by Tessa Adams
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“The Wyvernmoons are doing something over there, Dylan. I just can’t figure out what it is.”
Dylan shot Caitlyn and Shawn a hard look. “What does that mean? You’re in charge of them. It’s your job to know what they’re doing.”
“We know that,” Caitlin answered. “But they’ve had a bug up their butt for the last couple days.”
“What’s the bug?”
“We don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s big. I would swear they’re mobilizing for war, but that doesn’t make sense. No one’s been any more aggressive than usual—on our side or any of the other clans, either.”
Shit. Dylan focused on the jewels embedded in the walls of the war room. Emerald for luck . Amethyst for protection. Fire opal for ingenuity, and so many more. Diamonds and rubies, jades and topazes. The old folklore was true: dragons did love gemstones, but not for the reason so many people thought. It wasn’t their material worth that intrigued dragons so much, but their spiritual worth. Their ability to help channel everything from emotions to healing energy to ancient magic.
As Dylan thought things through, his eyes fell on the line of sapphires that ran through one of the cave walls. They’d always been his favorite, had always helped him get in touch with his own magic. But they seemed so cool now, so lifeless, next to the dark, clear blue of Phoebe’s eyes.
The thought made his talisman burn and twitch beneath his shirt. He ignored it, compartmentalizing his mind so that the discomfort barely registered. Too bad thoughts of Phoebe couldn’t be shut away so easily.
Leaning back in his chair, he stretched his legs out in front of him and wondered what she was doing. She hadn’t kept her promise to return to his house two nights before, but when he’d showed up to drag her home, she’d been sleeping on a cot in the back room of the lab, a new notebook—already bursting with scribbles—clutched in her hand. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her, so he’d backed out quietly and returned to the house he knew better than any place else on earth—except for this cave.
Yet it had felt foreign, cold, and neither he nor his dragon liked being there without Phoebe. Which was stupid, as she’d only spent one night there. But her scent lingered in the kitchen, in the guest room. It had made his mouth water and his cock stand straight up. The fact that he was here, a day and a half later, and still without Phoebe, put him in a very bad mood. And he wouldn’t even think about how pissed off his dragon was. Or how horny they both were. When Phoebe finally surfaced, he might not let her out of bed for a week.
At least.
Except she needed to be in the lab, needed to be working on that damn disease before someone else got sick. He—and half his council—had nearly had a stroke when Liam had started coughing last night at dinner. The only thing that had soothed them was the dragon’s repeated assurances that the coughing was due to the soda he’d snorted through his nose after Travis had told him a joke while he was drinking, and not the first symptom of the disease they were coming to know too damn well.
He could suck it up a little while longer. Really, he could.
Inside him, the beast raked its talons across the inside of his skin—as if to tell him that he might be alone in that.
He dragged his thoughts away from his lover and back to his people’s survival. It wasn’t nearly as easy as it should have been, as it always had been before.
“What does Victor say?” he demanded, in reference to the spy they sent to observe the enemy clan.
“Nothing. Whatever it is, Silus is playing his cards really close to his vest. Only the most elite members of his council know.”
“How is that possible? Mobilizing for war takes a hell of a lot of work.” He should know—he’d had to do it more than once in the last few centuries.
“Yeah, but even the commanders are in the dark.” Caitlyn shoved a hand through her waist-length black hair. “They know they have a mission, but not what that mission is. At least not yet.”
“There’s no trouble with the Shadowclaws?”
“No. And not with any of the other clans that we can find, either.”
Dylan closed his eyes and tried to focus, much as Phoebe had done at the lab a few nights before. If it worked for her, it was certainly worth a shot. But a moment later, his lids flew open. All he saw was his brother’s bloody, violent death at the hands of the Wyvernmoons and his inability to stop it. He couldn’t stand the idea of that happening again—to his clan or to any other.
But his gut told him the other clans didn’t have to worry. Dragonstar was the target of the show of military strength, and not anybody else. The itch down his spine only reinforced the belief.
“Get Callie,” he barked at Shawn. “I want to know what she’s seen.”
But even as his sentry went to do his bidding, Dylan knew it wouldn’t work out. Callie had the gift of foresight, but it was weak and untrained. Not that it was her fault. She was still young—barely a hundred years old. In time, the gift would grow stronger, more predictable. As Marta’s had.
The thought crept in, though he’d been so careful not to think of his sister, of his niece, for the last few days. The grief was still too fresh, a wound that refused to heal or scar.
Caitlyn continued to update him as they waited for Shawn and Callie, detailing what they’d observed on the ground and what they had picked up from the satellite they’d managed to secure a couple years before, which wasn’t much, as the Wyvernmoons had managed to cast a huge, impenetrable block over the areas of interest.
He didn’t know what they were up to, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. That was his normal rule of thumb when it came to the bastards, and nothing they’d done in the last four hundred years had changed his mind.
An hour later, he was even more convinced that something needed to be done. Callie could pick up nothing—not even a feeling or suspicion, which was unusual for her. She might not be perfect, but she could usually glean something. If she couldn’t, it definitely meant they were blocking.
“Jase, I want you and Caitlyn in South Dakota tonight. Take Riley and Tyler with you, and find out what the hell is going on. I’ll be damned if we’re going to be blindsided by these bastards.”
Dylan’s words echoed behind him as he slammed out of the cavern, not sure where he was going, but knowing only that he needed out. A part of him was terrified that he was sending four of his closest friends to their death, but he couldn’t focus on that. Not now, when many more of his people could die if he didn’t send them.
He was already shifting when he stepped into the desert air. It was twilight and the land was awash with reds and purples and golds—some of the colors so bright they hurt his dragon eyes. Flying straight up, he aimed for the few cumulonimbi that had managed to hang around despite the heat. Flew through the water vapor and gloried in the way it cooled his overheated skin.
Zipping through the clouds, he spread his wings and put on a burst of speed that would have left any normal dragon in the dust. But he wasn’t a normal dragon. He was the king, and tonight he might as well enjoy the perks. God knew the responsibilities were weighing heavily on him.
Possible death to a few, probable death to many? It shouldn’t be a difficult choice, and yet it was. He’d already lost too many people that he cared about this year. The idea of losing any more left him frozen.
He hit the mountains in seconds, swooping left and right as he followed their craggy peaks.
What else could he do? Callie and Jase, Tyler and Riley—they’d all known the risks when they signed on. When they’d chosen to be council members and sentries. And at least they’d had a choice, had one still. They could leave anytime they wanted, step down. Do something else without shame. God, how he wanted that chance for himself.
This endless struggle for survival, against war and disease and betrayal—he was tired of it. A part of him wanted to say to hell with it, to fly away and not come back. But if he did that, who would take his place?
Who would protect his people?
The answers to those questions was why he stayed. Better a failure for a king than no king at all.
Rolling into a nosedive, he headed straight for the ground at full speed. What would happen if he didn’t slow up? If he just kept flying faster and faster, straight into the earth? What would happen if—
Dylan! His name whipped through his brain, cutting into his free fall like a razor. He pulled up sharply and headed toward town. Logan’s ability to drop in on him and other sentries was legendary. His gift usually told him the very worst—or very best, depending on how you looked at—time to get inside one of their heads.
I’m fine.
Oh, really? Logan’s annoyed voice came through loud and clear. That’s not what it looked like from here.
Don’t you have anything better to do than to spy on me?
Obviously not. Then, What’s wrong?
Nothing. Everything. He sighed. Same old shit.
Well, get over it. Plunging yourself into the desert isn’t what the clan needs right now.
It’s not like I’d ever do it. I just like the freedom.
To die? Logan’s snort was more than obvious.
No, dumb ass. To do what I want to do, for a change.
Aww, are the robes feeling a bit too tight these days?
Fuck you. Only Logan and Gabe could get away with talking to him like that, and they both took shameless advantage of it.
You’re not my type.
It wasn’t an invitation.
Sounded like one. In fact—
Logan kept up the banter until Dylan made it back into town, and by the time he had shifted back, he was feeling almost human—in mind as well as body.
Hey, he said, interrupting Logan’s latest tirade.
Yeah?
Thanks.
No problem. There was a long pause. I know you won’t believe me, but you’re the best leader this clan has ever had.
My father—
Your father was born to be king. You were born to lead. There is a very big difference. And whether you believe me or not, that’s the truth.
Dylan started to answer, but it was too late. Logan was gone as easily as he’d come.
Giving up, he headed toward the lab, his sentry’s words lingering in his head. Part of him wanted to take them at face value, but the little voice in the back of his head—the one that spoke with his father’s voice, the one that constantly reminded him that he would always be the second son, that he would always be the weakling who couldn’t save his brother—never let him forget what a failure he really was.
That was the real truth, no matter what Logan said.
“Do you have a hematologist on staff?”
Quinn looked up from where he was logging the freshest batch of results into the computer, and Phoebe was struck by just how tired he looked. His green eyes were sunken and rimmed with black circles, his skin sallow, as if it had been far too long since he’d been in the sunlight.
Far too long since he’d had something to smile about.
A shiver ran down her spine, and Phoebe had a quick premonition that if she stayed here long enough, she’d end up looking just like Quinn. Tired out, wrung dry, half dead, but too stubborn to know it. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. But then, she’d never before met someone even more driven to find answers than she was.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe. What did you say?” He looked dazed, and she wondered suddenly if he’d even bothered to go home at all after he’d left the clinic in the middle of the previous night. Or if he had just done as she had—walked the empty streets for an hour, breathing in the cool air and savoring the alone time as she tried to clear her head.
Despite working around the clock, they hadn’t made the progress either of them had hoped for. With a sigh, she repeated the question.
“No. We’ve never needed one.” He frowned. “We don’t get blood diseases. Or at least we never have before.”
“We need a hematologist. I’m not going to be able to figure this out on my own.”
“You’ve only been in here for four days.”
“Four days is more than enough time for me to know that I’m in over my head. I keep running into a brick wall of things I can’t quite assimilate. I can handle the immune- and nervous-system parts of the virus, but the hemorrhagic part is outside my area of expertise and the databases can only help me so much.”
“You’ve worked with Ebola before. Is this really any different?”
She glanced down at the results in her hand, her stomach clenching sickly at what she suspected. “That was a long time ago, when I was still a med student. And, yes, I’m afraid this is very different. Besides, you’re a doctor. You know that some stuff isn’t written down—it’s about experience and gut instinct based on years of study in your field. I don’t have that when it comes to bleeding diseases, and neither do you.”
Quinn turned from his research. “Is there something I’m missing here? Why are you suddenly so sure that the hemorrhagic part of the virus is what we need to focus on?”
“Because it’s the one part we haven’t looked at as closely as the others. And since we’re not making any progress, it stands to reason . . .”
The look he shot her told her he was still puzzled, but he didn’t argue anymore. Instead, he murmured, “We’ll talk to Dylan. See what he says.” He didn’t look enthusiastic about the prospect.
“Right. Dylan.” She blew out a harsh breath and wondered exactly what she was supposed to do now. Professional courtesy and years of training demanded that she tell her lab partner what she suspected. Even if she was wrong, two brains looking at something was obviously better than one.
And yet something was holding her back, some ingrained sense of caution that had never before raised its head. Outside of Dylan, she didn’t know who she could trust in this strange clan. Her instincts said Quinn was as steady as they came, but those same instincts were screaming that she keep her suspicions to herself for a little while longer.
“I think I’m going to call it a day,” she said, shoving the files into her bag so she could look at them further at home.
Quinn barely glanced up from what he was doing. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Don’t you think you should do the same?”
There was no answer.
“Quinn?”
“What?” He snapped out the word, clearly impatient.
“You look like hell. Why don’t you head home, too?”
Once again, no answer.
Frustrated with his lack of response, she stormed across the lab and turned off his monitor. He shot out of his chair with what could only be called a growl. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You need to take a break or you’re going to make yourself sick.”
“That’s not your business.”
“Sure it is. I’m your partner now, and what you do affects both of us.”
“You’ve been here almost as long as I have.”
“But I’ve grabbed a few hours of sleep here and there. My guess is you haven’t even done that. It’s been at least four days since you slept. Probably more.”
He didn’t respond, but the tightening of his mouth told her she was right on. “You’re not doing anyone any good, especially not yourself. Your brain needs time to recharge.”
“My brain needs to figure out what the hell is going on. People are dying.”
“I know that, Quinn.” She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “But—”
“Jesus Christ, Phoebe, why the fuck can’t I figure this thing out?” He slammed his hands down on the granite countertop that made up his workstation. “Marta’s dead. Lana. My best friend died six weeks ago. My lover three weeks before that. And I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.”
He held up his hands like he’d never seen them before. “What the hell good is it to be a healer if I can’t fix this? What the hell good am I?”
As Phoebe watched, electric shocks se
emed to zip from one of his fingers to the next, until fire shimmered in a ball between his cupped hands. She blinked, told herself she was hallucinating from lack of sleep, and looked again. Nope, the fire was still there—at least until Quinn caught her looking. Then it disappeared so quickly, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing.
Except she wasn’t the imaginative type. Facts and figures were much more her cup of tea.
She started to ask how he’d done that—after all, it wasn’t every day you saw a man conjure fire without a match—but he looked away, obviously uncomfortable with his lapse in control.
Mind racing, heart pumping, she watched the clan’s healer closely, waiting to see what else he would do. But except for the occasional foot shuffle, nothing happened that was out of the ordinary.
Silence stretched between them. “Sorry. I don’t mean to take my anger out on you.”
“You aren’t.” She moved closer to him. Though she should probably be running away after Quinn’s little display, she was much more intrigued than she was frightened. How did people do that? How had Quinn done it?
“Yeah, I am. But I wasn’t yelling at you—I’m just so damned frustrated.”
Her heart went out to him, it really did. With the exception of his little fire trick, he reminded her a lot of herself. He had a towering intellect used to solving any problem that came his way, and yet now—when it mattered most—he was clueless. It was the world she’d lived in for years as she struggled to cure her sister, to no avail.
“We will figure it out. I promise you, we will. But not if you run yourself into the ground. You’ll just end up making yourself too sick to work. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
Filled with empathy, inspired by an odd connection to this man she knew almost nothing about, Phoebe reached for one of Quinn’s hands. Held it between both of hers. “I’ve been where you are. Hell, I’m still there. I’ve worked six years to find a cure for radical strains of lupus, and I haven’t been able to do it. At some point you have to take a step back and realize you can only do what you can do.”
“Is that what you’ve done?”