Firestorm Forever

by Deborah Cooke

  Veronica fascinated Drake. Contrast seemed to characterize her, not just in her nature but in her choices. He had to think it would have been simpler for her to have married again than to have raised her son alone. He hoped she was a person guided by principle and that they had that trait in common. He liked that though her life was modern, the necklace she wore was of pearls old enough that they’d been perfectly matched. Her home showed the same contrast, being simply decorated but elegant, with a few well-chosen pieces. It felt like a sanctuary.

  He’d known four years before that he could love this woman, that he likely would idolize her, given half the chance, but when they had met, she had just lost her husband. He’d known she had to grieve her loss.

  He’d checked on her at intervals, without her knowing of his presence, because he felt protective of her. He liked to think that someone had taken an interest in his lost wife Cassandra after he had failed to return from battle. Drake had noticed that on occasion, Veronica seemed to sense his presence, but he was sure she had never seen him.

  He’d never dared to hope that she might remember him with more than kindness.

  Never mind that she would melt into his arms so readily, a desire in her eyes that fueled his own. He was amazed that she had no questions, that she made no demands, that she needed no explanation of the firestorm and its sparks.

  She must be one of those humans who now knew about the Pyr and must understand the import of the firestorm. Relief surged through him that there were no questions to answer and no explanations to make. It was all so simple between them that he could believe in destiny again.

  That he had come to her appeared to be enough for Veronica.

  That she wanted him was certainly sufficient for Drake.

  He wanted to make love to her slowly, but the firestorm combined with Veronica’s enthusiasm to undermine his intention. When he’d seen her in that short skirt, the hem of it fluttering around her knees, he’d been sure that no woman had such perfect legs. When she’d turned in the parking lot to find him waiting for her and smiled, her eyes lighting with such obvious pleasure, his heart had started to thunder.

  The firestorm’s heat had doubled and redoubled with every step she’d taken toward him, the inferno of its demand obliterating everything from his world other than Veronica. That she’d kissed him of her own volition had been enough to take his desire to a fever pitch. Snared in the brilliant yellow heat of the firestorm, he’d felt her every breath, her every shiver, and her touch had filled him with a burning need to possess her. When his heart had matched its pace to hers, he’d felt disoriented with desire.

  Drake backed her into the counter, holding her captive there with his hips, gripping her waist as he lifted her to his kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, stretched to her toes and returned his kiss with more fervor than he could have hoped. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, so full and soft that he wanted to cup them in his hands. Her hair was shorter than it had been, falling just to her shoulders like chestnut silk. He found his hands tangled in it, his fingers bracketing her face, his kiss deepening as she pulled him ever closer.

  “Too many clothes,” she whispered when he broke their kiss. Her impish smile made her look younger and less careworn. He liked that she was forthright, as it would make it easier to ensure that she was pleased.

  Veronica seemed to feel the same need for haste, and the same desire to feel skin against skin. Her hands were on his jacket, unzipping the front and pushing it over his shoulders, tugging his shirt free of his pants. The first touch of her hands on his bare back was electrifying and he caught his breath, which made her laugh.

  Drake had never heard such a wondrous sound.

  It made him playful.

  He spun her around and found the zipper on her top, then the one on her skirt. He peeled her out of those clothes, casting them aside with impatience, then cupped her breasts from behind. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against hers, fingering her nipples through the soft fabric of her bra. He kissed her neck and her ear and her nape, loving the way she squirmed against him. She was so responsive, and the smell of her arousal gave him a primal pleasure.

  Veronica gasped and arched her back, leaning against him with an abandon that made his heart clench. He unfastened her bra and cupped her breasts in his hands, awed by the softness of her skin. She was as perfect as a goddess. He rolled each nipple between finger and thumb, and she moaned.

  “Don’t tease me,” she whispered and spun in his embrace. Her eyes sparkled as she held his gaze, and she stripped off the rest of her undergarments. He could only stare, and made no effort to hide his admiration.

  She reached to unclasp the pearls but he stopped her with a fingertip. “They suit you,” he murmured. “And I like how they glow against your skin.”

  “Naked except for my pearls?”

  “A beautiful woman needs no other adornment.”

  Veronica laughed with pleasure and tugged at his T-shirt. “It’s no fair that I’m the only one naked,” she said. He peeled off his shirt and her fingers fell on his belt buckle, shaking a little in her haste to strip him bare. In moments, his khakis were on the kitchen floor and he was as naked as she.

  She took a breath, her lashes sweeping her cheeks as she eyed the size of him, then her fingertips landed on the tattoo on his upper arm. It was a dragon rampant, the mark of the Dragon Legion, and the sparks that flew between her fingertips and the tattoo made it burn as if it were new again. “Your company,” she whispered, her eyes aglow. “Mark had a tattoo for his, too.”

  If she found similarities between him and her dead husband, Drake could have no issues with that. He knew her husband had been a man of merit and honor, and he was glad that she found him of the same ilk. Indeed, he saw much of what he had admired in Cassandra echoed in Veronica, and the similarities made him think well of the future. The differences made this all seem new.

  He reached for her, sliding his fingers along the softness of her jaw, and she pressed a kiss into his palm that electrified him. Their gazes clung for a potent moment, then she was in his arms again and his mouth was locked over hers. She slipped her tongue between his teeth and closed her hand around him, making a few demands of her own. Drake was only too glad to provide whatever Veronica wanted of him.

  * * *

  How could Boris be back?

  Erik shifted shape at first glimpse of his old adversary, roaring with rage that the Slayer was back again. Boris breathed a plume of dragonfire, the orange flames brilliant against the night. As he turned, his ruby and brass scales glittered in the light. He looked fit and fighting trim, and his eyes shone with that familiar malice.

  It was impossible. Boris was dead!

  But the Slayer swung his tail hard and broke the massive window, the force sufficient that shards of glass flew into the apartment. Eileen bent over Zoë, protecting her from the flying splinters, and Erik leaped through the gap to fight his foe.

  They locked talons in the ancient fighting pose and flew high above the city.

  “Back from the dead again?” Erik taunted in old-speak. “You need a new trick, Boris.”

  “This is a new trick,” Boris said, then laughed. “I’m reborn as myself!”

  Erik failed to see the humor in that. “Too bad you didn’t trouble with any improvements.”

  “You’re more observant than that, Erik Sorensson.” Boris laughed as his tail entwined with Erik’s. “You have to have noticed that each time, you get older and weaker, while I keep getting younger and stronger.” His eyes narrowed and his old-speak dropped to a threat that resonated in Erik’s thoughts. “Maybe this is the time that the balance will be tipped.”

  Erik had a definite sense that Boris had some advantage that he wasn’t in a hurry to reveal, but he didn’t care. He’d finish the old Slayer as many times as was necessary.

  “Let’s find out!” Erik breathed fire, scorching the red plumes that trailed from Boris’s wings and tail. Bo
ris bellowed in outrage as they pushed away from each other. They retreated, eyed each other, then the battle began in earnest.

  The two dragons collided with enough force to make the windows rattle in the darkened towers of the city. They snatched and bit and grappled for supremacy, each as slippery as an eel and a hundred times more strong.

  Erik realized with dismay that they were more evenly matched than they had been before. Maybe Boris was stronger. The Slayer was savage and forceful, striking Erik with a power that left the leader of the Pyr reeling.

  Boris couldn’t be right about winning this time! Erik had only to think of what Boris would do to Eileen and Zoë to roar with rage and attack again. He slashed at Boris’s wings and ripped a claw through one of the tendons. Boris bellowed and spun, a line of black blood flowing from the wound. He pounced on Erik and bit in the middle of his chest, sinking his teeth into Erik with savage force. The pain was excruciating, and Erik saw his own red blood flow over his scales.

  Erik ripped himself free by kicking Boris in the gut, then used his tail to smack his adversary in the head, sending the Slayer flying. He seized Boris’s tail and flung him through the sky. Boris growled and spun, leaping at Erik with talons extended on all four claws. He slashed and bit, while Erik raged dragonfire. The last of Boris’s red plumes were fried to cinders and his scales were scorched.

  When Boris tore open Erik’s chest again, Erik saw the Slayer take a deep breath. The wound was deep and dragonsmoke would cheat Erik of strength too quickly, maybe even doom him.

  Erik pretended the injury was worse than it was. He closed his eyes and fell back, apparently in anguish, keeping his wings from flapping. He let himself tumble through the sky and summoned his will to breathe dragonsmoke as he fell. He felt Boris following him closely, the Slayer’s dragonfire singing the tips of Erik’s wings. Erik filled his lungs with dragonsmoke and focused his mind on his scheme for it, then pivoted sharply and exhaled it at Boris.

  Surprise was on his side. Boris flew backward, but not quickly enough to evade the dragonsmoke. It followed Erik’s will and sank into the wound on Boris’s wings like a well-aimed dart. Boris tipped back his head and screamed with pain. The line of dragonsmoke tightened into a conduit and Erik felt a surge of power as the dragonsmoke cheated Boris of his strength.

  “So you have learned a new trick,” Boris taunted, a satisfying anguish in his voice. He then broke the line of dragonsmoke with his claws and tail, even though it had to burn. Erik smelled the smoke emanating from Boris’s claws and saw the Slayer grimace in pain.

  The injury didn’t stop him, though, or even seem to slow him down. Erik feared that Boris was still filled with the Dragon’s Blood Elixir. The color was already returning to his scorched scales, after all.

  Where could Boris have gotten more? Was there another hidden stash of it somewhere in the world? Had Jorge made more? Erik couldn’t imagine that Jorge would share any Elixir he made or found.

  But how could Boris even be alive?

  The Slayer laughed and lunged at Erik again. He ripped that wound in Erik’s chest so that it gaped wider, and Erik’s red blood flowed. He was feeling faint, but couldn’t surrender. Boris seemed intent on making that one injury as bad as possible.

  Again, Erik let himself fall, caught his breath and breathed dragonsmoke at his foe. This time, Boris anticipated the trick and was already raging dragonfire when Erik turned. The flames caught Erik across the face, singing his scales and feeding his fury.

  As they grappled, Erik managed to tear off Boris’s wing fully and cast it to the ground. Boris howled in pain, but simply beat the other wing harder to stay aloft. Erik felt his strength fading and knew that if he didn’t triumph in the next few minutes, he might lose.

  Boris seemed to understand the same thing. His eyes glittered as he charged at Erik once more, but Erik flew suddenly sideways so that the Slayer raced past him. Erik spun neatly and landed on Boris’s back, sinking his talons in deeply. He thought of Eileen and Zoë and buried his claws even more deeply into the Slayer’s hide.

  Then Erik bent and bit at the root of Boris’s other wing. Boris tasted of Slayer blood, of old rot and mold, and the wound emitted a vile stench. It was a disgusting smell and taste but Erik had to finish his foe.

  They had exchanged challenge coins, after all, and though that had been long ago, the tradition still stood: only one of them could survive a blood duel.

  No matter how many times Boris returned from the dead to fight it again.

  Boris thrashed and spun, but was unable to dislodge Erik. He kicked and squirmed, but couldn’t free himself, and no matter how he raged dragonfire, he couldn’t do more than singe the end of Erik’s tail. He must have been too agitated to breathe dragonsmoke. Boris spun through the air, but Erik held fast. He slammed his back into the brick wall of a tall building, but Erik didn’t let go. Boris swore then, as thoroughly as only a Slayer who speaks four languages can swear, and Erik had to laugh.

  Then he tore deeply into the Slayer with his teeth, even as the black blood burned his mouth. He shredded the second wing as Boris struggled, ripping it free of the Slayer’s back as Boris screamed in frustration. Erik flung it away and spat after it, wanting only to remove the taste.

  Boris howled, flailing as he bled.

  Erik gripped his burden and flew toward the gleaming darkness of Lake Michigan, flying far from shore were the water was cold and deep. He felt Boris breathing slowly and knew the Slayer was summoning his dragonsmoke. Erik flew more quickly and dropped low over the water. Boris exhaled and the first tendril of his dragonsmoke locked around Erik’s tail.

  Erik caught his breath at the burning pain and felt his strength being sapped. Boris was draining him quickly, but he flew on with determination.

  To his shock, a second stream of dragonsmoke locked around his other ankle. Erik spun to look, only to find a second uninjured Boris Vassily flying leisurely beside him, breathing a long thick stream of dragonsmoke.

  How could this be?

  The wounded Boris in his grip began to laugh, and Erik felt his own strength fading. He realized with horror that they meant to suck him dry, and that with two of them, they might well succeed. He spun and swung the wounded Boris at the second one, breaking the dragonsmoke conduit with the Slayer’s body. His move sent a spray of black blood flinging into the air, and it fell into the lake with a hiss.

  “And you thought there were no new tricks,” the two Slayers said in unison, their words echoing in Erik’s mind. Erik used the momentum of the swing to fling the wounded Boris through the air. He then flew in the opposite direction, racing back toward Chicago, hoping the healthy Slayer would save the injured one.

  It was impossible to know for certain whether a Slayer would help anyone, even a fellow Slayer. He heard the splash of the wounded Boris landing in the lake, then a cry of frustration. Could he swim? Erik didn’t care.

  True to the selfish nature of Slayers, the second version of Boris abandoned his drowning fellow. He flew in pursuit of Erik, breathing fire that scorched Erik’s tail. This one was fresh and strong, as well as gaining fast. His own wound was deep. Erik eyed the distance to the shore, wondering whether he would make it.

  Then he felt a hail of ice pellets, conjured out of a clear sky and smiled.

  The Slayer faltered in his surprise and glanced up, just as Donovan, the Warrior of the Pyr, descended out of the sky in lapis lazuli and gold glory. Donovan roared and flung open his claws, revealing the sharp steel talons that the Smith had forged for him. He fell on the surprised Slayer, who snarled and breathed fire in his own defense, but Donovan slashed him in a dozen places with those knife-like claws. Black blood flowed over the Slayer’s ruby and brass scales, and Erik felt the battle turn back in favor of the Pyr again.

  Erik left Donovan to finish off the Slayer and concentrated on getting to shore. He’d lost a lost of blood from that chest wound, plus he was burned on his tail and his face. He felt his vision dimming as his st
rength faded.

  He smelled Pyr as another dragon swooped low over him and seized him from above. Delaney! The emerald and copper Pyr escorted Erik to shore, supporting the older Pyr’s weight.

  “Hit me with some dragonsmoke,” Delaney invited. “I can take the drain and you need the power.”

  In gratitude, Erik closed his eyes and did as instructed, knowing the energy from the dragonsmoke would help him to recover more quickly. He breathed slowly and deeply, creating a conduit between himself and Delaney. He began to feel restored as Delaney’s vigor flowed through the dragonsmoke, and he understood how tempting it might be to drink so deeply that the other dragon shifter died. The incoming flux of power felt so good that a Slayer wouldn’t want to stop.

  But Erik wouldn’t be a parasite. He took what he needed to survive and no more, then snapped the dragonsmoke with his own claw. He could already feel that the blood was flowing less easily from his wound, and knew he would heal in time. He also could make it to the shore. He and Delaney flew the last increment together. The pair of them shifted shape as they landed on the docks, then turned back in unison to look over the lake.

  Donovan was flying toward them, but there was no sign of either Boris.

  “They disappeared,” Donovan said in old-speak. He landed beside them and shifted shape smoothly, shoving a hand through his hair as he frowned into the darkness. “One minute, I had him,” he said aloud. “And the next, he was gone.”

  “The other one?” Delaney asked.

  Donovan snapped his fingers. “Vanished, as if he’d never been there.”

  “Spontaneous manifestation elsewhere,” Delaney said, no less grim than his brother. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that the Elixir doesn’t really fade.”

  There was more than that in the wind. The Elixir didn’t fully explain Boris’s return from the dead, or his appearance in duplicate. Erik sensed a new peril but didn’t have nearly enough answers. Did this incident have anything to do with his dream? He held his clawed chest and acknowledged that he was shaken by the strength of Boris’s attack. He lifted a glance to the buildings around them and the few lights that were on. “We need to beguile any human witnesses,” he said, not truly knowing whether he had the strength to do it.