Blazewrath Games

by Amparo Ortiz

  The sliding panel in front of us rises. I can no longer see Jeffrey Hines or the stands.

  “Up next,” says Jeffrey, “our newest competitors from Puerto Rico!”

  The building is about to collapse. There are whistles and screams and stomping feet and that high-pitched noise that can only come from a horn. I hear an overwhelming amount of panderetas, too, which are similar to tambourines save for the jangling discs on their outer rim. A crew of musicians plays their loudest plena for the world to hear. It’s the kind of upbeat music I used to indulge in during weekends at my grandparents’ house. Music I haven’t heard in ages.

  So many people from the island have flown to Dubai to watch us play.

  So many people have come to witness history.

  A tainted, cheapened moment thanks to the Sire.

  Titán and Esperanza move forward as one. The rest of the dragons are synchronized to their every motion, flying out of the hangar with ease. It’s as if the skull chariot weighs less than an ant. I’m rocked forward but manage to regain my footing seconds before the dragons soar into the sky. I hold the flagpole as high as I’m able to and wave the flag side to side.

  “Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico!”

  Everyone seems to be chanting our country’s name. The whole stadium is losing its cool as we get in line behind Pakistan’s chariot, slowly circling the stadium.

  I keep flaunting our flag, pretending everything is fine. At least no one is booing me. No one demands I prove how Puerto Rican I am or calls me out for abandoning the island. I really am their flag bearer. Their Runner. And yet their cheers don’t cross out the words in my secret contract. My fake smile gets the crowd cheering louder. My teammates are doing a better job of appearing excited. Luis is even blowing kisses at the fans. He almost makes me crack up.

  Russia’s announced next, followed by Scotland.

  Boos come hard and fast. A few people throw popcorn at the field, shouting gibberish I can’t quite make out, but most simply carry on with their incessant booing.

  I search for Andrew on the jumbo screens. He’s inside his chariot, which is gilded to match the Scottish dragons’ intimidating horned heads. While the Golden Horns are all flying in formation, sunlight bouncing off their ice-blue scales with every flap of their spindly wings, the Scottish flag stands tall beside Andrew. In its place, he’s holding up a large sign with words in bold red: No MORE BLOOD. The same words painted on Sayuri Endo’s sign.

  Andrew’s head is lowered, his eyes shut tight. No one from his team is openly protesting. No one else in the tournament is openly protesting. Whether he never approached the other players or if they rejected him like I did, Andrew’s choosing to be a lone wolf in the woods.

  He holds his sign until the very end of the procession, where all the dragons descend onto the creamy sand field. Noora Haddad discreetly snaps him from different angles. The crowd’s boos roar like an ocean hurtling toward shore. They subside once a massive Rock Flame lights up onstage. It’s about forty feet high, ascending in slow motion. The Rock Flame cracks in half to reveal the Blazewrath World Cup, that golden beacon of hope I’ve dreamed of holding.

  President Turner says, “On behalf of the International Blazewrath Federation, I welcome you all to the twenty-seventh Blazewrath World Cup!”

  An assortment of bright-red fireworks set off from all sides of the stadium. Boos are replaced with bursts of light and cheers from the people onstage. The audience joins in with cheers of their own, but Andrew never does.

  Neither do I. No one will be reporting about my chariot after Andrew’s protest. He’ll be the talk of the town, a huge target plastered on his back for the Sire to see. I couldn’t protect him.

  But I’m still going to stop the Sire from claiming anything else I care about.

  Dragon studies experts once believed the Bond could only end with the death of a dragon or its rider. However, this belief was obliterated with the Sire’s rebellion. His Bond’s rupture has been considered undeniable proof of the choice theory. A dragon can willingly destroy that which links it psychically and emotionally to a human rider. And yet the Sire remains the only dragon to have achieved, or even desired, this outcome.

  —Excerpt from Carlos Torres’s Studying the Bond Between Dragons & Humans

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I’M CONTACTING THE PRESIDENT AS SOON AS I GET OUT OF these burned clothes.”

  Papi’s uniform has been singed at the seams. His hair sticks up like he’s survived a windstorm. He’d been conducting a social-skills experiment with Violet #43, which went south when his phone rang. Either the sudden disruption angered her, or she’s not a Luis Miguel fan.

  “You’re not contacting the president, Papi.”

  “Oh, trust me. You’re coming home with me.”

  Man, I wish I could come clean to him. Things would be easier to explain with the truth. “Director Sandhar promised us everyone in the Cup is super protected. They have a guaranteed lead on the Sire’s next steps. I believe him, Papi. He dropped the ball on the Méxican sanctuary, but that was the Sire’s lucky break.”

  Papi rubs his face from either exhaustion or frustration or both. “This isn’t something we’re going to debate. You’re getting on a plane. Period.”

  “No. I can’t get out of my contract. I don’t want to get out of my contract. And like I said, Director Sandhar has this under control. See?” I flash him my phone’s screen, which is open on a news article. The headline reads “Two Dragon Knights Captured in México Attack.” While most of the bureau agents remained at the sanctuary site, Agent Horowitz had tailed two Dragon Knights deeper into Ciudad Juárez, both of whom she brought into custody. Director Sandhar granted a press conference minutes ago to confirm the arrests.

  “I somehow find it difficult to believe a man who refuses to talk about his son,” Papi says dryly. He opens a news article of his own, which shows Randall’s smug face.

  “Randall’s lying. Samira texted me research she did on Director Sandhar after the sanctuary attack. He did have a son, but he was a nine-year-old boy who passed away three years ago. Hari Sandhar died of sudden heart complications. Randall was never part of this family.”

  “Lana …”

  “And look at this.” I pull up the page I’d stumbled on before Papi called me. It’s a profile The Weekly Scorcher did on Grace Wiggins, the Regular who beheaded three witches. “He called himself ‘the headhunter’s legacy.’ Grace Wiggins is known as ‘the Headhunter of Alabama.’ If you look at her and Randall’s photos, you can see a resemblance. Fair hair, vampire-pale skin, electric-blue eyes, super tall.” I shrug. “I’d bet you anything this boy is Grace Wiggins’s son.”

  Papi isn’t impressed. “And a wizard is his father.”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s not Director Sandhar. I’m pretty sure it’s someone at Ravensworth Penitentiary. Grace has been locked up all this time, so that means she got pregnant and had her baby there.” I run a hand through my hair, which is still wet from my too-long shower. “I just don’t know how they managed to keep Randall’s birth, his whole existence, from the press.”

  “Because the father is a public figure with a wife and a now-deceased son.”

  Ugh, I give up. “Whatever, Papi. Can we talk about something else?”

  Papi leans in closer to the screen, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “How’s Andrew?”

  Not exactly what I meant by something else.

  “I haven’t seen him since the ceremonies ended six hours ago. Hopefully, he’s okay.”

  “Did you see anyone from the IBF or his team’s management berating him afterward?”

  “No. It was like nothing had happened.” I’m not sure if Papi can see my confusion, but I’m not trying to hide it. Maybe Andrew is being scolded behind closed doors. Maybe the president’s warning him of the dangers in standing out. He could be learning about the Anchor Curse.

  “Maybe everyone is in favor of what he did?” Papi says.
>
  I roll my eyes. He’s making this so much harder than it needs to be. “I’m staying in Dubai, Papi. The Cup starts in two days. And I need you to promise me you’re leaving the sanctuary.”

  Papi has the gall to laugh. “Come on, mija. You know I’m not doing that.”

  “The Sire is attacking sanctuaries. Yours might be next. While you stay there, I won’t be able to focus on anything else. Please, Papi. Get out of there. Get everyone out of there.”

  He stops laughing, at least. “Want me to leave the sanctuary? Okay. Drop out of the Cup.”

  I groan so loudly I could wake the dead. “Papi. Enough. You need to protect yourself.”

  “We’re perfectly protected here. Besides, I’m not abandoning these dragons. I’m so close to helping them trust humans, Lana. So close. If I leave them, all of that hard work will be lost.”

  “You’re no good to them or any dragon dead.”

  Papi looks about ready to hang up. He ruffles his hair without glancing at me. “Well, Lana, it’s been fun, but I—” He fixes his gaze on me again, his expression alert, as if something’s electrifying his whole body. “I forgot to tell you! I found some information on the Fire Drake that was living in Waxbyrne. According to the bureau’s Public Dragon-Rider Registry, the last Fire Drake with a crystal heart to have officially Bonded died fifty years ago. There’s no record of this female or her rider. So I used my credentials to dig around in other sanctuaries’ databases. No sign of the dragon yet again, but Glenda Hammersmith’s signature appears twenty times on the visitor’s list for the largest sanctuary in England.” He smiles. “Does the name ring a bell?”

  “That’s Madame Waxbyrne’s real name,” I say. “What do you think is going on?”

  “The sanctuary was hiding the Fire Drake before it was moved to Waxbyrne. Since Director Sandhar knew about the transfer and refused to answer your questions about the dragon’s rider, I suspect their identity is tied to the bureau or one of its enemies. I also think her rider is either dead or missing. This person might’ve been an undercover bureau agent, hence the secrecy, and I suspect Madame Waxbyrne had a personal relationship with them.”

  My head buzzes louder than a bee. If any of this is true, that poor dragon has been through so much. I can only hope she’s happier wherever the bureau is currently hiding her. And that this enemy, be it the Sire or someone else, is stopped soon.

  Someone wails.

  It’s a shrill, high-pitched sound. It happens again, louder and louder.

  “Papi, I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay? And please get out of the sanctuary.”

  I log off before he tries to fight me.

  Then I dash out of the bedroom as the dragons’ cries grow even more.

  SOMEHOW, I’M THE LAST PERSON TO REACH THE HABITAT, EVEN though I’m the fastest runner here.

  I stop to Gabriela’s left. Joaquín and the whole team are deep within the habitat, facing the dragons. They lie side by side in a straight line. Daga is the only one on her back, her claws in the air. She and the others cry up at the coal outline of Puerto Rico. Their song is an intolerable squeal in parts, a low hum in others, coming and going in waves. The closest thing I can compare the melody to is a lullaby, but one where the singers are incredibly wasted.

  “What’s wrong with them?” I ask.

  Gabriela says, “We thought it was an emergency at first, but they’re fine. Well, physically fine, but they’re … sad. It’s like they’re in mourning.”

  “What are they mourning?”

  “No clue,” says Héctor. He taps the side of his head twice. “They’re not letting us in.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “A psychic block?”

  “Yes. We’ve been cut off,” Victoria grumbles.

  An equally sad Edwin crouches, studying the dragons further. “No nos dejan tocarlos tampoco.” They’re not letting us touch them, either.

  Joaquín is Crickets Central right now. He’s focused on the way the dragons sway with each note in their sorrowful song, watching them as if they’re babies at the edge of their cribs. Manny’s also quiet, but he’s not as intense in his focus as Joaquín.

  Esperanza holds her cries four seconds longer than the others. She sends a longing look to the map she made with her flames. She’s definitely the saddest of the group.

  “Do you think they’re upset about today’s México attack?” Génesis asks.

  “Maybe. I also think they’re missing home,” Victoria says. “A lot.”

  I squint at these six dragons, scratching the back of my neck. This could be about missing the island, but it feels heavier than nostalgia. “Do they know about the Sire?”

  Victoria looks seconds away from ending me. “Yes.”

  “They could be heartbroken about that.”

  “We can’t conclude anything yet,” Joaquín says. “We won’t know what they want until they’re finished with their song. Hopefully, that’s before we’re scheduled to leave for the stadium tomorrow.” He rubs his forehead, his eyes closed. “The president called. We’re playing in the afternoon slot. And we have strict orders from the Sire to win the first match. Puerto Rico will advance to quarterfinals.”

  “Obviously,” says Victoria. She’s not the slightest bit unnerved by the fact that we’re being pushed around. “We’re the team to beat.”

  I glower. “Until the Sire asks us to lose. Will he still be a distraction to you then?”

  Victoria angles her body toward me, a brick wall in my path. “He won’t.”

  “Because you know him so well.”

  “Stop!” Héctor slides between us. Somehow he seems more like a disappointed father than Papi. “The dragons are having a tough time. We’re not going to make it worse for them or for one another. Now let’s give them some space.”

  I walk away before Victoria pisses me off more. Besides, I have better things to do.

  Not even my own team can stop me from figuring out what the Sire really wants.

  “IS THAT NOT THE MOST DEPRESSING SONG YOU’VE EVER HEARD?”

  I’m speaking to Samira through my Whisperer. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom. If the girls come in, they won’t be able to pry into my business.

  Samira coughs as if her entire body is coated in phlegm. “It sounds like they’re having a really rough time, Lana. I can picture that jam at a funeral.” She coughs again.

  “What the hell, Samira? You said you went to the doctor.”

  “I did! My meds are crap, though. I’ll have to get checked out again.”

  “Samira. It sounds really serious.” After learning about the Anchor Curse, I can’t help but picture the worst, even if it’s just coughing and sneezing. “Can you go to the doctor today?”

  “Girl, it’s fine. I just need stronger meds. I’ll get them first thing tomorrow morning.” Samira sighs like she’s been condemned to a lifetime without Law & Order. “Back to your team’s dragons. What could make them so sad?”

  “No idea,” is all I can say. God, I hate the Sire so much for forcing my mouth shut.

  “This might be a long shot, but maybe it’s about the sanctuary attacks? Look at the Hydra and the Pluma de Muerte—each has specific abilities that make them dangerous to the Sire’s enemies. I bet they’re being used as soldiers.” She blows her nose. “That’s gotta be heartbreaking to watch for any Bonded dragon.”

  I lean back against the wall. Samira’s right. Each of those dragons has powers that could devastate entire nations. The Hydra has nine heads. If one gets cut off, two more pop up in its place. Then there’s the acid. A Hydra’s breath can melt skin upon contact. Imagine having to fight a dragon that can either burn you with nine heads or poison you into a puddle of mush. The Pluma de Muerte is no better. This dragon species has a thing for flesh. Whenever it emits a specific sound, its opponent’s bones break free from its body. All that’s left is a meat sack. Sometimes the Pluma de Muerte will leave the flesh behind to intimidate other enemies. Mostly, though, the dragon collects i
t as a prize, storing it inside a hidden pouch in its chest.

  The Hydra hasn’t been spotted since being freed. Wouldn’t the Sire be cocky enough to flaunt his new weapons together? Randall and the Pluma de Muerte had been a terrifying sight to behold, but why hadn’t the Hydra been at their side? Could it be out on a special mission? Hydras aren’t exactly smart or tactical. They’re all brawn. If the Sire did send it on a special mission, news of a massacre would’ve broken out already.

  What if these Un-Bonded dragons are the keys to finding out what the Sire wants?

  “You okay over there?” Samira says.

  “Yeah. It’s just … the Sire’s targeted two sanctuaries in different parts of the world. When he first started his killing spree twenty years ago, he went from country to country, along shared borders. Now he’s jumping around without a clear pattern.”

  “He’s trying not to be predictable?” Samira suggests, but she doesn’t sound confident.

  “Could be, but one Hydra and one Pluma de Muerte stayed with him. He either picked them specifically from the Un-Bondeds he’s freed, or they stayed because he made them all promises and they were the ones who fell for it. Everyone assumes they’re just soldiers.”

  “Yup. And badass ones at that.”

  I nod. “Or they could be useful in ways we haven’t even imagined.”

  Samira falls silent. Then she says, “You think he chose them for something?”

  “What if he did? Can you picture anything other than killing that they could be useful for? Like, their powers are unique enough to help him out with a super-special mission?”

  She whistles. “That’s a whole lot of speculation, but yup, I can brainstorm some potential uses for each dragon and run them by you when the list is ready. Maybe even make charts!”

  Well, that escalated quickly. “You don’t need to make charts, Samira.”

  “But they’re sooooooo fun.”

  “Literally no one else thinks that.”

  We both laugh together, then she says, “I’m going to pretend I work for the bureau already and help you figure out what the Sire has up his sleeve with these dragons.”