The way he hesitated instead of lunging right after Jorge told Ronnie that he had suspected what would happen.
But he’d followed her request.
She felt terrible about that and wished she could tell him so. She had to wonder whether it was important that she no longer had his scale and hoped he’d grown back another to replace it and complete his armor.
But there was no sign of Drake, only the reports of him talking to Timmy. Dr. Wilcox was increasingly agitated about having him come in for more tests, but Ronnie wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t know where he was. The infected nurse was still in isolation, as well, although they didn’t tell Ronnie much about her condition.
She replayed Melissa Smith’s specials a couple of times and wondered how much that reporter really did know about dragons. There was a kind of intimacy, a comfort, between her and the opal and gold dragon who appeared in her television specials. The woman’s dismay had been clear when that same dragon had been injured on the air in October, and Ronnie wondered whether he’d healed.
The hospital had kept the media at bay until they lost interest, and Ronnie doubted that her testimony to the police had been much help in locating the perpetrators.
She was considering the merit of contacting Melissa Smith herself and maybe offering an exclusive interview about the dragons she’d seen up close and personal, but wanted to confer with Drake about it first. He must try to hide his true nature, and she didn’t want to reveal anything he considered to be private.
She debated the merit of asking Timmy to ask Drake to call her, but surely the hospital was tracking all of her online activity. If not, they could. That was likely why Drake wasn’t contacting her directly.
That morning in early April, Ronnie felt a new restlessness. She spun in the chair in her room, then wiped a bit of perspiration from her lip. It was warm, as if someone had turned up the furnace.
Maybe it was a particularly cold day.
When had she last even seen the outside world? Thanks to the curiosity of the media, the isolation ward had been set up in a windowless area of the hospital. Ronnie yearned to feel fresh air on her face again.
Was she going to die here? It was a horrible thought.
Would they decide at some point that she might remain asymptomatic and release her, maybe with periodic monitoring? Ronnie didn’t want to infect anyone else, but she missed her freedom. Although they were good to her and the food was better, in a way it was just a different prison.
Maybe there’d be a cure for the virus.
Ronnie hoped for and dreamed of that, every moment of every day. She wanted to make a new life with Drake and Timmy, and to have a fresh start.
What were Drake’s expectations, if she did survive? Ronnie didn’t really know. She could understand his desire for a son after losing Theo, and she hoped she would deliver a healthy son to him. But even if the baby was fine, even if she was fine, how did Drake envision their lives together? She couldn’t go back to the way she’d lived when Timmy was born, always waiting on Mark, always solving everything herself. Ronnie wanted far more this time around.
She’d changed.
She was surprised to realize just how much.
Where was Drake?
The airlock hissed, a sign of someone coming into the isolation ward. Undoubtedly it was time for her vitals to be checked. To Ronnie’s surprise, it was Dr. Wilcox who came to take the readings.
“Slow day in the lab,” she teased. “Or just looking for company?”
The doctor flicked a glance at her, one that was devoid of amusement. “Your temperature is up. It’s increased a third of a degree on every reading for the past twenty-four hours. I thought I’d make sure there was no mistake.” She offered a thermometer, and Ronnie held it in her mouth until it beeped. Dr. Wilcox frowned at the display, then held up so Ronnie could see.
Her heart sank at the displayed number.
She had a fever.
“I thought it was just a bit warm in here,” she protested, unsettled by Dr. Wilcox’s steady regard.
“Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are glittering. You haven’t eaten much today.”
“I’m not hungry.” Ronnie frowned. “And my stomach is off.” Fear awakened in her that the descent to the end had begun, far too soon for her taste. What would happen to her unborn son? What would happen to Timmy?
“You slept two hours longer last night than usual,” Dr. Wilcox said gently. “Let’s take some blood and see what’s going on.”
But Ronnie was afraid they both already knew.
Where was Drake?
“You’re not going to let me see Timmy again, are you? Not even through the glass like last time?” she whispered, her tears rising. “You’re going to send me to Atlanta, and I’ll never see him again.”
“It’s too dangerous for your son to visit you…” the doctor began in her calming tone and Ronnie lost it.
“I don’t mean to infect him!” she raged. “I’m not so stupid that I want him to die because of me!”
The doctor winced and turned away.
“I just want to see my son, and not on a computer screen. I want to give him one last hug. Can’t you arrange that for me?” Ronnie heard her voice break. “Don’t convicted criminals get a last wish before they die?”
“I don’t think it would be responsible,” the doctor said gently, and Ronnie, who wanted so much to be strong, broke down and wept.
* * *
The darkfire crackled in Marco’s apartment.
It slid around the perimeter of the room, its blue-green light putting a static charge in the air along with its fitful light. Its activity was frenzied and grew steadily, as if it would do whatever was necessary to awaken Marco.
He felt it and opened one eye, wary of its presence. The months had passed in a haze of pain and near-delirium and he knew that he was severely weakened. It was all he could do to watch and wonder.
And yearn.
He’d missed the darkfire. He’d missed the way it fed his conviction of what should be, the confidence and the power it gave him. He watched it muster in one corner and knew he should never have turned away from it.
The darkfire knew the greater good and didn’t care what had to be destroyed to make all come right. Maybe Rafferty had to be lost for the Pyr to survive the Dragon’s Tail Wars. Maybe it wasn’t his place to argue or to judge, because unlike the darkfire, Marco only knew part of the story.
The darkfire drew itself into a ball in that corner, burning brighter and making a larger orb of light with every passing moment. He wondered how much time was passing, whether his sense of time was accurate, then knew the darkfire was gathering its strength.
For something.
He chose to believe it was right.
He chose, once again, to believe.
The darkfire suddenly flared, like a bolt of blue-green lighting that arched across the room and struck him in the forehead. Marco’s mind filled with blue-green light and heat surged through his body. He felt the power like a jolt to his heart. He shifted shape immediately without deciding to do so, his body responding to the stimulus of its own volition. He reared back in his dragon form and roared with new power, then chose to use the gift he’d been given.
He used the darkfire to spontaneously manifest elsewhere.
He chose to go to Jac, wherever she might be.
The darkfire was a part of him. It was his to command and his to follow. Distrusting it had been the mistake that had led to his entrapment, and Marco wasn’t going to make that error again.
* * *
The night her fever built, Ronnie dreamed.
She dreamed of infernos, of flames and of Hell, of opportunity lost and love squandered. She tossed in her sleep, twisting up the sheets as she tried to escape the torment of her dreams. She dreamed of Timmy, growing up alone and felt tears on her own cheeks. She dreamed of her baby, of Drake’s son, dying before he even came into the world, and tasted the salt
of those tears. She dreamed of Drake, being injured because he’d ceded to her request, and being alone again.
Because she had compelled him to intervene.
It was going to end badly, Jorge was going to triumph after all, and it was her fault.
And then she dreamed of an amethyst and platinum dragon. He flew toward her from some distant point, his powerful form reflected in a dark lake as the star-filled sky arched overhead. He could have been a vision or a dream, a portent or a warning.
But Ronnie knew that he was the Dreamwalker.
He landed before her, shimmering blue and shifting shape to become a blond man as she watched.
“Niall,” she whispered in recognition but he held a fingertip to his lips.
She felt him lean over her, as if he were truly there, and heard his whisper in her ear. His voice was low, though not as low as Drake’s, and he spoke more quickly than Drake.
“I bring a message and a question,” he said. “We Pyr think we have a cure.”
Ronnie’s eyes flew open, but he wasn’t lying to her. She could see the sincerity in his eyes.
“It can’t be administered here. It would have to be given to you in secret, by the Apothecary of our kind.”
Drake. Ronnie mouthed his name soundlessly.
“Is the reason we found it,” Niall confided and Ronnie realized that there was a reason he hadn’t become infected that day. There was also a reason for his absence. The Pyr had done the research Dr. Wilcox had wanted to do. “Tomorrow, they’re going to transfer you to Atlanta to watch the progression of the virus.”
To watch her die and learn what they could. Bitterness rose in Ronnie.
“Drake wants your agreement to come with us instead.”
Ronnie’s heart leapt at the possibility, but she had to ask. Timmy?
“Will be defended as one of our own. Drake vows it will be so.”
Ronnie felt relief. How?
Niall smiled and his eyes began to change to dragon eyes. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll come for you, if you agree. There’s nothing else you need to do or to know.” He held her gaze, willing her to trust the Pyr.
And Ronnie nodded, knowing this was her sole chance to survive.
* * *
The situation stunk.
Sam couldn’t make peace with it. Once again, she’d given her all and failed. She sat up the night before Veronica Maitland was scheduled to be transferred and drank wine, even though she seldom did. The last time she’d drunk wine had been with Sloane.
And she’d done a lot of other things with him, too.
In fact, pretty much the only time she’d felt good about herself in recent years had been those glorious nights—and days—of sex with Sloane.
But what could she have said to Veronica Maitland? Seeing you like this will haunt your son for the rest of his life? The change in her appearance had been marked, and the virus was moving fast.
Sam ordered a large pizza and ate it, just because she never did and it seemed like the right choice when she was feeling sorry for herself.
It gave her indigestion, and she didn’t care.
In fact, she wished she had a pack of cigarettes, even though she didn’t smoke. Something, some substance that was less than good for her, had to take this pain away. This kind of frustration and disappointment made her wish she had bad habits, just so she could overindulge and wallow in her failure.
Veronica Maitland was going to die. And even as a scientist, Sam thought that dying in the isolation ward of a research hospital, unable to hug your son one last time and knowing that the baby you carried would die, if not along with you then shortly thereafter, had to be the worst possible way to go.
Plus she liked Veronica Maitland.
That she was going to die, and that Sam hadn’t been able to help, totally stunk.
She knew Isaac had been trying to phone, but she really didn’t want to talk to him. The arrangements would be made with or without her confirmation or agreement. It was protocol.
In fact, the only person she wanted to talk to was that Drake guy, the one who hadn’t contracted the virus, who had just disappeared into the blue. Oddly enough, Veronica hadn’t seemed to be troubled by his disappearance, even though he was the father of her unborn child. Did Veronica know more than she was telling? Sam couldn’t believe it, not with her own life hanging in the balance.
No, the other woman just hadn’t expected much of him. There was a sad commentary on modern relationships. Sam thought of her own relationship with Sloane and wished she had a cigarette to stub out. In this mood, she could have smoked her way through a whole pack. She’d fought him over emotional intimacy and had eventually shared some. Now, she wished she’d surrendered even more to Sloane. Maybe they could have built something that lasted longer than four months.
She wondered what Sloane was doing. She didn’t even want to think about him finding someone else, or another woman making love to him. Sam would have given a lot for one of his hot slow kisses right about now, never mind feeling like a woman who’d been loved as thoroughly as she deserved.
Maybe that was the catch. Maybe she didn’t deserve to be loved.
Sam wouldn’t think about that.
She thought about work instead. She would have given a lot to have tested Drake. Not that there was anything saying that Sam would have figured out what had kept him from becoming infected. She just felt cheated that she hadn’t even had the chance.
What kind of an asshole would disappear like that, when he was the one chance of the mother of his child being saved? Sam didn’t think much of him, that was for sure. There was no way he could have missed her desire to test him. She’d even appealed in the media.
It was bizarre that the lab had destroyed the single sample of his blood that they’d had. It was infuriating that not a one of the staff working there could come up with a decent reason why they’d discarded procedure in this one critical instance.
It was bizarre and infuriating. Incompetent.
Maybe Drake would still turn up. Maybe there would be another chance, a late one, like the cavalry riding to the rescue at the end of a movie.
Sam could only hope.
No, she could do more than hope for a better future. She could do something constructive instead of destructive. She thought of how hard it had been to talk about her feelings the first time with Sloane, then how easy it had become—and how much better she’d felt. She didn’t feel that she could call Sloane.
But there was one conversation that was long overdue.
Before she could stop herself from following impulse, Sam turned on her phone and called Jac. The call went straight to voice mail and Sam winced in recollection of the email message Jac had sent her. Instead of hanging up at the tone, she decided to go with her gut and leave a message.
“It’s me. Sorry I missed you because it would be great to talk right now.” Sam swallowed. “Maybe I’ll just talk anyway and you can listen later. Everything’s gone to hell again, and that patient I was trying to save has progressed into the final stages of the virus. She has a son, Jac, and she’s pregnant, too. I feel like such a failure, for the second time in rapid succession.”
Her tears gathered and she shook her head. “I can hear you, even though you’re not actually there, making some crack about coming to the source for advice, but that’s not it. It’s time to do something different.” Sam swallowed. “It’s time to talk about Nathaniel. I never thanked you for all you did for him, and you have to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. He loved you so much. He told me once that he was the luckiest kid in the world because he had two moms, instead of the usual one.” Her voice broke. “I miss him, Jac, I miss him so much. I would have given anything to save him, but giving everything I had wasn’t enough.”
She took a ragged breath. “I want to remember the good times as well as the bad ones. I want to remember all of it, and I want to talk about it, and that starts right now. Call me back when you can.
I’m missing you, too.” Sam broke the connection and stared at the phone in her hand. She felt raw inside, bruised and vulnerable.
But remarkably, she felt stronger and ready to fight that virus all over again. She’d had another setback, but that wasn’t the same as defeat.
And the only real failure would be quitting.
* * *
Sam was still awake at five when her alarm went off. They’d decided to move Veronica early, before the media caught wind of what was going on. Sam showered and dressed, drank a whole pot of coffee to no discernible effect, and headed to the hospital. She suited up to help with the transfer and headed into Veronica’s room when she heard the helicopter descending to the helipad.
“Change of scene for you today,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
Veronica didn’t even try to smile. She was burning up with fever, and even though she couldn’t have been dressed to go for long, the back of her shirt was wet with perspiration. She nodded, as if too tired to do otherwise, and let Sam hook up the oxygen. They were going to seal her inside a bubble on a stretcher that could then be lifted into the helicopter.
“Are you coming, too?” Veronica asked, her tone so bleak that Sam knew she expected otherwise.
“You bet,” Sam said, changing her mind in that moment. That this woman who had been so strong for so long had finally lost hope broke her heart right in two.
They continued in silence, Sam pushing the gurney through the airlock, then removing her HazMat suit as the bubble was sprayed down. She took over from the orderlies—who looked as if they would have rather been anywhere else on the planet anyway—and pushed Veronica toward the waiting helicopter. The choppers were slowing and the two paramedics on board were watching her approach. The pilot was squinting up at the sky, but Sam didn’t care about the weather conditions. It would be clear enough until they got on their way.
Firestorm Forever: A Dragonfire Novel Page 36