Nightbloom Read online

  I brushed the clear sealant onto the canvas, then placed the broken shards in the arrangement that suited best—large chunks over the trees, small, jagged pieces over the girl, edging around the poem, but none touching the words. My fingers moved in a fluid motion to the rise and fall of the violin music.

  When finished, I stepped back and stared. Through a mosaic of shattered blue, the sharp-edged trees and willowy girl in shades of black and gray looked out. My blurred words stood at the center—stark, bare, vulnerable.

  Yes. I’d captured the emotion just as I’d envisioned. The same catharsis swept over me as before when I’d made Untouched and Unknown, now standing on easels under cover of white sheets in the corner. Not that anyone came down here to the basement, not after I asked everyone to stay out. Including my parents. Knowing how private I was about my art, and because I rarely asked for anything, they respected my wishes.

  That was the thing. Most people thought my parents were controlling asses. Overprotective jerks. They might be overprotective, but it was because they loved me. Dearly. I never doubted that.

  My fears manifested from within, stemming from some unknown point, spreading outward, bleeding into my speech, the way I moved, the way I doubted, the way I curled inward under direct attention.

  But being quiet didn’t mean I was stupid. Being modest didn’t mean I was a prude. Being shy didn’t mean I was invisible. Still, my whole life, I’d felt that way. And my indecisiveness had spread like a plague from childhood through adolescence and well into young adulthood. Here I was. A woman on the precipice of life, hiding in her parents’ basement and pouring her soul out through pen and paper and glass.

  Perhaps that’s why my best friends were Jessen and Sorcha, both far from invisible, far from insecure or indecisive. Hell, Sorcha was like a beacon of the brightest light—loud, vibrant, so alive. Something I could never be.

  Sighing, I tossed my apron on the table and marched upstairs.

  “Ella, dear! You better hurry. Isn’t Clayton picking you up at seven?”

  My mother swished around the granite countertop in the kitchen, eyeing the hors d’oeuvres set on a silver tray. Milla and Marion stood in their neatly pressed dress livery, awaiting her orders.

  “Yes. But it won’t take me long to get dressed. Who’s coming for dinner?”

  “The usual. Your father’s business partners, their wives,” she said as she buzzed around the counter, placing a few more green olives on the tray before picking it up and handing it over. “Here Milla, they should be arriving in the front parlor. Marion, would you please take the tray of cocktails over there?”

  I leaned on the counter, stealing a pastry stuffed with something warm and creamy. Milla winked at me as she took the tray. Living at home did have its advantages, like the creature comforts of good, gourmet food, but that also meant your mom could still stick her nose in your business. Something my mother thrived on doing.

  “So where is Clayton taking you?”

  “We’re going to the Vaengar games.”

  “Again?” Mom’s brow pursed disapprovingly. “Why does he take you to those terrible shows of violence? Do you want to go there?”

  I shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Then why don’t you tell him so?”

  Funny. I hadn’t thought of that. Why didn’t I tell him?

  Mom tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear, her sapphire bracelet sparkling.

  “Yeah. I will.”

  “You know, I don’t like it when you’re around so many Morgon men.”

  “Mom. There’s nothing wrong with them. No more than any other men.”

  She winced, bit her lip, then smoothed her face with a too-bright smile. “Right. Well, you better get going. Have a wonderful time, dear.”

  She skirted around the island and sauntered off toward the front parlor. I sighed and headed upstairs.

  Every time conversation ventured into the subject of Morgons, my mother took on this sort of glassy, brittle appearance, always pasting on a plastic smile to hide some dark secret. I knew a Morgon man had hurt her in the past. There was no other explanation for what caused her eyes to glaze over with fear at the mere mention of a Morgon. But I would never ask. I didn’t want to hear her confess such a hard truth.

  * * * *

  “Gooooooo, Slade!”

  A chorus of Morgons and Clayton cheered on a silver-winged player who zipped past our box like a rocket, showing off for his friends. Clayton had been chumming up to the Rowanflame twins all night, drinking just as heavily. Unfortunately for Clayton, they were much bigger than him, so the weight-to-liquor ratio was doing him serious damage. I just tried to stay out of the beer-sloshing way behind them. Brown suede boots were the wrong footwear for tonight. But they just looked so damn good with these jeans and my rose-colored top. Not that Clayton noticed.

  A bell tolled, signaling players to ready themselves for the final round and game point.

  Though I never had been a sporty kind of girl, the Vaengar matches lured me in. They were a feat of athleticism and beauty combined. To watch the Morgons in flight, flipping and shooting through the air with sharp movements and unbelievable speed, I couldn’t help but sit near the rail, riveted.

  Conn and Corbin’s friend, Slade Silverback, was the stealer for the Gladium Province’s team, the Sabers. The opposing team, the Pikes, were from the Drakos Province where most Vaengar teams originated. Both teams wore nothing but pants of some fine leather, dyed in the team’s color. I didn’t mind going to the Vaengar Games, which I’d never in a million years admit to my mother. The magnificent display of Morgon muscle and wings was on full display for the fans. For me, it was such a rare and beautiful sight, I couldn’t resist drinking it all in.

  The ten defensive Pikes stood in a circle around the tower at the center of the arena, facing out toward the audience. In stoic silence, legs apart in defensive stance, they awaited the three bell-tolls to signal the final match.

  The six offensive Sabers stood in their starting positions along the outer ring painted on the dirt floor. They faced their opponents from fifty yards away, also in ready stance, shoulders hunched, legs bent, muscles flexed and tight. Slade, the seventh offensive player, stood on the stealer’s platform at the farthest end of the arena, staring at his goal dangling from a spire at the top of the tower—an iron torque.

  Bong! The first bell tolled.

  Players went rigid, ready to burst into flight. An electric current snapped in the air, some kind of Morgon trait they inherited from their dragon ancestry.

  The second bell tolled.

  Defensive players glared at their targets, ready for a battle.

  The third bell.

  Slade rocketed straight into the air. The Sabers shot toward the Pikes. Only defensive players were permitted to use fire in order to protect the torque. A stream of flame spewed from a brown-winged Pike, singeing one of the Sabers. Our home team’s player winged out of range, while the Pike spun to face another.

  “So we meet again.”

  My heart hammered, recognizing that distinct voice. Paxon stood over my shoulder, a little to the right.

  “Hi,” was all I could manage with a swift glance.

  “Oooh!” yelled Corbin. “Garth better watch his back. That Pike, Braden, is out for blood!”

  Feigning interest in the game, I watched Slade disappear up into the sky through the dome’s oculus—a typical stealer’s trick—to await the right moment for attack. Only the stealer could take the torque and win the match. The teams were tied, both having won three matches each. This was the seventh and final match, which would determine the game winner. I often marveled at the stamina of Morgons. Each round was ten minutes long. With the amount of flying and grappling and tousling, it was no wonder they were pure muscle from head to foot.

  He leaned close to my ear, his lips brushing my hair. “You enjoying the game?” The heat of his body lined my back, a protective
shield from the rowdy throng surrounding us, including my boyfriend.

  I nodded, mutely.

  “Damn! That Pike just got slammed,” yelled Clayton, pointing at a player crumpled against the arena wall. He was talking to his buddies, not me, having already forgotten I was there.

  The Saber who did the damage rocketed back toward the circle of players defending the torque.

  A bell tolled the three-minute warning.

  “No, you’re not enjoying it.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Paxon’s infectious smile made my lips quirk up.

  “No,” I agreed, “I’m not.”

  The home team intensified their attacks, trying to distract the Pikes for Slade. As he dove like a missile straight down from the Oculus, the big guy, Braden, shot out a stream of flame clear across the arena directly at our stealer.

  “Holy shit. Watch out, Slade!” screamed Conn.

  Slade dodged the fire just in time. Braden rocketed through the air toward him. They slammed into each other mid-air. Through a flapping of wings and grappling toward the ground, I could tell Braden was the stronger of the two.

  Paxon inched closer as he leaned down to me. “Then why are you here?”

  I shrugged, wishing I had some brilliant retort to that question. In the end, I could only say, “You know? I have no idea.”

  His eyes weren’t on me, but on Clayton. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t waste a minute of our time together bringing you to a place like this.”

  Like a bird beating against a cage, my heartbeat fluttered frantically as I stared at him. His gaze dragged from Clayton back to me. He wasn’t just flirting or playing the pretty gentleman as men did to try to impress a girl. The sincerity in his grave expression and voice struck me speechless. I could hardly breathe as I tried to unscramble my thoughts.

  “Mr. Nightwing.” A slim rust-winged Morgon with a grave expression stood at his shoulder. He was a Rowanflame like Conn and Corbin. “There’s an urgent matter that needs your attention at the call desk.”

  “Yes, Horus. I’ll be right there.”

  The man gave a tight nod and slipped back through the crowd.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “My manager of the stadium. I apologize.” His hand brushed my lower back. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  The crowd parted as he made his way after the manager, his large wings tight against his back, drawing my attention once more to his attire. He stood out among the leather and denim-decked crowd. In a starched, button-down gray shirt with silver cuff links winking under the lights and tailored business slacks, he looked sharp and authoritative.

  A shout drew my attention back to the arena. Another Pike came to Slade’s rescue, flying and slamming a punch into Braden’s side. Knocked loose, Slade banked hard left, then skimmed straight up the side of the tower, jerking the torque free from the tower’s spire.

  A roar of applause shook the arena. All of the Sabers joined Slade in the air as he held the torque overhead, then braced it around his neck—the privilege of the winning stealer. The Pikes, panting and somber, looked on. Those in the air landed on the arena floor near their teammates.

  “The Gladium Sabers win the game!” shouted the announcer as heavy drums pounded a victory beat.

  Fireflies, the cheering squad, flew into a circular formation around our winning team. Their short skirts and tight halter tops glowed vibrant orange under the lights as they shook their hips and breasts to the beat.

  Corbin clapped his hand on Clayton’s back, swilling down the rest of his beer. “Now that’s what I call a victory dance.”

  Clayton laughed, downing his own. “You got that right.”

  Really?

  Clayton must’ve somehow remembered I was there. His eyes shifted to me before he pulled me closer, an arm around my shoulder. I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to find Paxon nearby. But I didn’t. A sinking sensation gripped me hard, leaving me feeling hollow.

  Corbin grinned, patting Clayton on the shoulder. “Hey! Why don’t you two join us for the after-party?”

  Conn nudged his brother. “You sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Of course. I see humans there all the time.”

  “Sure,” slurred Clayton. “Where’s it at?”

  Corbin leaned in conspiratorially. “Under the arena.” He pointed down.

  I tilted closer. “What kind of after-party is this?”

  Corbin grinned. “A Morgon one.”

  “It’s more of a continuation of the games, actually.” Conn came to my side. “Have you ever heard of the Obsidian Games?”

  “Yeah. Sorcha told me.”

  “I figured she would,” Conn mumbled.

  Corbin blew out a breath and shook his head. “Don’t know why I let that one go,” he mumbled, slamming his beer mug on a counter.

  I could’ve replied, “Well, you didn’t. She told you to go away and took up with a fine-ass Nightwing,” but that would’ve been cruel and sassy, something Sorcha would say. Never me.

  Conn cleared his throat, ignoring his brother. “Well, these are sort of like mini-games.”

  “Hell, yeah,” said Clayton, beer-breath in my face. I wiggled out of his hold. “We’re game. Let’s go.”

  Thanks for giving me a choice in the matter.

  I was led away, following Corbin, Conn, and a few others heading into the stadium’s corridors. While most Morgons took flight straight out of the dome’s oculus and side-balconies for Morgons, humans wound down the ramps that led to the streets. We bumped and jostled with the crowd, but where the others exited the stadium, Corbin guided us down a flight of stone steps.

  Clayton held my hand, but it wasn’t much comfort. He was so drunk, stumbling and dragging me down with him every few steps. I finally pulled away to guide myself along the stone wall. We descended deeper and deeper until the only light we had was from the torchlight, the stadium lights far behind us.

  “It’s okay,” Conn assured me. “There are no monsters in the dark down here.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He laughed.

  After three flights down, I started to hear the noise of overlapping voices and club music.

  “What is this exactly?”

  Sorcha had told me the Obsidian Games were a rite of passage for young Morgon men passing into adulthood, some sort of honor game. Drakos hosted the Games annually, but it was for Morgons only. I figured the event was just another reason for men to punch the crap out of each other. One more ridiculous, testosterone-infested pastime. But I was curious. I wanted to go. I wanted to see a secret part of the Morgon world.

  “The Obsidian Games are a long way off and upcoming contenders like to practice, test their skills.”

  “Like a rehearsal.”

  “Yeah,” he snorted. “Sort of like a rehearsal. But more like pre-matches. And then some guys fight just to blow off steam.”

  “Men.” I shook my head. “You know? There are other ways to blow off steam.”

  Conn angled closer. “Yeah? Like what?” A wicked grin cracked his face. “Care to show me?”

  I thought of what I did in charcoal and glass, realizing quickly that wasn’t even close to what Conn was thinking. I swallowed hard.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just teasing.” He glanced over at Clayton who stumbled alongside his brother and shook his head. “But if you ever break free of that one, I’m available.”

  I smiled and shied away, knowing my face was flushed pink.

  The fifth flight of stairs led us down into a vast room with a circular pit of stone at its center and a surrounding iron cage. House music pumped a sensual beat. Torchlight cast a golden haze on the Morgons and the few humans mingling and dancing in a mass, their bodies moving as one. I’d been to clubs before where sex reeked from every corner, but there was something more about this downstairs party. A seductive energy snapped in the air, as if an intox
icating potion filled the room.

  Corbin led us to a throng in the far corner. Slade, the proud victor, wore the iron torque and downed a pewter tankard of beer among his groupies.

  “Nice steal, Slade!” Corbin slapped him on the shoulder.

  He laughed, still shirtless, revealing well-toned muscle. The other players down here were dressed—or actually undressed—the same way. I don’t know why it made me so edgy. My family and I visited the beach in the Nebea Province once a year where I was surrounded by men and women wearing little to nothing under the hot sun. Here, the ratio of men to women was staggeringly uneven, about five to one. And from where I was standing, I couldn’t see one human female.

  “Thanks, man. Glad you could make it.”

  I literally stood in Corbin’s shadow, hoping no one would notice me. Too late.

  “Hey, you’re Jessen’s friend, right? Is it Ella?”

  Eyes swiveled to me.

  “Yeah. Jessen and Sorcha are my best friends.”

  Slade’s grin widened. “Then you’re welcome to the party.” He winked. I remembered Slade from the night my two best friends and I had ventured into a Morgon club. He had seriously tried to attract Jessen’s attention. To no avail.

  I glanced around. Clayton and Conn had disappeared to find another beer. Great.

  I was suddenly shoved into Corbin from behind. As he righted me, I saw why. The hulking figure on the Pike team, Braden, marched right up to Slade. Two other Pike players flanked him.

  Braden glared at Slade, a fierce scowl darkening his face. “Why don’t we go one more round?”

  “Don’t be such a sore loser, Pike. Just enjoy the show tonight.”

  “What? Too tired? You all burnt out? I thought Gladium boys had more stamina than that.”

  Slade puffed up his chest, but his eyes narrowed. He wore the expression of someone trapped.

  “What’ll we play for? I’m not giving up the torque.”

  “You’re so sure you’ll lose, eh?” With arms crossed over a massive chest, Braden scanned the silent crowd, eyes landing on me. “Fine. Let’s play for something sweet.”