“It’s not sorcery!” Sigmund cried, and the dragon turned to appeal to him.
“You must see the wickedness in this, in using others for one’s own material gain,” he began, but got no further.
While the dragon was distracted, the alchemist pounced, a knife in his hand. He buried the blade in the smaller black dragon’s brow, digging furiously with the knife as the dragon struggled in his grip. Blood and brains and flesh spewed onto the floor; the small dragon roared in pain, but the alchemist kept digging. He grunted with the effort and the small dragon screamed in agony.
The larger dragon bellowed when he saw. He crossed the room in a single bound and snatched up the alchemist. The alchemist shrieked, but the ebony dragon roasted him with dragonfire as he held him high above the floor. The smaller dragon fell to the floor and twitched.
The alchemist struggled and fought; he spat and he crossed himself, but the dragon who was Erik showed him no mercy. He spewed dragonfire until there was nothing left of the alchemist but smoke and cinders.
Then Erik wept as he gently lifted the smaller black dragon in his hands. Eileen wondered at the strength of the alchemist’s enchantment that the smaller dragon could not break free of it even after the alchemist’s death.
She heard a rumble that might have been thunder, saw the younger dragon weep, then closed her eyes as Erik loosed the flames on his own father, incinerating the small dragon beyond recognition.
She thought she heard a sigh as he blew the ashes and scattered them. The laboratory was burning, being consumed by flames, and the ashes of the small dragon mingled with those of the structure itself.
“What did he say?” she asked.
Erik’s voice was hoarse and she knew he hadn’t had to hear the plea again to remember it. “ ‘I beg of you, spark of my blaze, do what must be done.’ ”
Eileen wept for what Erik had had to do and spared one last glass at the dark mirror of the past he had created.
Something moved in the conjured image, a motion in the shadows that startled the bereaved Erik. A woman stood in the doorway of the alchemist’s lab, silhouetted in flames. The fire lit her face and showed her concern; it danced in the dark tresses of her hair.
It was the woman whose reflection had been on the water instead of Eileen’s just moments before. Louisa. Eileen’s heart stopped at this vision of her past.
For a heartbeat, she could see the scene through Louisa’s eyes. She felt a horror deep within herself, a revulsion and an anger, and she understood with sudden clarity why she had never been able in this life to trust a man fully.
But it was the alchemist who had betrayed Louisa by turning her against her beloved and turning their son against his own father.
Not Erik.
The dragon took a step toward her and changed shape. But the flames he had created on his arrival were spreading with savage fury—they made a barrier between him and the woman. She stared at him with accusation in her eyes, then turned and fled.
As he shouted after her, the alchemist’s lab was consumed in the brilliant orange of flames.
The vision faded.
Eileen found herself looking into the dark depths of the sea.
“By his accounting, I had stolen the greatest treasure of his hoard,” Erik said softly.
“He was Louisa’s father,” Eileen guessed.
Erik nodded. “He had always had an interest in alchemy, but once Louisa had left with me, his passion grew. He was determined to avenge himself upon me for her loss.”
“Sigmund went to him?”
“Sigmund went to him, and ultimately her father took them both in. He made the boy his student, taught him many dark arts, and bequeathed his books to him. In return, Sigmund told him what he knew of the Pyr.”
“Did he know that Sigmund was Pyr?”
“If so, he would have blamed me and my taint for that, as well.”
“But you are what you are.”
“For better and for worse.” He sighed. “He schemed for years to destroy everything of importance to me.”
Eileen reached up and kissed Erik’s throat, knowing that it hadn’t been easy for him to share this defeat with her.
“He didn’t entirely succeed, did he?” she whispered.
“He came perilously close,” Erik said, then held her tighter and soared into the night sky with new purpose.
“There,” Niall muttered, his old-speak echoing in Thorolf’s thoughts and jolting the younger Pyr to wakefulness.
Which was no small feat. Thorolf was exhausted. Since meeting Niall, he’d learned more than he’d learned in his entire lifetime. He’d made some rudimentary attempts to breathe dragonsmoke. He’d practiced his technique spewing dragonfire. He’d struggled to make some utterance in old-speak, and he’d tried desperately to catch up with all of Niall’s references. He’d learned to hide behind chimneys and in corners of roofs to avoid being seen by humans.
When he’d screwed up, he’d tried to copy Niall’s ability to beguile humans into believing that they hadn’t seen what they thought they’d seen.
Never mind that he’d flown farther than he’d even flown in his life without a rest.
He was bagged. This made working eighteen-hour days as a bike courier in Manhattan seem like a piece of cake.
It was in the wee hours of the night when Niall spoke, well past the time that even Thorolf would have been awake partying. The streets were quiet and dark, stillness permeating every corner. Even the alley cats had gone to bed.
All he wanted to do was sleep.
Niall was vigilant, though, charged with the responsibility of guarding these humans. Thorolf understood that they were important but wasn’t entirely sure why. What he really wanted was to crash for a couple of days, then think about it.
No luck.
A dark-haired man was walking along the street toward the house. He sauntered, endeavoring to look innocent when his furtive manner revealed that he was clearly anything but.
“Take his scent,” Niall advised so softly that his words were almost inaudible. Then he inhaled deeply.
Thorolf followed suit. He smelled darkness and rot, like a basement that saw no light or fresh air, like a place where condemned criminals were shackled and left to die. It was a foul scent, one that he couldn’t have missed and never wanted to smell again.
“That’s Slayer,” Niall murmured in old-speak. “You can smell their black blood.”
Thorolf watched the new arrival carefully, assessing his body language. He was looking around with greater care, as if he’d sensed their presence. Maybe he’d heard them.
Thorolf took another breath and caught a whiff of another dark smell. This one was distinctly different, more like ash and burned detritus than mold and dampness. It was no less nasty, no less desolate, and he guessed intuitively that the Slayer wasn’t alone. He spun in time to see a garnet and gold dragon leaping over the chimney pots toward him, talons extended.
“Hey!” Thorolf shouted, pivoted, and shifted shape. He raged dragonfire at the Slayer, who flinched as their talons locked. Thorolf came on hot and hard, knowing he was too tired to last.
He’d have to thump this dude fast. He had size and strength on his side, at least. This Slayer was slender and much smaller than Thorolf. It was easy to hold him captive by his claws.
Thorolf breathed a stream of smoke, directing it at the Slayer’s open mouth. The dragonsmoke wound into the Slayer, slipping between his teeth and down his gullet. The Slayer twisted and screamed, fighting against Thorolf’s iron grip.
Bonus. He’d snagged one that hadn’t learned to take dragonsmoke. Thorolf grinned and kept on breathing; then he beat the Slayer heavily with his tail.
He might have felt triumphant, but claws dug deeply into his wings from behind. He ripped himself free with an effort, and the Slayers laughed together. Thorolf glanced back to find Niall down and bleeding, and two Slayers in need of a lesson.
Thorolf knew just which one he’d tea
ch them first.
If nothing else, Thorolf could fight. He’d been doing it all his life, and he wasn’t afraid of being outnumbered.
He decked the garnet Slayer, surprising his opponent. Thorolf took advantage of the moment to study the Slayer and assess his weaknesses. He had a wound on his chest that would really hurt if it were reopened.
When the Slayer raged back toward Thorolf, Thorolf shifted forms, again using the element of surprise. The Slayer started but Thorolf jumped straight at him. The Slayer spewed dragonfire; Thorolf shifted shape right before his eyes, then ripped the scabs off those chest wounds.
The Slayer hollered with pain.
Black blood ran over his scales, staining the pearls that accented his splendor.
He lunged at Thorolf, who slipped out of his way at the last moment. The red Slayer collided with the gold and agate Slayer, who had been about to pounce on Thorolf from behind. The two fell toward the earth, breaking through the roof of a small greenhouse attached to a neighboring house.
They shot upward in unison before Thorolf could check on their fates. The blood that dripped from the red Slayer left burning holes in everything it touched, including roofs and sidewalks and automobiles. They both had shards of glass in their sides and bloodlust in their eyes.
They targeted Thorolf and he waited for them. Hard and fast was how he liked to fight. High stakes, no rules, fight to win. This worked for him in a big way.
He ducked their assault, pivoted, and grabbed the wings of the agate one from behind. He breathed dragonsmoke, knowing that this Slayer didn’t much like it, and watched him twitch. Then he flung his victim at the red Slayer, sending a torrent of smoke after him. The pair writhed in unison, then came back for more.
The gold one latched onto Thorolf’s tail, but Thorolf was bigger and stronger. He let the Slayer think he was in command, then flicked his tail hard, slamming the Slayer into the top of a parked car. The hood dented, the car alarm went off, but Thorolf did it again. The Slayer roused himself but Thorolf kicked him in the teeth, backhanded him, blew some fire, and left him on the roof of the crumpled vehicle.
The red Slayer shouted as he came after Thorolf, the mark of a real amateur. Thorolf kicked him square in the chops, using his kickboxing experience to advantage. It was even more fun in dragon form. After half a dozen solid high kicks, the red Slayer rolled through the air. Thorolf was right behind him. He grabbed the red Slayer’s tail and swung him around. He pivoted in time to strike the agate Slayer in the gut with his companion, knocking the wind out of him.
As a bonus, the red Slayer was breathing fire, and the flames caught his companion across the wings. They twitched and screamed in unison.
They both fell heavily on the roof of a neighboring house. The red Slayer broke the chimney, sending bricks tumbling through the hole he made in the roof. Smoke began to billow from the house and children wailed. The gold and agate Slayer slid down the roof tiles despite his efforts to get a grip and landed in the garden, breaking a stone fountain.
A woman screamed.
The Slayers snarled and took flight in unison, leaving Thorolf with a mess on his claws.
“Unconventional but effective, I guess,” Niall observed, and Thorolf realized that the Pyr had roused himself. He looked a bit worse for wear and was rubbing a bump on the back of his head.
“That’s me.” Thorolf bristled, disliking that his efforts weren’t appreciated. “I get shit done, but it isn’t always pretty.”
Niall snorted and surveyed the damage with obvious disapproval. Thorolf was about to tell Niall a thing or two about gratitude but never had the chance.
“At least you’re good at something,” Niall said with obvious approval. “A Pyr’s got to start somewhere.”
His approval was short-lived, though. Niall grimaced as the sounds of a fire engine could be heard. Neighbors were peeking out of windows, more than one of them pointing at the dragons on the roof. The woman with the broken fountain was in her garden, her voice rising when she saw her shattered chimney.
Niall gave Thorolf a stern glance. “This is some kind of mess. We’re not going to tell Erik about this, right?”
“Right,” Thorolf agreed, then listened avidly as Niall instructed him further in the art of beguiling.
Eileen awoke alone in a king-sized bed. The sheets were smooth, so smooth that she repeatedly ran her hands across them in appreciation. If she was in a hotel, it was a more minimalist one, and unfamiliar.
Three walls were painted a silvery gray and the plain blind over the window was the same color. The other wall, the left wall, was exposed red brick and the heavy beams overhead were dark wood. The bed was black, like ebony, and simple. The floor was planked, old pine by the look of it, and sanded to a smooth finish. There was no rug.
Two lights with alabaster shades were mounted on the wall on either side of the headboard, and paired doors opposite her flanked a fireplace with a black wood mantel. She could see a dressing room through the open pair of doors on the left, the dark clothes there arranged with military precision. The tile floor looked like it could lead to an en suite bath and she heard running water.
The pair of doors to the right of the fireplace were securely closed. Presumably that led to the rest of the apartment.
Eileen had a pretty good idea whose bed she was in. The discipline of the space spoke loudly of Erik’s usual demeanor. She thought that the revitalized warehouse space—because that was obviously what the building had been before—reflected his respect for the past and his tendency to view old things in new ways. The wide doors, generously proportioned rooms, and high ceilings left space for a dragon to maneuver.
It wasn’t all bad waking up in Erik’s bed. Eileen wondered whether she’d be doing it again. She was naked and hadn’t undressed herself; that was promising. She wondered whether he’d joined her there, but there was no dent in the other pillow and the sheets on that side of the bed were smooth.
Her lips thinned with annoyance. He was Pyr, not Superman. She was going to have to talk to him about getting some rest.
She slid across the mattress to get out of bed and caught motion from the corner of her eye just as she got to her feet. A blond woman leaned against the brick wall, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were a brilliant turquoise and she looked strained. There was a scab on her neck and she seemed to be favoring one foot by keeping her weight on the other.
More important, she hadn’t been there before.
She waved her fingertips at Eileen. “Surprise.”
Eileen took a wary step backward. This was the woman who had been in her dream, the one who had counseled her about water meaning trust. Who was she? Why was she in Erik’s bedroom? Or was Eileen hallucinating?
“The Wyvern,” the woman said. “I’m here to give you a message, and yes, you’re in Erik’s lair, and no, you’re not seeing things.” She spoke firmly, as if there were no doubt of her ability to read Eileen’s thoughts.
Eileen took another step backward, then remembered that she was naked. She reached for the sheet, tugged it from the bed, and wrapped it around herself.
The Wyvern looked around the room and wrinkled her nose. “A bit Spartan, don’t you think? Air and earth are accounted for, fire is a given, but where’s the water?” She looked at Eileen and smiled, her eyes widening slightly. “Oh, there you are.”
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“If you don’t now, you will.” The Wyvern moved into the room, perching on the side of the mattress. She winced as she stretched out the leg she’d favored. She looked insubstantial, so fine and fair. She ran a hand over the sheets, smoothing them, and Eileen could almost see through her hand to the fabric below.
Was she really present?
“As present as I ever am,” the Wyvern said, shooting Eileen a bright glance. “Dreams, you know, are my specialty. Maybe you’re dreaming me. Or maybe I’m dreaming you. The distinction isn’t that important.”
“Isn’t it?”
The Wyvern shook her head, considered her slowly moving hand, then impaled Eileen with a glance. “Was it important when you and Erik dreamed of each other?”
“Did you do that?”
The Wyvern nodded once, quickly, then frowned. “What’s important now is your secret dream.”
“I can’t imagine that it’s your business,” Eileen said, taking another step back.
The Wyvern smiled. “I told you—dreams are my business. Go on, tell me your innermost dream. You can even think it. I’ll hear you.”
Eileen wrapped the sheet around her waist and tried to look as regal as she was dismissive. “I don’t think it’s important . . .” she began, and headed for the bathroom.
The Wyvern stepped on the end of the sheet as Eileen passed her, compelling Eileen to stop. “I do.” She spoke with authority.
Eileen thought about ditching the sheet and the Wyvern smiled. Instead Eileen gave it a hard tug and nearly fell backward when the Wyvern lifted her foot.
“Tell me.”
“It’s stupid. . . .”
The Wyvern gave her a hard look. “How strange. In my experience, the dream and the dreamer are always well matched.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That clever people have clever dreams, and foolish people have foolish dreams.” The Wyvern’s turquoise eyes shone with conviction. “So, are you less clever than I believe you to be? Or is your dream less foolish than you believe it to be?”
Eileen stared back at her, momentarily lost for words. “I don’t think dreams are important.”
“Ah!” The Wyvern raised a finger. “You’re wrong, but that explains everything.”
“No,” Eileen said, stepping forward to argue. “No. Dreams are aspirations, goals to work toward. They motivate you and it’s not that important that they’re specifically achieved.”
“Really?” The Wyvern was obviously unpersuaded.
“Really. They lead us on, to lessons and challenges we can’t anticipate. They aren’t necessarily fulfilled literally. . . .”
Kiss of Fate Page 28