Chapter 5

We men dream dreams, we work magic, we do good, we do evil. The dragons do not dream. They are dreams. They do not work magic: it is their substance, their being. They do not do; they are.

¨DUrsula K. Le Guin,?The Farthest Shore

Mikhail walked up the steps to Berkley's Club, his skin tingling. It had been a long time since he'd scented a virgin woman in her prime. He'd stayed away from humans for so long that he'd almost forgotten how the sweet, floral scent of a naturally beautiful woman could tease his nostrils. The little virgin gemologist was as ripe as a red apple hanging low on the branch, begging to be plucked. His body hardened at the thought of getting her alone, stripping her naked, and inhaling that intoxicating, pure scent until he was drunk with the aroma.

He gave his head an almost violent shake. Nohe refused to be a fool for a woman again, especially a virgin. Piper Linwood was no different than any other female, ready to betray a man the moment it was convenient. It didn't matter that she'd carried a loneliness in her eyes that called to his, or a hopeful blush in her cheeks when he'd leaned in close to her. It was a ruse and nothing more. His hands curled into fists as he rapped his knuckles on the club's front door and waited, his mind racing with thoughts of the past.

The memories of that night when Queen Elizabeth had seduced and betrayed him five hundred years ago had left him filled with a quiet rage. When he'd entered the jewel exhibit an hour ago, his heart had stopped at the sight of his jewels on display for the world to see like common trinkets. But they weren't.

The hoard was his family's payment for a treaty with the Belishaws, an English dragon family. The Belishaws had received those same jewels years before Elizabeth was born as a payment from King Henry VIII, when he was a young and weak monarch. In exchange, the Belishaws had provided the Crown with their support and protection. Now those jewels belonged to him and his two brothers, Grigori and Rurik. To see the hoard on display like this had upset his dragon. A dragon's hoard was supposed to be hidden deep below the earth in caverns where no one could steal it.

The door to the club opened. He took a deep breath as he stepped inside. A servant met him just inside the door.

"Good evening, sir."

Mikhail handed the servant his black membership card. "I'm here to see Randolph Belishaw."

The man's eyes widened as he examined the card. "Yes, of course, right this way." He waved for Mikhail to follow. They walked up a flight of gleaming, polished wooden stairs, softened by expensive carpets. Paintings of famous members from days long past lined the walls. He paused at the top of the stairs and noticed a portrait of a blond-haired man with laughing gray eyes. The man wore buckskin breeches and a blue waistcoat. The inscription beneath the painting read, "Charles Humphrey, Seventh Earl of Lonsdale."

He'd met the man once in an underground boxing ring more than two hundred years ago. Lonsdale had been one of the fiercest humans he'd ever faced. Mikhail hadn't stayed in London long after that match.

"You had one hell of a right hook," Mikhail said with a chuckle. What had happened to Lonsdale? Had he slipped into obscurity like most other men of his day? The thought was a sobering one. Good men always died, while dragons lived on.

The servant had paused a few feet ahead, apparently believing Mikhail had spoken to him. "Excuse me?"

Mikhail smiled. "Sorry, just lost in the past."

The servant looked older than him at forty or fifty years old, but Mikhail was over two thousand. It just so happened that as a dragon shifter he didn't physically age past his mid-thirties. Only far older dragons, those five or ten thousand years old, would start to show their age, and even then their hair might just have a few silver streaks in it. Dragons didn't grow old and wrinkled, but without purpose, many of the ancient ones simply remained in their dragon forms and buried themselves in caves deep in mountains and went to sleep, never to wake again.

It was why finding one's true mate was importantit gave a dragon a reason to stay alive, unless of course one's mate was human. He'd known many dragons who had given up on finding true mates and contented themselves to breed with dragonesses simply for the sake of continuing the bloodlines, but he'd never wanted that for himself. He'd been determined to find and claim his true matebut that dream had been shattered centuries ago.

"The room is this way." The servant led him down the hall and paused by the door. "Mr. Belishaw is inside. I shall send someone to bring you drinks." The servant opened the door and allowed Mikhail to pass through.

The small private room was lushly decorated, furnished with leather chairs and a warm fire crackling in the hearth. A lone man with dark brown hair and aristocratic features sat in a chair, reading a newspaper.

"Belishaw," Mikhail greeted him.

Randolph Belishawor simply Belishaw to his friendsraised his head and grinned. "Been a long time since you came to see me. Still hiding in that little cottage in Cornwall?" Belishaw stood and clasped hands with Mikhail with genuine warmth.

"Cornwall is right for me. You know I love the cliffsexcellent for flying. You've always been more of a city dragon."

Belishaw laughed, his brown eyes twinkling. "True." He was the eldest son of the Belishaw familya noble line of English dragonsand one of Mikhail's few friends.

Belishaw offered him a chair by the fire. For the first time in a century, Mikhail felt guilty for not coming to London more often. He liked to think he was all alone, but he did have friends here. I am too used to playing the martyr, I fear.

"You've seen the news?" Mikhail asked.

His friend grinned. "Of course. Bet you leaped at the chance to see the jewels for yourself."

"I already have." Mikhail's smile slipped at the memory of how the pearls had looked. Once a bag of opalescent joy he'd carried in a large red cloth bag, now a pinkish-gray and sunken looking. It was enough to break a dragon's heart. Jewels were meant to be guarded and cherished, not tarnished.

"Oh?" Belishaw looked surprised, and then it changed to a keen gaze of comprehension. "That's why you're here. You wish for me to bring you to the Thorne Auction House reception tonight, don't you?" There was a flicker of pain in Belishaw's eyes. It was clear that he thought he was being used.

Damn, I can be a bloody bastard sometimes.