Don't Feed the Dragon: A Dragon Rider Urban Fantasy Novel (Setting Fires with Dragons Book 1)

by S. W. Clarke

  The houri observed the two of us with an unnerving serenity. I could tell she was seeing right through my bullshit, because she cut that line of conversation right off. “Tara Drake, I would like to know first about your interest in Annabelle. She is dear to me. A statement I have reserved for a very select few.” She squeezed Frank’s hand as she spoke.

  Now wasn’t that sweet?

  So sweet I wanted to throw up.

  I fixed Seleema with the calmest eyes I could manage. How to explain? Where to start? Well, probably with the root of the evil. “Have you heard of folks calling themselves the Scarred?”

  “The Scarred?” they repeated, the couple exchanging a glance.

  “You mean the ex-vampire gang?” Frank asked.

  Gang. I guess even when you’re an ex-vampire, you’re still a human. And the human word for a coven? It’s a gang. It’s got none of the cool factor of “coven,” and that gave me a modicum of satisfaction; they deserved to be called what they were. Low-lives. Killers.

  But all the same, calling them a gang wasn’t totally appropriate, either. They were as dangerous as the edge of a sharpened blade.

  I ate the remaining half of the rasher. “Yeah, them. Most are ex-vamps. The rest are just sadists who don’t believe in the value of human life. And my understanding is the lot of them are based right here in New York City.”

  “Why are they called the Scarred?” Seleema asked.

  I knew the exact answer to that question. But it was one I really, really didn’t care to answer. So I sidestepped. "In the early days, the scarred would literally paint their faces with scars. These days they've gotten a lot more savvy—they've traded thuggery for cravats, making them far more dangerous, mostly untraceable."

  Frank rubbed his hands together. “We just saw a news report last night. They’ve finally been connected to a mass killing in …”

  “Atlanta,” I finished for him, then took a long sip of orange juice. “Six people found dead on upside-down crosses? Yup. That was them.”

  “Why crosses?” Frank asked.

  I studied the baked beans on my plate. I never did like baked beans. “Some pseudo-religious thing, I guess. Trying to offend as many people as possible.”

  Frank looked like he was about to ask me more, but Seleema leaned forward. “And Annabelle?” Her serenity had descended into concern. “She has something to do with them?”

  That houri never lost sight of what she wanted, which was a quality to admire. I lifted my eyes to hers. “Maybe. She was talking to one of them last night at the bar. An ogre. And this morning, I found out she’s gone to Langone for a last-minute appointment with a doctor. Suspicious all the way around.”

  “A doctor?” Frank asked. “And you think this has something to do with the Scarred?”

  “I do.”

  Frank eyed me. “Why would a gang of sadistic ex-vampires send her to a doctor?”

  I set my knife and fork down, took a breath. “You all might want to finish your breakfast before I go into this.”

  The two of them pushed their untouched plates away. They stared at me.

  “All right, then. Well, I got to Atlanta too late, you see. But I got a tip about the Scarred running a human trafficking ring here. Apparently their leader is attempting to regain his immortality.”

  Seleema’s eyes narrowed. “And you think they will traffic Annabelle?”

  But I barely registered it. I hadn’t even named a name, but just the mention of him—their leader—sent steam through the ventricles of my heart with the same potency as I’d once felt lust, as I’d once felt excitement over anything.

  Bloodlust, I called it. That was how I felt when I thought about him.

  Valdis.

  “Tara,” Seleema whispered, “are you OK?”

  My eyes refocused on the houri, whose brow had furrowed. I realized my face was hot and flushed, and I’d clenched the butter knife in my left fist like I was preparing to cut someone.

  Actually, I could probably kill someone with that butter knife. The thought comforted me, even as I really didn’t want to alarm the nice couple.

  “You know,” I said, “ ‘OK’ is a relative term. It’s hard to know whether me saying I’m OK means the same thing to you as it does to me. And to be brutally honest, I haven’t known how to answer that question in five years.”

  Mom and Dad were gone. My sister—all three of them, gone.

  Their screams returned to me at the oddest times.

  Like right now, sitting here at this pretty kitchen table in the morning light with a plate of eggs in front of me.

  Silence elapsed. Finally, Frank asked, “Are you sensitive to caffeine, Tara?”

  I blinked up at him. “Am I what?”

  He pointed to my leg, which was jiggling up and down. “Are you sensitive to caffeine? You could power the whole apartment with all that energy.”

  Seleema giggled, then covered her mouth. “Sorry.”

  A little laugh burst out of me, too. Frank had broken the tension as easily as tapping a hammer on an eggshell. “No, it’s funny.”

  They were still holding hands. And I saw, for just a moment, why the houri was so infatuated with a man I’d originally found wholly unimpressive. He grounded her. He had a nice, deadpan humor. You didn’t undervalue that.

  I looked at them with new eyes. “Yes,” I said. “I worry they’re targeting Annabelle. And I aim to stop them from taking her, or anyone else.”

  “How?” Seleema asked.

  I glanced down at the butter knife still in my grip. “With everything I have. I’ve moved today’s street performance to the hospital she went to. It’s the only lead I’ve got.”

  Seleema’s head jerked up and her eyes widened with … well, desire. Seems I’m not the only one with bloodlust in my heart. “We will help you. How can we protect Annabelle?”

  I swallowed. “You said yourself I swirl with darkness. You don’t want to get closer to this, Seleema. You or Frank.”

  The houri sat forward, her eyes narrowing. “If you think just because I am a courtesan of Heaven that I do not possess courage or the ability to fight, you are quite mistaken, Tara Drake. My name is Seleema Nourra, Bint Al-Uzza, Zouge Arousa-Franklin—first of the houris, warrior, steward of Jannah, and the betrothed of the Night. From my flesh all houris were created. From the blood drawn by my blade the Red Camels of Oman were born. My rage divided—”

  Well, then. I held up a hand. “I certainly meant no offense. If you want to help, I won’t say no twice.”

  “Good.” Seleema nodded. “We do.”

  “Right, then.” I pushed my plate aside, clasped my hands on the table. “So here’s the plan: I’m going to walk Percy today outside Langone, and—”

  Frank’s eyebrow arched. “You walk your dragon?”

  “I sure do, Frankie boy. He doesn’t much like it, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t have a nose for evil.”

  Seleema’s eyes went wide. “The dragon can scent evil-doers?”

  I couldn’t help grinning at the Other. She was so literal it almost hurt. “Well, not precisely. But he’s got a good sniffer, and ogres tend to stink.”

  “Ah.” She sat back. “I understand.”

  “And so I’m hoping I’ll see something—anything—of Annabelle,” I went on. “If I do, I’ll follow that lead where it takes me. You two can hang around, and if I get into trouble, I’ll FaceTime you for backup.”

  To my surprise, Frank nodded at once. “I’ve got a car.”

  To my added surprise, Seleema said nothing. Her cheeks had gone pink, and finally she glanced between me and Frank, her face painted with confusion. “What is the FaceTime?”

  ↔

  That late-October morning was a cold one, especially with the wind whipping as it did through the Brooklyn streets. As a southerner, I would never get used to cold, or conceive of why anyone liked snow.

  But the show must go on.

  That wasn’t just a carnie saying. It was a
philosophy—one I’d lived by my entire life.

  By the time Percy and I arrived at the hospital, I was full-on shivering. Fortunately, dragons are just about the warmest creatures known to man. We stopped at a crosswalk, and the moment I leaned against Percy, warmth emanated through my body.

  Percy angled his head around toward me, his leash jingling. “People are staring at me.”

  Around us, a small crowd of pedestrians had gathered to wait for the signal. I didn’t check; I knew they were looking. “They’d be staring even if you weren’t wearing a leash.”

  “But now they’re staring because I’m a leashed dragon. That’s humiliating.”

  The walk sign came on, and I started us across the street. I sensed the people in their cars rubbernecking as Percy and I walked by. “It’s only humiliating if you consent to being humiliated. Know who said that?”

  “Eleanor Roosevelt. And you got the quote wrong. It’s—”

  I raised a finger, already scanning the building ahead for signs of Grunt. “I got the gist of it. Did I not?”

  He snorted. “I guess.”

  I lowered my voice as we came onto the sidewalk adjacent to the hospital. “We’re here. Do you remember his scent?”

  “Yes.”

  Of course he did; Grunt had walked straight through the alley where Percy had been hiding outside The Singing Angel. He’d gotten a good whiff of him.

  “And do you smell him?”

  He lifted his head, nostrils widening as he sucked in air. He exhaled, took in another long, deep breath through his nose. “Faintly.”

  Bingo. That was good—better than good. Faintly meant he’d been here recently. I gestured ahead. “Lead the way.”

  He took us left down the sidewalk. For half a minute we walked at the pace a human would go if she were out walking her dragon.

  But then Percy sped up.

  The leash went taut, and I fell into a jog at his side. “Close?”

  He didn’t answer. When he didn’t answer, that meant he was focused. Which told me all I needed to know.

  I jogged with him in silence until we reached the end of the block. We came around the corner, and Percy stopped hard. His wings flared, and a few pedestrians veered wide around us.

  “I need to fly,” Percy said.

  “Now? Here? I don’t have a permit …”

  He didn’t look over at me; his eyes were fixed straight ahead. “You want to catch him or not?”

  I had to give it to the dragon—he really could get to the point. And while this infraction might cost me a lot of money, it would be worth it.

  Ferris, on the other hand, would be pissed.

  I climbed onto his back, and with two clicks of my tongue we took off over the crowd, rising past the cars and buildings. He angled right, and I leaned into him as he swung us toward the hospital. With a gut-lifting dip, he eased us as low as we were allowed to go, taking us in a loop around the entire circumference of the building.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  Percy didn’t respond. He just kept flying.

  I stared hard as we passed, my braid whipping up around my head. Nothing but cars, taxis, people walking fast in their black suits, a hot dog vendor, a guy pacing back and forth on his cellphone.

  Annoyance rose in my chest. This would be a hefty fine, and—

  “It’s him,” Percy said.

  I blinked, eyes scanning. “Where?”

  Percy swung us up, rising so we went almost vertical and I had to squeeze hard into the stirrups of his saddle and hold on tight to his spine. When we had risen high, he idled us in the air, his wings flapping. “Two o’clock. Waddling down the sidewalk in blue scrubs.”

  There at two o’clock was the very ogre Percy had described, all the way down to the blue scrubs. And he was, in fact, waddling. It looked like he had a wedgie.

  But I still wasn’t 100% sure if it was Grunt.

  I stared hard. Turn around. Just turn around for a second so I can see your face.

  Percy always somehow sensed what I wanted, and as soon as I thought it, he flapped his wings so hard the crack resounded a few hundred yards off.

  The ogre glanced up. Stared right at us.

  He was missing an ear.

  “Son of a motherless goat. It’s him,” I breathed. “That’s Grunt.”

  And as if he’d heard me, Grunt proceeded to waddle faster down the sidewalk.

  I raised my watch to my mouth. “Siri … FaceTime Seleema.”

  The watch chimed twice, began ringing. A second later, only the upper half of Seleema’s face appeared on the watch’s screen.

  “This is a miracle,” the houri breathed, her wide eyes enormous on the tiny screen.

  “Angle the phone down, sweetheart,” Frank said in the background.

  She did so, and soon her entire face came into view.

  “I’ve spotted the ogre. 49th and Broadway,” I breathed, my eyes never leaving the street below. “Perce and I are going in. We’ve—” I began, but I was cut off by Percy’s nose dropping straight down, and the rest of him following.

  Apparently he’d taken that as his cue.

  I forgot about the call completely, my hand shooting toward his spine to grab on for all my worth. Soon I got a good view of the street below, because we were spearing down toward it.

  At the last second, Percy’s wings shot out and he tented them to bring us to a graceful landing directly in front of the ogre. You could barely hear Percy’s claws scrape the sidewalk.

  I slid off his back, unhooking Thelma as I did. “You,” I called out.

  Around us, the incessant honking at the street corner had, by some miracle, stopped. It seemed like the cars had slowed down, too, because the engine noises fell away.

  Or maybe I was just that focused on Grunt.

  He had stopped hard the moment Percy landed. He surveyed me with narrowed eyes. “Is that a GoneGodDamn dragon?”

  I glanced back at Percy as though to make sure. In the same glance, I allowed the whip to fall and hit the sidewalk. I turned back to the ogre. “Yessir, it is.”

  The ogre’s fingers were folded to fists. Evidently he wasn’t a fan of dragons.

  “Don’t you remember me?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  He just stared at me like I had two heads.

  I flicked my whip, turning my palms out. “Dude, this is like the third time we’ve faced off against each other, if you count when I was your therapist. How can you not remember me?”

  “Humans,” he said with a shrug. “You all look the same.”

  That did sting just a little, but I pressed aside my ego. “Where’s Annabelle?”

  The ogre’s eyes flicked to me. I saw the same hate there I’d seen in The Singing Angel. “I don’t know who you’re—”

  I snapped the whip off the side of the building as I came forward. “This isn’t time for games, big boy. You and I both know I mean the deaf gal from the bar last night.”

  His eyes roved me from head to toes, and his big lips came together like he knew me after all. Like he knew what I was all about.

  Which was precisely what I wanted.

  “That’s a cute rope you have.” He gestured with his chin to Thelma. “Dainty little thing like you gonna stop a monster like me?”

  “I think you’re missing the fact that I got me a dragon.” I sensed Percy’s breath on my back a few feet behind. His claws scraped delicately over the cement.

  With one enormous inhale, Grunt burst out of his shirt—literally, the blue scrubs ripped right off his chest—and he reached over and plucked a stop sign out of the sidewalk like he was picking a daisy.

  “Little lady, you really need to read your mythology,” Grunt said. “I’m a Lodbrok ogre. Do you know what ‘Lodbrok’ means in your mother tongue?”

  “Asshole?”

  Grunt’s head ticked back and forth. “It means dragonslayer.”

  Chapter 7

  For an ogre, he moved fast.

  Reall
y fast.

  We’d fought in a narrow alley in New Orleans, but now that he had so much sheer space, this was like fighting an entirely different creature.

  He swung the stop sign in a forward arc in the same moment I cracked Thelma at him. The two weapons met with a slap, and the sign won; it deflected the whip, and Thelma’s cracker dropped soundlessly to the ground.

  Grunt roared and surged forward, swinging the sign around in a backhand like a tennis racket.

  “Ten-foot radius, Perce!” I yelled, backpedaling two steps before I ducked under the ogre’s swing. That GoneGodDamn sign would have sliced my head clean off. He needed to be rid of that thing.

  Percy didn’t acknowledge he’d heard me. And when I spun around, I discovered why.

  The dragon’s mouth had opened, and a tiny cauldron of flame appeared in the back of his throat. I pitched toward him, rolling through a somersault just before his jaw opened wide and a plume of fire poured toward the ogre.

  That was when the screams started. That was always when the screams started.

  Fortunately, that also meant the whole block cleared of pedestrians in about two seconds flat. Even the businesswomen in their kitten heels clattered away, running faster than I could have imagined anyone could run in heels.

  Dragonfire was a hell of an incentive.

  From the glass-and-steel buildings above us, faces pressed to the windows—people in ties and pencil skirts, people who hadn’t paid for a street show but were getting one anyway.

  You had to admit: it was more enticing than cake in the break room.

  I turned with Thelma at the ready and set one hand on Percy’s neck—the cue to let off on the fire. He closed his mouth, and Percy’s flames rushed to about six feet in front of him before they lost momentum and blackened into smoke.

  I squinted. Grunt was obscured through the still-orange fire and drifting smoke. Maybe Percy had nailed him.

  Before I could say as much, the stop sign thrust through the flames, still gripped by an even angrier Grunt, who rushed right through the fire as though it had no effect at all.