The Dread King: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (The Harbinger Book 3) Page 3

  Though Dracyrus thought his race to be superior to all, he also did not wish to kill every other being in existence. The Malus and the Ulen could be repurposed. The Elven would be put in chains for their treachery in aiding the Harbinger time and time again. Such things would come later, after he suffocated the life out of the Harbinger.

  Faith, she said her name was. What an odd choice for a name, for Humans had no faith. They were as ungodly as the rest, even if they pretended otherwise. Dracyrus remembered the betrayal, the aftermath of the jump—there was no faith, no morality in the choices the Human had made.

  Try as he might, Dracyrus could not remember his face. How long ago was it? How many years had passed since the first cycle? How many times had he risen from his bones and felt the urge to kill the one man who was responsible for all the destruction in his life? His face was a blur to him, though hers wasn’t.

  Faith.

  She had no idea of what ancient feud she walked into, did she? She was utterly unaware of its origin, of the reason behind the fall of kingdoms. It was more than evident Humans did not prepare their children for battle. Not anymore, at least. He remembered her well: arms thin, cheeks full, hips wide. She was no warrior. She was birthed to become another birther, the fate of those races who did not live long lives. The thing that mattered most to them was furthering their own species.

  Oh, yes. Dracyrus knew she was no fighter, even if she had magical daggers that formed from her wrists. She might fight him, might try to beat him, but there was no future where she would be the victor. This time, finally, it would be him.

  This victory would not taste sweet. It would be the bitterest of them all.

  Out of habit, he reached for his shoulders, half expecting to feel the fur there. But it was not there, as she had it. Faith and her pathetic excuse for a fellowship had his cloak and, judging from the direction they traveled, they were about to lead him straight to his sword. The Elven woman had given him all the clues he needed to piece it together.

  Perhaps, he thought, picturing his longsword, he would impale Faith instead.

  Time had not been a kind master. So much time had passed since the first battle, since the cause of it all. No one knew the truth. Everyone celebrated the Harbinger as a hero, but the Harbinger was no hero. The Harbinger was the worst of them all. Even Dracyrus would never have done what he had. There were lines that were uncrossable, or they should’ve been, at least.

  He told himself he did not care whether or not Faith would’ve done the same, and simply because she was a female did not mean he would go easy on her. Someone had to pay for what happened; it might as well be her.

  Dracyrus stood in a thinly wooded forest, walking through the darkness of the night, pupils widened. Alyna was not his favorite kingdom. Too cool, too green. The lands he was accustomed to were mostly bare and full of scaled creatures that ate bone as well as flesh, ash-spewing volcanoes that clouded out the sun. The Dracon had adapted to their homeland; they did not need to eat much, and they were strong. The only downside of being a Dracon was the pesky thing the Malus and Humans were better at: procreating.

  In Furen, there weren’t half as many females as there were males. More like one female to every seven males, and even then, even with multiple partners in her nethelell, there was no guarantee she would become pregnant. Dracon pregnancies themselves were something of legend, and if the birth did not bring forth a stillborn fledgling, the child was raised communally by the nethelell that had created it. Dracon females were of another breed, better than their male counterparts in every way. It was why, at least before the time of the Harbinger, there was never a High King. Only a High Queen.

  He was the first High King.

  Dracyrus was astounded that over time such things were lost and forgotten. The title of prince consort gave way to High King. It was a reason why he did not feel remorseful when he took the title back each time he rose. It was never their title to begin with.

  It…was hers.

  He did his best not to think about her, for when he did, he grew a strange mixture of furious and sorrowful. It was even more difficult not to do so, however, when he did not have the cloak. The cloak, repurposed, gave him a sense of self. It reminded him of who he was, of what he had lost to get where he was now.

  His strong legs halted the moment he spotted ashes. Dracyrus knelt beside the area that was used as a campfire not long ago, fingers stretching over the dried, cool ash. He dug his scaled fingers into the pile, wishing he had gloves, wishing he had other clothes than the ones the idiotic Elf left for him. They were too tight; they caught on his scales the wrong way.

  The bloody Elf. Though Dracyrus had never met her before, he knew her kind. High and mighty, flawless, definitely a Court Elf. Whatever she thought she’d be able to get from him, he was quite content with denying her. If she wished to join forces, then she knew nothing about him. He would never join sides with an Elf, even if that Elf was to stand by him. He had no interest in such things.

  And then, as if a reminder, his tall, curled horns tingled. Faith had touched them not only in the waterworld, but also after he rose. Her hands, so miniscule—Dracyrus cracked his neck, focusing on the sound rather than the peculiar feeling dwelling in his horns.

  With his hand in the ashes, it was as though he could imagine them. Faith and her fellowship of mismatched males—the Malus, the Ulen, the Elf and the Human. Sitting around the campfire and talking to each other. Her full lips, curling into a smile as she laughed. Humans were not as good as the Dracon were in hiding their emotions. It was one of Humanity’s many detriments.

  He recalled every face she made when she was in his waterworld, how she pouted and laughed and talked incessantly. How small she appeared in his cloak. The way her body shivered when he was atop her…such things he should not remember, but he did. In fact, he couldn’t stop remembering them.

  Was this the Fae’s punishment? Was he fated to believe he could finally claim victory, only to fall prey to what was between the Harbinger’s legs? No, Dracyrus swore to himself, he would not fall at all. He would never fall, even if her hairless, scaleless body was not as repulsive as he wanted it to be.

  As if on cue, Dracyrus looked up, spotting Faith across from him. She sat near the Elf, the Malus on her other side. Her hair was wild, playing off the color of the fire before her. She had the leg of a small animal in her hands, and as the Malus said something, she laughed, and he heard it. This was not his imagination.

  This was…real, somehow. They were connected in a way they had never been before.

  She was everything he never expected the Harbinger to be, everything he never wanted the Harbinger to be. Her smile made his stomach harden and his horns tingle. He wanted to do something he hadn’t thought of doing in eons. Was this his curse, to always want what he could not have?

  He wanted to kill her, but simultaneously he didn’t. Dracyrus did not know the source of the conflict inside him, and he didn’t care. She was his enemy. She was the Harbinger. Nothing else mattered.

  And yet, it did. Her pouting was juvenile. Her non-stop talking annoying. The way she baited him with her words drew his ire, but her smile—the light in her eyes—drew something else from him. Wanting. Desire. Even lust.

  Still, it didn’t matter what he may or may not feel for her. She was the Harbinger, and he was Dracyrus, the Dread King. They were fated to fight until time ended.

  “Fate is a cruel mistress,” Dracyrus muttered unhappily, eyes heavy on the pile of ashes before him. He was not too far behind the Harbinger and her fellowship. He could quite easily catch up to them, but…he found he didn’t want to. He wanted his sword. He wanted his cloak. A lot of other things he could never have.

  Fate was cruel indeed.

  Before he stood, he flicked his eyes to the image of Faith across from him. She no longer laughed soundlessly, nor did she smile. Quite the opposite. And her eyes, through the darkness, stared right at him.

  She could see him
.

  Chapter Four

  It wasn’t the first time Faith missed the home cooked meals her grandma often made, and it wouldn’t be the last. Every night it was the same thing: some nameless animal cooked over the fire. What she’d do for a salt shaker and some cajun spice. Meat roasted over a fire could only taste a few different ways. Overcooked, raw, or cooked just right.

  Luckily Cam was pretty good with judging when the meat was perfectly cooked. Maybe he had some super sense of smell.

  Oh, well. It wasn’t like Faith could throw a tantrum and not eat. Finn threw enough tantrums for the entire group. He sat near Cam a few feet away, chatting mindlessly about the Academy as he picked at the meat he was given. Cam did his best to listen, though he did throw quick glimpses to Faith every now and then. She wondered if he was wordlessly asking for help, or if he was simply looking at her just to look at her.

  Her cheeks flushed as her mind drifted to other things Cam might be thinking.

  “Remember how I used to follow you around?” Jag asked, speaking around Faith’s body to talk to Light. “You used to curse at me. Me! I was adorable, much like I still am now.” With that, he gave Faith’s side a playful shove of his elbow.

  As she elbowed him right back and smiled, Light said, “Yes, I remember. I also remember waking up one morning to find a Malus crouching on my nightstand, watching me with wide, sickeningly curious eyes.”

  “You hardly breathe while you sleep. I thought you were dead.” Jag looked to Faith for backup. “Am I right? Surely I’m not the only one who’s noticed?”

  Faith recalled the night when she woke to find the Ageless Blade on top of her. The next morning, she had to stare hard at his chest to make sure he was still breathing. She grinned as she shook her head. Why were they talking about this? Seemed a weird topic to have over dinner.

  “I think, since you traumatized me so badly when we were young, you owe me,” Jag said. “I think it’s my turn to sleep next to Faith.”

  Just as Light was about to object, Faith cut in with a chuckle, “I am not a prize. You don’t take turns with me.”

  From his position near Cam, Finn shouted, “They don’t? Could’ve sworn they did—”

  Faith’s fingers tightened around the bone she held. She wanted to throw it at Finn’s head, but there was still too much meat left on it. It might not taste the best, but she didn’t want to waste it all the same. Jag must’ve sensed her instincts, for he offered her his. Unlike her, he had no qualms about devouring his portion in a matter of minutes.

  “Thank you, Jag,” Faith said with a smile, grabbing the offered bone and tossing it across the distance separating her and Finn. The bone hit the back of Finn’s head, and he shot her a glare while Cam flashed his sharp fangs in a smile. “Don’t be a dick, and you won’t have any bones thrown at you. Win-win for everybody.” Not really a win for her, though. She enjoyed throwing the bone at Finn. It might be her new favorite pastime.

  Light shifted on his legs, sitting with his ankles crossed beneath them. “Anyway, we all know why you make comments like that. You’re jealous of something you will never have.” His point-blank statement made Faith’s shoulders shake with laughter, and once she started, she couldn’t stop.

  If this was all being the Harbinger was, she could handle it. She loved this. This was fun. Did the other Harbingers have fun like this, or were they too entranced in winning the war against the Dread King? No, screw that. She didn’t want to think about the blasted Dracon right now.

  A voice, low and steady, cut through her laughter, “Fate is a cruel mistress.” A chill swept over her, and she immediately stopped laughing, recognizing the sensation instantly. She was about to tell Finn not to be dramatic, but as she gazed past Finn and Cam at the dimming campfire, she felt her blood run cold.

  Dracyrus, the Dread King himself, knelt on its other side, staring down into the flames, his hand outstretched. He looked much the same as he did at Springstone, yet different, too. For one, he wasn’t naked. His giant body was wrapped in an assortment of black fabric that seemed a tad too tight for a man as gigantic as he was. His white horns sparkled in the light, his black eyes reflecting back orange. His gaze was downward, his sharp, cruel features pensive. Lost in thought, probably about how best to kill her.

  Because that’s what had to happen. One of them had to die.

  How did he come upon them with no warning? Why didn’t Cam hear him? Why weren’t any of the guys reacting, for that matter? It was as if it were only Faith and Dracyrus, like everyone else faded away as his black stare sluggishly lifted off the fire. Once their gazes locked, it was over.

  Faith exhaled, momentarily unable to breathe in. Even kneeling, hunched down, he was an impressive sight. His horns, the ivory, pearlescent scales dotting his body, his long, white hair…

  She should unleash her Victi and lunge at him, maybe knock Finn’s head in as she jumped. Every muscle in her body should want to get up and fight him, deny him, kill him…but what she should do and what she did do were two totally different things.

  She did nothing. Nothing but stare.

  Boy. If this was how she acted as Harbinger, god help them all.

  “You can see me,” Dracyrus spoke again. His voice was impossibly deep, scratchy and rough in all the ways that made Faith’s skin prickle with anticipation. He did not smile, nor did he take on the sneer his face usually held when he looked at her.

  It was wrong on so many levels, what Faith felt in that moment. Her urges went against everything, in spite of all the shared history between the Harbinger and the Dread King. She felt fear and hatred, but above all that, she felt longing.

  So wrong, and yet here she was, feeling it all the same.

  She was slow to nod, completely unaware of what the guys were talking about around her. Was he not truly here? What other reason would there be for Cam and the others not to sense him, not to see or hear him? Was Faith going mad?

  “Interesting,” he said.

  Interesting was not the word Faith would use at all. More like, uh-oh. The shit is hitting the fan.

  “Where are you going, Harbinger?” Dracyrus whispered, his words like knives on her back yet velvet to her ears. When she refused to answer, he went on, “It doesn’t matter, because I’m right behind you. I’m always behind you. Distance is the only thing separating us, and soon enough, there won’t be distance enough. You might try to run, try to hide, but know this: I will always find you.”

  It was probably meant to be a threat—definitely meant to be a threat—yet Faith found herself growing warm. Was she psychotic to find a statement like that incredibly hot? If other girls were in her position, would they feel the same? Did Christine and Penelope screw up raising her so badly that Faith was ready to fling herself onto her arch enemy's feet—or bed—and let him do whatever he wanted with her? Which, in all honesty, probably included her death?

  So many different kinds of messed up she was.

  Before she could think of a smart comeback, Dracyrus stood and turned. His vision faded with each step he took away from her, until it was just Faith and her fellowship once more. Her gaze fell to the meat in her hand. Suddenly, the last thing she wanted to do was eat. Her appetite vanished the moment she looked into those black, evil eyes.

  Minutes passed. When she still made no moves to eat, Light nudged her. “Are you not hungry?”

  Faith shrugged. Attempting to stomach any food right now would only end up in her throwing it up later. She still didn’t feel quite right, and she was clueless as to why and how she just saw Dracyrus.

  Jag, ever the talkative one, clapped his hands. “So, we’ve got the Harbinger, a fellowship, and maybe the Ageless Blade. All we need to finish this party is the Dread King—”

  He probably thought he was lightening the mood, since Faith had told them all about the possibility of the sword on her back being the Ageless Blade before dinner was done. But he wasn’t helping. Not right now. The look Faith gave him told him so, and
he instantly froze.

  “What? Don’t like jokes about the Dread King? Understandable. I can work around it.”

  “You know,” Faith said, lying through her teeth, “I’m not feeling good. I think I’m going to call it a night.” She gave Jag the meat she hardly touched, to which he was confused but grateful.

  Once she was alone—or as alone as she could be, considering there was no true privacy while making journeys like this on foot—she laid in the grass on her side, curling up like she usually did under the covers of her bed at home.

  A mattress. Another thing she missed. A mattress, some good, spicy food, and her sanity.

  Where the hell did her sanity go?

  Chapter Five

  A few more days, and then Light would be back in the one place he thought he’d never return to: home. Or, more precisely, his childhood home. He left ages ago, and he never knew he’d return. He’d written to his mother in the time since he’d moved to Springsweet, but he’d never made the long trek back to the house. It didn’t seem worth it, not with his siblings gone and his father dead.

  To someone who didn’t know him, it might seem like Light was complaining, or that he had a bad childhood. He didn’t. It was full of adventure and discovery as any childhood should be. He spent most of it with a certain Malus tribe who lingered in the area. Jag and him were inseparable, especially after Light’s father passed when he was on the cusp of manhood due to a fever even the tribe’s shaman couldn’t quelch. Light was the youngest, Cam the second youngest. His other sister was too old; she’d already moved out before Light was born, such was the way of Elves. Sometimes he wondered what it was like, as a Human or a Malus, to grow up in a family of multiple siblings who were all near each other’s age.

  What an odd thought.

  Light did grow up with Jag, though perhaps it should be the other way around. Light was already much the way he was now when he first woke to see a little Malus balancing on his furniture. He may have grown a little taller and wider, but not much. For years, Light did his chores and helped his mother with what he could, all the while having a small Malus sidekick. As the years went on and Jag grew, sprouted into a stringy boy and then a wiry youth, Light slowly realized he could count on Jag for more than his strength. He was more like a brother to him than his true brother.