Darkfire Kiss

by Deborah Cooke

  “We take you now to another story we’ve been following, again at the impetus of Melissa Smith. Yesterday we told you about allegations regarding Magnus Montmorency and his possible link to illegal arms dealing. We showed you some of the evidence gathered by Melissa against Mr. Montmorency, and our crime reporter, Trevor Mulholland, has been following this story. Trevor, I understand that police have searched the Washington, DC–area home of Mr. Montmorency, with a warrant.”

  “That’s true, Juliane, although they’re not saying what evidence has been found. They have issued an All Points Bulletin for Mr. Montmorency, who is considered armed and dangerous, and my contact within the police noted that Interpol was involved. This indicates that they have some reason to believe that Mr. Montmorency has left the country. Certainly no one in his neighborhood is admitting to having seen him recently….”

  Rafferty found himself in a cave he knew well. Again, the nausea nearly overwhelmed him, but he had no time to indulge his weakness. Donovan was fighting with Jorge on the far side of the cave, although he appeared to be losing against the Slayer’s violent assault. The Sleeper yawned on his stone platform in the middle. He stretched, sighed, and closed his eyes again.

  A green salamander was scampering toward the Sleeper.

  Rafferty wasn’t certain of Magnus’s plan, but he couldn’t let the old Slayer touch his nephew. Magnus was unsteady on his feet, bleeding openly from several wounds, and his tail was broken off. He staggered, but he made a definite course toward the Sleeper.

  Rafferty himself was in human form and weakened, as well. He wasn’t sure he had the power to shift form again, much less to move through space. He had to solve this immediately. He couldn’t afford to be tricked by Magnus again. He seized a stone and lunged after the salamander, then smashed the rock down on the small reptile.

  Magnus screamed so vehemently that Jorge and Donovan froze to stare. Jorge’s eyes glittered with anticipation, but Rafferty didn’t look away from the broken salamander. Magnus writhed, his bones broken so that he couldn’t scurry away.

  “So close,” he whispered, his voice no more than a hissing whisper. “So close.”

  Rafferty smashed his body again, and this time when he lifted the stone, Magnus didn’t move.

  “Four elements,” Donovan said, reminding Rafferty of the ritual required to ensure that any Pyr stayed dead. Magnus had to be exposed to all four elements within a half day of his demise. There was water on the stone floor of the cave, and his guts were sufficiently mingled with both that exposure was certain. There was air in the chamber. Rafferty raised a finger, uncertain he could supply the last element. Donovan decked Jorge, then turned to breathe fire in a long unbroken stream. The flames blackened the green of the small salamander.

  Jorge grinned, watching Donovan. Rafferty didn’t have time to wonder why.

  He had to be sure that his old foe was dead.

  When the flames faded, Magnus began to cycle between forms. He was a dead salamander one second, then a broken and bleeding man, then a shattered dragon. He cycled more and more rapidly, switching so quickly that he blurred before Rafferty’s eyes. In all forms, he was faded and broken, his blood running black.

  The dragon form was his last, stretched limply across the cavern. Lifeless, finally. Rafferty held his breath and waited for some trickery.

  Instead, his own challenge coin rolled across the floor of the cave. It spun before him, then fell on its side with a clatter, the gold shining in the darkness.

  Rafferty bent down and picked up the coin, running his thumb across the face that had been turned up. His challenge coin was a gold English coin from the mid-fifteenth century, known as an “angel.” On one side was the image of the sun with rays and a cross. The side that had been facing upward showed St. George spearing the dragon.

  Rafferty kissed the coin, knowing his challenge was over, knowing the demon had been slain.

  “Lunch is on,” Jorge said with satisfaction, and fell on Magnus’s corpse. Before Rafferty could speak or intervene, Jorge ripped out the throat of the fallen Slayer and began to eat.

  He cast a glittering glance at Rafferty and then at Donovan. “Don’t even think of disturbing me or I’ll add to the meal.”

  “But why?” Donovan asked in horror.

  “Magnus is the last source of the Elixir,” Jorge declared, then sucked the innards from Magnus’s chest. He ate with gusto, the black blood flowing over his chin, and Rafferty couldn’t stand to watch.

  If Jorge had more Elixir, he’d be more powerful. What they had to do was escape from the cave with the Sleeper, while they could. Rafferty was so tired that he could hardly think straight. How could he carry the Sleeper to safety?

  The Sleeper, in that moment, sat up and rubbed his eyes, casting a disinterested glance at Jorge. When he glanced toward Rafferty, he smiled sleepily. Rafferty took his hand, urging him on, but the Sleeper had trouble standing on his own feet.

  “Use your powers,” Rafferty said to Donovan in old-speak.

  Donovan nodded agreement, then held Rafferty’s gaze. Rafferty understood that Donovan expected him to use his own powers.

  To distract Jorge.

  Donovan came and lifted the Sleeper from Rafferty’s side. That Pyr smiled, his expression dreamy, and collapsed on Donovan’s shoulder. He dozed again, clearly reluctant to awaken after so long.

  Donovan carried the Sleeper into the tunnel that led to the cottage Rafferty had given him centuries before. Jorge ate greedily, glancing after Donovan with one eye. Rafferty held his ground, as if content to watch the Slayer.

  Rafferty knew Donovan would defend Alex and Nick and the Sleeper, as well as ensure his own survival.

  Rafferty would wait to ensure that Jorge didn’t pursue them.

  There was a brilliant shimmer of blue as Donovan shifted shape; then he was gone. Jorge snarled, hauling his kill so that he blocked the exit. “You’re not going anywhere,” Jorge said.

  Rafferty smiled and leaned on the stone slab, apparently at ease.

  Jorge paused, uncertain. He chewed. He looked around. He seemed to sense a trick but couldn’t figure it out.

  Then he returned to his meal, his eyes glittering.

  Rafferty heard Donovan flee toward the cottage. Then he heard Donovan begin to sing to the elements he could command as Warrior.

  Just as Rafferty had instructed him. Those elements responded so quickly, that they might have anticipated the summons. Rafferty felt the earth begin to jump in time to Donovan’s song. He saw the water on the floor of the cavern dance with the rhythm.

  Jorge halted his feast to look around.

  Rafferty smiled as if all were well. “Go ahead. Eat.”

  Jorge took another mouthful, then straightened in sudden alarm at the sound of stone grinding on stone. Rafferty watched as the earth moved to close the opening to the tunnel, reacting to Donovan’s call.

  The aperture was sealed, as surely as if it had never been. Jorge cried out and ran for the place where the opening had been. He ran his claws over the smooth stone walls in a panic.

  “He’s sealing us in!” Jorge roared.

  Then he turned on Rafferty with a growl. Malice glinted in his eyes and Rafferty could read the Slayer’s thoughts clearly.

  “May the better dragon win,” Jorge muttered and raised his claws.

  “I think I already have.” Rafferty mustered his strength, closed his eyes, and forced his will upon the universe. The black and white ring spun on his hand, burning his skin, but nothing changed.

  He knew the moment that a livid Jorge lunged at him.

  His talons were extended, and he was breathing fire, his eyes revealing that he meant to shred Rafferty alive. “We’ll die together!” he roared.

  “No. You’ll die alone.” Rafferty wished with all his heart to be with Melissa, and the world swirled around him.

  His gut churned as he managed the feat once again.

  And he heard Jorge scream as his claws closed on
empty air.

  It was done.

  Chapter 18

  The soul of Sophie, the former Wyvern, was stymied.

  She sought to be reborn on the earthly sphere. She wanted to have her chance to be with Nikolas again, the chance she’d earned, the opportunity to live with her beloved. She wanted to return to the Pyr, not as a Pyr but as a human who could help them in their battle against evil. She wanted the Pyr to win, and she wanted to be part of that victory.

  But forces seemed arrayed against her.

  She halfway suspected it was Slayers at work.

  For each time Sophie found a newly conceived baby in its mother’s womb, it had already been promised as a vehicle to another soul. The one time she had found a possibility, and her hopes had been high, the child had not come to term. Its demise had destroyed her hope.

  Sophie was well aware of the passing of time and feared she was losing whatever opportunity she had for happiness. All she wanted was to be with Nikolas. He had returned to the world quickly, son of the next Pyr to conceive, and was growing up in Donovan’s household even as she struggled against these constraints.

  Was it possible that they weren’t destined to be reunited?

  The challenge tried Sophie’s faith. Shouldn’t darkfire change something to the good? Shouldn’t darkfire create the chance she was waiting for?

  She had no sooner had the thought than Sophie heard a child crying in the wreckage of the city.

  A child who didn’t want to live any longer. There was nothing wrong with her body, but her soul despaired.

  And Sophie dared to hope that they could find a solution that suited each best. She followed the sound, straight into a destroyed apartment in London.

  The Sleeper was dimly aware that he was being half dragged and half carried through a tunnel. It was like a dream. His body was weak, and still his thoughts were fogged.

  How much time had passed?

  How long had he slept?

  When would he see Pwyll again?

  He was being carried by a Pyr, the one he did not know. More disconcerting, he could feel the wild ripple of darkfire set loose in the world. It sparked at the edge of his consciousness, its heat emanating from a point far to the east.

  How could this be? The Cantor and his line commanded and guarded the darkfire. They would not leave it uncontained. That would be irresponsible.

  No. It was untethered because they had lost control of it.

  The Sleeper had to go to its source. Though he was not yet himself, he summoned that old shimmer. Pwyll had taught him this feat, and he would use it to finish what Pwyll had been compelled to leave undone.

  He focused on the blue shimmer, willing himself to be at the locus of the darkfire’s flame. He sensed a house, the home of Pwyll’s descendant, and saw the stones with their flickering blue hearts that were secured there. The Sleeper knew he would find himself welcomed in that place. He let the darkfire illuminate him, guide him, and carry him to his chosen destination. The tunnel disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.

  He knew there would be only a shimmer of blue-green dust on the ground behind him, a mark of his own link to the darkfire. He vaguely heard the other Pyr’s gasp of surprise.

  Then he was in a bed of welcome softness. The Sleeper sighed and yawned, exhausted again.

  He dreamed, quite naturally, of darkfire.

  Rafferty opened his eyes slowly.

  For a moment, he thought he had gone blind—all he could see was white. Then shapes emerged, and he realized he was surrounded by swirling dust. The dust of collapsed buildings. There was rubble all around him, some of it piled on his legs. He worked himself free, brushing off the dust and shaking off the chunks of plaster as well as he could. He was sore, more sore than he had ever been, but he couldn’t see any blood. His hand throbbed where the ring had spun off the outer layer of his skin. At least he still had the ring. There was no sign of the Sleeper or of Donovan.

  He wondered what had happened to Melissa.

  He glanced around and realized he was in the ruins of a church that had been near his home. The altar was behind him, the stained glass of the window that had been above it shattered all around like colorful confetti. The roof had fallen in, and the altar window now framed clouds and dust. The pews had fallen every which way, and the double doors to the street were open, one hanging crookedly on its hinges. There was a large crack in the floor, if not in the foundation, and Rafferty smelled the crypt beneath. The wet scent of the earth was an undertone to that smell, and he thought he heard running water in the distance.

  From the street, he heard sirens and people wailing. He pushed to his feet with a wince, determined to find Melissa. He’d expected to appear directly at her side, as that had been his intent. Was he near her? Or had he simply been too tired for accuracy? He hoped she was in the vicinity.

  Melissa was probably in the thick of things, helping others as well as making her reports.

  No. She was close. He could feel the blue-green tingle of the darkfire. It must have been his exhaustion that had affected his accuracy.

  Rafferty was brushing himself off, feeling every month of his twelve hundred years, when he saw the little girl. She had slipped through the gaping doorway to the street and watched him solemnly, her small figure silhouetted there. Her face was white, either from pallor or dust, and her eyes seemed too large for her face. She was covered in dirt, as he was, and there was a streak of blood on her temple.

  “Hello again,” she said.

  “Hello,” Rafferty answered quietly. He didn’t want to frighten her. He was certain he’d never seen her before and wondered at her greeting. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, emphatic in her certainty. “I was looking for you, Rafferty.”

  Rafferty was confused by that. Who had known he would be here? He hadn’t even realized he’d end up in this precise place. Had she confused him with someone else? But then, how had she known his name?

  Or was she simply confused because of the trauma?

  Deciding that was it, he smiled at her. “Where are your parents?” he asked.

  She turned and pointed, back into the street. “Isabelle’s parents are over there.”

  How odd that she referred to herself in the third person.

  Or was she talking about another child’s parents?

  Rafferty reached her side and crouched down beside her. She watched him, wary but not distrustful. “Does your head hurt?”

  “Where?”

  “Where the cut is.” Rafferty touched his own forehead. She reached up and touched her own, grimaced, then eyed the blood on her hand.

  “Not really,” she said. “You have to come and see Isabelle’s parents. So you’ll know for sure.”

  Rafferty assumed it was harmless to humor her. He nodded, and she left the church, skipping down the building’s broken steps. The darkfire sparked a little more brightly, though the child didn’t appear to notice it.

  She was in shock, then.

  To his relief, Rafferty saw Melissa, out in the street. She was helping an older woman, holding her elbow as they made their way toward an ambulance with an open door and a growing line. Parked nearby was a van, outfitted for broadcast and marked with the logo of a local television station. A cameraman tracked Melissa’s moves.

  She’d been right that she’d be safe on camera.

  Still, he was very relieved.

  “This way!” the little girl insisted, catching at Rafferty’s hand. She tugged him toward a house that had collapsed even more completely than the church, climbed a pile of rubble, and peered through a broken window. “They’re in there. See?”

  Rafferty bent down beside her and looked. He saw two pairs of feet in a bed that had a ceiling dropped on it. He frowned, smelling that both people were dead. Then, realizing that the child was watching him, he nodded with purpose. “We had better get some help.”

  “No,” the little girl said. “Isabelle’s parents are dead.” She
fixed a clear gaze upon him. “Isabelle wanted to die, too. She wanted to go with them. She didn’t want to stay.”

  Rafferty thought that perhaps her strange way of expressing herself had to do with the trauma, and he made to reassure her.

  “It is how it must be,” she said with conviction. “Isabelle is gone, too. I wanted to stay.” She held Rafferty’s gaze steadily. “So I traded with Isabelle.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean. Aren’t you Isabelle?”

  “I am now. I look like Isabelle outside.”

  “Not inside?” Rafferty asked.

  She shook her head. She smiled up at him, and her confidence caught at his heart. “I remember you, Rafferty. You used to call me Sophie, but you should call me Isabelle now.”

  Rafferty gasped. He stared. Was she truly telling him that the soul of Sophie had taken the body of this Isabelle? That they had traded to each get their desire? It was incredible, but the little girl watched him with knowing eyes.

  “Isabelle’s parents are dead,” she said, as if she were the one explaining something simple to a child. “I want to live with you now, Rafferty.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Rafferty said, his words falling quickly. “There are authorities and procedures and…”

  He fell silent when she reached out and almost touched the white and black ring on his finger. Did she know what it was? Could she know what it was?

  She looked up, and he was sure she did know. She smiled a mysterious smile, one that reminded him very clearly of Sophie.

  “I want to live with you,” she insisted, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you will have to call me Isabelle now.”

  Rafferty didn’t know what to say, much less what to do. He looked around and saw emergency crews trying to make sense of the disaster—a city in ruins, a couple dead in their own bed, and a little girl with a curious surety. His mind doubted what she was telling him, questioned whether it was possible, warned him not to be credulous.

  His heart, though, was convinced.