For some reason, I find myself listening to her breathing. A moment later I realize what I am doing and look away. "Anothersuspicious detail," I mutter. “Perhaps she is a master of some hidden magic. Perhaps she is both a witchandan associate of Praxigor. Did she not live in the same tribe as him? Did she not claim to know his secrets?”
The Plood keeps placing leaves at Morgan’s feet, one at a time.
"Well, there are more pressing concerns. Praxigor is nearby. Tribesmen are hunting us. I have no gold. I may be weakening. And I am stranded on a planet that appears specifically designed to irritate me." I fold my arms and stare into the darkness beyond the camp. Somewhere far away, a deep roar rolls across the jungle. Another answers. The sounds continue for several moments before fading. The night settles around us.
Morgan sleeps. The Plood keeps adding to the leaves.
She clearly has a plan. The difficulty is determining what it is. She’s a sly one, completely committed to her act.
Another factor starts to dawn on me. “She must somehow have arranged for me to find her in that village, and to take her with me. That part, at least, was done with magic. Yes, I remember how I felt when I looked at her. There was a strange feeling, one of warmth, of desire. Oh, she’s dangerous! And possibly in the service of Praxigor. Although I can’t be completely sure about that.”
As I watch the darkness between the trees, I make a decision. Tomorrow I will question her more carefully. I will discover what she knows. I will uncover whatever scheme she and her defective servant have devised.
And if that scheme somehow leads to gold, I intend to benefit from it. With that reassuring thought, I settle back against the tree and continue my vigil until dawn.
9
- Morgan-
I wake slowly, blinking against a ray of warm sunlight that filters through the dense leaves overhead.
For a few pleasant seconds I don't remember where I am. Then reality catches up with me. I'm on an alien planet. Dinosaurs want to eat me. A tribe is hunting me. Praxigor might be somewhere nearby. And I've somehow ended up traveling through the jungle with an arrogant dragon who may or may not be slowly losing his mind.
Unfortunately, that isn't the first thing I think about. The first thing I think about is kissing him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and groan quietly.
The memory arrives with perfect clarity. Cleaning the grease from his hands. Pulling him down toward me. The feel of his warm skin beneath my lips. The way he looked at me afterward.
What must he think of me now? The look in his eyes was pure surprise. Damn it, I might as well have stripped naked and thrown myself at him. I’m sure that would have given me the same reaction.
I sit up quickly and decide I need to think about something else.Anythingelse.
The little Plood is next to me, standing in a thick nest of yellow leaves at my feet. That at least gives me a welcome distraction. The strange little creature has somehow collected an entire pile of them during the night. I have no idea where they came from.
A short distance away, Vyrathion is standing beneath another tree with his arms folded, much the way he was when I lay down.
But he doesn’t look like he had any sleep.
"Did you sleep at all?" I ask.
The dragon glances toward me. "Sleep?"
"Yes. It's a thing most people do."
"I am aware of the concept, but not the rationale. Excuse me for not choosing to spend hours and hours unconscious, at the most dangerous time of the day, completely at the mercy of anyone who might pass by. Any dragon with a weakness like that would have his hoard stolen and his life ended before his first nap was over."
“A simple ‘no’ would have been enough. But thank you for elaborating.” Yeah, I was never a morning person. I brush leaves from my clothes and stand. The little Plood immediately blinks up at me.
I rub my eyes. "Good morning."
The creature radiates a burst of contentment through whatever strange telepathic sense the Plood use. Then it picks up one of the yellow leaves and proudly offers it to me.
"Thank you. Very nice. I was thinking that you should have a name. That other one is called Myron, Riley says. What shall we call you? I was thinking Clyde. What do you think?"
I don’t get any telepathic sense at all, so at least he’s not totally opposed to it. “Fine. You’re Clyde.”
Vyrathion watches this exchange with visible suspicion. "A name now? I continue to find your relationship with that creature deeply questionable."
