Kiss of Fate

by Deborah Cooke

  Erik chuckled.

  “Maybe one about Vikings and dragons,” she added.

  He sobered and concentrated on his flying. They’d been airborne for about a dozen hours. By his calculations, it should take about thirty-five hours to reach Chicago. It was a long flight, by any accounting, and one he would have preferred to have made without the pressure of time.

  It would also have been preferable to have been fully rested.

  Once again, Erik felt the burden of his obligations. The firestorm gave him unexpected strength, Eileen’s presence sending a frisson of energy through him, as if he were hooked to an electrical current.

  He’d take whatever he could get.

  At least here, there was no one to beguile. He could simply fly and not worry about the effect of his presence upon unsuspecting humans and their preconceptions of how the world was.

  It had been simpler, once upon a time.

  He felt Eileen watching him and wondered what she saw. He wondered what she was thinking and wished he could have flown a route that didn’t pass over so much dark water.

  Surely that could only awaken upsetting memories.

  “Maybe a story would be a good idea,” he conceded, thinking only of distracting her.

  Eileen nestled her cheek against his chest. “Tell me the one about the dragon who killed his father to assume leadership of the Pyr.”

  Erik felt a chill and nearly missed a beat in his shock. Eileen’s eyes were bright with curiosity.

  And devoid of condemnation.

  “Boris told you that,” he guessed.

  Eileen nodded. “But you must have had a good reason.” She spoke with a conviction that warmed Erik’s heart. Her tone became more fierce. “You’re too principled to murder for the sake of ambition. No, there’s more to the story. Boris just picked that part to make you look bad. He would have murdered without a moment’s hesitation, but not you.”

  “You sound quite sure of that.”

  “I’m a good judge of character,” Eileen said with force. “Tell me, Erik. Tell me the myth; then tell me the truth that its toes are in.” She spared a glance at the Atlantic far below them, its waves choppy and dark, and he saw her swallow. “I think we’ve got the time.”

  The very least he could do was distract her, especially when she had such faith in him.

  And, really, it was past time that he shared his story.

  Eileen sensed that Erik was choosing his words with care. She was content to give him whatever time he needed.

  After all, he was going to tell her a story.

  His story.

  “I told you about the schism within the ranks of the Pyr, as men became determined to use dragons for their own purposes and treatments,” he said.

  “You did.” Eileen closed her eyes. It was easier to concentrate on the richness of Erik’s voice and be carried away by his story if she couldn’t see the dark expanse of water beneath them. It was easier to forget the cold clutch of water, the inability to breathe, the terror of drowning, if she basked in the heat of the firestorm and savored the gentle strength of his grasp.

  She knew he wouldn’t let her fall.

  She trusted him to protect and defend her.

  It was a good feeling. For most of her life, Eileen had fought her own battles without any desire for a companion. But when the stakes were higher—when Slayers like Magnus were stalking her—she’d been forced to admit that she needed help.

  And Erik’s help and companionship were easy to rely upon. She liked that he treated her both as a lady and as an equal. Eileen didn’t want to think about not being with him. She didn’t want to wonder what had happened between him and Louisa, how she had ever distrusted him or cast him aside.

  So she didn’t.

  “As the slaughter of our kind continued and we came closer to extinction, the battle heated. Each camp appointed themselves a leader.”

  “You said you were leader of the Pyr.”

  “Now. Not then.” Erik’s voice softened with affection. “The first and greatest leader of the Pyr was my father, Soren. Among his innovations was the establishment of a high circle of seven Pyr. He chose to make decisions collectively, rather than be unilateral. He conferred with his fellows and together they determined the best course of action.”

  “The key to effective government,” Eileen said.

  Erik listed names with such reverence that Eileen guessed that many of these Pyr were no more. “Sigmund, Lothair, Gaspar, Thorkel, Rafferty, and my father were the oldest and wisest of our kind. Rafferty alone of that august group survives.”

  Eileen was confused. “Because Sigmund is dead now?”

  Erik frowned. “No, it was my paternal uncle Sigmund who sat on my father’s council. They were brothers, close in age and attitude.” He spared her a glance. “I asked Louisa to name our son in that Sigmund’s memory.”

  Eileen was beginning to understand how important family legacies and links were to the Pyr. She nodded, encouraging Erik to continue.

  “So diminished were our numbers even in those times that I was permitted to fill the seventh seat.”

  “An honor.”

  She heard the smile in Erik’s voice. “One that my father initially opposed. He was always convinced that there were more Pyr hidden somewhere, that we would find a gathering of Pyr who had abandoned the corner of the world we frequented. It was Thorkel who insisted upon my inclusion, and over time, as areas were explored and no Pyr were found, my father was forced to acknowledge that his dream would never be.”

  “You’d all been hunted.”

  “When Mikail Vassily became leader of the Slayers, my father knew he had to fill his council and fight for the Pyr mandate in earnest.”

  “Mikail was Boris’s father?” Eileen guessed, recognizing the name.

  “Yes. He was magnificent, like an ancient treasure come to life. He could command a room with his presence alone, but his oratory powers were also incredible. He was so persuasive. I think there were those who turned Slayer just because of the music of Mikail’s speeches. My father was more vehement and blunt, but his passion was also persuasive to some.”

  Eileen was starting to see the patterns of family lines in the Pyr and the Slayers, as well as to recognize names. “And this Thorkel who promoted you was Thorolf’s father?”

  “His grandfather. One of the Pyr who rode with the Vikings, as my father and I did, as my uncle Sigmund and so many others did. We were their mascots and their inspiration.” Pride echoed in Erik’s tone. “They carved their ships in our images. They honored us with tributes and feasts. They offered their most beautiful maidens to us. The world was ours to take and victory ours to claim. We feared nothing and no one.” His voice dropped. “But we learned fear.”

  He fell silent and Eileen was content to give him the time he needed. It was soothing to feel the wind in her hair and the beat of his wings, to have the pulse of his heart beneath her cheek and the heat of the firestorm surrounding her. She fought to smother a yawn—she was tired from their adventures but wanted to hear the rest of his story.

  “From whom?” she prompted silently.

  “It was the alchemists who taught me fear.”

  Eileen remembered that Erik had mentioned them before. “Their quest was to turn dross into gold,” she said. “Or to find the Philosopher’s Stone that would enable them to do so.”

  He glanced down at her, his eyes glimmering, and she knew there was a connection she should be making.

  “Which was supposed to have fallen from heaven with Lucifer,” she continued, searching her mental inventory of stories and guessing.

  “Or maybe was embedded in his forehead when he fell,” Erik said quietly.

  “You mentioned that fictional stone earlier,” Eileen guessed, continuing when Erik nodded. “The beast of the Apocalypse was supposed to be a dragon, so Satan was a dragon, so the Philosopher’s Stone should be the same as the stone in the forehead of a dragon that was an antidote to
poison.”

  “And it made sense that the quest for immortality could also be found in a species with greater longevity. We were associated mystically with the prima materia by many alchemists; some even called it ‘the Dragon.’ It was linked with quicksilver or mercury, which was said to be dragon semen.”

  “The alchemists were fascinated with you.”

  “But they liked us best dead or ensnared,” Erik said bitterly. “And so it was that one alchemist brought all of the elements, so to speak, together. He managed to learn a song to which the elements responded, and when he chanted it under the right conditions, his power was immeasurable.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Can you look into the water?” he asked. “Can you bear it?”

  Eileen decided to trust Erik on this. “I’ll try. Don’t mind me if I hold on really tight.”

  He snorted, then began to fly in a low circle, dipping over the waves. He bent his head and blew on the surface of the water and the waves stilled. That left a clear, dark surface that was roughly circular, directly below them, one that reflected Erik and Eileen in his grasp.

  A dark mirror.

  Eileen shivered. “Just don’t drop me,” she said, and clutched at his arms.

  “Never,” Erik whispered with vehemence; then he began to chant.

  Erik wasn’t sure his ploy would work, but he had to try. He wanted Eileen to understand the stakes. He wanted her to see what had happened. He wanted his history to be more than just another story to her. He wasn’t sure why it was so important to him that she believe him, but he chose to attribute that to her own demand for honesty.

  If he showed her, she could have no doubt of his integrity.

  He remembered the song Sophie had sung to the Dragon’s Egg to use it as a scrying glass. He had practiced several times on the Dragon’s Egg itself, back in the security of his hoard, and had managed to conjure images with greater dexterity.

  But the Dragon’s Egg was gone forever. Just as a seer could use any dark surface to conjure visions, it seemed reasonable to Erik that he could similarly improvise. The ocean’s darkness might be the perfect choice. Eileen clung to him but she looked into the water, the power of her trust giving him greater strength.

  He didn’t think it was his imagination that the firestorm burned brighter between them. There was a sphere of golden light on the dark water below them, a beacon in the night.

  He stared into the light and sang the low chant. Eileen didn’t interrupt him, just watched. It was appealing that she was both skeptical and open to the notion that not everything adhered to the commonly accepted explanations.

  He let his will radiate toward the water. He saw clouds swirl on the surface of the ocean and felt a stab of triumph. He glimpsed the change in her reflection in the clouded surface for only a heartbeat, his own image static behind her.

  Her hair became dark, as Louisa’s had been. Her features became finer and her expression less bold. She was smaller and more fragile, less in command of her life and her choices.

  Eileen caught her breath at the difference in her own reflection, so Erik knew she had seen it.

  She had learned so much since those times.

  She might as well be a different woman, one better equipped to deal with the challenges of the past.

  He wondered how to tell her that, how to express his admiration; then the clouds in the water cleared. Their reflection was lost in the image conjured there.

  A room was shown in the dark mirror, a room that no longer existed. It was the very room that Erik wanted to show Eileen. His mouth went dry as he noted the familiar details: the apothecary jars on the shelves, the scales, the crucible, the crystal orbs. The bleached monkey skull that had always bothered him was there, as was the enormous glass bottle on the workbench before the fire.

  There were two dragons sealed in it, one black and one red. Their scales were brilliantly hued and flashed as they spiraled around each other in frustration. They were miniature versions of the dragons he recognized them to be, bewitched to take a smaller size. They fought endlessly, knotting around each other in a silent, vicious ballet.

  “Soren and Mikail,” he said, his words husky.

  The sight of their entrapment and desperation still sickened Erik.

  As did the complacent satisfaction of the man who sat beside the fire and watched, as if the situation had nothing to do with him.

  As if he were not responsible.

  “They’re trapped,” Eileen murmured. “Why?”

  “There is wickedness,” Erik found himself saying, “and there is evil.”

  “Tell me the difference,” Eileen whispered. Her fingers gripped him tightly but Erik barely felt them.

  “To be wicked is not to care who is injured in one’s single-minded pursuit of one’s own goals. To be evil is to willfully destroy others in that same pursuit. It speaks of a selfishness and a disregard that the universe cannot support.”

  “A decision to turn away from the light and embrace the darkness,” Eileen said, and Erik nodded. “Were they supposed to fight to the death?”

  He nodded. “And the prize was to be release from captivity.”

  “I’ll bet it was a lie,” Eileen whispered, and Erik couldn’t tell her that she was right.

  He let her watch.

  Soren reared back and struck a flurry of blows upon Mikail. The red Slayer fell heavily, and though he roused himself twice, after the third assault he did not rise again. The obviously exhausted black Pyr turned to the alchemist with expectation in every line of his body.

  The alchemist smiled.

  He roused himself and stirred the fire to greater enthusiasm. He lifted the sealed glass with some effort, then set it in a shallow metal pot filled with water that hung in the fireplace. He lowered the bath over the fire, so that the flames licked the outer metal pan. Steam rose from the water between vial and pot, and the black dragon moved with greater agitation, looking as if he danced in the flames.

  The alchemist watched with a bemused smile.

  “You promised release!”

  Erik caught his breath as his father’s voice echoed in his thoughts once again.

  “I desire a greater prize first.”

  “Name your price.”

  “You can guess.”

  “I will give you my hoard.” Erik heard the panic in his father’s tone, heard his desperation and hated it even more in recollection. Perhaps knowing the ending made it worse. “I have gold from Samarqand and silver from Ireland. I have garnets and amethysts and—”

  “I have no desire for gold and gems.”

  “What then? What do you desire?”

  “There is only one thing I desire, and you must give it to me willingly.”

  “Secrets of the earth and her treasures, then.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You could smelt iron here.”

  “They do.”

  “But they need to use coke instead of coal to make a better grade of iron. You can turn the iron in this valley into wealth by smelting properly. These are secrets known to me, and they are yours.”

  The alchemist made a note, then stirred the flames beneath the pot. “That’s not enough.”

  “You will kill me and be left with nothing!” Soren raged. “What madness is this?”

  “Give me the stone,” the alchemist said. “Give me the Philosopher’s Stone.”

  “I don’t have it. I don’t know what you mean.”

  The alchemist lowered the pot so that it was deeper in the flames.

  Soren screamed.

  “He’ll kill him!” Eileen cried, her fingers digging deep.

  “No.” Erik said sadly. “No. He left that task to me.”

  Chapter 21

  Eileen couldn’t bear the view any longer. The desolation in Erik’s tone told her all she needed to know. Eileen buried her face in Erik’s chest and felt tears on her own cheeks. “Make it stop. I don’t want to see more.”

 
“You have to see this.” Erik touched her cheek with one talon and she turned to look, fearful but trusting.

  She saw another version of the ebony dragon appear suddenly in the alchemist’s laboratory.

  “So you came,” the alchemist gloated.

  The black dragon’s eyes flashed fire as his gaze landed upon the fireplace and the contents of that bottle. He tipped benches, broke glass, and tore shelves from the walls in his fury to reach the hearth. She saw the alchemist back into a corner in fear as the new arrival snatched the bottle from the fire.

  He shattered the glass with a mighty blow, and the smaller black dragon fell weakly to the floor. Something dropped from the alchemist’s table, a small round stone that rolled across the room.

  The large dragon started, obviously recognizing it.

  Eileen recognized it, too. It was the rune stone she had found in her coat pocket.

  The rune stone spun across the floor, coming to a halt at the feet of a young boy who halted in the doorway. He clutched a book and had sandy hair. He looked studious and vaguely familiar.

  Sigmund.

  Sigmund bent and picked up the rune stone, turning it in his hands with curiosity before he glanced into the room. Then his eyes widened in terror.

  “Grandfather?” he asked, his voice rising.

  The newly arrived dragon stared at the child in shock. “You took my son,” the ebony dragon whispered, and the child retreated. The boy clutched the rune stone and stared at the dragon in mingled fascination and fear.

  The ebony dragon moved to approach the boy, and the alchemist’s mouth twisted with hatred.

  “I raised a child of my own blood when his father abandoned him,” he hissed, then his voice dropped low. “Then I summoned his father to a reckoning.”

  “I did not abandon my son!” the black dragon cried. “You stole him from me, after your daughter rejected him.”

  “Devil-spawn,” the alchemist sneered. “Satan’s vermin. How else could you be what you are? You cannot blame me for trying to save the soul of a child unfairly condemned by his father’s foul seed.”

  “And how does teaching him sorcery save his soul?” the dragon demanded.