The tall and lean Harold stood on the porch in plaid sleep pants. He squared his shoulders and pointed at Ladon. “You decide to show up now, in the middle of the night?”
“I need Marcus’s help.”
“Of course you do. Why else would you come around? To visit maybe, you know, the last remaining member of your Parcae triad?” He threw his hands in the air. “Because that couldn’t be the reason!”
Harold called them Parcae. Ladon didn’t understand why. The only Fates who had ever been good to him were the Draki Prime.
Ladon ran his fingers through his hair before pointing over his shoulder at the van’s rear door. “We found her in The Cities. A vision has her. She won’t wake up. She’s trembling.”
Harold gritted his teeth. He flipped Ladon a rude gesture as he ran down the steps. He crossed the gravel on bare feet, his heels dancing on the sharp rocks, and hopped into the back of the van.
Ladon followed.
“Ladon-Dragon.” Harold nodded to the beast as he crawled toward Rysa. “What’s her name?” He felt her forehead. “She’s got a fever.”
“Rysa,” Ladon said. “Rysa Torres.”
Dragon balanced himself on his haunches and lifted both of his six-fingered claw-hands off the floor. Then he flattened and elongated his digits, retracting his talons, to accommodate human gesturing.
Her fever has decreased, he signed in his version of American Sign Language.
They’d both learned sign language before leaving Europe. Ladon had never seen Dragon so proud as the day he first communicated without his human’s help. He’d long tried to create text on his hide, occasionally even attempting to write, but it never made sense.
Signing, though, the beast could do.
Harold frowned. “I don’t remember my signs, Great Sir. I apologize.”
“He says her fever has decreased.” Ladon ran his hand through his hair again.
Sweat glinted on Rysa’s forehead. If she fell back into her activation, the fever would take over and she’d die, no matter how frantically Dragon tried to cool her down.
Die and leave forever before Ladon had a chance to apologize for his behavior.
Harold ducked his head out the door. “Where’s her triad?”
“She’s a singular.”
Harold balked. “A singular? And her family didn’t protect her?” He touched a shackle. “Who the hell put these on her?” His face heated as he poked Ladon in the chest. “You better not have done this! She activated tonight, didn’t she? She wouldn’t be like this if she hadn’t just activated.”
Ladon grabbed Harold’s throat so fast the other man jolted in surprise. “She needs help. You will help her. Do you understand me, pedes?” He would not tolerate Harold’s usual behavior. Not now. Not with Rysa in danger.
Harold swung at Ladon’s head, but Dragon caught his arm.
Please help Rysa, the beast signed.
“I understood ‘help’, Great Sir,” Harold choked out. “I can’t help if your human throttles the life out of me.”
Ladon let go. His fingers constricted and lurched in little spasms. Hitting Harold wasn’t the way to better the situation.
Harold rubbed his neck. “Don’t call me pedes. I was never one of your men.”
“Where is Marcus?” Ladon would muzzle Harold anyway if he continued to cause more problems than he solved.
Harold pressed his palm against Rysa’s forehead and then the side of her neck. “Get her inside.”
She felt too warm and her arms trembled when Ladon picked her up. He cradled her close to his chest and jumped to the driveway. Dragon followed. He kept his hide dark, though his concern for Rysa flashed as minute points of light along his sides.
Harold held the screen door. Dragon squeezed across the threshold, first his head, then each shoulder, and turned on his side and contracted his ribcage to fit his body through. The beast moved fast and looked as if he flowed through the opening.
Harold stepped in behind the beast and flipped on the lights. Ladon followed with Rysa.
The clean lines of the house’s modern interior stood in stark contrast to the grillwork coating the outside. A huge painting, abstract and distracting, hung over the fireplace. The furnishings rested on an equally abstract rug in a tight group in the center of the room with the couch angled toward the door.
A hallway led off toward the kitchen and the den. Just to the side of the door, the stairwell led up to the house’s second floor.
“Still tasteful, I see.” Ladon set Rysa on the perfectly proportioned couch.
Harold ignored him and ducked into a darkened passageway. He vanished around a corner. Muffled voices wafted into the living room.
Marcus, Dragon pushed.
Ladon nodded as he squatted next to Rysa. “She stopped twitching.” He touched her arms to check the bites she had manifested at the house. No blood seeped through the bandages, but dirt crusted the ones under the cuffs.
They’d get the damned shackles off her. He’d shape a talisman bracelet or necklace from the chains, something small and unobtrusive. Or he’d cut down a cuff and round it smooth so she could wear it without difficulty. Then he’d stud it with jewels, to counter the Burner ugliness that had bitten into her life. Or maybe braid fine gold and silver around it, if she preferred.
Whatever he did, he’d make sure it didn’t weigh her down. She needed her talisman, but by the gods he’d make sure she wasn’t a slave to it.
Dragon leaned his head over the back of the couch. Marcus comes.
The sickness had begun eating at Marcus when his brothers passed. Since 1862, he’d been looking for Shifter healers to calm the resulting inflammation ravaging his joints and organs.
The sickness attacked all lone Fates.
Ladon gripped Rysa’s fingers. She, too, was alone. He’d find her a healer, if he needed to. But as a singular, she might not get sick. He didn’t know. They might not know for years.
The voices grew louder and Dragon’s head pivoted toward the door behind the couch. Ladon dusted his knees as he stood.
Marcus shuffled out of the shadows. He stopped in the harsh light of the living room, and squinted his iron-colored eyes at Ladon. The sickness had worked its horrors and his balance betrayed him. It distorted his stance with subtle shakes.
He’d aged. At the end of World War Two, the second time Ladon visited, Marcus had looked to be in his mid-thirties. He’d stood on the porch leaning on his cane as he watched Ladon and Dragon back their truck toward the house. Ladon’s girlfriend had kicked him out. Marcus waited for Harold to return from the Pacific theater. They drank enough whiskey that night to drown a mule.
Now, light streaked his dark hair and lines creased his face. Marcus had become a man who could be Rysa’s grandfather.
The past-seer inhaled and stood up as straight as he could. “Dracos,” he said, using the Roman honorific for both Human and Dragon.
“Hello, Marcus.” Ladon moved around the couch and took his elbow.
Harold frowned but didn’t argue. Dragon pulled a chair close to Rysa. The beast sniffed Marcus’s head as Harold and Ladon helped him descend onto the cushions.
“I have a considerable amount of medication in my system.” Marcus waved his swollen knuckles at Ladon. Pain etched creases around his mouth. “It interferes. But I will do what I can for the young lady.”
“Thank you.” Ladon squeezed his arm. Marcus had always been a man of honor who offered assistance to anyone in need. He’d helped his share of normals and Shifters over the centuries.
Ladon squatted next to Rysa. She breathed more quickly and in more shallow inhales than he liked. “She’s been like this since we left her home. Dragon says she’s still in a vision.”
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “Not good.” His past-seer reverberated through the room as if it were a brilliant and practiced music produced by an instrument honed from centuries of use.
But his seer had slowed since Ladon last visited and no
w seemed dulled by both pain and drugs.
“This may take a moment. I need to find the edges of her seers,” Marcus said—then sat back, surprise rounding his expression. “She’s Jani.”
Dragon dropped his head over Rysa and draped his big front limb over the back of the couch.
Ladon and the beast should have realized Rysa’s family would be a problem for Marcus. A terrible problem. How had he not thought the situation through? How could he have been—
His mouth rounded and he glanced up at Dragon. Did she infect us when she was siphoning? She’d said something about not being able to pay attention. The disorientation he’d felt at the house burst back into his mind. Did she always see the world in such a fractured way? How did she live, missing connections? She was bright—both he and Dragon felt her intelligence—but she missed information. Lost perceptions. Forgot things.
And he had, as well, when his focus had constricted so tightly to her.
Harold jabbed his finger at Ladon. “Jani? You brought a Jani into my home? What the hell were you thinking?” He yanked open a cabinet next to the fireplace.
Infect is not the right word. She is connected. The beast ignored Harold and nuzzled Rysa’s hair. It is strange.
Inside the cabinet, Harold’s katana and other swords sparkled in the light. He pulled out a handgun and a box of ammunition. “Are you trying to kill Marcus, too?”
Ladon vaulted across the room and slammed Harold against the wall. The man dare not imply negligence on Ladon’s part. “What happened to Daniel and Timothy was not my fault. They told me nothing! I had no idea that Les Enfants de Guerre had come for them.”
Rysa spasmed.
Ladon felt the twitch as a bit of sensing picked up from Dragon. He dropped Harold. His sense of Rysa pulled him back to her scent, her shape. He knelt again and stroked her arm.
“Harold.” Marcus beckoned for him to calm down. “Please get me a glass of water. And some for the young lady. She’s been thirsty since they left The Cities.” He stroked Rysa’s forehead, the melody of his past-seer playing through the room.
“But—”
Marcus’s seer flared and Ladon held in a wince.
“We all must follow the thread fate has set for us. Letting it upset you helps no one. Besides, she’s Mira’s daughter. Not Faustus’s. She means us no harm.” Marcus crinkled his nose.
Les Enfants, the War Babies as the Shifters called them, were destined to become the next Jani Prime. Their father, Faustus—Rysa’s uncle and Mira’s triad-mate—had groomed them as such for six centuries, to the annoyance of his sisters. Or so the rumors said.
“Mira never told her about her heritage. She has no idea who she is. Or what she can do.” Marcus waved at Harold. “Please get the water.” He leaned over Rysa. “Her mother vanished from her life tonight.”
Ladon tapped the edge of the cushion. “Mira—” How should he phrase what he needed to say? “Mira called her terrible things, Marcus. Accused her of being a monster.” Which Rysa wasn’t. “Then she touched an implosion.”
Marcus scoffed. “That is why she’s vanished so thoroughly. I see nothing of her. Not even a wisp of a trail.”
Ladon nodded. He’d seen Marcus track other Fates who thought themselves hidden. They’d been wrong.
Marcus shook his head. “Damned burndust will do permanent damage, Ladon-Human. It will harm Mira’s heart and lungs.” He kneaded the knuckles of his right hand. “She submerged herself in their chaos. Risky.” He sat back. “So Mira of the Jani Prime hides.”
Marcus laid his palm on Rysa’s forehead. “We had better wake the young lady.”
Chapter Twelve
Quick and lovely music wafted to Rysa. The weave and warp of the universe vibrated with its notes. It sang and touched what-was.
“Rysa, can you hear me?” A pause. “She’s still not opening her eyes.”
“The vision calms.” The music of the past played through what-is. “I’ve never seen such power. She’s Prime, Ladon-Human. Oh—”
“Marcus!”
“I’m fine.”
A new voice: “I want you out of my house!”
“I said I’m fine.”
The music fatigued. It faltered, only a little, but enough that pain scratched at the delicate parts of Rysa’s mind.
New burning would soon flow in through a gash at the back of her mind, like cockroaches swarming through floorboards.
Her body thrashed and her eyes flew open. She sucked in air through a wide open mouth. Her lungs filled to capacity.
She was in the world. The real world.
No fire. She had to heal the gash. Heal it, or—
“Hold still, beautiful. Don’t hit anyone with those cuffs.”
She’d had a vision. The Cities burned. She saw it in the sky, and on the underside of the clouds. The whole world burned. She hadn’t heard it, or felt it, or smelled the acid and smoke and ash she should have. But the vision had popped into the back of her mind like the reflection of a television screen on a window.
Shouldn’t she be screaming? She felt more confused than terrified. Didn’t sociopaths act this way? Unfeeling in the face of horror? What was wrong with her?
But something did coil itself around her gut. It felt separate, and small, as if little bugs had moved in under her mind. Then the feeling vaporized like a bubble popping.
Or a Burner.
She truly was a subpar Fate. Terrible and stupid and she’d set the world on fire and not care. She gulped and tried desperately to pull in her arms, but nothing moved.
Dragon’s head descended from above. He breathed out frankincense from the side of his jaw and held his cat-like eye inches from her nose.
His fingers were wrapped around the metal engulfing her wrists. He let go and her arms dropped, but her legs didn’t move.
“Are you okay?” Ladon’s hands gripped her knees.
She knew, somehow, that they would get her through this. They’d make sure she was okay, no matter what happened.
But she’d burn the world. Set it on fire. She looked away.
“You were unconscious for a long time. It might take a moment to get your bearings.” Ladon glanced between her and an older man sitting in a chair next to the couch. “Correct?”
The man shifted and the fabric of the comfortable but modern chair whiffed against his clothes. “Yes.” He offered his hand. “I am Marcus, past-seer of the Draki Prime. It is good to meet you, Ms. Torres, daughter of Mira of the Jani.”
They didn’t know. Marcus was a past-seer and he didn’t read the burn burn burn that must be pouring off her soul like a chemical spill. He didn’t see it.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe, again, her God-awful hyperactivity made the world look worse than it was.
Ladon released her knees and she bent forward. The remote cottage in which she’d awoken looked like the mirror opposite of her home in Shoreview. She sat on a chocolate-colored couch in a small but inviting living room. Soft sounds filtered in from outside. She’d stepped through the looking glass into a comfortable corner of a world full of handsome men and brilliant beasts.
Maybe she’d be okay.
She took Marcus’s still-extended hand. His grip was firm, despite his swollen knuckles.
Swollen, like her mom’s.
“Do all Fates get rheumatoid arthritis?” she blurted out. What if that Burner concentrate in her mom’s body made it worse? Her mother would moan and throw up because the pain was so bad and—
Pressure flared behind her left eye and she flinched. The cuffs smacked her cheeks when she pressed her temples. Her mom had yelled at her. She’d done something stupid again, not paid attention, because she was the child who bumbled through life and couldn’t even activate on the right talisman. And now look, she was going to set the world on fire!
Rysa Torres, the Burner-Fate. “Where’s my mom!” It came out too loud, but—
Ladon dropped onto the couch next to her and curled his arm around h
er shoulders. “We don’t know where she is and we won’t be able to track her until her body sheds the burndust in her system. So we think we need to take care of your safety first, okay? We make sure these uncontrolled visions stop. I think that’s what she’d want, anyway. Right?”
Behind her, Dragon nodded.
The Burners might eat her mom. “But…”
“We’ll get her back. I promise. She probably escaped and is sleeping it off under a tree right now.”
This man who had been mean to her earlier sat right next to her with his arm around her shoulders. He sat with their bodies parallel, though, like they were drinking buddies.
“One should never underestimate a Prime present-seer, even one crazy from dust,” Marcus said.
Behind them, Dragon snorted. Rysa picked up a distinct sense of affirmation.
She flopped under Ladon’s arm and against the couch. She wouldn’t cry no matter how much her body wanted to hiccup and bounce and run around. She’d be strong, for her mom, even though her world was disintegrating. Home, school, everything fell apart around her.
She felt like a toddler, terrified and alone in the grocery store because she’d lost her mother. And now some weirdo with a flamethrower was chasing her through the aisles.
“I see fire.” This time, she ground her teeth so hard she heard the smashing as well as felt it in her jaw.
Marcus pointed at Ladon. “The good Dracos will rid the world of the vermin who did this to you, will they not?”
Ladon shrugged. “These particular Burners, for sure.” He plucked at his t-shirt and pulled it up to his nose. “The bastards smell terrible.”
Rysa snorted. The tiniest smile edged out from under her anxiety. At least they were confident men and not spazzes, like her.
Ladon chuckled and smoothed a hair from her forehead.
She stiffened. She didn’t mean to, but such an intimate touch surprised her. Tom had never touched her hair. Not once.
Ladon pulled back. Shock played across his face, followed by something she never expected to see—his shoulders slumped in disappointment.
His gaze settled on the man standing behind Marcus. He didn’t look at her again.
Games of Fate (Fate Fire Shifter Dragon Book 1) Page 9