by Megan Derr
Grumbling, Erie nevertheless obeyed and led the way to the master bedroom.
*~*~*
Carrying a fresh cup of coffee—cream no sugar—to the kitchen table, Blaze sat down with a yawn. The kitchen was cool, but after Erie and a nearly too-hot shower, he felt overheated in jeans and a black tank top. The coffee wasn't helping, but he'd fall asleep without it.
He pulled the thick sheaf of papers close and removed the binder clip holding them together, and sipped at his coffee as he began to read through them.
The first few pages were standard medical reports, containing every last scrap of family history, alongside practically every single bruise the dragon—Cam—had endured since childhood. Blaze always felt sorry for the bastards whose job was to hunt down all the information that went into the dragon reports.
He skimmed through it quickly, moving on to the tests Cam would have undergone after being taken in—kidnapped, really, but nobody liked to say that word.
Blaze frowned as he read the preliminary blood work—also called field tests—they did immediately after acquiring a new dragon. More extensive lab work was done later, but prelims were enough to be certain that they weren't wasting time or energy on the capture.
The report had to be wrong, unless he'd misread something. He flipped back to the beginning and reread the basic information. No, he'd read correctly: the kid was nineteen, going to college, and worked in a bookstore. His parents were deceased. No other family listed. A loner, but not without some friends. A more or less typical guy.
But the prelim tests said his dragon potential levels were at eighty percent. That meant he was eighty percent dragon, even if it was all dormant. Such a high level of dragon potential made him a pure, and an exceptional pure at that. But it also meant he should have trouble functioning as a normal human. Pures were almost always found living solitary lives, usually up to their ears in violence, trouble, and criminal records. They didn't act normal.
Frowning, wondering if the preliminary test results were wrong, Blaze moved on to the full test results—and nearly spit his coffee everywhere when those tests stated that Cam was, in fact, ninety-one percent dragon.
Fucking hell. Cam should be serving a life sentence somewhere as a malcontent, violent, uncontrollable bane to society. It was a miracle he hadn't managed to trigger his dormant dragon genes himself. Blaze shoved his mug aside and read through it all again, pouring over every sentence.
All the hallmarks of a dragon were there: loner, very self-sufficient, disinclined to work with or under others, intimidating, plus the fixation on strawberries ... all of the signs were there, but based on the report, Blaze would have put the dragon potential at forty percent best.
"Incredible," he muttered. It had to be a quad-black. There were only three quad-blacks in the country last he'd heard, and twenty-four in the whole world. No wonder Rust was willing to trade taking him out of the pit fights with Blaze stealing the dragon for him.
He was pulled from the papers by a low, angry growl, and looked up towards the kitchen door where Erie stood sulking with a hurt look on his face. "New dragon? Better than Erie?"
Blaze smiled. "No one could be better than you, Erie. You're not incredible, you're perfect. Come here, silly lizard."
Growling happily, Erie prowled forward to sit on the floor, curling close against his chair and resting his head against Blaze's thigh. "Good master."
"Good Erie," Blaze replied, keeping one hand threaded through Erie's soft hair as he resumed reading. When he finally finished, he leaned back with a sigh and drained his cooled coffee. "I don't know what's going to happen when we meet the dragon, Erie, but I get the feeling that shit is going to get crazy. It's also going to get bloody. It always does when power like this is in play."
Just thinking about it sent a chill across the back of his neck, a crawling sensation that had him rubbing his neck as though expecting to find a spider. Thinking about things going wrong made him think of Ken, and the cold, dismissive way Rust had said they'd dealt with Ken.
Blaze tried to push thought of Ken from his mind. He'd told Rust about Ken because he knew Rust would take care of it, because it needed to be done. He wasn't sorry about doing whatever was necessary to protect Erie.
But knowing what Rust had probably done to Ken made him feel tired all the same. They made forbidden thoughts of running, of just saying fuck it and taking his chances, stir and try to rise. He shoved them back down and covered them up again, forcefully stilled the trembling in his hands. He could not afford those thoughts. "Come on, lizard. We need to pack and get going, it's going to take twelve hours to drive to St. George territory and we should already be on the road." He gently pushed Erie off his lap, then shoved his chair back and stood up.
By the time they were packed and ready, afternoon was turning into evening. Blaze shrugged into his jacket as they left the building, thanking the doorman who loaded their bags into the trunk of Blaze's Challenger. He handed the doorman a tip, and took the car keys the doorman held out.
Sliding behind the wheel, Blaze buckled his seatbelt and waited until Erie was comfortably settled before pulling away from the curb and into traffic. Erie immediately set to fussing with the radio until it hammered out the hip hop he loved so much. Blaze left him to it, focusing on traffic and his own tumultuous thoughts.
The one thing the reports hadn't mentioned was who he'd be working with on the dragon. There was no fucking way St. George would leave Blaze unsupervised with such a strange dragon. Leonardo St. George was a mean son of a bitch, even by syndicate standards. The protective, trigger-happy goon squad that surrounded him was no better. It was a well-known fact that his pit fighters all played dirty. Blaze hoped he wouldn't have to work with any of them. They would be more interested in getting payback for all the times Erie had kicked their asses in the pits.
But it was unlikely he'd be working with a fighter; fighters weren't typically the ones to start the dragon training. The syndicates usually employed special trainers to help the newly turned transition from human to dragon. Fighters only started training the dragons once that transition was stabilized. That Blaze had trained Erie right from the start was one of the reasons they were so unusual.
Blaze frowned, realizing that a dragon as odd as the one he was going to see would require a trainer that Leonardo really trusted. That meant ...
His hand tightened on the wheel as realization struck. The only person St. George trusted that much was his younger brother, Rafael, who was said to have a magic touch with dragons. Leonardo was notoriously possessive of his younger brother; rumors abounded as to how many people he had killed where Rafael was concerned.
The whole damn trip made him tense, made him think again of just saying fuck it and running. But thinking of unusual dragons and trainers also made him think of Amr.
Should he call Amr? He knew more about dragons than anyone Blaze had ever met. Amr would know what was going on, or be able to figure it out. Blaze hated that Rust had sent him away before Blaze's training had been completed. Blaze didn't understand why, when he and Erie had done so well.
He reluctantly conceded that he probably shouldn't call Amr. Rust would beat him to a fucking pulp if he found out Blaze still had ways of contacting Amr, and Blaze wasn't going to risk angering Rust. Not when he'd finally offered the one thing Blaze wanted most. He knew Rust was just dangling a carrot when he said stealing St. George's dragon would get them out of the pits. But he had to take any chance he could of getting Erie out of those fucking fights. Agitated, he reached out, eyes still on the road, and tousled Erie's hair. He laughed softly when Erie grabbed his hand and pulled it down, nipped it affectionately. "Excited for a trip, Erie?"
"No pits," Erie replied. "No Rust."
Blaze nodded. "It's nice to be away."
"Butterflies okay?"
"Yeah, the girls will be fine. I called Holiday while you were in the shower, asked him to keep an eye out for us. He'll look after them."
Rumbling his approval and keeping hold of Blaze's hand, Erie settled down further into his seat and quickly fell asleep. When he was dead to the world, Blaze gently pulled his hand free, caressing Erie's cheek as he withdrew. He turned off the music, preferring the sound of his dragon's breathing to the week's top ten.
When they finally stopped for the night, all Blaze wanted was pizza, a beer, and bed. Hauling all of their crap from the car to the motel room, he dropped it on the bed nearest the door then faceplanted on the second bed. Behind him, in dragon form, Erie rumbled in amusement. Blaze turned his head to say, "Shut it, lizard."
Making the clicking, growly sort of noise that was dragon laughter, Erie crawled onto the bed and on top of him. "Get off me, you giant lizard."
Erie just growled playfully and settled more firmly. Blaze rolled his eyes and made a weak effort to buck him off, but they both knew Erie wasn't going anywhere. "If you don't let me up, I can't order food, and you don't get mints until I get pizza and beer."
He laughed when Erie immediately climbed off of him, and rolled his eyes again as Erie sprawled across the entire bed when Blaze climbed off. Going over to the little desk in the corner, Blaze found a number for a pizza place. Calling it, he put in an order for two large pizzas: one pepperoni, one meat lovers. Hanging up, he said, "I'm running out for beer, Erie. Behave while I'm gone."
On the bed, Erie growled an affirmative but didn't bother to open his eyes.
It didn't take him long to find a grocery store, though he couldn't help but notice that whoever owned the dump must pay the health inspector substantial bribes to stay in business. Blaze grabbed a six-pack of Miller and a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream for Erie, paid for it all at a self-checkout, and made it back to the motel just as the pizza arrived. Carrying everything into the room, he dumped their things on the floor and used the extra bed as a table.
"Stay away from that ice cream until you've eaten," Blaze ordered as he set his Beretta on the nightstand. When he saw Erie was still eyeballing the ice cream, he grabbed it and stuffed it into the tiny motel freezer. He opened a can of beer and began to work on a slice of the pepperoni while Erie started in on the other pizza.
He was halfway through his second slice when his phone chimed. Sighing, Blaze set his beer down and pulled it out. One text, from Trace, asking how everything was going. Blaze texted back their current location and ETA, then threw the phone on the bed. He finished eating his second slice of pizza, and made short work of a third.
Opening a fresh beer, he downed a third of it and then set the can aside to start working on the laces of his boots. "It's a pity we only get tonight to ourselves, away from everything. Do you remember St. George, Erie?"
Erie growled, low and angry.
Blaze snorted. "Yeah, one of his fighters is Arsenic. I thought you'd remember him and his bitchy little gale dragon. Hopefully we won't see them, but stay alert when we get there."
Growling his annoyance at being told the obvious, Erie snatched up another piece of pizza and wolfed it down, tongue flicking out to lick the grease from his snout. Blaze laughed and stretched out on the bed, working his way through another slice of pizza and his beer.
The whole situation was such a nice change from how they usually spent their nights: either relaxing at their strip club or schmoozing at events whenever Rust ordered. The forbidden thoughts of escape he'd been fighting all day rose up again, and Blaze was too tired to drown them again. He would give anything to be free of Rust, the syndicate, to live a life that didn't depend on the outcome of their next fight. A life that didn't involve constantly endangering the only thing he owned that mattered.
Owner.
Dragon fighters were called masters, but the term owner nagged at him. It felt right, though he couldn't say why. Ken had used it, and so had Amr. Blaze shook the thought away. He wondered again what they'd done to Ken, and felt sorry for the poor bastard.
Grabbing his beer, Blaze took a swallow and then sat the can aside. He stood up to get Erie's ice cream, but froze as Erie gave a warning growl. Blaze snatched up his Beretta right as someone knocked on the door.
"Stay back," he said to Erie. "Be ready to strike, but don't do anything rash. I mean it, dragon. Rust will have our heads if you burn down a motel." He smiled ever so briefly at Erie's offended growl.
Moving to the door, Blaze grabbed the handle and lifted his gun, then pulled the door open—
And stared in confusion at Ken's bruised and battered face.
"You owe me," Ken said, and only then did Blaze noticed the second man, on his knees in front of Ken, facing Blaze and looking up at him through eyes so blackened and swollen Blaze doubted he could see anything. "Three of these goons, and their dragons, were about to jump you. Wouldn't tell me why, but let me in and we can probably change his mind."
Blaze scowled. "What? You're supposed to be dead."
"Ha, like Rust has anything that could beat me. They got in a few hits, but I kicked all their asses. Now let me the fuck inside before we attract more attention."
"Fuck you."
"No," Ken said. "I am too goddamn tired. A guy needs his rest."
Blaze lowered his gun. "What in the fuck is going on?" He stepped back, because Ken was right: they would attract attention. He was reluctantly impressed Ken hadn't drawn any attention so far.
He watched guardedly as Ken entered the room and threw the guy he'd been holding down to the floor. Behind him, Ken's dragon hovered warily in the doorway, disheveled and exhausted looking, but amber eyes bright and alert. He gave a low growl of query, eyes sweeping the room. Erie growled back, cautiously granting permission. They both relaxed slightly and Ken's dragon slipped into the room.
Assured all was well with the dragons, Blaze turned his attention to the guy Ken had dragged in, recognizing his various marks as scars that all dragon masters acquired. He wondered idly where the man's shirts had gone; even the wife beater he wore was so torn up it was barely staying on him. "You said there were three?"
"Yeah, two earlier, then this guy. They all had rock dragons."
"Dead?"
"Everyone but him," Ken said flatly, and Blaze winced in sympathy, because no real dragon master liked killing dragons. Anyone who did didn't deserve to have one. There was nothing to be done about the pitting, it was what dragons did, but they didn't have to die because of it.
A black mark on the back of the man's wrist snared Blaze's attention, and he knelt to examine it, prodding the tattoo with his gun. "This guy is from the Triad Syndicate. They're up north, close to the Canadian border. What the fuck are they doing here?"
"They're not with Rust?"
Blaze shook his head and stood, wondering how best to wake the guy to get some answers. "No, why would you think that?"
"Because they were following you," Ken said with a frown. "They've been following you since you left the city. I think they were waiting for a good chance to get rid of you and Erie, since they tried to make a move when you went off alone. They were so busy watching you, they didn't notice me until too late."
"How the fuck did you know they were following me?" Blaze demanded, even though the answer was pretty fucking obvious.
Ken answered it anyway. "Because I was following you too. I was on my way out of town when I saw you leaving, and saw those guys shadowing. I thought you were running away and I was gonna help." He frowned, clearly just as confused as Blaze.
Blaze just stared at him. "I'm not running away."
"Oh. Uh," Ken said, staring at him blankly. "Then why were these guys following you?"
"That would be the question of the hour," Blaze replied sourly. He heaved a long sigh because he had a sneaking suspicion that the strange dragon in St. George territory was involved, which meant there was a leak somewhere. He wondered if the leak was in St. George or Rust, and felt his headache grow. "Fuck this," he muttered. "I need a beer. Close that goddamn door."
CHAPTER FIVE
"Can I have one of those?"
Ken asked, and sat down on the floor, too tired to drag himself to the chair or a bed. "Please? I feel like I've been run over by a fucking truck." He also felt fucking disappointed as goddamn hell, because he'd been absolutely certain that Blaze was making a run for it.
But, he supposed that would have been too fucking easy. Not that Blaze would have helped him, but still, a guy could keep hoping that he might someday catch a fucking break.
Blaze eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then grabbed a beer and gave it to him. Ken beamed, popped the top and took a generous swallow. "Sorry to bust in on your party. I was on my way out of town when I saw you and it totally looked like you were bolting."
"And you just wanted to help?" Blaze asked. "I don't buy it. What the fuck are you really after? You're supposed to be dead."
Ken sneered at the reminder, and beside him Nev rumbled in amusement. He leaned against Nev, who rumbled soothingly. "It takes more than a few goons and their half-assed dragons to kill me. They did their best, but it wasn't good enough. Those rocks tonight packed more of a wallop, but they weren't good enough either." He finished his beer and set the empty can aside. "If you're not running, why are those goons after you?"
"Why is it any of your fucking business?" Blaze asked, Erie growling beside him.
"It's not," Ken said, and let go of Nev to stand up. It was stupid to feel hurt, because it really wasn't any of his business. But he'd already been in three separate fights because of Blaze, how many times did a guy have to get beat up before he proved he wasn't trying to do any harm?
"Thanks for the beer. Have a nice life." He walked to the motel door and yanked it open, stepped out into the cold night air and waited as Nev closed the door behind them.
He was sore, exhausted, and discouraged. Nev needed a break from all the fights. Three rocks, and well trained at that, was a bit much after everything else they'd faced. Ken gingerly touched his face and winced in pain. It felt like one gigantic bruise and he probably looked ten times worse than he felt.