Page 21 of Ash


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The Dragona might be bitter enough to provide information. “Where is she?”

Razir told him, but he added, “I’ve put a guard on her. I’d leave her to think about things. My interview with her might yield some fruit if she comes around.”

Tyrez wouldn’t have minded tackling it himself, but he was tired. Not a good state to be in for delicate probing of traumatized individuals. “Perhaps Corika might be a better choice, anyway.”

Corika nodded. “I can check in on her later today.”

Tyrez gestured to the cage. “Stay on him for a little longer. We’ll get in the queue for the Examiner or one of her acolytes. If he’s smart, he’ll open up to you.”

As he left, Tyrez shot the slave boss a significant look through the bars. The Dragon had been within earshot of the entire conversation. If he had any brain at all, their willingness to bring in the Examiner should turn his bones to ice, and make him reconsider his choices.

Tyrez’s wings burst free as he approached the ledge, and by the time he stepped off it, he was fully Dragon. He banked toward the palace and his private quarters.

He’d like to think the slaver had a brain, but he wasn’t holding out much hope.

* * *

Ash pressed his face to the cold stones above the thrashing ocean and wished for death.

As usual, it didn’t oblige him. And to be honest, even if it came for him, he’d likely fight it. His job was not yet done. And he was nothing if not stubborn.

He was staked out against the cliff face, chained spread-eagled against the rocks. When Rindek did this—the Archmage frequently found excuses to do so—he fastened the Dragon shifter so that he faced outward, toward the ocean.

But if he sent his oldest son, Demeti, to punish Ash—those were the times Ash most wished to die. The boy who was almost a man always chained the Dragon shifter face-first to the stone.

Demeti was in late Torshin adolescence, and he hated Dragons with a passion that bordered on insanity. Couple that with a fledgling power that threatened to eclipse his father’s, and this was one dangerous teenager.

Ash was a Dragon in name only. The collar around his throat rendered him just as helpless with Demeti as it did with Rindek. And as of two days ago, with the younger son, Finn, as well.

For today’s entertainment, Demeti had appropriated his father’s icefire whip. The Archmage didn’t care what his son did to Ash, so long as he didn’t kill him or permanently damage his brain so that his talent was compromised.

That left a lot of room for a wicked, slightly demented mind to work. And Demeti reveled in making Ash scream.

Ash’s body bore the scars of many past whippings. His scales could only hold out against it for brief periods—they didn’t give him enough crystal dust to grow them either strong or well. His scale clothing was difficult to maintain for long.

Eventually, the whip always won.

The energy cut deep into his skin, and Ash couldn’t bite back the cry of pain. Demeti grunted with satisfaction.

Ash’s hands curled into fists. But his rage had nowhere to go.

Demeti noticed, though. “Want to fight me, you filthy Dragon? I’d love to beat you to a pulp. You’re lucky my father values your talent.” He leaned closer, so that his hot breath gusted through Ash’s hair. “Personally, I don’t think you’re worth the trouble.” He stood back and sent the whip sizzling over Ash’s hamstrings. “That’s it. Scream.”

Ash gritted his teeth when the lashes stopped falling. He’d rather have them than what often followed.

He couldn’t suppress a shudder as the Torshin pressed himself up against Ash’s bleeding back. Torshin anatomy followed the typical humanoid pattern with a few minor deviations that didn’t matter much to the big picture. Demeti ground himself against Ash, and then there was the rustle of clothing...

With a sense of desperation, Ash reached for the timelines. He let them carry him far, far away to futures not clouded with pain and humiliation. To where he could spread his golden wings beneath the starlit sky as he rode the wind, and touch was something done through a different emotion from hate.

Then his heart took him to that secret place—where the moonlight gleamed blue and green against a body that promised to stand against the world—with him.

For as long as they both shall live.

7

Lying on her cot, Dani stared at the ceiling.

Even though the shelter had one room for women and another for men, she still didn’t feel safe. She’d scored a cot against the wall, at least. They were coveted—you kept your back secure. Although mounted cameras meant that most people behaved themselves.