Kelekona: Prologue

Long ago, myths say, the dragons ruled.

In times of yore, the tales sigh, they tore themselves apart in war and fire, and left nothing but dreams of stunning creatures that seared the earth with their merest step, and nightmares of the reality that they fractured in their lust for violence and power.

Legend murmurs of terrifying, mindless beings that cared for no one and nothing, who held their own family in small regard. It whispers the names of the mighty ones, of Fireblade, who was a being born in a volcano, and put to rest in ashes, of Bhari the Deceiver who betrayed her own people in a breath and listened to their screams while they burned. It speaks of Kheoussan Rastaban, the last, the greatest, the proudest king of the dragons, who led his people to defeat and the long sleep in the war with the witches.

Fable warns that the strongest are often weakest in their own hearts, where their lack of compassion, of care, of anything but greed will tumble them from their thrones. It urges caution, and tells us only that if the dragons should wake again...

Never close your eyes, for nobody sleeps tonight.

~*~

Panagea, around 28000 BC

She was a small woman, and not a particularly powerful one, but there was a delicacy to her features, and depth to her violet eyes that had ensnared a dragon's heart.

"Ssh, 'Lai," she said gently, rocking the little girl in her arms, and cuddling her safe while the sounds of thunder came from outside. "It's only the sky throwing a tantrum."

She glanced around as a man came in, shaking the raindrops from his head in an oddly canine gesture, the scarlet hair falling away to reveal the three horns planted upon his forehead.

For a moment, the woman caught her breath, as if in pain, then the man looked at her and smiled sweetly, and her face lit.

"Would that it did it a little quieter," he said drolly, in a voice that was oddly soft and clear yet with an odd undertone to it, something akin to the rumble of an avalanche. "Was Reve-lai crying again?"

"She was," the woman said, looking down at the child who was a small heap in her arms with her own silver hair, and the inhumanly silver eyes of the man who watched them both with a quiet pride. "Drax...please, you have to be more careful coming here. If you're caught..."

"Hush," he said firmly, and threw off the sodden cloak to come and hunker beside the warming fire and her loving eyes which to him, held their own tranquil heat. "I won't be caught, Kal."

His strange silver eyes were hard to meet, but the woman managed.

"You will be, love," she said, and the lines furrowed in her brow made him listen more carefully. "I...don't like having to hide like this, but we must. I'm a witch, and you're a dragon and-"

"I know!" he said impatiently, and that brief, dangerous glitter of dragon power jumped in his eyes, and made her shudder. "It's wrong, and it's against everything we've both been taught, and they all doubt my loyalty anyway...but Kallissa, my dear, we've been together ten years now and they've not found us out!"

She shrugged. "Because we've been careful, Drax."

He groaned, and flung a hand to his eyes. A little of the dragon theatrics in him, the woman thought fondly, that their daughter had inherited even at five. "Kal, *please*. I barely see you two as it is - must we spend our time arguing? I've seen Reve-lai twice in the last moon, and it isn't enough!"

"It has to be!" she fired back ."You think I find it easy? I have to hear questions and questions about who 'Lai's father is, and I have to put glamour spells whenever I take her anywhere because no one else has those silver eyes of yours, and even the witches who do know scarcely approve!"

Drax snorted, and glancing at Kallissa for permission, lifted the child into his arms. "They have to approve," he said dryly. "I'm their link to the dragons who aren't happy with the way Sangager is running things."

"Oh, him!" Kallissa said impatiently. "He's no threat. It's Kheo you want to watch for, and Bhari. You know what they say-"

"Once there were five kingdoms, and now there is one," he interrupted. "Yes, and perhaps those two had a hand in it-"

"And don't discount Fireblade," she told him sharply. "I trust that man about as far as I can throw him."

He gave her a sly look. "Depends what shape he's in, doesn't it?" At her reluctant smile, he relaxed. "I am being careful. The resistance is finally getting underway, my love, and I think there will be outright rebellion soon. Now," he commanded, "no more talk of dark things. I am here for you, and 'Lai."

The silver eyes darkened to a subtle, stormy grey.

When you can be, Kallissa thought sadly, and cursed herself. How could she nag him for being here too often, then miss him so?

How had she fallen in love with this dragon who was neither evil nor wicked nor sinister, but tender, and affectionate, and kind?

One summer slaving under the dragons to pay off an imagined crime, one day spent tending the wonderful, elaborate and magical gardens, one glance with a man who was not interested in destroying this beauty, as so many of the crueller did to 'keep her in service', but in regarding it. One glance, one chance, later, one dance...

And now, this intricate, deadly dance they had been locked in so long, their steps dictated by secrecy and their hands still locked together by love.

He must have sensed her mood, because he shifted 'Lai so she was in one arm, and stroked Kal's cheek. "I am always here," he repeated steadily. "Always."

~*~

But there are other legends too, half-hidden family stories passed from ancestor to a child who will one day be an ancestor, growing and changing in the telling. Mutating into something more or less than they once were, curious plant sprouting in a dozens directions but all grown from one seed of truth.

Legend tells of an ancient passion, of a dragon and a witch who loved and lost most terribly. Of their child, Reve-Lai, the Dream Immortal, who grew to become a girl, and then a young woman, outcast and guarded by the knowledge that she was not monster enough to be of the dragon people, but not mortal enough to be a witch.

Myth speaks of finally, the stormy night when dragon and witch alike rose against the tyranny of the dragon people.

But forgotten, half-whispered memory tells of the terrible betrayal of those dragons, slaughtered by those selfsame witches they aided. Of the child who saw her dragon father die trying to save her, the child who saw her mother broken and battered by grief, the child who threw away her name, and took up only her vengeance.

Tales say that finally, she too died, a terrible tragedy in the war, that all knowledge of Reve-Lai was lost to the world.

Sometimes, legend gets it wrong.

~*~

Las Vegas, 1998

The world called them angels.

But these angels didn't strum sweet harps on clouds, or flutter in a world of pearl and gold. These angels were Nightpeople, and they lived in a world of steel and darkness lit by lightning. They moved through it like ghosts, and they brought help to those who needed it.

Gatajri Jubatus spun a pen in her fingers, and listened to the warm, accented voice on the end of the phone. All those summers spent in Britain with the family had given Jepar, she thought, that odd clipped civility that the British seemed to have, without any of the restraint.

"Listen, Gata," her little brother was saying, "things are getting bad here. I don't know how the situation got so out of hand...but this is no joke. We're not talking about vampire wannabes."

She narrowed her emerald green eyes, which had the exact same slight tilt as his, and thought idly that she did miss Jepar, for all the trouble he had caused. But he was dead to the rest of her family, exiled for a crime he committed only out of hurt and love.

"What are we talking about?" she said in her strong, dark voice which held a hint of a tribal purr.

For all her calm, there was something very wild about Gatajri Jubatus. Her golden hair was spattered with dark brown circles, like the fur of a cheetah - which she was - and however tightly she pinned it back, strands escaped to flicker about her proud, clean cut face.

A pause, and she could imagine her brother, maybe taller and leaner than he had been - no longer the scared fourteen year-old shapeshifter she had ferried away from the Nightworld's wrath, but a confident young man.

"A cult," he said slowly. "I know it's an overused term, but in this case...it's true. They're killing, Gata, and they're killing purposefully."

"There's four of you there, isn't there?" she demanded irritably. "Gods be good, though they rarely are, we are an elite society, Jepar. You were sent there because you have the potential to be extremely dangerous, and to save lives other than your own, not just to escape."

"I know," he snapped back. No trace of the rather irritating good humour her brother always seemed to have. Gata had always thought he was too frivolous, but at last he appeared to be taking something seriously. "It's my penance, remember?"

A long pause. "You really need help?" she said finally.

"Truly," he confirmed quietly. "Please Gata...people are dying, and we can't help."

"Tell me what you know," she ordered, and listened for a good half hour in her spacious office, twirling that pen around and around in her fingers. As head of the angels here, she made the choices as to who went where. And she thought...she knew exactly the people to send there.

"All right," she said at last, and heard her brother sigh in relief. "I'm sending you two people. You remember Jon Baines?" He was a cousin of one of the other angels there. "Him and his...new partner."

"You say that like it's a word you don't like much," he observed. Sharp little fiend.

"She's...unusual," Gatajri said. "And excuse the pun, but she's no angel."

~*~

The angels were creatures of the night; beautiful and powerful as any who roamed in the unknown hours when humans ceased to have control and instead, the hunters arrived to their grounds.

But these were no merciless and uncaring immortals; nor the pacific, earnest mix that made up the third circle of the witches. They were somewhere in between, neither on one side or the other; a foot caught in shadow, and a foot firmly within the light.

The mysterious heralds came to be known simply as angels and true to their reputation, they adopted the role of guardian to those in need.

They protected people, mostly Daybreakers the Nightworld attacked, but sometimes the other way around. Without bias and without compassion, many wore masks, for even a profile could spark memories in the clear minds of vampires, and to be discovered would be to be destroyed.

No one knew who they were outside of the group. Angels were never told any assignment more than a day in advance, to avoid any traps their protected might attempt. They moved constantly and had no fixed headquarters. Meetings were called at short notice, but everyone attended for with the fragile balance of power shifting at every moment, knowledge was vital.

Security was necessary; the Nightworld was ungrateful, Daybreak curious and wary. Trust was a factor that made up their lives, a vital knowledge they lived with.

These unlikely Angels dealt out justice as they saw fit. There were two fundamental rules about being an Angel. One was that death was taboo. An angel could kill no one. Even when feeding, no human or Nightperson was to be touched. Torture was allowed, provided the tortured did not die in relation to the act. Angels could be cruel, they could be evil, but they could never be murderers.

The other was secrecy; no one was to know who they were, what they were or who they worked for. Like the mythical angels that humans prayed to, these immortals would never be summoned but came only those who needed their help and sometimes, not even then.

These angels each had their reasons for helping the humans.

But Reve-Lai, the girl with the silver hair and silver eyes and silver, frozen tears, the girl who lived but never loved, had a darker reason than most. No longer the Dream Immortal, she was simply Dragon.

And she wanted blood.