by J. R. Ward
Thank the Fates for unhealthy preoccupations.
Those forty-millimeter bullets did nothing to slow the beast down, pinging off the purple scales as if they were peas cast upon a motor vehicle. But the elephant gun's payload of lead caused a howl of pain and a recoil.
It was Assail's only opportunity for escape.
Closing his eyes, he focused, focused, focused--
No dematerializing. Too much adrenaline on top of too much cocaine with too much pain from his shoulder as a chaser.
And the beast went right back on the attack, refocusing on Assail and giving him the dragon equivalent of a fuck-you in the form of an enormous roar--
The massive shotgun went off a second time, catching the thing in the chest.
"Run!" Ehric bellowed as he reloaded his forties, clips kicking out of the butts of his little guns. "Get up!"
Assail used his good arm to shove himself off the ground, and his legs reengaged with admirable aplomb. Holding his injured limb to his chest, he hauled as hard as he could, the remnants of his jacket flapping, his stomach rolling, his heart pounding.
BOOM!
Anywhere, anywhere--he had to get anywhere the fuck out of range--and fast. Too bad his body wasn't listening. Even as his brain was screaming for speed, all he could do was lurch like a zombie--
Someone caught him from behind, hipping him up off the ground on a snatch-and-drag that quickly turned into an over-the-shoulder fireman carry. As he slammed into place head-down, he vomited from the agony, starbursts lighting his eyes up as his stomach emptied itself with violence. The good news was that he hadn't eaten for twelve to fifteen hours at that point, so he didn't cream up his cousin's pant leg too badly.
He wanted to help the effort. He wanted to hang on himself. He wanted . . .
Bushes lashed him in the face, and he squinted to protect his eyes. Blood began to flow and it filled his nose. His shoulder got more and more painful. Pressure in his head grew unbearable, making him think of over-inflated tires, bags with too many things in them, water balloons that popped and spilled their contents everywhere.
Thank God for his cousins. They never deserted him.
One must remember to reward them in some manner.
The outbuilding seemed to canter toward them as opposed to the other way around, and from Assail's upside-down vantage point, the thing appeared to be hanging from the earth instead of planted upon it. Brick. Even with the jostling and the darkness and the alternating strides, he could tell the shack was brick.
One could only hope for a sturdy construction.
His cousin broke down the door, and the air inside was musty and damp.
Without warning, Assail was dumped like the trash he was, and he landed on a dusty floor with a bounce that made him retch again. The door slammed shut, and then all he heard was his cousin's heavy breathing. And his own.
And the muffled sounds of the battle.
There was an abrupt flare of orange light.
Through the haze of his pain, Assail frowned--and then recoiled. The face illuminated as a hand-rolled cigarette was lit was not that of either of his cousins.
"How badly are you hurt?" the Black Dagger Brother Vishous asked as he exhaled a most delicious smoke.
"'Twas you?"
"Do I look like Santa Claus?"
"An unlikely savior you are." Assail grimaced and wiped his mouth upon his jacket sleeve. "And I apologize for your pants."
V looked down at himself. "You got something against black leather?"
"I vomited down the back of them--"
"Shit!"
"Well, one can get them cleaned--"
"No, asshole, it's coming for us." V nodded to a cloudy window. "Damn it."
Indeed, off in the distance, the thundering pounding of the dragon's gait sounded once again, a storm gathering and heading in their direction.
Assail flailed around on the floor, looking for somewhere to hide. A closet. A bathroom. A cellar. Nothing. The interior was empty except for two floor-to-ceiling supports and a decade's worth of rafter decay. Thank the Virgin Scribe that it appeared to be a stout brick and more likely to withstand--
The roof lifted and splintered on a oner, debris raining down, asphalt shingles slapping on the floor as if the shed were heralding its own demise with a round of applause. Fresh night air cleared away the musty smell, but it was hardly a relief given what had precipitated the access.
The beast was not a vegetarian, stipulated. But it also wasn't worried about its fiber intake: the thing spit that old wooden roof out to the side, arched down, and opened up its jaws, releasing a sonic boom of a roar.
There was nowhere to run. The creature was standing over the building, poised to strike at what had become its lunchbox. Nowhere to take cover. No suitable defense to bring to bear.
"Go," Assail said to the Brother as those great reptilian eyes narrowed and the muzzle blew an exhale as hot and fetid as a Dumpster in summer. "Give me your weapon. I'll distract it."
"I'm not leaving you."
"I am not one of your brothers."
"You gave us this location. You gave us the head of the Fore-lesser. I'm not fucking leaving you, douche bag."
"Such gallantry. And the compliments. Do stop."
As the beast let out another roar and tossed its head as if it were prepared to toy with them a bit before consuming them, Assail thought of his drug dealing . . . his cocaine addiction . . .
The human female with whom he had fallen in love and had had to let go. Because she couldn't handle his lifestyle, and he was too caught up in it to stop, even for her.
He shook his head at the Brother. "No, I'm not worth saving. Get the fuck out of here."
SIX
Campbell's Chicken & Stars.
As Mary stood over the stove in Safe Place's original kitchen, she stirred the soup 'round and 'round with a stainless-steel spoon, watching the swollen almost-stars of pasta make circuits along with the squares of white meat and wedges of carrots. The pan was the smallest one they had in the house. The broth was yellow, and the sweet smell reminded her of the simple illnesses she'd had as a child . . . colds, flus, strep.
Easier things than cancer.
Or the MS that had taken her mother.
The bowl she poured things into was cream with rings of concentric yellow piping on the lip. She got a fresh spoon out of the drawer and went around the counter to the big, rough-cut table.
"Here," she said to Bitty. "And I'll get you some Saltines."
As if this tragedy were something that you could get over in twenty-four hours if you were just hydrated enough?
Well, at least a simple meal like this wasn't liable to backfire. And as soon as Bitty had eaten it, Mary was going to go find another staff member to attend the girl--and then get some counseling herself.
When she came back from the cupboards with the sleeve of crackers, Bitty was taking a test taste, and Mary sat down across the table so she didn't crowd the girl.
The plastic wrapping refused to cooperate, and Mary split it wide, spilling Saltines and salt grains over the wood. "Damn it."
She ate one herself. And then realized she hadn't had any food in a while and was hungry, too--
"My uncle is going to come for me."
Mary froze in mid-chew. "What did you say?"
"My uncle." Bitty didn't look up, just kept moving her spoon through the steaming soup. "He's going to come for me. He's going to take me home."
Mary resumed the whole mastication thing, but her mouth was like a cement mixer trying to process gravel. "Really?"
"Yes."
With careful hands, Mary gathered up the scattered crackers, stacking them in groups of four. "I didn't know you had an uncle."
"I do."
"Where does he live?"
"Not in Caldwell." Bitty took another spoonful and put it in her mouth. "But he knows how to get here. Everyone knows where Caldwell is."
"Is he your mahmen's brother?"
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"Yes."
Mary closed her eyes. Annalye had never mentioned any relations. Hadn't disclosed them on paperwork or named a next of kin. And the female had been aware that her condition was deteriorating--so if there had been a brother somewhere, surely she would have told somebody about him and it would have gone into her file.
"Would you like me to try to contact him for you?" Mary asked. "Do you know where he lives?"
"No." Bitty stared down into her soup. "But he will come for me. That is what family does. I read it in that book."
Mary had some vague recollection of a children's book on the different kinds of family: biological, adopted, grandparented, as well as those that resulted from sperm donors, egg donors, IVF. The point was, no matter how they came about or what they looked like, in each instance, everybody was a unit, with a lot of love surrounding them.
"Bitty."
"Yes?"
Mary's phone began to vibrate in the pocket of the coat she still hadn't taken off--and she was tempted to let whoever it was go to voice mail. But with what the Brothers were doing tonight with that huge attack?
As she took her cell out and saw who it was, she thought, oh, God. "Butch? Hello?"
There was interference over the connection. Wind? Voices?
"Hello," she said more loudly.
"--coming to get you."
"What?" She rose from her chair. "What are you saying?"
"Fritz," the Brother shouted. "Coming for you! We need you out here!"
She cursed. "How bad?"
"Out of control."
"Crap," she breathed. "I'll drive out myself. Save time."
There were a series of pops, some cursing, and then distortion like Butch was running. "--text you location. Hurry!"
As the connection got cut off, she looked down at the girl and tried not to sound as panicked as she was. "Bitty, I'm so sorry. I have to go."
Those pale brown eyes lifted to hers. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just . . . I'm going to grab Rhym for you. She'll sit here and maybe you two can have dessert?"
"I'm fine. I'm going to go up and pack so I'm ready for uncle."
Mary shook her head. "Bitty, before you do that, maybe you and I should try to find him first?"
"It's all right. He knows about me."
Steadying breath. For so many reasons. "I'll stop by later and see how you're doing."
"Thank you for the soup."
As the girl resumed eating, she didn't seem to care who was around or not around her--as usual. And it was with a pounding headache that Mary went in fast search of the intake supervisor, who was doing double duty as on-site personnel because one of the other social workers was out on maternity leave. After explaining to Rhym everything that had happened, Mary took off at a run, leaving the house and jumping into the Volvo.
The former Brownswick School for Girls was about a ten-minute drive away. She made it in seven, shooting down back roads, dodging around suburban developments, blowing through orange lights and stop signs. The station wagon was not built for that kind of workout, the boxy, heavy weight lurching this way and that, but she didn't care. And holy crap, it felt like forever before she got to the outer edges of the neglected campus.
Getting out her phone, she eased off the gas and went into her texts.
Reading aloud, she said, "'Bypass main gates . . . go around--shit!"
Something shot out into the road, the figure moving rag-doll sloppy and tripping directly in front of her car. Slamming on the brakes, she hit the man--no, it was a slayer: The blood that speckled across the windshield was black as ink, and the thing took off once more, even though one of its legs looked broken.
Heart pounding, she swallowed and punched the gas again, afraid there were others behind it, but even more terrified by whatever was happening with Rhage. Rechecking her cell, she followed the directions around to the back side of the school, to a one-laner that took her into the shaggy mess of a landscape.
Just as she wondered where the hell she was supposed to go from there, the question was answered. Off across a meadow, the beast stood out among the abandoned buildings like something out of a SyFy Channel movie. Tall enough to reach the roofs, big enough to dwarf even a dormitory, mean as a tiger teased with a meal, the thing was in full attack mode.
Tearing off the roof of a shed with its teeth.
She didn't bother killing the engine.
Mary threw the Volvo in park and leaped out. In the back of her mind, she was aware that the uneven bap-bap-bap in the background was bullets flying, but she wasn't going to worry about that. What she was panicked about?
Whoever the hell was in that building.
As she ran toward the dragon, she put two fingers in her mouth and blew hard.
The whistle was high-pitched, loud as a scream--and made no impression at all as the shingles of the brick structure got spit out to one side.
The roar that followed was something she knew all too well. The beast was ready for his Happy Meal, and that whole rafter-relocation thing was its way of getting into the container.
Mary tripped over something--oh, God, it was a lesser that was missing an arm--and kept going, blowing another whistle. And a third--
The beast froze, its flanks pumping in and out, purple scales flashing in the darkness as if the thing were lit from within by an electrical source.
The fourth whistle brought its head around.
Slowing her run, Mary cupped her hands to her mouth. "Come here! Come on, boy!"
Like the beast was just the world's largest dog.
The dragon let out a chuff and then blew through its nostrils, the sound something between a whoopee cushion and a jet engine taking off.
"Come here, you!" she said. "Leave that alone. It's not yours."
The beast looked back at what was now just four brick walls and not much else, and a snarl curled its black lip off jagged teeth that would have given a great white dental insecurity. But like a German shepherd called to heel by its trainer, Rhage's curse turned away from its deconstruction job and bounded over to her.
As the dragon came through the weeds and brambles, its great weight shook the ground so badly, Mary had to put her arms out for balance.
But, impossible though it seemed, the thing was smiling at her, its gruesome face transformed by a joy that she wouldn't have believed if she hadn't seen it every time she was around the monster.
Stretching her hands up, she greeted that great, dropped head with soft words of praise, putting her palm on its circular cheek, letting it breathe in her scent and hear her voice. In her peripheral vision, she saw two people break out of the ruined building--make that one person who was able-bodied and running hard, and another who was up on a strong shoulder, obviously injured.
She didn't dare look directly at them to see who it was. Their best chance was her connection with the curse--and it was strange. As ugly as the thing was, as terrifying and deadly as it could be . . . she felt an abiding love warm her body. Her Rhage was in there somewhere, trapped under the layers of muscle and scales and third-party cognition, but more than that, she adored the beast as well--
The shots came from the right, and on instinct, she shouted and ducked to cover her head.
The dragon took over from there, wheeling toward the shooters at the same time it managed to wrap its tail around Mary and tuck her in against its flank. And then they were on the move. The ride was a rough one, like a mechanical bull suffering from power surges, and she held on to one of the larger barbs for dear life.
Thank God for that bony protrusion. Because what happened next involved a whole lot of "Twist and Shout."
First there were screams. Terrible, nightmare screams that she would have covered her ears to block out--except she didn't dare let go and risk getting thrown free--
Up and over.
A slayer, which was leaking like a sieve, went flying over the beast's back, and black blood hit Mary like bad-stench rain. The thing
landed in a broken heap--and the chaser that followed, a second lesser that was likewise over-the-shouldered, hit the first like a boulder.
Oh . . . look. No head. Wonder where that--
Something that was vaguely round and had a face on one side and a thatch of blond hair on the other basketballed across the long grass that had been flattened under the dragon's enormous hind feet . . . paws . . . claws . . . whatever.
The beast kept her along for the ride for the rest of the fun and games. Talk about a hearty meal. In its wake, arms and legs, more heads--rarely a torso, because that was probably good eating--littered the ground. Fortunately, nothing looked like a Brother or a fighter, but oh, God, the smell. She was going to have to Neti Pot her sinuses for a month after this.
Just as she was losing track of time, right around the moment that she wasn't sure whether she could hold on for much longer, the beast's momentum slowed and stopped. Its great head swung left and right. Its body pivoted around. More with the searching.
The landscape seemed empty of anything that moved, nothing but static, decaying buildings, trees without leaves, and dark shadows that stayed put wherever she looked. The Brothers had to still be on the campus; no way they would leave without Rhage. But no doubt they were watching the great dragon from behind good cover. And as for the slayers? The balance of the enemy must have either taken off, been incapacitated, or gotten eaten.
The massive attack seemed to be over . . .
Dear Lord, the carnage left behind. How were they going to clean this up? There had to be a hundred lessers on the ground writhing, even if they were just in bits and pieces.
Mary patted her palm against the tail's thick base. "Thank you for keeping me safe. You can put me down now."
The beast wasn't as confident as she was and continued to survey the battle scene, the muscles of its shoulders twitching, those huge haunches tensed and ready to jump. Clouds of hot breath steamed out of its nostrils, flaring in the cold night air like part of a magician's show.
"It's all right," she said, stroking those scales.
Funny, she would have thought the things would be rough, but they were smooth and flexible, a fine interlacing of layers that shifted with the dragon's movements and flashed all the colors of a rainbow on top of a purple base.
"Really, it's all right."