Black Crown (Darkest Drae, #3)
Kelly St. Clare & Raye Wagner
1
I just needed a few more minutes to get this perfect. Taking a deep breath, I splayed my hands on the moist and squishy surface. The distinct smell billowed around me, and I grinned with anticipated triumph.
“Miss Ryn, are you in here?”
The muffled voice broke my concentration, and I clenched my jaw. Couldn’t a Drae-Phaetyn find any solitude?
“No,” I called back. I was inside the royal garden in Gemond, working on the pinnacle creation of my career. I couldn’t stop now; I was so close. “I’m definitely not here.”
The person—one of King Zakai’s plebes I assumed—cleared his throat. “Your travel companion, Ambassador Dyter, asked me to pass on an urgent message.”
I had a fair idea what that message entailed, and it could wait another ten minutes. I concentrated on the moss-green Phaetyn mojo traveling down my arms into the now-rich soil. Lani had given me a few tips, and I’d set myself to restoring the garden to its former glory. That occupied me for a few days, but once the garden was done, I’d become . . . side-tracked with a project.
The plebe continued without a reply, “Ambassador Dyter insisted you were informed all relevant parties are currently waiting for you in the royal hall. This includes: Zakai, King of Gemond, and his son, Zarad; Lani, the rightful queen of the Phaetyn; Dyter himself; and your mate, Lord Tyrrik.”
No! I grimaced. Dyter, my mentor, friend, and crotchety old coot, dropped the mate card? That would be like me making a joke about his gimpy arm, or how Zakai was skinny, or . . . or how Lani was an orphan. Courtesy demanded he wait before going there. It was a rule, like maybe Rule Number Ten: Wait a suitable amount of time before laughing about emotionally intense stuff.
The mate card was . . . true. Really true. So true, I wanted a sizeable stint before the term was just bandied about. A timeframe longer than seven days. Even engagements lasted longer than seven days.
But engagements were nothing like mate-bonds. I hadn’t seen Lord Tyrrik since this morning when I awoke next to him. The stronger bonds between us made separation difficult as in a little uncomfortable. My plan: to stretch the bond like sugar-taffy in the hopes I’d lose the I-always-want-to-be-around-you thing. So far, totally ineffective.
I lifted my head and studied my orange surroundings. Despite the personal satisfaction, I’d been in better, less stringy places recently. Then again, I’d also been in worse, and I had a goal to accomplish.
“How much room is left to the door?” I shouted. My voice echoed back at me in the confined space.
“About four inches,” the person answered and then murmured to himself, “Does it matter?”
The barrier between us didn’t muffle his voice enough for me to miss his baffled tone. I focused my Phaetyn mojo one last time, shooting my powers into the squash. Because yes, it did matter. “Now?”
“That’ll do it, I reckon,” he said. “You’ve filled the room.”
Beaming, I stood inside the pumpkin and pushed the pale-orange fibers away, dodging a string of gigantic almond-shaped pips. The largest pumpkin that ever lived. In a trembling voice, I whispered, “My life’s work.”
I wrinkled my nose as I waded through the slimy guts of the cavity, the fibrous strands sliming me with their goo. I reached the inside of the shell to where I guessed the entrance to the royal garden to be and stared at the inner wall of the pumpkin.
“How are you going to get out?” the person asked.
Who was he? Emperor Obvious?
“Easy,” I replied, attempting to dust my hands. Instead, I just smeared the sticky goop onto my skin in an even coat. “I’ll use my talons.”
Had I managed to partially shift without threat to my life yet? Nope. Transformations took practice, especially partial shifting. According to my mate, I hadn’t practiced nearly enough in the three weeks since becoming a Drae. Unless one counted panicked instinct, in which case, I was a complete master. But left alone in the quiet? I’d rather grow things or take a nap.
“Are you doing the talon-thing yet?” the smart-aleck messenger asked.
“No,” I grumbled. Some people. Closing my eyes, I began blocking out my senses. In this form, my Phaetyn form, I was only able to engage my Drae-heightened sense of smell, so I targeted this first. Tuning in to the moist pumpkin aroma, I pushed it back and reached for other smells. Remnants of Tyrrik’s scent clung to my skin. I breathed in the damp fabric of my aketon and the soap I’d used on my hair last night. Good, good. I could do this. I imagined the squishy feeling under my bare feet and the sound of my breathing flittering away into open space.
Talons, I summon thee.
I focused on my fingers, willing them to sharpen and lengthen into the fierce blades of my Drae form. I envisioned how my claws looked, how they felt, their weight and strength, the power of the deadly weapons and what I’d be able to do with them here—make a door in this huge pumpkin. I focused my entire being on my hands and then smiled and opened my eyes.
My smile flipped in a second, and I scowled at my fingers. Drak. I thought I was in the zone.
I licked my lips, tasting raw pumpkin. Knocking on the thick wall, I shouted, “Hey, could you grab Lord Tyrrik real quick?”
“Are you stuck in there?”