Chapter One #4
As the prince walked in, I rose and circled my desk to meet him.
Cachamwri’s Egg, he’s huge. He had to be six-five at least, with the muscle to match.
Rather than court garb, he wore a short-sleeved black shirt and slacks that made him look as if he were trying to cosplay as a human.
Sidhe men were typically lean, but Dearg reminded me of a tight end for the Chicago Bears. That, or the sculpture of Rocky.
“Dearg Galatyn, Prince of the Two Kingdoms of the Sidhe,” he said in a velvet rumble that made me blink.
His smile was so warm and open, he instantly transformed from Darth Fido to Prince Do-Me-Now.
Rather than the typical chill beauty of Sidhe nobility, he had rough-hewn good looks that made him appear almost human.
His jaw and cheekbones were broad and masculine rather than narrow and inhumanly beautiful, with an aquiline nose and lips so full and sensual, my libido purred.
He wore his curly black hair shoulder length rather than down to his hips, as most nobles did.
Guess the Blade didn’t want to give his opponents a nice, long handle to grab.
My fingers twitched, wanting to stroke all that hair, find out if it was as soft as it looked… Stop. It. Being a fertility goddess’s grandkid could make professional etiquette a challenge.
“Uh… Iona Anann, police chief of Summerwood.” I’d have bowed had he not thrust out a hand for a human-style handshake. I took it, feeling those long, wolf-hot fingers engulf mine as I gave him my best professional smile. “Your highness, you honor us --”
“Let’s dispense with the royal etiquette.
Besides, I’m the one who should be bowing to you.
You do outrank me.” I might have been charmed, except his wide, white smile clashed with watchful eyes.
Opalescent irises flecked with glowing motes of magic enhanced that probing, uncomfortable stare.
Yep, he was a Galatyn -- only the royal family had eyes like that.
“The only title I use is Summerwood Police Chief,” I told him. “I’m not a goddess. That would be my grandmother’s job.” And I’m sure as hell not my mother.
A sudden flare of green sparks drew my gaze to the sword belt that cinched his narrow waist. It supported a wide scabbard and a sword spitting green sparks and an emerald glow. Dragon’s Breath. I eyed it warily.
I was no stranger to energetic cutlery -- my grandmother created magical weapons for the heroes and royalty of Immortal Earth. Dragon’s Breath was something else again, imbued with so much power it made the air seem to waver around it like pavement on an August day…
…In a volcano.
What’s going on that the dragon god would send his Blade armed with a weapon like that? What did I miss? Damn, but that was a chilling thought. “Your sword seems to be leaking,” I told him as I gestured him toward a guest chair.
There went that charming smile again. It still didn’t reach his duelist’s eyes. “Yes, I know.” He sat down, deftly maneuvering the blade so it wouldn’t tangle with the chair if he had to rise in a hurry. “It’s irritated at me.”
“About what?” I asked, intrigued.
“I haven’t killed someone who desperately needs killing.”
Before I could react to that revelation, a flicker of red and blue rippled across the biceps of the prince’s right arm just below his shirt’s short sleeve.
I thought at first it was a tattoo, but…
It moved, curling around his arm, then spiraling down his forearm.
When it reached his thick wrist, the dragon tattoo lifted its head off his skin, popping three-dimensional, and looked at me.
Its eyes glowed gold, and each red and blue scale shimmered.
Its long, reptilian muzzle curled in a smile that looked downright sly.
Being my mother’s daughter, I’d seen a lot of weird shit, but the power that blazed off that thing… Cachamwri, I presume?
It laughed silently.
“I assume that’s the Dragon’s Mark.” Dearg was the Heir to Heroes -- another of the stories Grandmother had told me.
Every king of the Cachamwri Sidhe for thousands of years had been born with that mark.
According to legend, when the Mark moved, it meant the god expected something of his Heir.
“I didn’t know it could turn three dimensional like that. It’s got one hell of a lot of juice.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Dearg looked down, and the dragon’s head twisted to look up at him.
He eyed it warily. “Cachamwri uses the Mark as a conduit for his magic when he wants to communicate with me or give me an extra jolt of power.” The prince grimaced.
“He animates it when he wants to unnerve people. If he really wants to make a point, he can manifest in human form through it.”
Now that I hadn’t heard. I do not want Cachamwri manifesting in my town. I’ve got my hands full with the dragon we have. Not that I could stop him. I knew from painful experience it was never a good idea to piss off a god.
The dragon lowered his head and sank under Dearg’s skin again, then turned and swam his way back up to coil around the prince’s biceps. As it propped its long muzzle atop its coils, thin white tendrils of vapor slid from its nostrils.
I watched the tiny dragon blow a smoke ring. “I didn’t even know Cachamwri had a sense of humor.”
“Oh, he does -- and you don’t want to be the butt of the joke. My father says he’s seen his mark animate a few times, though never the way mine does.” Dearg’s handsome mouth twisted. “The priests of Cachamwri’s shrine insist I’m ‘beloved.’” His arch tone suggested he didn’t feel beloved.
“So what have you been sent here to do? Gods don’t use that kind of power without a damn good reason.”
He hesitated, studying my face as if to gauge my reaction to what he was about to say. “I’ve been sent to prevent your assassination.” The last of the easy charm drained from those remarkable eyes. “And I’m going to have my hands full keeping you alive.”