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

by S. W. Clarke

  I eyed him. “Anywhere legal.”

  ↔

  An hour later, we stood on the second floor of New York’s Guggenheim Museum, staring out over the floor-to-ceiling open courtyard. It rose many stories above us, daylight pouring from the enormous skylight above.

  And in the center …

  “A dragon,” Percy whispered, craning his neck out until the sunlight illuminated his blue scales with gold. He stared at the iron behemoth hanging from the ceiling.

  I leaned over the side, my elbows on the railing. “Never thought I’d see a dragon made of bicycles.”

  I didn’t know if Percy had heard me; his eyes moved in a rapid survey over the piece of art, from tail to head. “It’s much bigger than me.”

  “I imagine it’s much older, too.”

  Now he turned his head. “You mean, if it were real.”

  I nodded. “I thought we were pretending it was.”

  “We were.” His nostrils widened a moment. “But then I remembered it wasn’t real, and I started to feel sad.”

  I set a hand on his neck. “Why Percy, there are other dragons out there in the world besides Yaroz. We just haven’t met them yet.”

  His eyes flicked to me. “Why not?”

  “A few reasons. For one, I’ve been a little … busy.”

  He adjusted his wings, and the gust of air sent a nearby wind-chime exhibit into small tinkles. “But we will meet them.”

  “We absolutely will.” A knot of emotion rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down. I’d dreamed of having my vengeance for so long, but now that it was here, right at the top of a building not a mile from where we stood, I found strange and unexpected emotions passing through me.

  And I knew they had to do with the dragon standing beside me. The one I’d hatched from an egg not long after my family was murdered.

  He was my family. And he was an innocent.

  I took a deep breath and pointed out at the bicycle dragon hanging above us. “Someday you’ll grow to be a dragon that big, Percy.”

  In the silence that followed, I could hear the air passing through his lungs. Like the bellows on a furnace. “Promise?” he asked, low and soft.

  I knew that question contained more than the surface of it implied. My hand slid around his neck, and I wrapped myself close to him. “I swear on my parents’ graves,” I murmured. “I swear it.”

  Then, in the quiet that followed, “Tara, did you name me Percival to commemorate this big bicycle dragon exhibit?”

  I sighed. “Now here I was trying to have a moment, and you had to go and ask the one unaskable question. No, Perce, I did not name you after the dragon bicycle exhibit.”

  Chapter 19

  Ever tried to get a permit to ride a dragon in Times Square?

  Me either; that’s why I hired a gnome manager. I don’t care who you are—nobody says no to a Scottish gnome.

  As the sun rose to its crest, Percy and I rode up onto the platform that had been arranged for us in a hurry. Around us, a small crowd had gathered in Times Square.

  They would grow. They always did.

  I swung my leg over, slid off the saddle. My boots hit the wood—clomp-clomp—and the sound ricocheted around the street and buildings. We were about ten blocks from the buildings Drow had pointed out, so this spot would have to do.

  Though I did wish Ferris could have gotten me closer. Hell, I was shameless; I would have done the show abutting the apartment building itself. Even if the Scarred were in this crowd, they would never suspect me.

  They wouldn’t know me for the little girl I had been. That day, I’d been a child. No longer.

  In this GoneGod World, you grew up quick.

  I unhooked Thelma from behind my back, allowed the cracker to drop to the platform. “I’m Tara Drake,” I called out. “And this here’s my dragon, Percival.”

  The crowd stared at me with eyes wide as medallions. Correct that: they stared at Percy. Which was all right by me, because it freed me up to observe without being properly noticed.

  When I cracked the whip on the platform, all eyes shot to me. The crowd had about doubled in size now, passersby stopping and staring and then melding into the spellbound group.

  It occurred to me sometimes I didn’t even feel a twinge of fear like people always talked about. Being up on stage, speaking in public—all the things that made people’s insides quiver had no effect on me.

  I suppose I was a proper carnie after all. Always had been.

  I felt the ghost of my father in me as I began my circuit around Percy. He used to walk in circles around the lions, used to tempt them with his exposed back. He had no fear. None at all.

  Well, that wasn’t true.

  He feared one thing: losing his children.

  Which was why, from the moment I could hold a whip, I did so. It was why I’d learned acrobatics. It was why I’d learned to throw knives.

  He trained me to be quick of body and mind. To be fearless. To be ferocious.

  These were the best ways he knew to keep me safe.

  And they have, I thought as I finished my speech about how fast a whip could swing. They have.

  It was time for us to fly.

  I climbed on Percy’s back, his claws scraped over the platform, and that familiar chill went down my spine.

  There was one thing my father hadn’t taught me: how to ride a dragon.

  That one I’d learned all on my own.

  When we took off over the crowd, they fell back in a wave. The whip of his wings tossed their hair back, and soon we had risen twenty, thirty feet—high enough to see the rooftops. When I spotted the crosses on the tallest building, I knew Drow hadn’t been lying.

  This was the place.

  “Bingo,” I whispered, shifting my weight to send us into a divebomb toward the waiting crowd. “Time to hunt us down some Scarred and save a singer’s sweetheart.”

  Percy rocketed down toward the street. As he did, I FaceTimed Seleema on my watch. She picked up on the second ring, and this time I even got a view of her whole face. Her hair was all disheveled around her head, her lips reddened.

  “Well hey there, gorgeous.”

  “Tara?” She blinked. “Are you flying?”

  “Sure am. Doing a show right now. Looks like you had a nice, productive talk with Franklin.”

  She gave a coy smile. “Yes.”

  “Listen, I’ve figured out which building they’re taking Annabelle to. Perce and I just took a swing around the roof, and I don’t think Drow was lying. There are crosses up there.”

  Seleema’s eyes narrowed. “Which building?”

  “Real, real tall one. I don’t know the address yet—I’ll look it up when I’m on the ground.”

  “You are going there tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’m going there.”

  “I will come with you.”

  “Now Souls, I’m not so sure—”

  She raised a hand. “Why did you Time of Face me, Tara, if not to request my presence?”

  I went silent a moment. We were getting low to the ground now. I could almost see the faces of the crowd—could almost spot the red of that apple in my volunteer’s outstretched hands.

  “FaceTime, Seleema,” I sighed, then went silent. Why was it so hard to ask for help?

  “Is it help you need?”

  I forced a nod.

  “That is what I thought,” Seleema said. “I will come with you.”

  “Well, since you offered. I’ll be back at the apartment in a couple hours.” I ended the call and retrieved my whip from my belt.

  It was time to finish the show.

  As Percy came low, his wings swept out, slowing his descent. Twenty feet over the ground, I snapped Thelma out toward Percy’s left foreleg, and she wrapped three times around it and held.

  I held Thelma tight and slipped down off Percy’s back as we careened toward the platform, held to him only by the strength of her grip around his leg.

  To his
credit, my volunteer did have a steel bladder; though it looked as if Percy would crash right into him, his hands remained out, that crisp red apple awaiting my grasp. About half the time, the volunteers chickened out. They either dropped the apple and ran, or they kept hold of the apple and ran.

  Not this guy. These daredevils always made for a better show.

  At the last second, Percy pulled hard around, sending me swinging on a direct course past my volunteer. I swept past him, grabbed the fruit, and let go of the whip near the edge of the platform. My boots hit the wood with a thump, and I slowly straightened as I turned to the crowd.

  “Now that, folks”— I took a big, crisp bite—”is how you ride a dragon.”

  ↔

  On the way back from the show, Percy and I walked through Central Park. I bought out a hot dog stand vendor’s entire supply—of which Percy ate seventy hot dogs, and I ate two—and tried generally not to talk of or think about what the evening would bring.

  That is until evening came, and we had no choice.

  As Percy and I returned to the apartment to meet up with Seleema, children in costume ran past us, bags swinging. Percy stared after all of them, his wings fluttering with excitement.

  Many of those children stopped, stared at him with the same awe he’d felt about the bicycle dragon in the Guggenheim. And Percy, always game for a little entertainment, blew them tiny plumes of fire, which made them shriek and laugh and run.

  Meanwhile, I spent the whole way back trying to get him to focus.

  “Now, what’s the plan?” I said as we came around a corner to a little ghost wandering by with his parents.

  Percy stared after the ghost, and his head only swung back around when I tapped his neck. “On your signal, I bring Seleema up to the roof, then I hang back unless you whistle,” he recited.

  “Right. You leave me to deal with the ex-vamps, got it?”

  “Got it.” He paused. “But Tara?”

  “Yes, Perce?”

  “What if you need me?”

  “That’s the whole problem, Perce. I do need you.” I patted his back. “That’s why I can’t have you risking your beautiful scaled neck.”

  But that wasn’t all.

  This isn’t his fight, I thought but didn’t say. It’s mine. And I didn’t want anybody’s blood on his hands—or claws, as it were. This was my vendetta, and mine alone. And I would finish it myself.

  Back at the apartment, Percy stared up at the building. “Tara, please don’t make me hide in the garage again.”

  “Ah,” I sighed. “Well, it is Halloween after all. I doubt anybody would call the cops over a dragon in the stairwell. But be quiet, all right?”

  He nodded. “I’m the master of quiet.”

  On the way up, Percy’s tail banged against the wall at every turn in the stairs. He made the stairs creak so loudly I thought the wood might give. And, of course, by the time we reached Seleema and Frank’s, they were both standing on the landing with alarmed faces.

  “Why, hello there!” I called up. “I brought a guest.”

  “I see that,” Frank said.

  I glanced behind them, peering at a box the size of a compact car. “Is that package for me?”

  Frank half-turned, arms crossed. “If it were for us, I’d be worried about my checking account. What the heck’s in it, anyway?”

  I came up to meet them, Percy creaking along behind me. I bent down, turned my head sideways to read the handwriting on the side. That was Ferris’s hand.

  He never let me down.

  I patted the box. “Just a few things for Halloween.”

  Chapter 20

  As the witching hour crested, Seleema and I stood on the sidewalk. The two of us stared up the side of 432 Park Avenue, the tallest building for blocks. I couldn’t even see the top—only a long swath of glass and steel jutting into the sky.

  But earlier today, I had seen six crosses atop this building.

  “It is taller than the pillars of Irim Emad,” the houri observed.

  A gust of wind blew in, and I zipped the jacket of my Scarred disguise up to the neck. “Those must be some mighty tall pillars.”

  “Very,” was all she said.

  Percy snorted beside me. “It’ll take me ten seconds to fly up that.”

  I glanced over, eyebrow arched. “Even with a houri on your back?”

  He shook his head out, flexed his wings. “Yup.”

  Seleema turned to me, the beads on her shoulders clicking together. She surveyed my disguise. “Are you certain about this?”

  I cocked my head, swept a hand down the length of my body. “What, I don’t look like I could be a sadistic killer to you?”

  She and Percy both shook their heads.

  I scoffed, folded my arms. “The better question is, are you ready?”

  Seleema glanced at Percy, and a smile appeared on her face. “Yes. Quite certain.”

  “All right, then.” I stepped to Percy, planted one of those kisses he hated right on his nose. “I’ll see you up there.”

  This time, he didn’t make a face. “Be careful, Ter.”

  Ter. He rarely called me that. I grinned at him. “I’m supposed to be saying that to you.”

  When I turned to Seleema, she straightened as though preparing to salute. I looked up into her eyes. “Don’t let go of the spine. Keep your feet tight in the stirrups.” I leaned closer to whisper, “And don’t let Percy get involved, please.”

  Her hand found mine, and she squeezed it. A second later, she stepped to Percy’s side.

  I would have preferred for Percy not to come along at all, but you couldn’t exactly disguise a seven-foot-tall houri as one of the Scarred. And so he had one role: get Seleema to the back of the rooftop near all the air conditioning units, and then fly away.

  I left the two of them standing that way, staring after me as I passed around the side of the building. As I walked, I unslung the faux-fur coat from over my arm and pulled it on. I pressed any stray hairs behind my ears as I came to the—predictably locked—front doors of the building.

  Inside, a doorman stared back at me.

  I waved, mimed for him to open the door as I danced from foot to foot in the bitter cold.

  When he obliged, I laughed with chattering teeth. “Thank you! It’s so cold out here.”

  He eyed me, his head stuck out the door. “How can I help you?”

  “Sorry, my lips are frozen solid. Could you just let me into the lobby?” I gave him a plaintive look.

  He nodded, opened the door wider. “Of course.”

  “You’re kind.” As I came in and rubbed my hands together, he closed the door against the cold. I had a whole bit prepared about visiting my cousin and stupidly leaving my spare key upstairs, but he made the whole thing unnecessary.

  “You here for it?” he asked.

  It. Was the doorman involved in whatever the Scarred were doing? Either way, I was playing along. The circuswoman in me straightened, and I grinned. “I sure am.”

  He went silent, evidently waiting for me to do or say something. Was I supposed to give him my name? A code word?

  I cleared my throat. “Can you call the elevator? Mr. Perdue is waiting for me.”

  He looked skeptical. Evidently I’d given the wrong answer. “You’re a guest of Mr. Perdue?”

  “I certainly am.”

  He went to pick up the phone. “I’ll ring him—”

  I placed my hand over his, leaning forward as though I was sharing a secret. “It’s late, and I know he’s not fond of talking on the phone. Maybe you could just let me up?”

  This guy was clearly not a fan of Southern belles or blondes. Maybe both. Because he slipped his hand out from under mine like my fingers were sticky. “Excuse me.”

  Well, can’t say I didn’t try to be nice.

  As he went to pick up the phone, I clocked him right in the nose. His head jerked, and his body followed. A second later, he was out cold on the floor.

  A g
ust of wind hit me from behind, and I turned to find a tall guy in a long coat coming through the door.

  My eyes narrowed on him as he stepped fully inside the lobby and ran a hand through his dark, cropped hair. He was about six-three, some breed of European—Norwegian, I’d bet—and clearly aware of his own body. He moved like someone somewhere had trained him how to move.

  He took a few steps and stopped. Then he stood staring alternately at me and the doorman on the floor.

  Someone official? Or affiliated with the Scarred?

  Well, he hadn’t reacted like a normal person would to the sight of the doorman on the lobby floor with blood leaking from his nose. Plus, he was clad all in black, which was a signature Scarred thing.

  I decided to place my bets on him being Scarred. He was certainly good-looking enough to be an ex-vampire.

  But how to convince him I was one of them? A secret handshake? A signal? After five years of hunting Valdis, I knew he was one cheesy bastard.

  I cleared my throat and raised three fingers over my left eye.

  To my unmitigated surprise, the Norwegian raised three fingers and placed them over his own left eye.

  Holy hell, I can’t believe that worked.

  He jerked a thumb at the doorman. “What happened to him?”

  I lowered my hand. “He insulted Valdis.”

  “Ah.” The Norwegian nodded. “Nobody insults Valdis.”

  “That’s right.” I rubbed my sore knuckles. “Well, since it seems we’re both going to the same place … want to share an elevator?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  A guy of few words. He’d be a terrible politician.

  I grabbed the keycard off the desk and we headed to the elevator bay. The Norwegian and I met eyes as we came to the elevator. His were hazel—pretty, too, if I was being honest—and incisive. I almost wouldn’t have noticed, though, if I’d just been looking at his lips. Those were large, sensitive, fielded by a strong jaw and straight nose.

  Eyes off the lips, Tara. Focus.

  When the elevator arrived, he gestured me ahead of him. “Ladies—”