Page 21 of Dragon’s Rogue

But he was afraid that comfort was gone forever, now that his dream had been shattered by reality. No Draken mate, but a dark sorceress. And he wanted her still.

The idol, back in his pocket, seemed to whisper to him again, pulling him to the right, toward the portal that led magically between the mountains, to Vyrkos’ tomb.

Wanting to make him wallow in tonight’s failure, no doubt. Screw that. He didn’t need the whisperings of a dark artifact for that. He could manage it just fine on his own.

He turned on his heel and headed left instead.

Their rooms upstairs had TVs and king-size beds and walk-in closets and all the amenities a fortune in dragon gold could buy. But every Wild Dragon needed a lair, a place where his beast could feel safe. Every dragon needed wind under his wings, but he also needed a mountain to protect him.

Zane’s lair was at the end of a long, empty corridor, large enough to drive a couple of semi-trucks side by side through it. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls, the stone floor worn down by centuries of booted feet and dragon claws.

These caves were far older than the city of Portland, older than the first tiny settlement where the two rivers met. Dragons had been here for thousands of years, feared and worshiped by the Native peoples.

The Guardians and their clans had dug these caves out of solid rock, and here they’d brought their treasures from many worlds, shielding their lairs from human detection with dragon magic. Most of the lairs were empty now, had been empty for centuries. The treasure their owners had amassed was mostly gone, taken back to the Dragonlands by their descendants.

Only the Guardians had stayed. They’d watched the settlers come, watched the city grow. And died in the Battle of Mount St. Helens, up near Seattle, when the Draken Lord Zavrek broke free from his tomb.

One by one, Zane passed the great carved doors leading to the dead dragons’ lairs. He knew all their names—Volandre, Covenrae, Krakyr, Ayrik.

Some of those lairs still held remnants of treasure, what hadn’t been sold in the last hundred years to build the dragons’ business empire in the human world. Gold and gems were precious to dragons, but it was getting harder and harder to get cold hard cash for them.

Walk into a bank with a sack of ancient gold, and you’d have Homeland Security on your ass in no time.

At the end of the hall was Zane’s lair. It was the biggest one on this corridor—the others’ lairs were in different corridors. Dragons liked their privacy.

Zane paused at the doorway, like he always did. Thirty years, and he still didn’t really feel like it belonged to him. He was an intruder.

He opened the huge door, carved with images of suns and moons and stars, all with individual faces as if the heavens were not distant and terrifying, but a group of friends. The hinges squeaked, as always, and he made a mental note to oil them.

Someday.

The torches on the walls whooshed to life as he entered, their flames sending shadows and glimmers of light dancing through the cavern.

Before him was a stone fireplace, cold and empty, with two dusty armchairs flanking it. To his left was a desk made of gnarled branches and flat sections of tree trunks, all polished to a warm glow.

Now it reminded him of Blaze’s work table. Zane ran his fingers over the top of it, thinking of her, wondering what she’d look like in the torchlight.

Lying on a bed of gold.

The rest of the vast cavern—big enough for a dragon to sleep in—was filled with treasure. Piles of gold, silver and copper coins. Rings and bracelets and necklaces; goblets and plates; intricate statues and plain ingots. Precious stones, set in jewelry or just lying around loose.

Most of the hoard wasn’t Zane’s—not really. It had belonged to the Guardian named Ayrik, of the Clan of Al-Kasbah. Sometimes, when his dragon was dozing in the cavern, he thought he could hear Ayrik’s hoard singing a song to its rightful master, who’d died a death worthy of a Draken Guardian.

Saving the people of Seattle and Portland, like a Guardian was supposed to do.

Zane went to a much smaller pile of gold and gems in a corner. This was his own treasure, the small hoard he’d brought with him when Thorne recruited him for this job.

This crazy, doomed, hopeless job of finding the Three Seals and preventing Vyrkos from rising and destroying everything between here and the western sea.

He climbed onto his small pile of treasure, already arranged to fit the contours of his human body. He settled into it, his body relaxing with a sigh. The hoard welcomed him, humming a faint song of pleasure.

Dragons loved treasure, and treasure loved dragons. He leaned his head back onto a pillow of gold coins.

Maybe when Zane died trying to defeat Vyrkos, his hoard would sing in his memory. It would be nice to be remembered for doing something brave.

He wanted to believe that that wouldn’t happen. He wanted to believe he and Thorne and Tyr would somehow find the Seals in the next few weeks, even though Thorne had been hunting for nearly forty years with no luck.

He wanted to believe they’d be strong enough to take down Vyrkos, if they didn’t find the Seals.