The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection) (36 page)

A burst of flame hit the wall above the bed.  Maeve felt the heat of it and dove opposite, to the floor.  Disoriented, her eyes searched for the source and found the animal, crouched across the room, near the water bucket.  It looked as terrified as she was.

"Holy shit," Maeve murmured.  "What are you doing in here?"

The blush-colored dragon blinked and belched a second splash of flame that charred the loose threads of Diem's bed, curling them up like brittle ribbons of molten glass.  Maeve couldn't relax her widened eyes, but she had the sense to keep her mouth shut.  The young dragon was the size of a small pony, but it cowered in the corner of the room, positioning itself to sear Maeve's face off at any second.  She was sure that any sound she made would direct another fire bolt in her direction.

Lying there, half on her side and half seated, her knees slightly bent to one side in front of her, she noticed the dragon was panting as quickly as she was.  The thing was squashed against the wall, its nostrils flared, its eyes anchored to her.  

Maeve drew her feet slowly beneath herself.  The dragon watched, but didn't shoot any flames.  Its eyes were crocodile green and, being dragon's eyes, Maeve thought they would be more mystical, but they were simple and clear and easy to stare into.  When the animal blinked,
the lids drew shut from the outside edges in.  The tempo of the dragon's breath slowed after a while and its body relaxed.  It licked its eyes with a long flick of its tongue and shuffling its feet to a more comfortable position.  Maeve smiled at it.  It reminded her of an enormous ugly cat, even though its eyes and kernelled skin leaned more toward it being some kind of reptile gone wrong.

"Hey, c'mere," Maeve said softly, tapping the floor beside her.  She winced, waiting for the furnace blast, but the dragon just sat in its corner, its eyes flicking from he
r to her hand on the floor.  Its chin listed to one side.  It blinked.

"It's alright," Maeve whispered.  "Come on."

She was shocked when it actually moved.  The dragon ventured out of its corner, one taloned foot scraping the floor after the other.  The dragon continued toward her at its wary pace, skittering to a halt at intervals to sniff the air in her direction. 

Maeve made sure to stay still.  Part of it was because she was a little too freaked out to move.  What the hell was this thing going to do when it finally reached her?  Burp her into a brisket? 

The dragon ambled closer and Maeve forgot all about being charred.  Up close, the animal was even more magnificent than she'd thought.  It was like a miniature version of Diem's dragon, though the prisms were not as prominent yet beneath the wings that bud from its sides; the tough plates on its neck and back a little more pliable, as if they hadn't hardened to their final strength.  The dragon looked up at Maeve and she was caught in the magnetism of its round eyes.

The drawbridge inside Maeve, made with a material heavier than stone, began to drop.  The young dragon stared into Maeve and Maeve stared back, as if she and this dragon were each doors, opened and leading into one another.  It was a beautiful and terrifying tangle of everything Maeve had ever felt in her life, reflected back to her through the dragon's gaze.  She was mesmerized.

Then the dragon's tongue slipped from its mouth and flicked over its eye.  The moment broken, Maeve laughed and the dragon drew its head back curiously.

Maeve reached out, her palm toward the floor and her hand drifting below the height of the dragon's chin.  She extended her hand a bit more and the animal scooted away.  Maeve froze, but she kept her hand hanging in the air, waiting.  She didn't believe for a second that this animal would allow her to lay her hands on it, but then, the dragon swooped its head beneath her palm.  Maeve sucked in a breath as she felt its skin against hers.

Soft, not slimy at all, and warm, but not nearly as warm as she expected.  A rumble emanated from within the dragon, a purr similar to the grinding gears of a malfunctioning car engine.  Maeve had no idea what to do next.  She just sat, swirling her fingers on the animal's head, hoping that something would come to her.

It didn't, but luckily, it came to the dragon instead.

The dragon put one clawed foot on her thigh.  She tensed and the thing stalled.  Maeve forced herself to relax and the animal slowly climbed into her lap.  The dragon was heavy and Maeve grunted, but she sat still and let the thing circle on her legs before it dropped, wrapped into a ball, and let out a resigned sigh.

Stuck beneath the weight of the dragon, Maeve decided to stay put, since there was nothing else she could do.  She leaned her head against the wall with a thunk.

Her legs got restless.

Her butt went numb.

The damn dragon didn't move. 

Maeve watched the little balloon of skin expand and deflate between its shoulder blades.  The balloon pushed against the soft plates of its back with each breath.  It made her feel inexplicably tender toward the animal.  She counted twenty one triangular spikes lining its spine to the tip of its tail.  She counted four claws on each foot; they were approximately two inches long, curled and shiny black.  Its skin was the deep blush color of purpling embarrassment.

But what drew her in was its eyes.  Not the deep green color or the fact that there were softer, lighter green figures painted on either side of each iris that seemed to dance when it blinked.  What got Maeve, what really got her, was the way the lids closed horizontally and an extra set of lids drooped down over it all, gently, just like a child fighting a losing war with sleep.  Maeve wanted to coo and stroke the beast in her lap, but didn't, as it was still capable of blowing a burning hole through her. 

She sat on the floor, her aching back to the wall and her stiff legs burning beneath the dragon's weight, until the door of the shack finally opened.  The dragon didn't even stir as Diem's boots crossed the threshold.  Maeve watched Diem, first as his eyes scanned the room and then as he whipped around and spotted her sitting on the floor behind him.  He looked suspicious, or maybe it was worried, until he took in the whole of the scene in front of him. 

His gaze turned to awe.  Then fell to dread.

"That is the heathen," he whispered.  Maeve just stared at him.  She didn't have a clue of what Diem was referring to and wasn't sure that if she spoke, it wouldn't startle the dragon.  Diem turned, pacing away with his hands on his hips.  "Oh, this can't be happening."

"What?" The word cracked from Maeve's throat.

"The heathen...he is the only male from the horde Forge is watching over.  The overseer knows of him.  This dragon is meant to fertilize some eggs before it is to be bartered for a decent wealth for our overseer."

"So?"

"So, this heathen has just become your dragon!"  He struggled to keep his voice low, from waking the dragon, but Maeve saw his desperation as clearly as the muscles that rose up in his shoulders and along his back.  "There is no selling him now!"

"He's only sleeping on my lap.  It's no big deal."

"You belong to one another!" Diem's whisper hissed.  He swung away from her, running a hand through his hair.  When he looked back, he stared down at the slumbering dragon and then upon Maeve.  She saw the worry in his gaze as clearly as she saw it melt away, his eyes softening at the sight of woman and beast.  He squatted down so he was on eye level with her, but an arm's length away.  "How did you do that?"

"I don't know.  I didn't do anything," Maeve said.  "I put my hand out to pet him and he climbed into my lap and fell asleep.  If it makes you feel any better, I can't feel my legs at all."

"You didn't entice him with food?"

"No."

"That's impossible," Diem said.

Maeve waved her hand like a bored prize model over top of the sleeping dragon.  "Obviously not."

"He is yours then.  He chose you and you have chosen him back.  There's nothing else I can do about that."

"I didn't choose anything.  He sat on me and I haven't kicked him off yet.  What's the big deal?"

"You have just agreed to the most powerful bond that can be acquired between dragon and human.  You have been chosen by a dragon, Maeve.  He has made himself yours.  And it is my fault for not being here to stop it!"  Diem stood, pacing the room, running a rough hand through his hair again. 

Maeve couldn't care less.  The dragon on her lap was a heavy weight and she felt anchored by it instead of smothered.  It was hard to be concerned, even as Diem paced in a frenzy before her.  The dragon snoozed and she studied the lines to Diem's body, the stride that moved his hips, the thickness of his hair.  When he ran his hand through his locks for the third time, she busied herself not with worry, but with committing to memory the size of his hand and the feeling it had left on her skin.   

"I don't know why you're so upset that he likes me.  What's so bad about me?" she asked softly as she rubbed the creases behind the dragon's ears.  Her voice was a little too low, a little too sexy.  She couldn't help it as she stared up at the man before her. 

"There is nothing bad about you," Diem said, stopping in front of her.  His own eyes suddenly grew impossibly tender, deeply sad.  "Except that the overseer expects to sell that dragon for quite a profit, and if that dragon won't allow itself to be separated from you..."

Maeve's mouth opened.  The answer to her question was horrifyingly clear. 

"I'll be sold in the human harvest," she said.  Diem's gaze turned to metal.

"Not before I'm dead," he told her.  "And not before I've tak
en most of them down with me."

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

Final Week of Hot Season Six, Year 2095

Diem had no right, no reason, no sane answer to why he felt so strongly for this strange woman, but he did.  The way Maeve looked up at him with her wide eyes—it was the glimpse of her vulnerability that made her impossibly beautiful.  And it brought on a fresh fury in him, as he stared down at the young heathen curled in her lap.  The young dragon was a death sentence to her and there was nothing he could do now in regard to separating them. 

"What are you going to do?  Kill it?" She choked on the words and her eyes misted
—a sure sign that she and the beast had bonded already. 

The two had bonded while he was out discussing battle plans that seemed pointless to him now.  Such a simple event, a dragon and a human bestowing a granule of trust in one another to forge an unbreakable attachment.  Diem usually found the bonding process glorious, but now it only left him terrified.

"As much as it would pain me, if I could kill it, I would," Diem said.  "But I can't.  This heathen has bonded with you and you with it.  That's why you're not moving it off your lap.  Even on a base level, your trust in one another is still forming, and right now, you are proving to this dragon that you will not bring it even a slight discomfort."

"I can throw it off," she said, but she didn't move.  When she looked down on the dragon, Diem saw her flood with the desire to give the animal peace in any way she could, and the only way at the moment to do that was to let it sleep.  She looked back at Diem, her mouth opening and closing but no words making their way out.  

"I know.  You can't," he said.  "It is because you are bonded.  You are this dragon's master now."

"Then what do I do now?" she asked.  Her voice was oddly calm, considering that he saw a panic rising up in her.  She quickly understood the gravity of the situation and he watched in admiration, how she fought down her anxiety with hard swallows and blinking. 

"You will break this dragon," Diem told her.  There was no other choice. "I will show you how, and you will make him yours.  He is young, but he is a Samoan dragon, like my Forge, so he is incredibly powerful.  He will fight for you and if I train you both correctly, even as young as he is, he will have a chance at keeping you alive in any fight you may encounter."

"Alright," she whispered.  Her hand was on the dragon's head, stroking down the semi-firm plates of its neck. 

"Maeve," Diem said, drawing her gaze back to his.  "You don't have to worry.  Whether or not your dragon can fight, I will be there and I will fight for you.  I will not let anything happen to you."

"Because everyone thinks I'm your Intended," she said, but this time her voice wavered. 

"Yes, everyone does," he said.  He didn't add that he believed it too.  It made the whole situation all the more awful.  Diem understood exactly how risky Maeve's future had just become. 

Phuck would want the heathen.  But if Maeve and her dragon were separated, part of Maeve would go away with it, no matter what Diem did to prevent it.  There would be a hole in her that would call out like the ache of a starving stomach and it could not be filled.  That was the risk in forming a relationship with a dragon and Diem knew all too well, it was too late for Maeve to turn back now.

***

The dragon finally meandered off Maeve's lap, on its own.

"Before he leaves, you have to confirm to him that you are his master," Diem said.  He was suddenly tense and Maeve reacted, hopping to her numb feet.  Maeve had an overwhelming urge to do whatever it took to safeguard both herself and her dragon.

"How do I do it?" she asked.  The dragon hobbled across the room toward the water pail.

"Get beside him," Diem said and Maeve complied, creeping up to the dragon's flank.  Her gaze flicked back to Diem for direction.  "He's going to turn back to you before he dips his head to drink.  He'll look to you for permission.  You cannot give it.  Grab his muzzle and hold it shut.  Keep his nose to the floor, so he can't snort flames at you.  You need to wait until he looks up at you."

Shit. She had to wrangle a flame thrower.  The dragon was thick with muscle
—he'd probably throw her off with one thrash—or he'd burn her fingers right off her hands—

The dragon's head tilted toward Maeve and there was no more time to think.

"Now?" she shouted.

"NOW!" Diem shouted back.  Maeve dove forward.  She clamped the dragon's jaws in her hands, wrapping her fingers around his snout.  Diem shouted, "Down!  Keep his head down!"

Maeve jerked the animal's head toward the floor just in time.  A grunt preceded the snort that would've singed her feet if she hadn't jumped back.  She held strong.  The dragon whined.  It tried to shake her off.

"Hold," Diem said.  She tightened her hold.  And then it happened.

The dragon's gaze traced the floor and rose up slowly, meeting Maeve's stare. 

"Whistle," Diem said.  "This will be the whistle that means he doesn't attack."

Maeve's brain was blank.  The soul inside the dragon's eyes consumed her.  She felt the muscles around its neck tense. 

"Whistle!" Diem commanded and Maeve tore her eyes away.  She whistled twice
—two short blasts.  The dragon relaxed in her grip. 

"Good," Diem congratulated her with a praising chuckle.  "You can let go now."

She released the dragon and the animal dipped its head to the water bucket.  The sound of it lapping up the water warmed Maeve's insides. 

"When it's finished, you need to send it out, back to its lair."

"But...I want him to stay here."

"You do now," Diem laughed,  "but when he's the size of Forge, he'll break the shack trying to get in to sleep with you." 

"And you know this, how?" Maeve asked and Diem laughed again.

"This place has been rebuilt a time or two," he said.  "He can stay for a bit, but he's not sleeping in my place beside you."

Maeve drew her knees up to her chest, trying to recapture the warmth it had left on her lap.  Diem was warmer and more fun to lay beside.

"You must name it," he told her as he went to the counter.  He took down a pot and opened a container of ground
gorne. The dragon gave Diem a wide berth, skittering away and hissing if he came too close, but Diem didn't respond to any of it.  The animal finally settled on a cautious investigation of the shack, purring each time it brushed past Maeve and only starting when Diem accidentally dropped a spoon on the floor.  Maeve was enchanted.

"What's a good name for a dragon?" she asked.  Diem only shrugged.

"I cannot help you name what is yours.  It should be precise though."

"What do you mean, precise?"

"Just think on it a while, if you don't know the name yet.  But be sure you choose the name and don't let it choose you."

"Oh, okay,
Sensei."  Maeve rolled her eyes.  But her mind rejected every name that popped up.  She finally gave up and just watched her dragon nose around the shack.  "What did you talk about out there, with those other men?"

Diem stirred his mixture a moment before answering.  "We discussed what we are going to do to keep our people safe."

The dragon sniffed the blanket it had singed earlier and ambled slowly onto the bed.  Maeve smiled, delighted.  "What did you come up with?"

"We have until the end of next season..."

"When is that?"

"We only have a day more and then Cold Season One begins.  I will give over nine dragons tomorrow, including some of your heathen's sisters." Diem paused, waving his mixing spoon at the dragon, who was rooting in the bed and rolling itself up in the blanket.  "Could you get him out of there?  I'm happy to see him enjoying our bed, but one puff and he's going to cook it worse than he already has."

The casual mention of it being their bed didn't go unnoticed, but Maeve didn't address it either.  The idea of it still sent silver threads tingling up her spine and generated a heat in the center of her legs, but she knew better than to react to them in any other way than to enjoy the throb. 

Sex was sex.  Having amazing sex brought on the butterflies, but those fuckers weren't an indication of anything real.  Maeve had fallen for it before
—just because a man knew how to pull a melodic moan from her like a heady Mozart, it didn't mean he gave two shits about her afterward.  And there was no way this guy could.  He was a proponent of getting the race populated.  He probably just wanted another face in his harem.  Good for her that he was wicked good in bed, which was a bonus, since she still kind of owed him for hiding her identity.

Maeve moved toward the bed and the heathen froze upon it.  "He burnt your blanket in the weirdest way," she said, holding up the curled edge. 

"What's so weird about it?"

"Um, everything?  That it didn't go up in flames?"  Maeve rubb
ed the unburned part between her fingertips.  "What's this made of?"

"Spindling fibers," Diem said.  "
spindlings—the trees—they don't burn.  Fibers can be singed and their leaves melt, but they don't burn." 

Maeve tried to shoo the dragon from their bed.  She made kissy noises and patted her thigh, but the dragon only purred and flicked its tail. 

"Come on," she coaxed, but the dragon laid down in the poof of fabric.  Maeve looked to Diem.  "Okay, you're the big dragon trainer...what do I do now?"

"Since you don't have a name yet," Diem said, "you can whistle.  Just be sure you choose a whistle you'll always use to call him to you.  You don't want to confuse him."

Maeve whistled, a wet sound, more like blowing a blade of grass between her thumbs and she curled it up at the end.  The dragon perked its head and scampered off the bed to her. 

"Good," Diem said.  "Now can you put him outside, so we can eat?  Otherwise, he's going to make a mess trying to eat with us."

Maeve opened the door and the dragon crept past Diem as if it might reach up and bite him, but once past, it took off out the door and bee-lined for the cave where Forge's smoke curled from the entrance.  Maeve watched him cross the dragon ground as if she were watching her child run to a neighbor's house.  Ridiculous as it was, she didn't turn away until he was safely inside.

Diem's smirk awaited her. 

"What?" she said. 

"Choose a name," he said.  He put the bowl down on the counter and crossed the room to her, dragging her into his arms. 

"I thought you told me to take my time."

"No, I said choose the right name."

"What the...what does that even mean?" she asked and he lowered his lips to hers.  His kiss was long and steady, stopping the Earth mid-spin. 

"What's the name?" he asked.

"I don't—" she began, but he brought his lips to hers again.  His mouth was warm and his kiss expertly administered, but there was something more inside it.  She could kiss anyone and feel their warmth or enjoy the taste of them—but Diem's kiss disabled her.  He scaled her defenses in that kiss, dismantling her stronghold.

She pulled away in a panic, but he held her shoulders, keeping her from backing away completely.

"What is the name?" he whispered.  She shook her head and he pulled her to him again, his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, crushing her defenses and prying open all the doors she kept shut inside her.  His kiss rifled through her, searching for—

"Trust," she whimpered as she broke the kiss.  The back of her hand went to her mouth, inexplicably humiliated.  She wanted to hide, to cry, but she had no idea why.  He released her and she rubbed away the rogue tear that slid down her cheek. 

"Don't do that again," she said.  He stepped away, hovering as if he wanted to reach out and draw her back to him, but didn't. 

"I'm sorry," he said.  "Naming a dragon is never easy."

She had an arsenal of fuck yous waiting on her tongue, but didn't know why.  He'd only kissed her.  It felt like he'd violated her privacy, but it was just a kiss. 

But that was the farthest thing from being only a kiss.

"Now we know," he said softly.  "Trust is your dragon."

She nodded, but the name sat in her gut like a secret. 

Or a sin. 

Or both. 

***

Maeve slept beside Diem that night, if it could be called sleeping at all.   She woke a dozen times, with her dragon's name on her lips, running through her mind, the only thing she could recall as her dreams dissolved.  Diem woke each time she did, his eyes searching hers, as if he knew already what had happened, but he did not ask and she did not offer an explanation.  She only turned her back to him and closed her eyes again, wondering when he was going to try to touch her again.  He didn't.

By morning, Maeve was ready to take off his head.  The dragon's name woke her, but when she tried to fall back to sleep, she couldn't.  She tossed and turned, feeling Diem's heat against her back or seeing his chest only a fingertip away from her own, hearing the smooth rhythm of his breathing and drawing the pleasingly masculine scent of his skin into her nose.