Cassidy Bondeville stared out her bedchamber window from the western wing of the castle, scanning the castle grounds and searching the cobblestone road. The sun had set hours ago; the moon was glowing pale gray; and still, she had not seen Prince Dante or her son, Dario, since Wednesday, when she had found herself inexplicably in the throne room, without any memory of what she was doing there. As if that wasn’t strange enough, Princess Gaia had gone missing as well. According to a stable-hand named Jack, the princess had procured a horse in the middle of the night and ridden off in the direction of Forest Dragon.

Whatever had the woman been thinking?

This was a realm filled with unseen ghosts and untold dangers!

Cassidy wrung her hands together nervously and narrowed her gaze.

Someone was coming up the path!

Four horses, carrying Prince Dante, Prince Ari, Prince Azor, and Prince Asher; a woman in a tattered dress, riding behind the youngest prince—no, that was Princess Gaia!—and something, or someone, strapped to a travois, being dragged behind Prince Dante’s horse.

What in the name of the gods?

Cassidy made a tent over her eyes with her left hand, pressed her forehead against the pane of the window, and strained to see the drag sled.

And then she gasped.

She would recognize that honey-gold mane anywhere; she would recognize that deep sapphire cloak, despite its bedraggled state. The male strapped to the travois, tormented in chains and muzzled like a wild animal, was her precious, only son, Prince Dario.

A surge of rage and desperation, unlike anything she had ever known, swelled in her breast, and she turned on her heel to sprint from the room. By all the gods, both good and evil, this couldn’t be happening. What had Prince Dario done to deserve such egregious treatment? What would cause his father to do such a thing, to demean him like a common criminal, and in front of his cousins, no less?

No, this was much, much worse.

He was strapped to that contraption like a hunter’s trophy—like a fresh slab of meat!—and his body looked unbearably weak, like someone had drained his essence…leeched his dragon’s fire.

This could not go unchallenged.

Not even by a slave: a Sklavos Ahavi…

Prince Dante had some serious explaining to do.

Cassidy would never let this be, not even if her insolence cost her own life.

Not this time.

She dashed through the castle halls, flew down the grand cascading staircase, and entered the foyer, fuming, her delicate hands curved into fists. “What is the meaning of this!” she shouted as the castle doors swung open, and Prince Dante and his nephews stormed in, dragging Prince Dario behind them. “Why are Prince Damian’s sons here, at Castle Warlochia!” A painful sensation, like the prickling of needles, disturbed the back of her skull—it felt like something was trying to burrow in—and then the piercing sensation abruptly ended as suddenly as it had begun, leaving her mind as stiff as wool. She shook her head to dislodge the confusion. “What have you done to our son!”

Prince Dante snarled, even as Aguilon Jomei, the Warlochian counselor, and Thomas the squire, Dante’s most trusted regent, rushed into the foyer from an opposite hall. “Not now, Cassidy,” Dante thundered. He spared her an angry glance and pointed at the staircase. “Go to your rooms.”

Cassidy’s head spun with fury.

Go to your rooms?

Go to your rooms!

She would kill him.

By all that was unholy, she would kill Prince Dante Dragona this time: the arrogant, evil, selfish bastard. She flung herself at the base of the travois, reached for Prince Dario’s hand, and screamed in horror as she caught at a broken wrist. “What have you done!” she demanded, twisting around to glare at Prince Dante. “And no, I will not go to my rooms!”

The prince moved so quickly, his motion was a blur.

He sidled up behind her, reached for her waist, and dragged her to her feet as if she were weightless. And then he anchored her back against his iron chest and breathed dragon’s smoke into her ear. “Cassidy, all is not as it appears. And I do not have time to explain things now. Rest assured, we fully intend to help Prince Dario, and he is trussed for his own protection. If you care for your son, if you want to be of assistance, go to your rooms.”

Someone in the background said something about the dungeon—perhaps it was Aguilon or Prince Ari; Cassidy couldn’t tell—and she almost fainted. She placed her hand over Dante’s and clawed it, more out of desperation than guile. “What happened to him, my prince? Where did you find him? Why is he like this?” Her eyes darted around the foyer. “Ari, Azor…Asher! Somebody answer me!”

Prince Dante pitched his voice an octave lower, lacing it with lethal compulsion. “To your rooms…now.” Like a puppet on a marionette’s strings, Cassidy blinked three times, swiveled out of Dante’s arms, and headed toward the staircase…to go sit in her room.

The wool in her head grew stiffer.

Her legs had a mind of their own.

But her maternal heart was not deterred—a mother’s love was a force to reckon with.

The compulsion would take her to her rooms—there was no doubt about it—but Cassidy Bondeville had spent thirty-one years in this gods-forsaken castle: bored out of her mind; lonely enough to consider jumping from the tower; and curious enough to explore every remote hall, secret nook, and hidden cranny. She knew a back way to the dungeon, and in his haste, Prince Dante had forgotten three key words…

“And stay there.”

While he had compelled her to return to her suite…

He had forgotten to command her to stay put.

* * *

Prince Dante Dragona sat at the fore of a long, magisterial table in the back of the Great Hall, surrounded by his three sons, Thomas the squire, and Aguilon Jomei. The high mage, along with the prince of Umbras, had done exceedingly well. Not only had they located an ancient shadow-walker named Versilio Stone, but they had found one already in Warlochia, trading mystical wares for horses and a saddle with a remote coven of warlocks. Aguilon’s new Scrying Mirror had aided in the quest considerably: Thomas the squire had already sent a rider with a summons beckoning Versilio to the palace, and if all went as planned, the shade would arrive at Castle Warlochia within the hour, riding one of his fresh new mounts. And once he arrived, the shade, along with Aguilon, could perform the necessary exorcism—they could place Dario back in his body.

In the meantime, Prince Damian Dragona was safely ensconced in the deepest recesses of the castle’s dungeon. His wrists and his ankles were still broken, and he was too drained of essence to break the chains that would, otherwise, be like child’s play to a primordial dragon.

He was still muzzled and restrained.

Prince Dante leaned forward and made a tent with his fingers. “I have considered your counsel,” he said to the table at large, “and I have weighed the pros and cons of this precarious situation. My decisions are as follows…”

Prince Ari angled his head to the side in a familiar gesture which meant he was listening intently, even as Azor and Asher sat back in their seats, Azor crossing his arms in front of his chest, and Asher thumbing the hilt of an ancient stiletto. Thomas the squire stood up—the human needed to pace—and Aguilon sat so still that if one didn’t see him blink, they might not know he was still among the living.

“When Versilio arrives, we will perform the exorcism and place Prince Damian’s soul in the gourd instead, but this time, the gourd will be weighted and I will drop it into the restless sea on my way to the southwestern border of Lycania, where it intersects with the province of Thieves.”

Thomas the squire cocked his brows in wary speculation. “Then you’ve decided to call your dragon? To shift in order to free King Thaon?”

Prince Dante shook his head. “No, at least not yet. I will not risk exposing my fully formed serpent in order to save King Thaon. I will not risk losing the element of surprise on Sunday with King Demitri. My father must not know what is coming. He must be given an opportunity to step down and cede his throne without bloodshed, and no matter what, he must not be capable of calling his dragon. I will not make King Demitri paranoid before Sunday.” He snarled beneath his breath, only minimally aware that he was doing it. “However, I do not believe I have to. We will send a missive back to Lycania advising the army to go along with Thieves’ plot, to cede the southern lands that they’ve asked for, and to tell their ruler, Gideon, son of War, that they will vacate the southern territories on Monday in exchange for the safe return of their king. Bring the king to the province border at sundown, and there will be an orderly, peaceful exodus. The Thieves will get their land.”

Prince Ari snickered. “Only they won’t, will they?”

“No,” Dante answered. “Should the gods grant me favor and allow me to usurp King Demitri, the legionnaires of Thieves will be out in the open, away from the townships, and without their women and children. They will not be gifted with free lands, but with the wrath of a sapphire serpent. And such will be the carnage that they will never attempt such a brazen theft-by-extortion again.”

Prince Asher lowered his voice to a midnight purr. “Won’t the legionnaires suspect a trap?”

“Of course, they will,” Prince Dante answered. “They will suspect that King Thaon’s armies are marching toward the southern border, preparing to fight for their king, but they will not expect an immortal dragon to fight in the army’s stead. Their hubris will win the day, and they will marshal their legions en masse. All the more lives that will be lost in the slaughter.”

Prince Azor’s crossed arms flexed. “And what if they harm the king before then?”

Prince Dante snorted, a dismissive sound. “It’s a risk we have to take, but I don’t believe they will do so. If my calculation is correct, the greedy legions of Thieves want more than the southern lands. If they had their way, they would rule the capital as well. I believe they will let King Thaon live with the hope that they can employ the same tactic again…sometime in the future. They won’t let a margin as small as Sunday versus Monday deter them from their ultimate desire. Besides” —he flicked a small speck of dust off the shoulder of his sleeve—“this stratagem serves our purposes better.” He turned his full attention on Thomas. “At the end of the missive, be sure to scribe: The serpent will come bearing eighty pounds of coppers. I want King Thaon’s closest advisors, those who know of our alliance, to understand that the payment which has eluded them for thirty-one years will be on its way, come Monday. And moreover, should I perish at the hands of my father—should King Demitri see my treachery coming before I can subdue him or shift—I want to remind the Lycanians of the bounty that still awaits them if they placate the prince of Umbras. I need them to offer safe harbor to your father-uncle Matthias…and to Mina. Should I fall to Demitri on Sunday, the prince of Umbras must flee the Realm in order to avenge our lives.”

A silence like damp, icy vapor settled over the hall, and its squall echoed in the corners. Come Sunday, the 206th year of the Dragonas’ Reign, season of the diamond king, every last one of them might be dead. The moment Prince Dante betrayed King Demitri; the moment Dante’s true sons came to his aid; the diamond king would not rest until he had put them all to death. Drake and Tatiana would likely be included, as would their five innocent offspring. Thomas, Aguilon, and the entire Warlochian Court would be murdered or tortured. The king would make an example out of anyone who served Prince Dante—and he could easily torture the truth out of a human or a warlock, regardless of their fealty. But by then, the prince of Umbras and Mina Louvet might already be on their way to Lycania.

They might live to avenge the catastrophe.

Or…

All would go to hell in a handbasket, and none would live to escape.

Prince Dante understood full well that he was risking the lives of every soul he loved and admired. He had chosen to dance with the devil, and none would leave the ballroom intact.

Prince Asher cleared his throat before speaking in a whisper. “Your dragon will prevail, my prince.” He let the words linger for the space of three heartbeats, then added, “When will you shift?”

Prince Dante sighed. “Obviously, I cannot show up to your birthday gala as a savage, hulking serpent, but I must prepare as required.”

In order to shift into a fully formed serpent, a male dragon had to reach two hundred summers in age, and then he had to feed on the blood, heat, and essence of a dozen or more living souls—and not in the typical manner. The beast had to devour their blood, their flesh, and their anima, while the transformation ensued for hours, if not days. Once transformed, the dragon’s essence would rule the body for at least one week, if the dragon didn’t sleep, allowing the beast to go back and forth between man—or animal—at will.

But first, one had to call the serpent to the fore.

King Demitri could do it overnight.

Prince Dante’s timetable was yet unknown…

“I will feed this night in this very hall.” He glanced askance at Thomas the squire. “There are two dozen prisoners—rapists, murderers, child molesters—already confined in the dungeons, slated for the brutal sacrifice.”

In a rare gesture of affection, Prince Azor, who was seated on Dante’s left, placed his right hand on his father’s shoulder, but he didn’t speak a word.

They all knew what he was thinking.

Dante’s serpent would ravage the prince’s body in its fight for supremacy.

During the process of transformation, the beast would break every bone in Dante’s skeleton, reconfigure his internal organs, and leave him writhing on the floor like a wounded animal, wrapped in gore and steeped in agony. But once the beast came forth, Dante could banish the serpent—or call it—at will, for the next seven days. He could transform quickly—and as needed—to annihilate King Demitri, if necessary. While Dante the preternatural male was no match for Demitri, the preternatural king, Dante’s dragon could decimate the king’s non-dragon flesh in a heartbeat.

Just so long as King Demitri didn’t transmute.

Finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, Thomas the squire took two steps toward Dante and lowered his head in regret. “My prince, it is imperative that I check on the shadow’s progress, see if Versilio has arrived at the castle, and begin to pen the missive to Lycania. I will send three pigeons in the dead of night and pray that there are no hawks from Castle Dragon lying in wait. As it’s not a time of war, the missives should get through.” He took a deep, almost labored breath and exhaled it slowly. “I know it seems…a bit ridiculous…but I’ve had the prisoners bathed and sedated. I will bring them into the hall following Dario’s exorcism. Is there anything else you require?”

Prince Dante shook his head. “No, Thomas. Thank you. You are ever a faithful servant.”

Thomas the squire smiled faintly. “And you, Prince Dante, are ever a faithful friend.”

Prince Dante shut his eyes, comforted by the words.

Indeed, Thomas was both a servant and a friend.

Every male in this hall was a blessing.

When he opened his eyes once more, he saw that Prince Ari had reached for a flask of wine and filled his own silver goblet before passing the spirit to his brothers, and then the warlock, who quickly followed suit.

Prince Dante filled his own chalice and handed the near-empty flask to Thomas.

“To the two hundred and sixth year of the Dragonas’ Reign, season of the sapphire king,” Ari said boldly. “We will speak no other result; we will accept no other outcome. May Nuri, the Lord of Fire, make it so.”

All six males sipped their wine in prayerful allegiance.