When the Moon Hatched (The Moonfall #1)

Chapter 83

S hadowed by six armed guards, I charge through erratic beams of sunlight shafting into the Stronghold’s corridor, a stony silence hanging over the lot of us. “Hutch twenty-seven?”

“Yes, Sire. The other emissaries settled on platform twelve. They’ve already dismounted and are under beaded guard until you’re ready to accept them. But the Moonplume just fell into the first patch of shade she could find rather than listen to the keepers.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame her,” I mutter as we round a corner, almost bowling over two soldiers who flatten their backs against the wall and pump their fists to their chests.

“ Hagh, aten dah .”

“And did anyone get the name of the Moonplume’s rider?” I ask.

“Rekk Zharos, Sire.” My gaze whips to Brun on my left, his flinty eyes flicking to me. “A bounty hunter. He’s well known in the southern kingdoms.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him.”

Pretty sure Raeve bit the tip of his finger off. Now I wish she’d been able to tear out his throat while she was at it. Based on her reaction to seeing him, I’d say she’s feeling somewhat similar. “Anyone have iron cuffs?”

“Me,” Colet says from my right.

Good.

Another screeching roar belts through the Stronghold, splintering my self-control.

I grind my teeth, quickening my pace, storming up a flight of stairs. The two guards bracketing the doors at the top rip them wide the moment they catch sight of us, exposing the flat stretch of chapped stone large enough for almost any beast to land, the odd coppery bush growing from the cracks.

One of the earliest hutches, somewhat isolated. Distanced from the rest of them.

Rarely used.

I look out upon the massive kidney-shaped landing patch forged in an otherwise sheer drop of cliff, the hutch’s mouth drenched in a pour of sunlight on the eastern side. The other half is steeped in shadow currently occupied by Rekk’s trembling Moonplume pawing at the stone, coiling away from the sunlight with Rekk still saddled.

I’m not surprised she’s distressed. Frightened.

With the storm clouds dissipating rapidly, there’s a dense, humid heat this creature’s not built to withstand and no hope of the sunshine letting up to allow her a painless crossing to the hutch’s shadowed entrance on the other side.

“Creators,” I mutter, taking the creature in. A black mask is fitted to her face, shielding her eyes and protecting her from blinding, not that it helped the rest of her. Her leathery skin is bubbled, blistered all over, blood and puss leeching from her mottling of sun-exposure wounds, smearing across the stone as she binds herself into a tighter ball.

A shape that reminds me too much of Slátra—solidified in the same position deep beneath my sleepsuite.

My heart pounds as I scour her shredded wings that look barely capable of catching air, and I wonder how she made it here at all.

Hutchkeepers inch toward the broken beast, yelling commands for her to pull from the shadow and move into the hutch. Her silky tail sweeps across the ground, threatening to flick them off the cliff, some leaping out of the way just in time to dodge their plummeting fate.

“ Beuid eh vobanth ahn … defun dah ,” Rekk bellows to Bulder—a groundbreaking timber that clefts a web of hairline cracks through the stone directly beneath his beast. Attempting to force the poor creature from the small patch of shade.

Rather than scurry from the unsteady ground, the tormented Moonplume tucks into an even tighter ball, almost crushing Rekk against the cliff at her back in her squealing efforts to avoid the sun.

Scowling, Rekk mashes the thorned heels of his boots through gory holes in his saddle blanket. “Move, you stupid bitch!”

The Moonplume tips her head, releasing another deep, droning lament that shreds my fucking heartstrings.

“Wait here,” I growl at my entourage, stalking forward—

A hefty thud-ump pounds the air, an immense, more predatory form of rage swelling beneath my ribs, falling amidst the churning pool of my own violent wrath.

Maintaining a healthy distance from the sweeping reach of the Moonplume’s tattered tail, I signal for the keepers to clear out, stopping in Rekk’s line of vision, arms crossed so I can hide the clenching of my fists.

He meets my gaze, opens his mouth to speak again, the tendons in his neck stretching with the strain required to shape Bulder’s language—

“Do it. Put another crack in my ground. I’ll enjoy filling it with your grated remains.”

He snaps his teeth together, the corner of his mouth curling. He releases a slow, bloodcurdling laugh that snips off the moment Rygun explodes into sight.

Massive, billowy wings wrap around the air as he hovers before the landing patch, oozing bone-crushing strength, every part of his body a heaving mass of motion but for his heavily thorned head. Plumes of smoke spill from his flared nostrils, blazing eyes narrowed on Rekk—now statue still, his Moonplume so small and delicate compared to my hulking Sabersythe. So broken and bound.

She releases another pained lament, this one softer.

More scratchy.

A deep rumble emits from Rygun’s chest, his lips peeling back, flames flickering between the gaps of his bared teeth. His desire to plunge forward and rip Rekk off that saddle folds through our bond, making every muscle in my body feel like it’s at war with itself.

“Order your beast to stand down,” Rekk bellows, throwing me a panicked stare I take far too much delight in, tasting smoke on the back of my tongue coupled with the sweet nectar of his fear.

“Unwedge your spokes from that Moonplume’s hide, get down from your saddle, and I’ll consider it.”

“Imperial cunt,” he mutters beneath his breath, probably thinking I can’t hear him. Like a youngling tossing a tantrum for being told what to do.

His words are dust in my boots, but his actions are fucking stones.

Again, my gaze drops to those bloody gouges in his Moonplume’s hide …

“As his Imperial Highness commands ,” Rekk says, then throws his leg over and scales the short length of rope, black whip coiled at his hip, his stare caught on my hovering beast as he leaps down and charges toward me. In an impressive surge of strength, the Moonplume spears her head forward, snapping just shy of Rekk’s heels.

With a hiss of sharp words, he leaps out of the way, reaching for his whip—

“Lash that dragon and I’ll tie you to a stake and whip you to ribbons,” I scold.

His hand pauses around the handle. “That’s two threats and not a single formal greeting. I’m toting a white flag, Sire .”

I’m tempted to shove it up his ass, then deliver him to Raeve. But kingdom .

Rules.

“Well aware. But we don’t condone animal cruelty in this kingdom. You’ve severed your bond with the beast. That’s on you.”

“I’ll just have to lash it back into her later,” he seethes beneath his breath, cutting another glance over his shoulder at the bundled creature.

Like he thinks I’ll let that happen.

“Order your handlers back out here to move Líri into the hutch so she can drink and feast,” Rekk commands, an imperial lilt to his tone that makes my brows lift. “I’ll also require the services of your Fleshthread to patch up her wings.”

My stare drifts to the luminous beast—bubbled and blistered, head tucked beneath her frayed wing. Looking moments away from solidifying right here on the landing patch.

Rygun continues to leer at Rekk, smoke still pluming from his flared nostrils, an immense, pulsating plea pounding from his chest to mine.

One word and he’ll lunge forward and snatch the male. Crunch him into a bloody mulch.

My self-restraint has never had such excruciating exercise.

“I’ll have refreshments wheeled to her until I can have a blue bead brought up who’s strong enough to shift a cloud,” I grit out as he unrolls a leather pouch, revealing a line of smoke sticks. “I’ll also call for the Fleshthread. Unfortunately, she attended celebrations for The Great Flurrt in a neighboring village. It’ll take her some time to get here.”

Not true. Bhea’s away, but Agni’s here. I’ll be sending someone to wake her the moment I leave this landing patch, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“By the way that Moonplume’s curling into herself, I doubt she has time to wait. But we’ll do what we can for her. Make her comfortable.”

Rekk sniffs, passing me a glance from beneath pale brows as he plucks a smoke stick from his crammed collection and tucks it between his lips. “Well, that’s fucking useless to me, isn’t it?” he murmurs, keeping his lips pinched on the tight-packed roll of parchment.

I don’t answer.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he asks, throwing his hands wide, as if it’s my fault he’s in this predicament.

“When it’s time to leave, I can organize you a carter back to The Fade,” I grind out. “You can try your luck in Bhoggith for a beast more suitable to your … needs .”

“Fine,” he sneers, cutting a glance over his shoulder at the poor trembling creature—who goes eerily still, lifts a leathery lip, and growls at him. “She’s your burden now. She’s a stupid, feral bitch who’s more trouble than she’s worth. My advice? She’d be better off chunked up and dumped in your feeding troughs.”

“Your advice is worth less to me than a smear of colk shit on my boot,” I say, voice monotone.

Huffing out a laugh, Rekk cocks his head to the side, his long, sharp features severe against the burnt terrain.

Looking at me from beneath an arched brow, he tucks the leather satchel back into his pocket and retrieves a weald, using a bulb of flame to singe the end of his stick. He pulls a deep puff before blowing a plume of smoke that tangles around his face. “You gonna call off your beast, or will I go down in history as the male who stoked the war between The Shade and The Burn?”

Tyroth is his patron, then …

Interesting.

“ Hach te nei , Rygun .”

My dragon shakes his head, displeasure rippling through our bond like a flow of lava. He snaps at the air before he roars —thrashing his wings with such force a burst of wind barrels into the landing patch, tilling dirt and smoke.

He cuts off in a wide, arcing path, leering at Rekk as he powers through the sky, releases another screeching roar, then tucks his wings and plummets out of sight.

Rekk brings the stick to his lips, draws on it, then blows a plume of smoke in my direction. “This is cozy.”

My eyes narrow. “You have some gall bringing a Moonplume to my kingdom without a blue bead in tow.”

The tone of my voice says everything my words do not: if his beast wasn’t shackled with that tattered white flag, I’d hammer him to a wooden pole on the esplanade. Let the sun bubble and blister his skin until it’s falling from his bones. Then I’d cut Raeve loose. Sit myself center stage and watch her have her bloody way with whatever’s left of the fuck before carving his head free and tossing it to Rygun as a snack.

He shrugs. “Líri’s not large enough to carry two riders, and with The Great Flurrt looming, most of Gore’s flock had been turned out,” he says past a slashing smile, dragging on his smoke stick again.

In other words, he didn’t have the patience to wait. To put his beast’s well-being before his own selfish whims, expecting us to patch up the mess when he arrived.

My muscles bulge and swell, tendons stretching as I battle the will to lunge forward and rip his head from his shoulders—promises and wars be damned.

Another suck of his smoke stick, and I notice his other hand is gloved.

I jerk my chin at it. “So it’s true.”

“What is?”

“A member of the Ath bit off the tip of your finger.”

“She did. I’m yet to find a Runi talented enough to undo the damage.” He pulls off his glove to boast the gory nub, inspecting it from all angles. “She, too, was a feral bitch.”

My hands fist so tight my knuckles pop.

“I heard your beast was in the vicinity at the time of her execution. That he shoved a couple of Moltenmaws out of the way to snatch her off the stake.” He looks at me through slit eyes—a look that chills me to the marrow.

My gut sours with the thought that this fuck has even the smallest inkling of what went down in that coliseum.

“He was turned out. Can’t fault the beast for liking the taste of fae,” I lie, cutting him a threatening grin.

“Ah.”

“Tell me, Rekk Zharos, why have you soiled my ground with your presence?”

“I’m hunting someone.” Head cocked to the side, he pulls on his stick again. “The Princess went missing just after her anointing. Her pah sent me to track her down.”

I almost laugh.

Of course he did.

Everybody knows this male has hung off Kyzari like a sticky shadow for many phases, desperate to vie for her affections. Only Tyroth would use that to his advantage in the urge to find his precious daughter, who won’t stop slipping free of the cage he’s kept her in for far too long.

“Well,” I mutter, looking at him down the line of my nose, “find comfort in the fact that if she were my daughter, I’d do anything in my power to keep her well the fuck away from you.”

He makes a chuffing sound, pulling another sizzling draw before he taps a wad of ash away. “I tire of your words. How about you take a stroll into your chambers and wash whatever whore you’re wearing off your cock while I scour the city, hmm?”

I consider the implications of popping a single eyeball. I could probably get around it politically, but Raeve’s another story …

I think she’d be disappointed in me, and that’s the last thing I want.

“Look all you want, you won’t find Kyzari here. And you won’t scour my city without wearing iron cuffs, escorted by a barrage of beaded chaperones,” I say, gesturing to my guards lined up at the entrance to the Imperial Stronghold, each of them boasting red, clear, or brown beads in their beards or hair. “I, too, will escort you. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” he grits out, flicking his stub on the ground, the embers hissing like a dying serpent before I crush it beneath my heel. “And my saddlebags?”

“Will be removed and brought to your temporary quarters where you’ll be under full surveillance every second you sully my kingdom with your putrid presence.”

He extends his hands, a sadistic smile curling his lips as Colet approaches with the cuffs and latches them onto his wrists, locking them in place. “Is this an honor you bestow upon all who visit your Stronghold?”

I return his smile, exposing the full length of my canines. “Only the ones I fucking loathe .”