Mina Louvet arched her back and clenched her thighs around Dante’s waist, reveling in the feel of his powerful body: the stark masculinity, the unbridled passion, and the pure carnality.

She could never get enough.

She tunneled her hands into his thick black locks, luxuriating in the silk beneath her fingers, even as his perfect, sculpted lips sought hers. “My prince,” she groaned into his mouth, accepting the sweet, smoky offering and returning it kiss for kiss, bite for bite, each lingering swipe of their tongues becoming a fiery tangle. She pulled back and breathed into his throat. “Gods, how I’ve missed you,” she said. “Wings…give me your wings, sweet dragon.”

His dragon purred, and then he chuckled. “Sweet dragon?” he echoed. “I’ve never been called sweet before.” And then he rolled his hips in a slow, languorous wave, tantalizing her senseless before he unfurled his wings and wrapped them around her, drawing her closer beneath him. As she groaned in pleasure, he changed his rhythm—he began to thrust more urgently.

Apparently, he’d missed her too.

All at once, the room began to undulate as if assailed by a gale-force wind. The walls crackled, the doorframe popped, and the sturdy doors leading out to the terrace nearly caved in.

Three harsh knocks came against the terrace entrance, and Dante flew backward from the bed.

In the space of a heartbeat, he released his claws, extended his fangs, and coated his body with scales. Then he turned toward Mina and flicked his wrist, rotating it in a circular motion, and she soared across the room, propelled by his supernatural powers. The coverlet encased her like a shroud, shielding her naked form, as she now hovered on the floor, far behind Dante, protected by his fiery beast.

“Who’s there!” The prince dropped into a defensive posture and growled, even as smoke, tinged with red-and-gold sparks, began to lace his breath. “Speak swiftly, or burn.”

A bird squawked, the doors flew open, and an enormous black raven with amethyst eyes flew into the bedchamber and perched atop a chest, cattycorner to Dante.

The dragon sloped backward in a stealthy glide.

He cocked his head to the side and studied the raven in earnest.

“What manner of black magic is this?” he demanded. “Reveal yourself this instant, or perish.”

Mina watched in rapt fascination as the raven rose from the chest and unfurled its wings; as the wings became long, spindly arms, concealed by a robe; and the beak became a harsh, angled jaw.

And then, just like that, Aguilon Jomei, the high mage of Warlochia, stood before Prince Dante Dragona, and Mina remained safe and sequestered in the corner. The dragon prince extended his hand toward the foot of the bed and crooked his fingers, drawing his trousers into his hand, and then he quickly slipped them on. “Aguilon,” he groused, his voice betraying his impatience. “What is the meaning of this, counselor?”

The warlock labored for breath. “My lord, I came as quickly as I could. Prince Damian Dragona lives in the body of Prince Dario. His soul was resurrected, and he is on his way to Castle Dragon to reveal the Great Deception to King Demitri.”

* * *

Prince Dante Dragona stood in the Great Hall of Castle Umbras, surrounded by his sons, Ari, Azor, and Asher, all four of them flanked by Prince Damian-Matthias, Aguilon Jomei, and Mina Louvet. As the sun streamed in from an eastern window, he clasped his fingers behind his back and cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention. “There can be no room for error,” he cautioned, his voice taking on a lethal tenor. “This day, we fight for our lives and the lives of our loved ones. We fight for the future of the Realm.”

Damian-Matthias took three strides forward and placed his hand on Dante’s shoulder, giving it a firm, implacable squeeze. “There will be no mistakes. Do not forget, the prophecy is still behind you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the three restless dragons gathered about their father, and stressed the statement with a resolute nod.

“Three legs of a triangle. Your sons are ready—our sons are ready—and I am no longer a fledgling, so easily bested. I can match Damian Dragona, skill for skill, thought for thought, every cunning maneuver and evil conspiracy. I know what he knows. I think as he thinks. I can anticipate his every move because I possess his powers, his habits, and his reasoning. And with that in mind, I will tell you this: He will not grow weary of riding and fly to Castle Dragon. Instead, he will continue to bide his time because he desires the surety and the advantage of the warlock’s magic and the shade’s shadowmancy more than he craves revenge. Damian is evil, but he is not a fool. He is calculating in his every decision. He will travel the backroads through Forest Dragon in order to remain concealed. However, do not misunderstand me: By now, he is growing extremely impatient. Thus, he will not rest, not even for five-by-fifty heartbeats, nor will he allow the shadow or the warlock to take a break or water their horses. He will run the beasts into the ground. He will ride the horses to death. And then he will simply steal three fresh mounts, while slaying all whom he encounters, including any sentries posted between one province and the next to deter the illegal slave trade.”

Prince Dante nodded thoughtfully. He palmed the hilt of his sword, noticing how the crossguard gleamed against the leather sheath. The blade was calling to his inner dragon, begging for freshly drawn blood, even as the more reasoned prince was determined to approach the crisis with cunning and deliberation. It was true—they didn’t have a second to waste. Yet and still, only fools rushed into conflict without a battle plan or a cogent strategy.

Dante unclasped his fingers from behind his back, clenched his hands into fists, and nodded—his decisions were made. “May the Bringer of Rain forgive me if I have miscalculated due to my own selfish needs,” he began, “but what I am about to say is not optional.” His voice was tinged with rough-hewn onyx and molten steel. “Injure Prince Damian if you must; inflict harm just shy of death; but if it can be helped, spare Prince Dario’s life—do not destroy the body Prince Damian inhabits. I am not yet ready to send my adopted son to the Eternal Realm of Peace in order to destroy my wicked brother, and I realize that I may be placing us all in peril with that decision. But it is as I have spoken.”

He turned his full attention to Aurelio, noticing the strain in his temple beneath the tattoo of the dragon swallowing a sword. “Ari, you are swifter in flight than your brothers—hell, you’re faster than me. You will go straight to the Warlochian village, find the blacksmith, Tybalt Browne, who has a gargoyle inside his shop named Siege, and command him to make a muzzle out of Tuvalian steel. It must be multilayered and fireproof; it must cover the mouth, the nose, and the chin; and I would like it to affix to the head and the ears. We do not want my brother—your true uncle Damian—to be capable of breathing fire, not to destroy one of us, and not to heal his injuries.” He lowered his gaze to the floor, noticing an unusually large fissure in a rough gray stone beneath him. “If it’s at all possible, we need to bleed him out, drain his heat and his essence, and hobble his ankles and wrists. We want him broken, disabled, and ineffective…not dead.”

He raised his chin and regarded Azor next. “Azor, your true uncle Damian may be one of the finest swordsmen I’ve ever met—until you. Do not discount his ability to wield both flame and blade. And for that reason, you will fly with me to head him off in Forest Dragon.” He looked askance at Damian-Matthias and raised his hands in question. “Brother, how does that work? Will he possess Dario’s skill with the blade or Damian’s? Who will wield the sword?”

Damian-Matthias declined his head in absolute certainty. “Both. Memories are stored in both spirit and body. He will be the best of both dragons.”

Prince Dante nodded. “Very well. Azor, be prepared to look into the eyes of the cousin you have grown to admire, and to regard what looks back as a lethal enemy.”

Azor absently stroked the thick braided chain leafed around his bicep, even as the large muscle flexed. “I will do all that my father and the Realm require. Rest assured.”

Dante turned his attention to Prince Asher next. “Young prince, if we hope to have a chance to take Damian down without killing him, it will take the strength of three dragons. You will fly with myself and Azor, and we will pray that Ari arrives in good time.”

Before Asher could reply, Damian-Matthias snorted, his jaw briefly locking, his eyes flashing red. “You do not wish for me to join you, then?” He sighed. “After all these years, you would still question my prowess in battle?”

Dante reached out to grasp Damian-Matthias’ arm, and the prince of Umbras jerked the limb away, taking a hasty and generous step back. “Just answer the question, Dante.”

Dante stepped toward him, instantly closing the profane distance. “Brother…” He spoke the word with reverence. “You know better than that.” He swept his gaze around the hall and ushered Mina to his side. “My Sklavos Ahavi”—he tilted his head back and forth to each side, frustrated by the inadequate terminology—“your apparent Sklavos Ahavi will still be here, alone. Would you leave the Realm’s future queen unguarded?” Before Damian-Matthias could answer, Dante pressed on. “Prince Damian had the assistance of Kristof Nocturne, one of the seven members of the Warlocks Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices, a council that has sworn its fealty to me! There is no way to know if there are others involved. If Eliaz and Kristof knew about the Great Deception, how many others know? What has been set into motion?”

He shook his head adamantly. “No, brother. I leave you here for two reasons: first, to guard my greatest treasure.” He fingered a midnight lock of Mina’s silken hair, and she shivered beneath his possessive touch as well as the danger both Dante and her sons were now facing. “And second, to draw Prince Damian away from my father, the king. Should Damian prevail in our battle, should he escape us and retreat, he will shift gears and come to Castle Umbras. He will seek his body next. Had I allowed him to live, the prince would have turned one hundred and eighty years old at the end of May; he will not care to dwell long in the body of a thirty-year-old male. Where your body will come of age in just twenty years, allowing you to shift into a fully formed serpent, Dario’s will not. He still has another hundred and seventy years to go. And it matters not whose soul animates that flesh. Brother, you are the second-eldest dragon in the Realm. Not only do I trust you to intercept Prince Damian, should it come to that, but I trust you to flee to Lycania if necessary, in order to come back in twenty years and avenge us all, should we perish.”

At this, Dante lowered his voice and locked his gaze with Prince Damian-Matthias so that he appeared to stare straight through him. “Brother, should all go wrong—should King Demitri get word of our treachery or manage to best me before I can shift into my beast—do not come to our aid in battle. You may be the last living hope for this Realm. Take Mina to Prince Drake. He knows what to do—he will book passage for Mina on a ship to Lycania. Then leave this land before Father can find you, before his dragon can murder you twice. You will not rise a second time. Promise me, Matthias.” He used the true name of his half-brother’s soul on purpose, appealing to the noble commoner’s spirit.

Damian-Matthias shut his eyes.

It was clear he didn’t like it…the plan.

But he understood, and they were running out of time.

He opened his eyes and swallowed any potential protest, his throat visibly convulsing. “Very well,” he conceded. “You have my word.”

Dante grasped Damian-Matthias’ shoulder and held it for the space of three heartbeats, silently sealing their pact, and then he turned his attention to Aguilon, the high mage of Warlochia. “Aguilon, repair your Scrying Mirror or find another. We haven’t a second to waste. Locate Prince Dario’s soul; determine if anyone else in the Realm knows what is happening; and work with Prince Damian-Matthias to find an ancient shade we can trust, then summon the male to Castle Warlochia. You, yourself, return to Warlochia as soon as possible—the Warlochian castle is closer to Forest Dragon than the castle of Umbras. I don’t care if you have to fly to get there more quickly—use the form of the raven, once again, if you must. I realize the cost is high, but we must be prepared to meet great magic and power with even greater magic and supremacy, on all potential fronts. Damian cannot have a mystical advantage. I am simply covering all contingencies, and I want you close by.”

Aguilon cringed, and Dante instinctively knew what he was thinking. Such a thing, conjuring the dark magic to shift—not once, but twice—would cost him twenty years off his already long life. Nevertheless, the warlock bowed his head in obeisance. “As you wish, my prince.”

Prince Dante angled his body toward all three sons, his voice now brooking no arguments. “The moment Aguilon divines the location of Dario’s soul—or should the fool Eliaz be carrying it with him—we will kill the shadow-walker and the warlock. I want Kristof and Eliaz dead.” He shrugged a calloused shoulder and regarded Aguilon askance. “Any shadow can swallow or exhale a soul, which is why I asked you to locate an ancient, but it is the warlock’s power that counts the most in an act of necromancy or an exorcism—am I correct?”

Aguilon dipped his head in a sign of affirmation. “Aye, my lord. Any member of the Council can perform necromancy, and any shade can eat a soul, although not all are proficient shadowmancers. From what I saw in my mirror, Eliaz Griswold is unusually skilled, but I imagine his true motivation is vengeance.”

At this, Prince Dante snarled. “We shall all seek vengeance this day.” And then he softened his tone, as much as he could, and turned to his beloved Ahavi. “Mina…” He slipped his arm around her waist, drew her close to his heart, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Be strong, my queen,” he whispered.

She placed her hand over her heart and shivered, gazing into the eyes of the dragon she had come to so openly love and desire. “Stay alive, my prince. Protect our sons.” Then she turned to regard all three dragons with equal adoration. “Ari, Azor, and my precious babe, Asher; you are ready. We have all prepared you. Stay close to your father.”

Dante grasped Mina’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the tops of her knuckles. “And you, sweet Mina: Obey Prince Damian…obey Matthias…do not be stubborn.” He winked in a rare gesture of levity. “The male you grew up with in Arns will see to your protection, as will his powerful dragon.”

Mina nodded, and then she forced herself to pull away and step back.

She knew the dragons were on borrowed time.

“Fly swiftly, my beloveds. And may the Lord of War and Vengeance be with you.”