DUKE Mathonwy Areleous Draco wore the stiff ducal robe he had inherited from his father when he’d assumed the noble title. He wove his way from the center of the crowd toward the far edge, hoping to escape from the people who wanted to talk to him.
The throng milled about the wide throne room, waiting for the Queen and King to enter.
Most of the people in the crowd appeared to be human, though exceedingly few actually were.
A woman’s voice called above the din, “Mathonwy! Mathonwy Draco! I need to talk to you!”
He turned. “Yes, good to see you, Derryth,” Mathonwy greeted the other member of the Palace Finance Committee, even though they’d seen each other at the meeting the day before. He shook her hand, smiling down at the tall woman. “Have you heard anything about the service workers’ labor contract?”
“Not yet,” she said, nodding such that her flaming red hair caught the sunlight.
They conversed for a few minutes until Math was dragged away by Siriol Draugar, who needed to confer about when the Nobles Council Ethics Committee could meet next week for an emergency session to deal with a spate of embezzlements. They decided Thursday at six o’clock would work in their schedules, and Mathonwy was just typing it into his phone when Dyl, the Earl of Ladon, accosted him and insisted on introducing Mathonwy to his daughter Nerys who was home from university for just a few days. Dyl proudly rambled that Nerys was majoring in English Literature and French, was a member of the university speech and debate team, and also ran track. Mathonwy said to her, “Yes, lovely to meet you.”
He extricated himself from the Ladons and had almost reached the crowd’s edge when the imperious Abertha Deryn found him. She demanded an appointment to discuss the concern that the City of Los Angeles was insisting that the local school for their children integrate with the naturals’ school just a few miles down the coast, which might make it somewhat more difficult to hide what they were. He checked his phone and found a time for her and the school board to have a conference two days later, and then Abertha demanded that Math introduce her to Dewydd Hydra, whom Mathonwy knew from their several shared Nobles Council committees.
He made the introduction and slipped back into the crowd, trying to make for the wall so he could watch the eddying people and gauge their mood.
The voluminous, traditional robe Mathonwy wore itched the back of his neck above his fine suit and white dress shirt. Gold-thread embroidery and small crystals encrusted the hem and wide sleeves of the dark silk velvet. The regalia weighed over seventy pounds, though he carried the weight without strain over his broad shoulders.
Indeed, though the robe had been intended to be floor-length, the hem barely cleared Mathonwy’s knees because he was nearly, almost six and a half feet tall, just a fraction of an inch shy of six feet and six inches of powerful, muscular, not-exactly-human male.
His friends, who called him Math rather than his given name, teased him incessantly about his extravagant height. Yeah, he was a freakish giant with oversized hands and feet but not enough basketball aptitude to play past high school varsity, so he could do nothing about their taunts except palm their skulls and shrug while they struggled in his grip, eventually pretending to notice their flailing and release them. He towered over most other people, and though he didn’t slouch, Math was careful to bend at the waist if people needed him to during conversation. It was disconcerting to literally talk over people’s heads, so ten years ago when he’d taken possession of the ducal residence—a mansion on the cliffs above the Pacific Ocean—he’d had it redecorated with many seating areas, the first just steps inside the front door.
The front door was on the roof, of course.
The front door of this mansion was also on the roof, though this mansion was officially called the Royal Palace.
Many of the people in the crowd of hundreds were notable for their tall statures, toned and muscled forms, the dragon souls slumbering in their hearts, and real flames curling from the corners of their mouths when a conversation became, shall we say, heated.
And their eyes were remarkable, of course.
Mature dragons have glittering, fluid irises, sometimes matching the shifter’s dragon in color, sometimes matching their temperament. Other supernatural beings could see the unusual eye characteristic of the mature dragon, but natural humans hardly noticed. Natural humans often described a mature dragon’s eyes as “piercing” or “striking,” not allowing themselves to see the magic that filled the world around them.
Indeed, think of celebrities and important persons with “striking, piercing” eyes, and consider how many of them may harbor dragon souls who must, occasionally, be allowed to fly.
About half of the guests fit that definition.
The other half of the crowd in the throne room that thundered with voices and laughter were dragonmates who bore the dragon mating-mark on their shoulders. Tattoos of claws or tails were often visible above the dress necklines or suit collars that the mates wore, though no one actively tried to hide a dragon’s mating-mark. Fashion must be observed, however. Some of the dragonmates were natural humans, though many were witches or mages, fae, or other varieties of shifters. All the women dragonmates and most of the men wore heavy jewelry, necklaces, chains, rings, earrings, and clips in their hair that shone with polished gold and platinum and glittered with precious jewels.
Dragonmates also acquired the eye characteristic of the mature dragon after mating somehow, even if they weren’t dragon shifters.
Mathonwy had no idea how that happened.
Magic, he assumed.
Math’s eyes were more human-normal than many of the others’ in the room, just an ordinary hazel-brown. He was just out of his teenhood, in dragon years. His eyes probably wouldn’t change for several years, yet. He wasn’t even sure how it happened, whether it was a kind of second puberty or a magical ceremony.
Eh, it would happen when it was time, he was confident.
Whenever Math went on the naturals’ social media, jewelry-store ads glittered at him, offering him baubles even though he had no mate and had never had time to search for and find someone suitable. He had been busy with university and his MBA, and then Dragons Den, Inc had snapped him up and made him a division head so fast, it had made his head spin. He’d just never been in the mating mood.
He assumed it was a mood. Or maybe one’s friends told you when your hair was thinning and your scales were getting dull, and that you’d better find a mate before you became a limp lizard.
The throne room itself was a large ballroom in a mansion in the hills above Los Angeles. A dais raised two softly upholstered wingback chairs above the milling crowd, so at the moment, the space had been designated as the throne room, though the Queen and King had not entered yet.
The crowd spilled through the receiving rooms, onto the terrace, and over the lawn. A few people had wandered down the stone steps outside that led to the sea.
Over five hundred people, Math estimated, had shown up on short notice.
The monarchs had called this reception on an urgent basis and short notice. Math’s cell phone had first rung with the announcement, then with texts and group chats from his friends, extended family, and most of the New Wales Dragon Clan dissecting every word of the terse announcement.
Royal Council meeting scheduled for Wednesday at two o’clock PDT.
Reception to follow in the Throne Room of the Royal Residence.
All clan members invited.
Mandatory for nobility.
Dragonbook had nearly exploded from excitement.
Twitwyrm had become a flaming madhouse, espousing ever-more-insane conspiracy theories.
Instadrake showed pictures of coffee, lunches, and cats, though the hashtag #whatroyalreception trended for three hours.
Wednesday had finally arrived, and thus, Math had also presented himself at the royal residence, though he had to go back to his office after he dropped his stifling gold-and-velvet robe back at his own mansion.
Later in the summer when the mating season officially started, the room would transition into a party space because dragons are notoriously solitary and somewhat infertile creatures, many living their two centuries alone and going to solitary graves. Thus, birth rates had become a royal priority several generations before. The room was also used for wedding receptions and office parties for Dragons Den, Inc., one of the more successful ventures of the dragon clan.
Like many of his rather young generation, Mathonwy Draco had been hired by the den’s corporation after university. Competition for jobs in the clan business was fierce, with noble status counting for absolutely nothing. Some noble families thought that was unfair because aristocrats had traditionally held the highest positions, but Dragons Den, Inc. had become a highly successful venture and brought so much new capital into the den’s hoard, er, bank accounts, that no one grumbled too loudly.
Mathonwy was also busy with several boards and organizations within the New Haven Dragon Clan. He had an MBA and was good at organizing things and people, so of course, they had tapped him. His contact list on his phone grew with every committee meeting, and every one of the names in his phone had shown up here and were competing with each other to grab his shoulder and shake his hand. He’d managed to wiggle and finagle his way near to the podium and over to the side, standing in the shadow of the flowing curtains as he surveyed the crowd.
“Math!” a man’s voice called through the crowd. “Mathonwy Draco, get your head out of your scaly butt and look over here!”
Math paused for a moment because he knew exactly who that was, and one should not allow one’s best friends to become too confident in their ability to order you around.
“Math, I know you can hear me!”
Probably time to do something about that.
Math raised his head like he had just noticed something and looked over the heads of the crowd around himself. “Arawn, Arawn Tiamat? Is that you? I could barely hear your reedy little voice—”
Another tall man, nearly as tall as Math himself, was swimming overhand through the crowd toward him. Arawn’s golden hair outshone the afternoon sunlight that beamed in the wide windows overlooking the Pacific Ocean outside. His voice was sonorous and deep, a voice and chiseled face made for theatre, a vocation Math knew Arawn had never considered in the slightest. Arawn was the least sentimental among the three dragon friends, the most practical and pragmatic, and had sarcastically been voted the Most Likely to Snap and Fry a City Someday in high school. At the awards ceremony, Arawn had rolled his blue eyes slightly upward and accepted the award without comment and with every bit of stoicism that the occasion warranted.
Arawn asked, “Can you believe this crowd? They must think we’re wolf shifters or something, packing us all in here like this. I can’t believe no one’s freaked out and gone reptilian.”
“The roof is going to be a madhouse with people trying to take off,” Math said, grimacing. They should have organized it better, perhaps bringing the temporary landing pads out onto the tennis courts. “Have you seen Cai?”
“Not yet,” Arawn said, looking around the crowd. “He texted that he’s coming in, though.”
“Always has to make an entrance.” Math craned his neck to look, even though his shoulders stuck out of the crowd. Arawn craned his neck too, as he was only four inches over six feet tall, the poor, little shrimp. “Is that him, over by the doors?”
A low buzz rattled Math’s arm where Arawn stood. “He just texted again. That’s him.”
Cai Wyvern waved to them and maneuvered through the tightly packed crowd, sidling between dragons manifested in human form and their dragonmates, always a dangerous move. Dragons are territorial creatures, and they’re downright possessive about their mates. Cai breezed through, laughing with dragons and flirting with their mates, who found themselves flirting back because no one could resist Cai. He whipped his head to the side, flipping his dark hair out of his eyes as he said something to Morgan that made the old dragon rear back in laughter. When Silveretti, a dragonmated fae woman with more drop-dead gorgeous looks than common sense, accosted him right in front of her mate Eurig, Cai showed them something on his phone that made both their eyes widen. Eurig clapped Cai on the back and laughed, and Cai said something else with a wink.
Same old Cai.
He finally reached the spot where Math and Arawn were waiting.
Trumpets played a flourish to announce the entrance of the Dragon Queen and Dragon King.
Math said, “I cannot believe how close you cut arrivals. It’s why you’re late half the time.”
Cai slugged Math’s shoulder. “The party doesn’t start until I’m here.”
Arawn grimaced. “What did you show Silveretti and Eurig?”
“Oh, I was at a natural’s party in the Hills last night, and these ladies showed up.” Cai showed Math and Arawn a photo of himself surrounded by three of the hottest new singers in California. One had her arm around Cai’s waist. Another sat on his lap. The last had her tongue in his ear.
Arawn flinched and stepped back. “Jeez, Cai.”
Math chuckled at him. “And yet you never take us to these parties.”
“You grinds schedule business meetings before noon. You can’t stay out until daybreak like I do. I have to attend these parties because that’s where I meet the talent to book into DD’s casinos and arenas.”
Other venues’ managers wondered how Dragons Den, Inc. always seemed to have the newest, most up-and-coming acts just as they broke out. Cai Wyvern was the company’s secret weapon.
Arawn said, “And I needlessly worried that you were showing Silveretti a picture of your girlfriend.”
“Never,” Cai laughed. “I shy away from women after two or three dates. Girlfriends are for chumps who want to get mated.”
Arawn shook his head. “Sometimes it doesn’t work that way.”
Cai elbowed both of them. “Shut up. The Royal Ones are about to tell us why they dragged us here in the middle of the week, practically at dawn.”
Three o’clock. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
But that probably was Cai’s definition of dawn.
Queen Bronwyn and King Llywelyn settled onto their thrones, smiling serenely at the crowd. They’d ruled for two decades with light hands, a benevolent reign during which they had dragged dragon society, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.
The King stood and looked down at his mate, who nodded at him.
With that signal, he straightened. “Let it be known,” the king said, his eyes flashing the flowing glitter of a mature dragonmate, “that the Queen and myself have decided to abdicate and thus relinquish the Dragon Throne.”
The crowd gasped and collectively drew back.
Math was as stunned as the rest of them, though he didn’t show it.
Wow, retirement.
Leading the clan wasn’t a job that you quit. Kings and queens didn’t retire.
Until now.
Most dragon monarchs reigned well into their old age, as was their duty, until they died or became too feeble. Some reigns lasted a century or longer.
Well, the world was changing, and the New Wales Dragon Clan needed to change with it.
The King continued, “We will retire to live out our remaining days in peace and quiet and to give new blood a chance to lead the New Wales Dragon Clan into the future. Our retirement shall commence three months from now, assuming that the Dragon Scepter chooses a suitable new monarch.”
Another wave of shock rolled through the room.
Three months.
In the few instances when a monarch had retired due to declining health, they had usually given five years’ notice of the change, not mere months.
And yet, a cold energy flowed down Math’s spine.
Within Math’s flesh, his dragon soul uncoiled, intrigued by this new possibility, the opportunity to become the alpha dragon of the clan.
But Mathonwy Draco wouldn’t be the new king. He was too young, untried, and just beginning his career. The Dragon Scepter had always chosen older monarchs who were over a hundred and thirty or so. Even though he had lived more than forty years, a natural human wouldn’t have guessed he was over twenty-five. The coupled dragon soul slows aging and extends lifespan in dragon shifters.
The Scepter wouldn’t choose him to be the Dragon King.
Not this time, at least.
Maybe in a century or so.
His dragon watched restlessly out of his eyes, sizing up the other shifter souls that might stand for the monarchy.
Math wasn’t sure how much of his ambition was his own aspirations, which had driven him to graduate at the top of his classes from university and business school, and how much was his dragon’s desire to metaphorically crouch atop the clan’s hoard and declare himself the alpha.
It didn’t matter, really. His two souls—the human one and his supernatural, dragon anima—were twins and reflections of each other. Both strove for more and worked too hard to achieve. Math had inherited the dukedom, which some might think marked him for greatness, but Math knew better. The days of inherited power had been over for decades. His father had made sure he knew that before—
Math cleared his throat, staring down at his shined shoes that poked out below his pants cuffs and the gold-embroidered robe for a moment before he looked up at the King and Queen again.
His father had made sure that Math knew that the world owed him nothing.
Math had little desire to be the King, anyway. He had earned an MBA from a top-tier business school and was deeply involved in the business and civic duties. His talents were better suited for Dragons Den, Inc. and the Nobles Council’s committees that got the work done, not as an autocrat in a monarchy that was rapidly becoming a figurehead. He was excellent at managing projects for the company and building consensus in meetings, not to mention that he had sniffed out several thieves who had been pilfering from the company’s and the city’s accounts. Finance had been his best subject in B-school. He could read spreadsheets like some musicians read music, hearing the patterns in his head as he scrolled.
No, surely he wouldn’t be chosen.
Not this time.
Perhaps not ever.
His friends Arawn and Cai, though, they both had a chance at winning the monarchy.
Arawn Tiamat was as dependable as they come, a solid choice who would rule with a steady hand, fairness, and an eye toward the clan’s security that no one else could equal.
And Cai—
Well, Cai Wyvern would be the most interesting monarch since Mad King Guorthigern, who had mated and married Good Queen Ceridwen. Queen Ceridwen had summarily locked Guorthigern in the High Tower of their castle to live with his howling madness and carried on with a succession of lovers while she ruled the New Wales Dragon Clan, leading the clan to greater prominence in dragon society and increasing their territory seven-fold. Ceridwen had been a model queen, except for the part where she imprisoned her mate, probably.
King Llywelyn extended his hands and waited for the room to settle down. He said, “As I said, Her Excellency Queen Bronwyn and I wish to retire to Florida, because evidently, Los Angeles isn’t quite warm enough for aging, cold-blooded reptiles.”
A titter ran through the audience around Math, and Queen Bronwyn pressed her lips together in a thin smile. She touched her hair, which shone regally silver, and adjusted the gold and diamond diadem on her head.
Her eyes were a glittering, molten blue, which matched both her dragon and her temperament. Math had met her on many occasions, as Bronwyn was his godmother. Her personality wasn’t icy but calm, cool, and breezy.
“As is traditional,” King Llywelyn said, gesturing to where two men had entered the throne room near the throne dais, holding a barbell-sized scepter between them, “people of noble rank will approach the Dragon Scepter first, followed by those invited by the Queen and myself, and then anyone who wants to try their hand, until the scepter selects a new monarch.”
If the scepter selects a new monarch, Math mentally added.
The last time the scepter had been called upon to choose a new ruler, over two decades before when Math had been twenty years old, four ceremonies like this one had occurred before the scepter had finally selected Llywelyn and Bronwyn to be successors to King Cadfael and Queen Tiwlip.
Still, it was better than succession by combat. At least the dragon clan didn’t do that anymore. Legends were still told of The Bloody Succession of 1631 that had decimated the clan nearly to the point of non-viability.
As the two dragon shifters lugged the long scepter between them toward the dais, King Llywelyn announced, “The Dukes of the New Wales Dragon Clan will now approach the scepter, if they should so choose.”
Some of the older dukes stepped back or glanced down at their shoes, not willing to take on the enormous responsibility and packed schedule of the monarchs. They’d had their chances, and they’d built their own lives, instead.
Math hesitated.
As did Arawn and Cai.
“We should do it,” Math said.
Arawn sighed. “Yes, it’s our duty.”
“Why the hell not?” Cai said, stomping up the steps. He grabbed the scepter first, his fist tight around the center, and lifted the long rod capped by a crystal orb and gems above his head.
The scepter’s magic sparked, illuminated the transparent globe, and—
Math blinked, shocked but relieved he wouldn’t even have to risk lifting the scepter.
But, Cai, really? The scepter was going to choose Cai, out of all the accomplished and distinguished dragons in the room, Cai?
—and sputtered.
And went dark.
False alarm.
Cai laughed and dropped the scepter back into the pages’ waiting hands. He bowed to the King and Queen and leaped off the other side of the dais to the floor.
Math had almost expected him to crowd-surf to the exit.
Arawn ascended to try his hand next. He grasped the scepter in the center, his blond brows furrowed, and he tested his fingers around the rod before steadily raising it over his head.
Sparks again.
Math tensed.
The orb glowed.
Math stepped backward.
And the scepter popped like a burnt light bulb.
This was weird. Usually, the scepter usually either stayed dark and had no response or else it illuminated when it made a selection.
Still frowning, Arawn settled the scepter back in the waiting men’s hands.
The Dragon King walked over. “Is it broken? Let me see that.”
Arawn stepped away, and Llywelyn grabbed the scepter and lifted it.
The scepter sprang to life, fountaining magic sparks and shining with golden light.
The crowd didn’t step back this time because they expected the show. No one in that crowd was afraid of a little fire. Their garments were saturated with flame retardant in case of an unfortunate argument or overindulgence in the bean dip.
King Llywelyn tossed the scepter to Queen Bronwyn, who caught it with one hand. It continued to pour magic from both ends and pulse with a golden glow.
Queen Bronwyn said, “It seems to be in order. Next!”
She handed it back to the two pages.
Mathonwy Draco stepped up to the Dragon Scepter. As he stretched out his hand, magic and internal fire from the scepter warmed his palm and fingers. He grasped it, wrapping his fist around the warm gold, and hoisted it above his head.
Sparks!
Glow!
And—
And the damn thing fizzled out again.
Dammit.
Mathonwy placed the scepter back in the outstretched hands of the pages, bowed to the monarchs, and exited, yielding the stage to the Earl and Countess of Fafnir. Countess Morgana had steel in her eye as she ascended the steps and stared down the scepter.
After he sidled his way through the crowd, stopping at the open bar in back for a spot of day-drinking, Arawn and Cai were waiting for him by the door to the roof.
Cai asked Math, “Are you kidding me?”
Math raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
Arawn shook his head. “Obviously, it’s broken.”
Math turned in time to see Maredudd, the heir to the Earl of Tarragon and a twerp who thought he had been Math’s high school nemesis, yank the scepter over his head. A lone, green spark popped out of the end and died on its way to the floor.
Math turned back to Cai and Arawn. “Looks like it’s working fine to me.”