by Aaron Crash
Pru’s nipples tightened into diamonds from the cold. She liked that Morty was having a hard time keeping his eyes on her face. Behind him were the doors that led into a sumptuous living area of polished pine furniture, lush carpets over what could only be a heated floor, and rough-hewn tables, yellowed and rustic. That was only the great room. The whole place was at least four thousand square feet. Since it was high season, that suite was going for five thousand dollars a night. Ha, that was pocket change for both Steven and Morty Flint.
The fire flickered off Morty and the two chickies next to him: a copper-skinned waif with straight black hair and just about the biggest eyes ever, and the gorgeous woman next to her, skin like cream, and hair so blonde it was almost white. Who were those girls? Why had Morty brought strangers?
Steven ambled out of the spinning circle of fire. The flames vanished, swirling away, scattering sparks into the night. He didn’t pause, and damn, he wasn’t even sweaty, though the sleeve on his right arm was torn. That was it. That was all that was out of place. He might have just come from the other room. Even his color was good. The twins parted so he could stand between them. “Okay, Morty, what would you like to talk about?”
Pru knew it wasn’t the right move, but she kind of lost control of herself. She leaned back to get Chazzie’s attention, and Chazzie just grinned and nodded. Yeah, it was an entrance. Yeah, Steven was throwing around magic that was pretty much beyond what they considered possible. Yeah, he was the real deal. Maybe not a messiah, but certainly a force to be reckoned with.
Morty stepped forward and reached out a hand. “Thank you, Steven, for agreeing to meet with me. And thank you for honoring the terms.”
Steven didn’t move. He glanced at Chazzie, who nodded. He tipped his chin at Pru, wordlessly asking for her opinion. Pru laughed. “Hell, you just created your own portal. Do you think a handshake is gonna do you in?”
Steven shook Morty’s hand.
Morty chuckled. “Most men wouldn’t look to their Escort for permission.”
“Most men don’t have the Wayne twins as their advisors,” Steven shot back.
Morty didn’t move. His dark eyes searched Steven’s face. “Yes, I can see that now. Carlo Bart never knew what he had in them. But you do. You know a great deal, obviously.”
Steven shrugged and relaxed just a bit. Just a tad. Pru watched his shoulders drop maybe a quarter inch. Surprising, when an attack could come at any minute. This might’ve been a trap, which was why Dragonlords rarely met. It was simply too dangerous.
Steven smiled confidently. “I know how to fight. I know how to kill. I don’t know how to create alliances, and I don’t know how to bring Dragonlords over to my side peacefully.”
It was quite the admission. Pru wondered if that was the right way to go.
Morty, though, slid into the role easily. “Let’s talk inside. That, right there, is why I wanted to meet. You now have the biggest chunk of North America outside of me. You and I own the largest Primacies, and yes, we could fight, and I have tricks like you have tricks. But maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
As dragons, they were tough creatures, but high-country cold and snow could get to them in human form. Pru was glad when they left the outside deck behind and walked into the room.
The two mystery chickies didn’t sit down. They knelt on the carpet near the kitchen. They were following orders, obviously. Pru found their obedience kind of sexy. That surprised her. She’d always considered herself as straight as a long-gun barrel, but those two gorgeous mostly naked women, kneeling? It was Tingle City, and Pru was the mayor.
As for Morty, he went to the bar to bartend. Behind him were a wall of windows, giving them a view of the Vail ski area, lights gleaming up the mountain and shining on pines. Night skiers swished down through the snow.
The Great Lakes Prime smiled. “I think the humans would say something like, ‘What’s your poison?’ For you and me, that would be an unfortunate choice of words.”
“I don’t want anything,” Steven said. He declined the drink to retain his power, but he sat down at the bar, which was following Morty’s lead. Clever.
Pru and Chazzie stayed back, each turned just so to take on any threat with their assault rifles. Herr Heckler and Herr Koch made very fine weapons. Pru kept an eye on the deck. Chazzie had the front door and the hallway to the bedrooms covered.
Morty saw them and knew the score right away. “You all can relax. This is not a trap. This is me offering an olive branch to a young man who has done more in ten months than most dragons do their entire lives because of that very rich Drokharis blood.”
“Did you know my father?” Steven asked.
Morty poured himself three fingers of Glenfiddich single-malt Scotch whisky. He sipped it. “Every Dragonsoul on the planet knew of the great and dangerous Stefan Drokharis. Know him personally? No. I was at the Conclave in Tokyo. I abstained in the vote to kill him. Not only do I know my politics, but I am a more sociable creature than most. At the time, that cost me; I have scars, despite my social skills. But in the end, it has been worth it.”
He stopped talking. From somewhere in the suite, a clock ticked away. Morty’s next sip and swallow was painfully loud in the tense quiet.
Steven waited, and so did Morty. It had become an odd game of chicken to see who would break the silence first.
For the first time, Steven’s Magica Porta spell seemed to be catching up to him. It wasn’t so much in his color, more of the general feel of him, as if he’d rather be back at home in bed. Pru thought that might be a good thing; Morty Flint was just another unpleasant task in the busy life of an invincible conqueror.
It was Chazzie who broke the stalemate. “Morty, you didn’t offer me a drink, and I’ll be triple damned if I’m going to pass up that fancy whiskey you’re slinging. Bob Wayne’s daughters were taught better than that.”
She strutted over to the bar, tits, hips, and a big black assault rifle across the slight strap of her dress.
Morty chuckled and filled another tumbler. Chazzie didn’t sip. That girl shot that shooter back and slammed it down. “Now that is some quality firewater, I’ll tell you what!”
Pru doubled her efforts in guarding. Chazzie had become a tool in the conversation, and while the men might not know it, Pru did. A glance to the girls on their knees. Those chickies were peace offerings, but from who? Or was Morty more of a pervert than he first appeared? Or maybe it was both. Morty was an old thing, probably had a thousand years under his belt, though he didn’t show it, and he didn’t flaunt it.
Pru kept glancing over at the pair of babes. Were they there as a distraction? Steven didn’t seem to care. But Pru felt lust in the pit of her belly. Steven would have to accept the two women even though he wouldn’t like it. He had very human ideas about sex and gender. In the realm of Dragonsouls, things were different—more basic and maybe more truthful.
Good thing Chazzie took control of the conversation. “Okay, Morty, this ain’t no Conclave, so I reckon we can get down to brass tacks. What do you want from Steven?”
The man’s dark eyes drank her in, and Chazzie looked like a walking cocktail in red. “Well, Chastity, I want to make sure your boss doesn’t murder me and take my Primacy. That’s the reason why I’m here.”
“And I’m here to get drunk and shoot the shit,” Chazzie said, taking over the room. Steven didn’t need her help, but it was better this way. He could be aloof, rest up, because at any minute the Marriott slope-side suite could become a war zone. Pru thought about dragging Steven into the bathroom and blowing him to get his Animus up, but then if the shit hit the fan, his first kill would do the trick just as easily.
The Wayne twins knew how to shoot to wound. Then they could deliver the enemy to their boss so he could feed.
But Pru didn’t think it would go that way. Not with those two young women on their knees, waiting like sacrificial virgins on the edge of a volcano.
“Why do you think Louis Lal
oux has lasted as long as he has?” Chazzie asked.
Morty laughed, and it was clear he loved where the evening had gone. He was a man, gossiping with a beautiful woman about American Dragonsoul politics. “Louis has been at the game longer than anyone could guess. And he keeps his Primacy small. Why would anyone go after him? What’s the point of owning a few parishes in Louisiana?”
“NOLA is a party town, Mort.” Chazzie thumped her tumbler on the bar. “Hit me again, Mr. Flint.”
“Morty is fine.” He poured her another shot of hooch. “No, I understand Louis. He’s the alligator in the swamp with only his eyes showing. There are teeth down there. Yes, there are. I understand the board, Miss Wayne, and there are only a few pieces I’m unsure of. Liang Pope in the PNW has been trying to get a coalition going for years. He’s sure that Paanga Komang will swoop in at any minute to gobble up his holdings.”
“Paanga Komang is a tall tale. Might as well be talking about Paul Bunyan and his blue ox. And my friends call me Chazzie. You can call me Chastity.” She gave him a wink.
“Paul and Babe, a powerful Magician and his Morphling,” Morty replied, and from the tone of his voice, he wasn’t joking. “Poor Liang, but he keeps trying, and he’s laughed at and ignored. Roy Right will go for him eventually.”
“Going down to Sin City!” Chazzie said and took down half of the whiskey. “So Roy Right says he only owns Reno and Vegas, but it seems to me, he has all of Nevada.”
“Not all,” Morty said. “Jem Osprey and Abner Savedra both claim it. Those goddamn California boys, always at each other’s throats. Fresno is a war zone. Those poor humans get the worst of it. Not only do they have to live in Fresno, they get their minds wiped every five minutes because Jem and Abner can’t get along. Roy, though, he likes them fighting. It keeps their minds off him.”
This was perfect. Pru hadn’t known about Liang Pope wanting a united front against the rest of the world. As for Paanga Komang, Morty had pretty much confirmed the mythic Asian overlord was real. Okay, this was good. While it was well-known that Jem Osprey from the NorCal Primacy and Abner Savedra from the south were at each other’s throats, Pru hadn’t known that their battles extended into Nevada, which would bring them into the path of Roy Right. They were getting some good intel.
And Steven just had to listen, rest up, and soak it all in.
“And what about Javier Jones?” Chazzie asked carelessly. She played it perfectly.
Pru felt a bit of sweat trickle down her side from her underarms. Morty’s response was critical because Javier was the only real ally Steven had.
Morty gazed into her eyes. “What about Javier Jones?”
Chazzie had to backtrack. And she did. “Desert rat, am I right? But he’s been quiet ever since he was given a Primacy for doing nothing. That was Rahaab, right? Steven got some insight into the Alpheros before he put them out to pasture.”
“No, he put them in a glue factory like old horses.” Morty took a sip. He’d become a cypher, not giving them anything. Damn, he’d clammed up fast. “Icharaam was the best of the brothers, the most courageous, and he was put down for it.”
“I’m not much for history,” Chazzie said. “I like current events. Like Javier Jones down in the desert.”
Pru kept all expression off her face, but oh, she wanted to wince. Chazzie had exposed them. Going back to Javier was a mistake.
“Javier is fine,” Morty said noncommittally. “Actually, in America, we have an uneasy peace, but we have a peace.”
“No concerns about the New England Primacy? The Carolina Primacy? Nothing about the Miami-Dixie Primacy, or Ugly Ellis Dodge?” Chazzie asked. They were all nothing questions that would come to nothing. Morty wasn’t going to divulge anything about that.
Morty smiled. It was a tolerant, good-natured smile of an uncle who will suffer through hearing about his niece’s third-grade play. “All fine east of me. And south for that matter. But the west? Well, Miss Wayne, perhaps we should ponder Clete Sariah. No one has seen him out in public for years. The Deseret Primacy is a real mystery. And isn’t it interesting that Eve Downfyre does such a good job running it?”
“Hell, Morty, I’m sorry for the joke about my name. Didn’t meant to ruffle your feathers. Chazzie, Chastity, either one, just don’t call me late for dinner.” She had a little sparkle in her eye. “Morty, I do believe you and I have become friends over this little bit of hooch.” She threw back her glass and motioned for more.
Morty filled her glass.
Chazzie switched gears. “I have no comment on Eve Downfyre or that action. However, I will say that Roy Right is a right dickhead. I want Steven to kill him, but Steven won’t do it. He has this bad case of morality we’re trying to cure him of.” Chazzie shot him a wink.
Steven gave her a bored look. He looked tired, which again, was good. Let Morty think Steven was burning the candle at both ends, that he was relentless in his studies. That portal spell was brilliant. It changed everything, and while he didn’t show it, it had thrown Morty off his game.
“Morals won’t last, not in this game, Steven,” Morty finally switched and addressed Pru’s Prime directly. “Though, like you, I want a better world.”
“How so?” Steven asked.
Morty paused. A softer, more honest expression came to rest on his face. “I managed to get a few of us together, and it worked out well, for a minute. We had high hopes, like you do, and we had morals, while they lasted, and we even thought to fight the Zothoric. We delved into powerful magic, like you’re doing.”
Chazzie kept quiet. Good girl. Now it was time for the men to talk.
From Steven, “What happened?”
The old Dragonlord shrugged. “Our circle of friends became a target, we were hunted, most of us were killed. And what could’ve been a world-wide empire of powerful dragons working together turned into a bloodbath. I was lucky to survive, though as I mentioned I have scars in places I’d rather not show. As do others.” He laughed a little.
“Who did the hunting?” Steven asked.
Morty looked him in the face, giving him a stony stare, then the old beast smiled self-consciously and glanced away.
Pru nearly rolled her eyes. That was all for show.
“Ancient history, Mr. Drokharis, like Miss Wayne here said.”
Chazzie hissed out a sigh. “Come on, Morty, how about you call me by my first name, and I’ll show you my tits.”
Morty was taken aback for a second. Stunned speechless. Maybe as much as he had been when they’d first come out of the portal. He glanced at Steven. For permission? To see his reaction?
It was as if all power in the room was given to Steven all because Chastity had mentioned her boobies. Nothing reduced men to little boys like boobies.
Steven nodded. “Come on, Morty, Chastity has a point. Let’s all be friends here.”
“Yes, friends,” Morty agreed. “And I’ve seen my share of women in my time, though I have to say, the Wayne twins are a prize, Steven.” The Dragonlord, older than he appeared, turned to Pru’s sister. “Would you like some more, Chazzie?”
“Oh, so very much so,” Chazzie agreed, though her reactions were getting a little slow, and her speech was slurred. But that was good. She’d get drunk, Steven would remain stone-cold sober, and Pru was there, eyes wide open, silent. “Why are we here, Mort?”
“I wanted to get to know the illustrious and mysterious Steven Drokharis,” Morty said. “And like I said, to offer him an olive branch, cash, and some fabulous prizes.”
He said no more, pouring Chazzie another drink.
“I’ll take a shot of that,” Steven said. “I’m not above the legal age to drink yet, but I guess I can trust you not to call the cops on me.” He gave Morty the kind of smile a kid might give a favorite uncle. It looked real enough, but Pru had her doubts.
She couldn’t help but admire the move. Steven was young, reckless in a lot of ways, and in the end, Pru couldn’t help but see him as only another pawn
in her and Chazzie’s never-ending game of power plays.
However, in that one sentence, he changed things in the room, and really, he might have changed the entire world at that moment. It was a baller move.
Steven was young, but he was a player, without a doubt.
Chapter Four
STEVEN SIPPED THE WHISKEY from the tumbler. He’d been cold, aloof, letting Chazzie do all the talking. That was partly strategy, partly because he didn’t want to puke. Opening the portal had torn into his Animus, and though cutting through reality had been second nature, the amount of power it had taken was enormous.
He checked his Animus. Like he thought, he was dangerously low. It was a testament to Tessa’s power that she’d been able to keep the portal open between Odessa, Texas, and the Thar Desert in Rajasthan during the Carlo Bart Baxter fight.
The only thing Steven had going for him was that he’d used HeartStrike twice, and so he knew the effects of reaching beyond his powers; Liam Strider had quoted a poem to him, something about a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.
Magica Porta wasn’t nearly as bad as HeartStrike. Already he was feeling better, and the whiskey was soothing his discomfort. It could be poisoned. But then, if Steven felt any kind of sickness coming on, he would tear Morty Flint’s heart out of his chest. And the women kneeling on the floor? What was that all about?
Pru remained in the center of the room. She had her rifle in her hands now, on edge and waiting for trouble. As for Chazzie, she was getting drunk and not being too subtle about it.
Morty braced himself against the bar, in a position that he was comfortable with. How many bars had Morty leaned on? Maybe he’d been there to serve George Washington and his cronies at the First Continental Congress. Sure, Morty wasn’t a stranger to drinks, deals, and daring. The Great Lakes Dragonlord leaned in. “Look, Steven, I’m on your side.” He rumbled with laughter. “I sound too eager saying that. And of course, if I was your enemy, I would say exactly that. In this case, though, I would like you to trust me.”