They are the stuff of glittering legend, supersensual creatures able to shape-shift from human to smoke to dragon. Now they face an enemy determined to destroy their dazzling world of magic and passion. Queen of Dragons It’s a stunning claim: the existence of a lost drákon tribe. And it comes from an intriguing source: a woman calling herself Princess Maricara of Transylvania. Alpha lord Kimber Langford, Earl of Chasen, can’t ignore the possibility. For whoever this unknown princess may be, she’s dangerous enough to know about his existence—and where to find him. And indeed, it isn’t long before Maricara breaches the defenses of Darkfrith and the walls around Kimber’s heart. Yet the princess arrives with urgent news: a mysterious serial killer is targeting the entire drákon race. To save their kind, Kimber and Mari must ally themselves body and soul in a battle that can spell their salvation, their extinction…or both. “Winning.”— Publishers Weekly Shana Abé is the award-winning author of nine novels, including The Smoke Thief . She lives in the Denver area with four surly pet house rabbits, all rescued, and a big goofy dog. Please, please support your local animal shelter, and spay or neuter your pets. Chapter One April 1782 Four Years Later It was a night without moon or stars, the clouds boiling heavy with dark, impending snow, masking not only the ruts of the road but also anything that might be hiding above. Anything lethal. Fortunately, he didn't truly need to see to sense an aerial threat. He felt them occasionally, or thought he did: distant tremors in the air, never too close, usually so faint he half thought he was imagining it. The cold seemed the greater threat, actually. He'd never known a spring night this frigid, not in his life, and wondered how the bloody hell anyone managed to live here. Springtime at home meant bright green crocuses and warmed streams splashing free of their ice-not this. Not this bitter, relentless chill that sliced through his greatcoat and froze to frost inside his mouth and nose. His horse stumbled, pitching him forward in the saddle. He righted himself and tried to calm her with a hand to her neck, but the mare only shuddered at his touch. He pulled back again. Riding horseback was never ideal. But he'd been unable to hire a coach to take him up these mountain roads, no matter how much he offered. No one wanted to venture here. And that was good, he knew. It meant, finally, that he was close. The mare skipped to a halt, sending him forward again. He swore under his breath, snapping the reins, but she would not move. When he used his spurs she tossed her head and reared; he held on with both hands, but she only went into a buck, panicked, squealing, and he realized suddenly that there was something ahead of them on the road, something that spooked her. He lost his grip. He hit the ground and then lost his breath, managing a roll to his feet, swiping the mud from his eyes. The mare pounded off and the danger-sense grew and the skin crawled along his spine-he was already Turning, but it was cold, and he was winded. And it was too late. Her morning began the way too many of her mornings did: with the wind blowing her hair in heavy ropes across her face, her body curled in a ball atop a loose mound of hay, her fists clenched. Even her toes clenched. She wore no clothing. Beneath the hay, the terrace floor was cold, cold-nearly as cold as the ice topping the mountains, just as glimmering, milky-pale stone hewn from the hills centuries past. Her mouth tasted of ashes. Her hair smelled of smoke. Maricara opened her eyes, then closed them again. The sky above loomed pink and scarlet-gold, domed with soft, glamorous clouds all rimmed in gilt. It was wildly beautiful and deeply inviting, a sky fit for a princess. Or at least a serf masquerading as one. For an instant-a brief, wistful flicker of time-she pretended she was still asleep. In a bed. With pillows. The wind stole her hair again, whipping it hard over her nose. Definitely woodsmoke. Cautiously, she began to stretch. Fingers, toes, the warm tucked spaces of her body chilled at once as she flexed against the straw. Nothing broken. Some pain in her left hand, bruised knuckles. A cut along her belly . . . that could be a problem. A stomach wound meant she had either flown too low or reared up too high. Mari sat up and explored the wound, sucking in air to dispel the pain. The edges were clean, razored, and not terribly deep-but it hurt. She'd have to wash it carefully; the last thing she needed was blood poisoning. She climbed to her feet, brushing the loose twigs from her torso, bending down to get her legs. She shook back her hair and spoke to the open view before her. "Where was it last night?" The voice behind her was thinner, younger, and threaded with a calm that probably was not real. "A village several leagues away. Deda." "Deda. That far?" "Apparently." She combed her fingers th