stalked to one of the couches and tossed her books onto the cushions. “They never give me a break,” she continued, ignoring the texts as one of them slid off the leather and fell to the floor. “They just keep pushing me—do better, go faster, pay more attention. Nothing I do is ever good enough.” She gave me a half joking, half sour glare. “They never do that with you, Tweedledum.”
“That’s because I actually pay attention.” I set my bag on the table and headed into the kitchen for something to drink. Our live-in caretaker, Mr. Stiles, was not in sight, so I figured he was either out or in his room. “They never have reason to come after me.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know how lucky you are,” Ember grumbled, heading down the hall to her quarters. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room cramming for this stupid test tomorrow. If you hear a crash, don’t panic. I’ve probably just smashed my head through the wall.”
Right, I thought as the door to her room opened and closed with a bang. Lucky.
Alone in the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of orange juice and perched on the breakfast stool, brooding into the cup.
Lucky, Ember had said. Of course it would seem lucky to her. She was the favorite, the one they all paid attention to. It had always been that way. In our eleven years together, our instructors always seemed to ask her questions first, show her things first, make sure she knew what she was doing. They pushed her hard and insisted she do things right, not noticing—or seeming to care—that I already knew the answers. And when I did get them to notice, it was always to set an example for my sister. See, Dante knows the answers. Dante already has this down. I would kill for half the favor they showed her.
Draining the glass, I put it into the dishwasher before heading down the hall to my room. I just had to do better, I thought, resolve stealing over me. I had to work for the attention that came so easily to my sister. Ember was hotheaded and always getting into trouble; it was up to me to watch out for us both. But at the same time, if I kept working hard and excelling, eventually they would realize that I always did better than my twin. They would realize that I was the smart one; I was the one who did everything right. If Talon didn’t notice what I could do, I would just make them see.
* * *
“Mr. Hill? The Elder Wyrm is ready for you. Please, go in.”
Sitting on the couch in the cold, brightly lit lobby, I raised my head as the present caught up with me, shaking away dark thoughts and the memories of the past. I’d been thinking of Ember a lot recently, her presence weighing heavily on my mind. Guilt, perhaps, that I had failed her? That I wasn’t able to keep my twin safe from her worst enemy—herself?
Standing, I nodded to the human assistant and walked toward the huge doors of Elder Wyrm’s office. I couldn’t think like that anymore. I wasn’t eleven years old, desperate to prove I was worth something. I wasn’t the pathetic, overlooked twin of the Elder Wyrm’s daughter. No, I had proved myself, to all of Talon, that I was worthy of my heritage. I was the Elder Wyrm’s right-hand man, the one she trusted with Talon’s most important campaign.
And someday, if everything worked out, I would lead all of Talon. Someday, this would all be mine. I was close, so very close, to achieving what I’d set out to do all those years ago. I couldn’t falter now.
The enormous wooden doors to the CEO’s office loomed above me, brass handles glimmering in the light. I didn’t knock or wait for the Elder Wyrm to call me in. I simply opened the doors and entered.
The Elder Wyrm was sitting at her desk, manicured nails clicking over the keyboard as her eyes scanned the computer screen. Her presence still filled the office, massive and terrifying, even though she wasn’t looking at me. I walked quietly across the room and stood at the front of the desk with my hands clasped behind my back. Having an open invitation into the Elder Wyrm’s office was one thing. Interrupting the Elder Wyrm, without waiting for her to acknowledge your presence, was another. I was heir to one of the largest empires in the corporate world, but she was still the CEO of Talon and the most powerful dragon in existence. Not even the son of the Elder Wyrm was exempt from protocol.
The Elder Wyrm didn’t say anything or look up from her task, and I waited silently for her to finish. Finally, she clicked the mouse button, pushed the keyboard tray beneath the desktop and looked up at me. Her green-eyed gaze, identical to Ember’s and my own, pierced the space between us.
“Dante.” She smiled and, unlike that of many other dragons who could only imitate a smile, hers seemed genuine. Of course, that was what made her so dangerous; you never knew if what she was showing you was real or not. “Good to see you again. How was your trip back?”
“It was fine, ma’am. Thank you.”
She nodded and rose, gesturing to the duo of chairs in front of the desk. I sank into one obediently and crossed my legs as the Elder Wyrm came around the desk to pin me with her stare. The weight of her gaze was suffocating, but I settled back with a calm yet expectant expression, careful not to show any fear.
“Plans are in motion,” the Elder Wyrm said, and her low voice sent a shiver down my spine. “Everything is nearly in place. There is just one thing missing now. One last thing we must take care of.”
My heart beat faster. I could guess what that final piece was. Of course it would be her. Even now, she didn’t realize her importance.
“Ember Hill must be retrieved,” the Elder Wyrm went on, her tone becoming frighteningly intense. The hairs on my arms rose, and something inside me shrank down in terror as the Elder Wyrm speared me with that terrible gaze. “It is imperative that she return to Talon. No more mistakes. This is what we are going to do...”
He’s gone.
I knelt in the salt, holding Garret’s motionless body in my lap as the sun climbed slowly over the flats and tinged the desolate landscape the color of blood. The soldier’s face was slack and pale, his skin still warm as he bled out in my arms. Around me, there were flurries of frantic movement, voices shouting, questions that might’ve been directed at me. But nothing seemed real. Garret was gone. I had lost him.
“Shit, he’s bleeding out fast.” This from Riley, kneeling on the opposite side of the soldier, holding a bloody cloth to his side. “We can’t wait for an ambulance—he’ll be dead in two minutes if we don’t do something now.”
“Here,” gasped another voice behind me. Tristan St. Anthony, Garret’s former partner and a soldier of St. George, dropped to his knees beside Riley. He carried a large plastic box and yanked the lid back, revealing an array of bandages, gauze and medical supplies. “I can do a transfusion right here,” Tristan said, pulling a long, clear tube from the bottom of the container, “but I don’t have the correct blood type. His body will reject it if it’s not a match.”
“What does he need?” Riley growled.
“O positive.”
“Shit.” Reaching into the box, Riley pulled out something that glittered metallically in the cold light. For just a second, he stared at it, as if trying to come to a decision. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, and sliced the scalpel blade across his arm, right above the bend of his elbow. Blood welled and ran down his skin, and my stomach lurched.
Tristan’s
