribution. To cry was to show weakness, and weak he would not be. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin.

“That’s right,” Javar said, watching him with a glint of pride. “Deny your tears and keep the hurt inside you. Use it against those who hope to enter our land. Kill them with it, for they only mean us harm.”

“I want to do as you say. I do.” He glanced away. “But -- ”

“Killing travelers is your obligation,” Javar interrupted. “Killing them is your privilege.”

“What of innocent women and children who mistakenly stumble through?” The thought of destroying such purity, like that of his sisters, made him loathe the monster Javar was asking him become -- though not enough to halt this course he had set for himself. To protect his friends, he would do whatever was asked of him. “May I set them free on the surface?”

“You may not.”

“What harm can children do our people?”

“They will carry the knowledge of the mist with them, ever able to lead an army through.” Javar shook him once, twice. “Do you understand now? Do you understand what you must do and why you must do it?”

“Yes,” he replied softly. He stared down at a thin, cerulean rivulet that trickled past his boots, his gaze following the gentleness and serenity of the water. Oh, that he possessed the same serenity inside himself. “I understand.”

“You are too tender, boy.” With a sigh, Javar released him. “If you do not erect stronger defenses inside yourself, your emotions will be the death of you and all those you still hold dear.”

Darius gulped back the hard lump in his throat. “Then help me, Javar. Help me rid myself of my emotions so that I might do these deeds.”

“As I told you before, you have only to bury your pain deep inside you, somewhere no one can ever hope to reach it -- not even yourself.”

That sounded so easy. Yet, how did one bury such tormenting grief? Such devastating memories? How did one battle the horrendous agony? He would do anything, anything at all, to find peace.

“How?” he asked his tutor.

“You will discover that answer on your own.”

Magic and power began swirling more intently around them, undulating, begging for some type of release. The air expanded, coagulated, leaving a heady fragrance of darkness and danger. A surge of energy ricocheted across the walls like a bolt of lightning, then erupted in a colorful array of liquid sparks.

Darius stilled as horror, dread and yes, anticipation sliced a path through him.

“A traveler will enter soon,” Javar said, already tense and eager.

With shaky fingers, Darius gripped the hilt of his sword.

“They always experience disorientation at first emergence. You must use that to your advantage and destroy them the moment they exit.”

“I’m not ready. I cannot -- ”

“You are and you will,” Javar said, a steely edge to his tone. “There are two portals, the one you are to guard here and the one I guard on the other side of the city. I am not asking you to do anything I would not -- and have not done -- myself.”

A tall man stepped from the mists. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face pale, and his clothing disheveled. His hair was thick and silvered, and his tanned skin was lined with deep wrinkles. He had the look of a scholar, not of war or evil.

Still trembling, Darius unsheathed his weapon. He almost doubled over from the sheer force of his conflicting emotions. A part of him continued to scream to run away, to refuse this task, but he forced himself to remain. He would do this because Javar was right. Travelers were the enemy, no matter who they were, no matter what their purpose.

No matter their appearance.

“Do it, Darius,” Javar growled. “Do it now.”

The traveler’s gaze jolted open. Their eyes suddenly clashed together, dragon gold against human green. Resolve against fear. Life against death.

Darius raised his blade, paused only a moment -- then struck. Blood splattered his bare chest and forearms like poisoned rain. A gargled gasp parted the man’s lips, then slowly, so slowly, his lifeless body sank to the ground.

For several long, agonizing moments, Darius stood frozen by the fruit of his actions. What have I done? What have I done! He dropped the sword, distantly hearing a clang as the metal thudded into the dirt.

He hunched over and vomited.

Surprisingly, as he emptied his stomach, he lost the agony inside him. He lost his regret and sadness. Frigid ice enclosed his chest and what was left of his soul. He welcomed and embraced the numbness until he felt only a strange void. All of his heartache -- gone. All of his suffering -- gone.

I have done my duty.

“I am proud of you, boy.” Javar slapped his shoulder in a rare show of affection. “You are ready to take your vows as Guardian.”

As his shaking ceased, he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Yes,” he said starkly, determinedly, craving more of this detachment. “I am ready.”

“Do it, then.”

Without pausing for thought, he sank to his knees. “In this place I will dwell, destroying the surface dwellers who pass through the mist. This I vow upon my life. This I vow upon my death.” As he spoke the words, they mystically appeared on his chest and back, black and red symbols that stretched from one shoulder to the other and glowed with inner fire. “I exist for no other purpose. I am Guardian of the Mist.”

Javar held his stare for a long while, then nodded with satisfaction. “Your eyes have changed color to mirror the mist. The two of you are one. This is good, boy. This is good.”

CHAPTER ONE

Three hundred years later

“He doesn’t laugh.”

“He never yells.”

“When Grayley accidentally stabbed Darius’ thigh with a six-pronged razor, our leader didn’t even blink.”

“I’d say all he needs is a few good hours of bed sport, but I’m not even sure he knows what his cock is for.”

The latter was met with a round of rumbling male chuckles.

Darius en Kragen stepped inside the spacious dining hall, his gaze methodically cataloging his surroundings. The ebony floors gleamed clean and black, the perfect contrast for the dragon-carved ivory walls. Along the windows, gauzy drapes whisped delicately. Crystal ceilings towered above, reflecting the tranquility of seawater that enclosed their great city.

He moved toward the long, square dining table. The tantalizing aroma of sweet meats and fruit should have wafted to his nostrils, but over the years his sense of smell, taste and color had deteriorated. He smelled only ash, tasted nothing more than air, and saw only black and white.

One warrior caught sight of him and quickly alerted the others. Silence clamped tight fingers around the chamber. Every male present whipped his focus to his food, as if roasted fowl had suddenly become the most fascinating thing the gods had ever created. The jovial air visibly darkened.

True to his men’s words, Darius claimed his seat at the head of the table without a smile or a scowl. Only after he consumed his third goblet of wine did his men resume their conversation, though they wisely chose a different subject. This time they spoke of the women they had pleasured and the wars they had won. Exaggerated tales, all. One warrior even went so far as to claim he’d gratified four women at the same time while successfully storming his enemy’s gate.

Darius had heard the same stories a thousand times before. He swallowed a mouthful of tasteless meat and asked the warrior beside him, “Any news?”

Brand, his first in command, leveled him a grim smile and shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” His light hair hung around his face in thick war braids, and he hooked several behind his ears. “The vampires are acting strangely. They’re leaving the Outer City and assembling here in the Inner City.”

“They rarely come here. Have they given no indication of why?”

“It cannot be good for us, whatever the reason,” Madox said, jumping into the conversation. “I say we kill those that venture too close to our home.” He was the tallest dragon in residence and always ready for combat. He perched at the end of the table, his elbows flat on the surface, both hands filled with meat. “We are ten times stronger and more skilled than they are.”

“We need to obliterate the entire race,” the warrior on his left supplied. Renard was the kind of man others wanted to guard their back in battle. He fought with a determination matched by few, was fiercely loyal and had studied the anatomy of every species in Atlantis so he knew exactly where to strike to create the most damage. And the most pain.

Years ago, Renard and his wife had been captured by a group of vampires. He’d been chained to a wall, forced to watch as his wife was raped and drained. When he escaped, he brutally destroyed every creature responsible, but that had not lessened his heartache. He was a different man than he’d been, no longer full of laughter. No longer full of forgiveness.

“Perhaps we can petition Zeus for their extinction,” Brand replied.

“The gods have long since forgotten us,” Renard said with a shrug. “Besides, Zeus is like Cronus in so many ways. He might agree, but do we really want him to? We are all creations of the Titans, even those we loathe. If Zeus annihilates one race, what is to stop him from wiping out another?”

Brand gulped back the last of his wine, his eyes fierce. “Then we will not ask him. We will simply strike.”

“The time has come for us to declare war,” Madox growled in agreement.

The word ‘war’ elicited smiles across the expanse of the room.

“I agree that the vampires need to be eliminated. They create chaos and for that alone they deserve to die.” Darius met each warrior’s stare, one at a time, holding it until the other man looked away. “But there is a time for war and a time for strategy. Now is the time for strategy. I will send a patrol into the Inner City and learn the vampires’ purpose. Soon we will know the best course of action.”

“But -- ” one warrior began.

He cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Our ancestors waged the last war with the vampires, and while we might have won, our losses were too great. Families were torn asunder and blood bathed the land. We will have patience in this situation. My men will not jump hastily into any skirmish.”

A disappointed silence slithered from every man present, wrapping around the table, then climbing up the walls. He wasn’t sure if they were considering his words, or if they were considering revolt.

“What do you care, Darius, if families are destroyed? I’d think a heartless bastard like you would welcome the violence.” The dry statement came from across the table, where Tagart reclined in his seat. “Aren’t you eager to spill more blood? No matter that the blood is vampire rather than human?”

A sea of angry growls grew in volume, and several warriors whipped to face Darius, staring at him with expectation, as if they waited for him to coldly slay the warrior who had voiced what they had all been thinking. Tagart merely laughed, daring anyone to act against him.

Did they truly consider him heartless? Darius wondered. Heartless enough to execute his own kind for something so trivial as a verbal insult? He was a killer, yes, but not heartless.

A heartless man felt nothing, and he felt some emotions. Mild though they were. He simply knew how to control what he felt, knew how to bury it deep inside himself. That was the way he preferred his life. Intense emotions birthed turmoil, and turmoil birthed soul-wrenching pain. Soul- wrenching pain birthed memories. . . His fingers tightened around his fork, and he forced himself to relax.

He would rather feel nothing than to relive the agony of his past -- the same agony that could very well become his present if he allowed a simple memory to take root and sprout its poisonous branches.

“My family is Atlantis,” he finally said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I will do what I must to protect her. If that means waiting before declaring war and angering every one of my men, then so be it.”

Realizing Darius could not be provoked, Tagart shrugged and returned his attention to his meal.

“You are right, my friend.” Grinning broadly, Brand slapped his shoulder. “War is only fun if we emerge the victor. We heed your advice to wait most readily.”

“Kiss his ass any harder,” Tagart muttered, “and your lips will become raw.”

Brand quickly lost his grin, and the medallion hanging from his neck began to glow. “What did you say?” he demanded quietly.

“Are your ears as feeble as the rest of you?” Tagart pushed to his feet, leaving his palms planted firmly on the glossy tabletop. The two men glared at each other from across the distance, a charged stillness sparking between them. “I said, kiss his ass any harder, and your lips will become raw.”

With a growl, Brand launched himself over the table, knocking dishes and food to the ground in his haste to attack Tagart. In mid-spring, reptilian scales grew upon his skin and narrow, incandescent wings sprouted from his back, ripping his shirt and pants in half, transforming him from man to beast. Fire spewed from his mouth, charring the surface of everything in its path.

The same transformation overtook Tagart, and the two beasts grappled to the ebony floor in a dangerous tangle of claws, teeth and fury.

Dragon warriors were able to metamorphose into true dragons whenever they desired, though the transformation happened of its own volition whenever raging emotions gripped them. Darius himself had not experienced a change, impromptu or over wise, since he discovered his family slaughtered over three hundred years ago. To be honest, Darius suspected his dragon form was somehow lost.

Tagart snarled when Brand threw him into the nearest wall, cracking the priceless ivory. He quickly recovered by whipping Brand’s face with his serrated tail, leaving a jagged and bleeding wound. Their infuriated snarls echoed as deep and sharp as any blade. A torrent of flame erupted, followed quickly by an infuriated hiss. Over and over they bit and lashed out at each other, separated, then clashed together again.

Every warrior save Dairus leapt to his feet in a frenzy of excitement, hurriedly taking bets on whom would win. “Eight gold drachmas on Brand,” Grayley proclaimed.

“Ten on Tagart,” Brittan shouted.

“Twenty if they both kill each other,” Zaeven called excitedly.

“Enough,” Darius said, his tone even, controlled.

The two combatants jumped apart as if he’d screamed the command, both panting and facing each other like penned animals, ready to attack again at any moment.

“Sit,” Darius said in that same easy tone.

They were too busy growling gutturally at each other to hear him, but only a second passed before the others obeyed. While they might wish to continue cheering and taking bets, Darius was their leader, their king, and they knew better than to defy him.

“I did not exclude you from the command,” he said to Tagart and Brand, adding only slightly to his volume. “You will calm yourselves and sit.”

Both men leveled narrowed gazes on him. He arched a harsh brow and motioned with his fingers a gesture that clearly said ‘Come and get me. Just don’t expect to live afterward.’

Minutes passed in suspended silence until finally, the panting warriors assumed human form. Their wings recoiled, tucking tightly into the slits on their backs; their scales faded, leaving naked skin. Because Darius kept spare clothing in each room of the palace, they were able to grab a pair of pants from the wall hooks. Partially dressed now, they righted their chairs and eased down.

“I will not have discord in my palace,” Darius told them.

Brand wiped the blood from his cheek and flicked Tagart a narrowed glare. In return, Tagart bared his sharp teeth and released a cutting growl.

They were already on the verge of morphing again, Darius realized.

He worked a finger over his stubbled chin. Never had he been more thankful that he was a man of great patience, yet never had he been more displeased with the system he had fashioned. His dragons were divided into four units. One unit patrolled the Outer City, while another patrolled the Inner. The third was allowed to roam free, pleasuring women, losing themselves in wine or whatever other vice they desired. The last had to stay here, training. Then every four weeks, the units rotated.

These men had been here two days -- a mere two days -- and already they were restless. If he did not think of something to distract them, they might very well kill each other before their required time elapsed.

“What think you of a tournament of sword skill?” he asked determinedly.

Indifferent, some men shrugged. A few moaned, “Not again.”

“No,” Renard said with a shake of his dark head, “you always win. And besides that, there is no prize.”

“What would you like to do, then?”

“Women,” one of the men shouted. “Bring us some women.”

Darius frowned. “You know I do not allow females inside the palace. They pose too much of a distraction, causing too many hostilities between you. And not the easy hostilities of a few moments ago.”

Regretful groans greeted his words.

“I have an idea.” Brand faced him, a slow smile curling his lips, eclipsing all other emotions. “Allow me to propose a new contest. Not of physical strength, but one of cunning and wits.”

Instantly every head perked up. Even Tagart lost his wrathful glare as interest lit his eyes.

A contest of wits sounded innocent enough. Darius nodded and waved his hand for Brand to continue.

Brand’s smile grew wider. “The contest is simple. The first man to make Darius lose his temper, wins.”

“I do not -- ” Darius began, but Madox spoke over him, his rough voice laden with excitement.

“And just what does the winner gain?”

“The satisfaction of besting us all,” Brand replied. “And a beating from Darius, I’m sure.” He offered them a languid shrug and leaned back in the velvet cushions of his chair. He propped his ankles on the tabletop. “But I swear by the gods every bruise will be worth it.”

Eight sets of eyes swung in Darius’ direction and locked on him with unnerving interest. Weighing options. Speculating. “I do not -- ” he began again, but just like before he was silenced.

“I like the sound of this,” Tagart interjected. “Count me in.”

“Me, too.”

“And me, as well.”

Before another man could so easily ignore him, Darius uttered one word. Simple, but effective. “No.” He swallowed a tasteless bite of fowl, then continued with the rest of his meal. “Now, tell me more of the vampires’ doings.”

“What about making him smile?” Facing Brand, Madox shoved eagerly to his feet and leaned over the table. “Does that count?”

“Absolutely.” Brand nodded. “But there must be a witness to the deed, or no winner can be declared.”

One by one, each man uttered, “Agreed.”

“I will hear no more talk of this.” When had he lost control of this conversation? “I -- ” Darius snapped his mouth closed. His blood was quickening with darkness and danger, and the hairs at the base of his neck were rising.

The mist prepared for a traveler.

Resignation rushed through him and on the heels of that was cold determination. He eased up, his chair skidding slightly behind him.

Every voice tapered to silence. Every expression became curious.

“I must go,” he said, the words flat, hollow. “We will discuss a tournament of sword skill when I return.”

He attempted to stride from the room, but Tagart leapt up and over the table and swiveled in front of him. “Does the mist call you?” the warrior asked, casually leaning one arm against the doorframe and blocking the only exit.

Darius gave him no outward reaction. But then, when did he ever? “Step out of my way.”

Tagart arched an insolent brow. “Make me.”

Someone snickered behind him.

With or without his approval, it seemed the game had already begun.

Darius easily lifted Tagart by his shoulders and tossed the stunned man aside, slamming him into the far wall. He thudded to the floor in a gasping heap. Without facing the others, Darius asked, “Anyone else?”

“Me,” came an unhesitant and unrepentant reply. A blur of black leather and silver knives, Madox rushed to stand at his side, watching him intently, gauging his reaction. “I want to stop you. Does that make you angry? Make you want to scream and rail at me?”

An unholy light entered Tagart’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet. He curled his fingers around the hilt of a nearby sword and stalked to Darius, his motions slow and deliberate. Never once pausing to consider the stupidity of his actions, he pointed the razor-sharp tip of the blade at Darius’ neck.

“Would you show fear if I vowed to kill you?” the infuriated man spat.

“That’s taking things too far,” Brand growled, joining the growing group around him.

A drop of blood slithered down Darius’ throat. The nick should have stung, but he felt nothing, not a single sensation. Only that ever-present detachment.

No one realized his intentions. One moment Darius stood still, seemingly accepting of Tagart’s assault, but the next he had his own sword unsheathed and directed at Tagart’s neck. The man’s eyes widened.

“Put your weapon away,” Darius told him, “or I will kill you where you stand. I care not whether I live or die, but you, I think, care greatly for your own life.”

One second dragged into two before a narrow-eyed Tagart lowered his sword.

Darius lowered his own weapon; his features remained stony. “Finish your meal, all of you, then retire to the practice arena. You will exercise until you have not the strength to stand. That’s an order.”

He strode from the chamber quite aware he had not given his men the reaction they craved.

***

Darius descended the cave steps four at a time. Ready to finish the deed and resume his meal in private, he removed his shirt and tossed the black fabric into a far corner. The medallion he wore, as well as the tattoos on his chest, glowed like tiny pinpricks of flame, waiting for him to fulfill his vow.

Expression blank, mind clear, he tightened his clasp on his sword, positioned himself to the left of the mist. . . and he waited.

The Stone Prince from Barnes & Noble