Fifth of Blood

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  It swung open and Ladon returned to the van. He pulled through, then hopped out again and closed it behind them. Best not to make their presence here obvious.

  Bumping down the service road alongside the vines, he turned along the corner of the field before backing up and facing the van toward the gate.

  Ladon sat back. The engine idled and the light bathed the vines in harshness, and he let it wash through his bones. This vehicle—and other similar ones before it—had been Dragon’s and his default home since the end of World War Two. Since he and the beast began helping the Shifters with their Burner problem. The Shifters were, supposedly, grateful. It should have kept the worst of them away from Derek. And now, Rysa.

  Yet it did not. They still harassed and they still stole talismans.

  But the Fates, the damned arrogant Parcae who still held to the old ways and still demanded to be called by their ancient aristocratic titles, ignored him and his family. Until they, too, decided to harass.

  The memories swirling in his head—the long-ago Gaul and the death of a wife, the seeping blood of another, all Ladon’s slicing responses—lurched from other, hidden holes where they spent their centuries rotting. They waited, then sprang out as slime-covered monsters looking to snack on his life. They ripped and they tore and every single time they did the same damage to his gut and mind as what originally formed them in the first place.

  Ladon was sick of watching the people he was supposed to protect die.

  He was sick of the wars of Fates and Shifters and the unending fatigue caused by the weight of his centuries. He was sick of the unkillable memories lumbering after him. The ones that always caught up, no matter how far ahead he might get. The ones that had caught up tonight.

  He cut the engine and dowsed the lights. The world dropped into darkness for the instant before his eyes adjusted. Ladon sat back again, letting the quiet seep in. And letting the soothing pulses from his beast set a new rhythm for his mind.

  Pulses that did not match Rysa’s slow, shallow sleeping respirations. For every five breaths she took, he took four. It wasn’t an easy rhythm to maintain. And he had already learned that increasing his respirations to match hers would push his agitated body in the direction Dragon wanted him to move away from. He should be finding his center, not running into the jaws of the memories he just left behind.

  But they were there, in the shadows. They would always be there. How many times had Andreas covered over their holes with the steel and concrete and leaded weights of his calling scents? How many times had Ladon tried to keep them buried? But they just kept coming back.

  Because there was always something that brought them back.

  Ladon pulled himself from the driver’s seat and stepped into the back of the van. Rysa lay on her side in a deep sleep, one of Dragon’s blankets over her hip and a pillow tucked under her head. She faced Dragon and the beast curled around her, cycling the colors of his hide through the dim warmth of a calming campfire, to help her rest.

  You need sleep as well, Human. The beast shifted slightly, adjusting his bulk, but did so carefully, so as not to wake Rysa.

  The thought of pressing his body against her back, of feeling the blending of their breathing and the warmth of her skin, of hearing her small movements and tasting the slight tingle of her dreaming calling scents, pushed aside the fatigue. He could, perhaps, find in the curves of her body that moment of solace she had tried to call for him.

  He knelt next to her, lifting his hand to touch her cheek, to stroke her shoulder, but he stopped. I might wake her. He wouldn’t take the chance. She needed to sleep more than she needed him.

  He pulled back his hand. I need to stand guard.

  A low grumble moved across their energy. I will go out. You rest.

  No. The beast’s lights offered more comfort than the press of Ladon’s tight muscles. I won’t chance it. But Ladon dropped onto his backside next to his woman. His body bounced, his muscles not loose enough to flop, and he leaned against the side wall of the van. His back pressed against the cold steel, his butt against the hollow and creaking cover of one of the under-floor bins.

  He glanced around. They needed to clean again. These past few days had built up in their home as a residue of pizza boxes and coffee cups. An old newspaper lay wadded into one corner, dirty clothes in another. And directly behind the driver’s seat and within an arm’s reach, the neck of his one and only bottle of vodka poked out from under his jacket.

  The one he’d used to clean the blade of the steak knife when he scraped off his hair. The one he’d opened and not consumed.

  Leave it there. The bottle hazed, the glass’s shine dulling to the same color and texture as the mist outside.

  Dragon’s compelling flitted a sense that the vodka made Rysa—and Dragon—sad. A fear that it might cause another flashback.

  Ladon closed his eyes. Being admonished did not help to calm his mind.

  Please rest, Human. Dragon nuzzled Ladon’s shoulder. We cannot help Rysa if you are not well.

  A thought Ladon did not like filled his head. One that as a Progenitor—as the human half of a dragon godling—he had no right to think. She cannot help me if she is not well.

  Ladon grabbed the vodka and stood up. He needed air, and he needed it now.

  Dragon watched as he opened the back of the van and stepped out, but did not say anything. Nor did the beast interfere.

  Nor, thankfully, did he push more compelling into Ladon’s mind. The beast let him be.

  Ladon tucked the neck of the bottle into his back pocket and jumped for the handhold along the edge of the van’s roof. Flexing his arms and his back, he first pulled his body away from the vehicle, then up over the edge. He pulled himself onto the roof the way he would have crawled out of a pool.

  Now on the roof, he yanked the vodka out of his back pocket. About half the bottle remained, a swirling clear liquid behind the worn Cyrillic label. The Russian words looked as if someone had rubbed them with sandpaper, much the way Ladon’s soul felt. He set the bottle down.

  Ladon dropped and swung his legs over the side and into the open door. The bottle rested about half a foot from the roof’s edge, just out of reach. It glimmered in the moonlight like some supernatural poison.

  Why was he doing this? Why had he left? His sister was correct—if Rysa woke up and her calling scents returned to their overbearing levels, they would be stuck.

  And he would have to call for help.

  Sister would need to come and take charge, sending her no-longer-a-normal husband in to calm Rysa and bring her back to whatever cage Sister found for them.

  Ladon stared at the bottle.

  But he did not open it. He knew why. Not long ago, in the steam and warmth of a tub overlooking the Flaming Gorge, he had told Rysa he knew how to be a good husband.

  He’d also promised himself he would be the modern man she needed.

  Anger came out of nowhere, a burst of heat blazing from his core out to his skin. Why was it so hard for him to keep his promises? Why did the Fates and the Shifters always find ways to interfere?

  The bellow tore from Ladon’s soul and burst from his throat. He tipped sideways, reaching for the bottle, and snagged it with his fingers. His fist tightened around its neck. His shoulder pulled back. And Ladon whipped the damned vodka deep into the vineyard.

  He blinked, immediately realizing what he’d done. I didn’t wake her, did I?

  No. A pause. She dreams.

  Ladon released a long, held breath. Rysa was his priority, not his own problems. And definitely not the damned vodka.

  Something moved between two distant rows. The bottle appeared, a bright point of reflected light, held by a hand over the top of the vines.

  Someone was out here with them. Someone Ladon had not sensed. He hoped for a normal he could charm with a smile and an apology, but his gut said no. The universe had a long history of not being nice. Ladon stood and peered into the mist, carefully watching the sways
and movements of the vines.

  Sniffing, he searched for the telltale stench of a Burner, but he smelled only the warm earth under the van’s tires and sweet living greenery around him.

  Do you sense anything? The beast often caught the presence of power before Ladon did.

  No. The beast raised his head and peered out through the windshield of the van. He pushed a quick image of what he saw to Ladon: The same mist, the same jiggling of the vines, but sharper and better defined by dragon-perceiving. But he could be a Shifter. Or a Fate with enough training and ability to rein in his abilities.

  There weren’t many, but they did exist. Ladon frowned.

  A man ducked through the rows, cutting through the gaps in the vines to make his way toward the van. He carried the bottle in one hand and a satchel over his other shoulder. Hair salted with the look of middle age, and tall, he moved with the ease of someone used to being in charge.

  Ladon watched, unimpressed. And annoyed.

  Two millennia had not blotted the cadence of this man’s movements from Ladon’s mind.

  The vines rustled and the mist swirled. After several long minutes, the man pushed through the last row and onto the service road, directly in front of the van. “Ladon-Human!” He held up the bottle. “I see you still have the best arm in the Empire.”

  I should have brought a gun up here with me, Ladon pushed to Dragon. His fatigue must be overtaking his entire brain. He should be off the van and throttling the man in front of them. Yet he wasn’t. Nor was he demanding information or shouting threats. He only cursed silently.

  In the van, the beast created complex and pointy constructs of dragon expletives.

  Ladon crossed his arms and glowered down at the man standing in the mist between the ruts of the service road. “Where is the talon, you son of a bitch?”

  Caesar Marcus Uplius Nerva Trajanus, the core of the Ulpi Fates and the master of their Prime triad, lowered the bottle and grinned.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Vehicles—and Burners—approached.

  Derek detected the distinct tangs of six different Burners. Anna squatted less than a dragon-length away, between him and the trees, her short hair a mess around her face.

  We must be quick, Sister-Dragon pushed. This spot is not isolated and we have likely drawn attention.

  Knocking Rysa unconscious may not have been the best course of action. Now they were down a Dracae and surrounded by Burners.

  The first one—a small, mousy female—stepped out of the trees and stopped at the edge of the dim light thrown by the parking area’s two lamps. She slumped as if afraid, but pulled up the sleeve of her ratty sweatshirt, exposing the flesh of her forearm. A second Burner—a male roughly the same size—appeared next to her. Slowly, he peeled off one side of his jacket, also exposing the flesh of his forearm.

  Dark markings covered their arms. Markings that looked like words.

  Sister-Dragon crossed the asphalt, invisible and silent. One says Listen to Rysa. The other says Rysa is our Fate.

  What the hell? almost blurted from Derek’s mouth. But he held his tongue, watching the Burners.

  Anna backed toward him. “The dragons exchanged images of the Burner that Brother released. Rysa wrote on him.” Slowly, she pulled two daggers from her boot, handing one to him.

  A third Burner—a large male in a dirty plaid shirt—appeared farther down, closer to the entrance into asphalt sea where Derek stood awaiting whatever Burner stupidity this gang had in mind. The new Burner, unlike the other two, did not display his flesh.

  The fourth one—a larger female with matted hair and holes in her jeans—pulled up her shirt to display her belly. She, like the first, had written I will listen to Rysa on herself.

  He must be here, Anna pushed to Sister-Dragon. The one Rysa wrote on. What was his name?

  Billy. Brother said he stopped himself from feeding, for a woman.

  Derek scoffed. Burners did not stop themselves for anything. Or anyone.

  “Billy! Show yourself!” Anna yelled. She pointed her dagger backward, but kept her attention on the Burners.

  Three people walked into the mist-filled shadows infecting the lot’s drive. Two moved with the random cadence of Burners—the jostling step and the arm- and finger-waving. The third, though, walked three paces in front of the other two, his gait sure and strong, his head erect, and his shoulders level.

  This man held a pistol in each hand and he moved like an emperor.

  “Hadrian,” Anna said. “Why is he with Burners?”

  Crowned with thick, pewter-colored hair, tall and broad, Hadrian walked into the lot’s first pool of light and stopped, the two Burners ten feet back. The Portland mist swirled around their feet, carried in with the shadows.

  Hadrian twirled one pistol around a finger, then the other, like a Wild West showman. “You are late. I expected the Dracae the moment those bastards laid their filthy Parcae fingers on the pretty proof of your beasts’ existence.”

  The two Burners behind Hadrian fanned out, the larger male turning around as if to watch the driveway. But the tall, skinny Burner danced into the hazy light, his red shoes and violently orange t-shirt glowing as bright as his teeth. He twirled, doing a little jig, and walked toward Derek and Anna with his arms wide in the same manner in which a child asking for a hug would reach for a missed parent.

  “Where’s the boyfriend?” Billy pressed his fists into his hips. “Where’s the princess?” A finger pointed at Derek’s nose. “You the new boyfriend? You’re prettier.”

  Derek suppressed a strong desire to fling his dagger at the Burner’s heart. But popping one right now would likely cause damage to the sedan—and possibly to him.

  Hadrian pointed a pistol at Billy’s head. “Be quiet, William.”

  Billy held perfectly still, then jumped straight up. He landed in a mirror pose to Hadrian—legs apart, arm up and finger pointed like a gun, shoulders back and commanding. “We tracked the dino-dogs, not you, you farting old geezer.”

  “Where is the talon?” Anna pointed her dagger at Hadrian’s face.

  The Emperor lowered his weapon. Billy, still mimicking like a toddler, lowered his pointed finger.

  “A contact in the Southwest relayed an inquiry about the sale of a Fate’s talisman. I asked for photos. The ones I received were of coins, thirteenth century, from the Holy Land. I figured they were the talisman of a long-dead triad. If I had known the truth, I would not have agreed to the meeting.” Hadrian paused. He looked up at the sky and for a moment, his face took on the weight of the ages. The Emperor looked all his years.

  “He had morphed into a fortyish woman. His documentation was flawless. We made a deal for the coins and he offered another talisman. One he said would bring me unimaginable fortune. One the Ulpi would want.” Hadrian stepped closer. The other Burner followed, but stayed ten feet back.

  “They took it. Two triads. They burned down my shop and my home.” He pointed his gun at Billy again. “I have been hiding in the one place I know they cannot see me—with these monsters.”

  Would they be enough to hide Rysa? Anna pushed to Sister-Dragon.

  I do not know. The invisible beast circled Hadrian and the two Burners. No one hides with Burners. Fates ingest burndust, but the ghouls are too dangerous to live with.

  Billy flicked his fingerless-glove-clad hand in the air as if playing a piano, and the tips of his fingers glowed, first one, then another, mimicking pressure on the keys. “She’s sparked the deed. She’s the purpose and the need,” he sang.

  Derek remembered the song—not the title, but the melody and the lyrics. Billy sang a heartfelt love song from the nineties.

  “It’s love I feed. I follow her lead.” Billy’s hands moved as if he sang into a microphone, on some long-forgotten stage.

  “Be quiet, you idiot.” Hadrian pointed his pistol at the Burner again.

  Billy did look familiar. Derek stepped closer, and peered at the Burner’s face. “You perfor
med that song before you became a Burner, did you not?” They had a long-dead rock star in their midst.

  Billy threw his hands into the air. “I like you better than Boyfriend. Unless you also have a machete. Then I like you less.”

  Anna groaned. I hate Burners, she pushed to Sister-Dragon. Derek repressed a chuckle.

  In the trees, the other Burners high-fived each other.

  Anna spun her dagger around her wrist. The blade glinted in the light thrown by the lot’s overheads. “Where is the talon?”

  Hadrian scowled. “It is likely within the walls of Praesagio Industries Research and Development Laboratories, in the process of being researched and developed.” He walked closer, stopping within handshake distance, and nodded to both Anna and Derek. “Dracas-Human. Tsar. It is good to see you both again. A shame it had to be under such circumstances.”

  Behind them, Billy bounced on his toes. “They’re going to make weapons with their special new toy!” Twirling, he pointed at his comrades one by one. “Guess we don’t have to do the heavy lifting anymore.”

  Anna nodded to Hadrian but continued to watch the Burners. “You have them under control?”

  Hadrian’s lip twitched. “The rock star wishes to see someone named Rysa. He is constantly writing her name on his reeking body and telling the others tales of how she is their savior. He believes she is with the Dracos. His belief has turned out to be advantageous.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Burners are uncommon in Portland. The Ulpi take care of them. They had two when they attacked and trapped Vivicus. One they used to detonate my shop. The other escaped.” He pointed at the mousy Burner, the first to come out of the trees. “I followed her, thinking that if I stayed close enough, the Ulpi would lose my scent. She led me to the rest.”

  Billy played air piano again. “He said he knew Boyfriend so we didn’t eat him, right guys?”

  The other Burners all nodded and shouted their affirmatives.

  “How do we get it back, Hadrian?” Anna shook his hand.

  The Emperor glanced at the Burners one by one. “We have Burners. We go in. We take it out.”