by Kayla Wolf
And what made it worse—a thousand times worse, a million, worse than she’d ever imagined she could feel—was that all of this was because of Owen.
Chapter 11
Halfway through the flight north, he managed to flip some kind of switch inside himself. It had to do with feeling her struggle against him, with feeling her fear and anger pulsing inside her like a light. In his human shape, he was dull to such energies. Some kind of defense mechanism, some kind of ancient ancestral decision, that their telepathy would be draconic and draconic only. Perhaps that was why they’d evolved their human shapes in the first place—to give themselves a break from the constant exposure to other people’s thoughts, other people brushing against the corners of their very minds like uninvited guests. As a human, he’d been able to shut her out. But here, his wings spread and his great muscles working to carry them both north, he could hear her—not her thoughts, because she wasn’t projecting them to him, and that was a necessary ingredient. But he could feel the louder feelings, the anger, the terror, the pulsing sense of betrayal.
And he couldn’t handle it. He was frozen solid, almost, only dumb animal instinct powering his wings on. She felt so bad, and it was his fault, and there was something so wrong about that that it made it feel like all his bones were going to splinter like glass and pierce through his body and kill him. How could he be doing this, he heard a part of himself that he’d killed centuries ago howling. How was this possible? What kind of a nightmare was he living, frozen inside this body that was about to perform such unimaginable evil? The only refuge was the dragon, the animal instinct that lingered under all his intelligence like a caged beast. So he tapped into that. Found a curious kind of relief, amid all of the horrors that were pulsing in his body. The ancient, animal wisdom of the beast—prey in its claws, winging its way home to feast. Sure. Whatever got him through the next five minutes, the next ten seconds, the next heartbeat. It was survival mode, well and truly.
He knew she was shouting at him—he could hear her, feel her, even through the dragon’s disinterest in its squealing prey. Still brave, even in the face of terror. Her mind was no doubt ticking, figuring him out. Understanding that his every move had been calculated, that he’d betrayed her every second of every minute since they’d met. He hoped she was angry. He hoped she was smart enough to be angry and nothing else. That was the way—that was how you got around sadness. You just stuck to anger until it burned out everything inside you and left you a husk. Husks were useful. Husks got things done.
Too much thinking. He tried to switch off. But he needed to think, to find the camp where the white-eyed dragons were, to land carefully in the central square and watch as the dragons scurried back and forth. Why were so many in their human shapes, he wondered dully? What kind of a bad habit was that? Frightened of discovery by humans, perhaps. A lack of faith in their ability to contain any breaches of the secrecy. At any rate, it meant he couldn’t talk to anyone. That was good. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He just sat, up on his haunches like a great dog with a present in its paws for its master.
He’d have to shift, he realized dully as they snapped a collar around her neck like she was an animal. The other half of the job had been the statue, the artefact—he’d have to shift to get the thing out of his satchel. Have to speak, at least a little bit, to the leader here. The Alpha. Violet, had that been her name? Details like that counted. He had to be professional.
At this rate, he’d settle for making it through without screaming.
They were dragging Angela—the target, he corrected himself hurriedly. Just the target. They were dragging the target towards the great hall. There were lights shining through the windows—a hurried awakening, he imagined. They hadn’t expected him back so soon. Neither had he. He’d spin it as good work, not desperation. Shifting had been a good idea—as his wings withdrew, he felt his telepathic senses dull. The pulse that had been Angela’s rage, her fear, her betrayal, was cut off. Not entirely, but close enough. And what remained… that couldn’t be a true reflection of her feelings, could it? That pulse he still felt, that dull roar, deadened like someone screaming into a pillow… that was his mind playing tricks on him. He couldn’t feel her, hear her—not in this form. Surely not.
”You’re early.” Violet’s voice whipped across the hall as he stepped through the door, his eyes resting on the men who were dragging Angela towards the front of the hall and not, under any circumstances, straying to her long blonde braid, tangled and coming loose from its ties.
”I’d say I’m late,” some instinct prompted him to quip. “Hope I didn’t catch you all sleeping.”
“Did you bring it?”
He forced his legs to move, forced himself to walk. It felt like a thousand miles between the door and the raised area where Violet was standing—she was wearing the same jacket she’d been wearing the day they’d met, he noticed, but it seemed to have been pulled on over what must have been her pajamas. So she slept in human shape too. That was getting more and more common, these days. He reached into the satchel with hands that shook just a little. Bad sign, that. It wasn’t so that anybody would notice except him, but the last thing he needed was more indicators that he was losing his grip.
”Is that it? It’s small.” Violet was looking down doubtfully at the little statue he was holding in his hand. Owen looked up at her.
”What were you expecting? Some ornate centerpiece for your courtyard out there? This is it.”
”How do we know for sure?” one of the men behind Violet demanded. Owen sized him up. It felt good to focus on something other than the pounding of his heart in his ears. He held himself too stiffly. Trying to prove something—trying to look braver than he was, bigger than he was, more important than he was. A braggart. And the kind of man to run a mutiny against his own leader, if he got half a chance. Violet ought to watch out for him if she was any kind of Alpha. He could tell by the unfriendly look she shot over her shoulder at him that she was coming to a conclusion like that.
”Shut it, Cal.”
”I’m just saying, he could’ve brought us anything. What if he’s taking the real thing back to his fancy College with him?”
”The College would have no use for it,” Owen said flatly. “Or do you think a dragon like me needs to be bigger?” He tensed his body, let the gray hide start to spread across the backs of his hands, fixed his eyes on the guy Violet had called Cal. He flung his hands up.
”Fine, fine, sorry, sorry.”
”Remember who you’re speaking to,” he said flatly, shifting back. The flare of the dragon had felt good. Calmed him down. Maybe there was still a chance he could get through this.
Then Angela spoke, and that hopeful little dream went straight out the window.
”And who’s that, then? Is your name even Owen?” she spat. “Or was everything you told us a complete lie?”
A chuckle went up among the gathered dragons—about a dozen of them, all-told, had sidled into the building from side doors. This was quite the spectacle—he imagined not many of them would want to miss the handing over of the so-called princess, the revenge they’d all been dreaming of for so long. He hoped they wouldn’t do what he thought they were going to do. He hoped they wouldn’t torture Angela. Not while he was there. He felt frozen to the spot like roots had grown from the soles of his feet into the hardwood floor of the hall. He needed to go. The artefact was handed over, the target had been delivered. Time to get out of here. If he threw all he had into it, he could be back at the College before dawn. Spar with Tarik again. He’d like that. It might make him feel like himself again.
God, he didn’t want to feel like himself again. That was the frightening part. For a second, or a minute, or an hour back at the palace, he’d shrugged off this mantle he wore, and now it was back on him it felt like it was going to crush him whole.
”How’d you infiltrate their little home base?” Violet asked, amused. “Did you go undercover or something? Come up w
ith a disguise?”
”Something like that,” he said, trying to sound neutral.
”Pretty stupid, not to notice your eyes,” Cal drawled. Trying to get a word in as often as possible—trying to get the leader used to hear his voice during important events like this. Owen could see what he was doing. If Violet was smart, she’d cut him down. But he kept talking. “Are they too dumb to know what black eyes mean?”
”Are we done here?” Owen asked, cutting the guy off. It was clumsy, borderline rude. The College had etiquette in place for this kind of handover. But if he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to lose it, and he didn’t know what that was going to look like.
“This is her, right, Taylor? The princess you heard about down in Colorado?” Violet turned to a tall woman with dark hair pulled forward over her face. As the woman looked up and her hair fell back, Owen realized why. She was badly scarred—he had enough of his own to know when a wound had healed badly. A wicked mark, the scar tissue thick and knotted, that started at her temple just above her ear and travelled down the side of her face, leaving a deep groove carved into her jawline too. That wasn’t a dragon claw. He thought of the calm, stoic bear he’d met back in Colorado, and fought the urge to shudder. In another life, he’d have wanted details of a scar like that. Now, he just wanted to get out of here.
What’s your name?” Taylor asked, narrowing her eyes as she stepped closer to Angela.
”Angela,” she snapped. “And I’m not a goddamn princess.”
”Oh, sure you’re not,” Violet said mockingly. “So we should just let you go, right? You’ve never even heard of the royal family…”
”I know them,” Angela said angrily. “I live with them. But I’m not a princess. My sister’s married to the King’s brother, that’s all—”
A muttering went up among the dragons who’d gathered. Owen could sense dissatisfaction, resentment. This wasn’t what they’d been promised. They wanted black and white, an eye for an eye—their king had been killed, they wanted a princess as vengeance. Owen stayed quiet. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
”She’s not a princess?” Taylor looked a little worried. Owen wondered how she’d gotten the information that there was a princess to be kidnapped from the palace. Gossip and hearsay, probably… locals talking, misunderstanding key points, mistakes getting magnified. Unreliable information… which she’d then taken to her Alpha. This could be trouble for her, politically speaking, and she knew it.
”She’s not even a dragon,” the dragon called Cal said, disgust in his voice. “What’s the point of taking some wolf hostage? They’re not going to miss their pet dog.”
The other dragons were muttering their resentment. Owen knew he had to get out of here—for more reasons than one. He could feel a desperate, bizarre hope fluttering in his chest that this unforeseen mix-up might lead to Angela getting her freedom. His mind kept trying to spin bizarre scenarios—they’d release her, give her back to him somehow, he could take her away, beg her forgiveness, she’d take him into her arms again… he was losing it, well and truly. He bit down hard on the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood. A last resort. Pain brought clarity.
“This wasn’t what we paid you for,” Violet said loudly, trying to get hold of the situation again. It wasn’t looking good for her, he had to admit—but it was the wrong move to try to make it Owen’s problem. “What are you going to do about this? How are you going to make this right?”
” I acted on the information you gave me. If that’s a problem, take it up with the College,” he snapped. “We’re done here.” And he turned on his heel and strode towards the door. He was trying not to listen to what was happening at the front of the room… trying to focus on getting the hell out of here before he snapped completely. But he couldn’t help but hear Violet when she gave her next order, her voice deadly as a knife.
”Kill the wolf.”
That instruction pulled his attention around like a magnet. When he turned, he saw that Angela had broken away from her captors. They must’ve underestimated her, slender little thing she was, her face (his heart wrenched) dripping with tears. Unable to shift, they’d assumed she couldn’t fight. They’d assumed wrong. One of the guys who’d been holding her was doubled over, clutching at his groin and groaning—the other was trying to get his arms around her. Rookie error—left her hands free. As he watched, he saw her dig her thumbs into the guy's eye sockets, heard a scream and felt, rather than heard, the wet sound of the damage she’d done. Good move, he thought remotely. Not many guys could do much to recover from a thumb in the eye socket. But there were a dozen dragons left. Taylor, the scarred one, moved in, drew her hand back and delivered a vicious backhand that sent Angela staggering. The sound hit Owen right in the chest.
And he blacked out.
When he came back, he was by Angela’s side. The room was in uproar—Taylor was at his feet, the scar on her face running with fresh blood. There were a dozen dragons surrounding him, a couple of them clearly thinking about shifting. He hoped they would. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver in here—they’d hurt their allies before they did him any damage. Violet was screaming, rallying her forces, sending them at him. Mistake.
They fell like wheat. He could see Angela recoiling from him—she burned in the center of his perspective despite the demands of the fight. These guys were angry and frustrated, but they were also scared and tired and, in the end, minor league. None of them knew how to fight like he did. None of them had gone ten rounds against Tarik. But the real difference here—the difference that was going to win him this fight regardless of being outnumbered—was that these guys cared if they died or not.
He didn’t.
Five down, piled at his feet like so many bags of wheat. He was bleeding—two black eyes, his nose broken. They focused too much on the face, that was their problem. Fought too much like humans. Humans went down if you did enough damage to their heads. Owen had fought through concussions that would’ve killed a human, and he’d had an eye torn out once or twice, too. Shifters healed better than humans, but not many of them seemed to take that into account when they fought. The guy who was still groaning on the floor with blood running between his hands from his ruined eyes, for example. If that had been Owen, he’d still be up and swinging. The best way to stop him would be to tear his arms off, or cripple his legs somehow, get him on the ground. Even then, he’d have a lot left in the tank. But these guys insisted on swinging for his head. Like a broken jaw was going to stop him from killing them all. He didn’t need his jaw to fight.
What are you doing, Owen? a part of him wondered remotely. Why are you trying to kill everyone in this room? Didn’t matter. No plan at all any more. He’d been living second to second—that was over, now. All that existed was this moment. Maybe if he fought hard enough time would turn around completely, start moving backwards. Maybe he could go all the way back to meeting Angela—leave her there in peace. Let her live the rest of her life without all the damage his ruined soul had done to her.
Violet was shifting. He realized that at about the same time as he realized she was running out of men to throw at him. Her body was rippling, shifting, white scales spreading across her body—was there space in here for her to shift forms? There certainly wasn’t for him—not if he wanted to avoid trampling Angela. And he did. Her survival was the only thing that mattered here. Where was she? Behind him. He glanced around long enough to see her deliver a savage kick to the ribcage of one of the dragons, who’d been thinking about getting up. That felt good, somehow. Like they were on the same side. They weren’t, of course—he was well beyond any chance of redemption from her, here. The best he could do was die getting her safe.
Impressive. Violet’s voiced snaked into his head, louder and brasher than the spoken voice she used in her human form. But I’m still going to kill you.
He didn’t respond. Waited. She was cocky, in that form. Thought she had him at a disadvantage—that he couldn’
t fight her in his human form or his dragon form. Well, she was right about his dragon form, unless he wanted to be wearing this hall like a costume. She hissed, her jaw hinging open, showing off her pearly teeth—and while she was distracted by that show of force, he sprinted straight at her. Faster than she thought. He was always faster than they thought, thanks to Tarik. If you trained with a wolf, you had to get your agility up. Her neck was covered in spikes—easy handholds. He swung up onto her back, grabbed her wing joint in his hands, and snapped it like a branch.
She screamed, her whole body thrashing like a crocodile trying to drown its prey, but he was expecting that. Did she really think he didn’t know dragon tricks? He hung onto the spikes on her back, working his way towards her head, heedless of the way she was battering his body against the floor of the hall—she was favoring her ruined wing, screaming with pain and rage, trying to twist over onto her back to crush him, but she was too small, and he was too far gone with adrenalin to let a couple of broken ribs stop him.
He reached her head. He drew back his fist. He focused, for a moment, on the electric energy that was coursing through his bleeding body, the desperate, clawing instinct to shift form. And he focused it on his right hand—let just enough of the wild old magic flare up in him to replace one finger with a curved, wickedly sharp talon.
And he drove it hard into her eye.
The sound she made was hideous. Her whole body coiled up like a frantic snake, and he felt her tail whip around, knock his feet out from under him. Too late—he hit the ground hard, felt pain spike through him from his broken ribs, felt his clavicle snap too. No matter. Everyone in this room was dead, or close enough. Her white-scaled body was shrinking. An attempt to save the eye, perhaps—the wound would be smaller on her human body. But she’d forgotten about her wing. That injury manifested as a broken shoulder. Owen staggered to his feet, but Violet couldn’t follow him—blood running down the side of her face, she stared up at him with her one good eye, absolute hatred shining out of her like a beacon.