Rip out the silver’s heart, eat it, and his magic, I suggested.
I felt the agreement of my dragon self, but also caught a stray thought from him: Big chicken looks tasty, too.
Eagle.
Same difference.
No, he’s a friend. The Old Man would never forgive me for eating someone sworn to the clan.
Spoil sport.
Leaping into the air, I beat my wings furiously, struggling upward against stiff winds. Climbing past a high apartment building, I saw some demon guards and the Old Man on the roof. He looked frail and diminished. I laughed at him, a rumble in my throat.
Only eight feet. Look how small he is.
All humans are small.
Guin and a few uniformed cops stood near him. A number of magic-users formed a circle, holding hands, chanting, casting some kind of spell.
The Old Man stared at the storm he’d called. He shouted arcane words of power in ancient Atlantean. In reply, great jags of purple-white lightning webbed the clouds above Thule and the DeSilver.
My dragon self said: They better hit the right dragon with those spells because I’m going in.
We were still well below Thule and the silver dragon when the falling lightning cut between the two, not doing much good I could see—until the electrical whips curled at the bottom and came up under DeSilver, catching him from underneath. Grazed, the silver screamed, his solar-breath raking the cloud-bottoms, tearing at the heart of the storm, weakening it. The plasm stream cut off as the silver dragged in a much-needed deep breath.
Thule saw his chance; he put on a burst of speed, driving into DeSilver like a feathery meteor. Eagle claws sliced across tough dragon scales. Eagle wings beat at the DeSilver’s face, a confusion factor. The silver dragon whipped himself into loops of coils, trying to trap Thule’s demon form.
DeSilver had the physical advantage in offensive strength, but Thule had speed and many years of combat experience, while the silver dragon was at heart a court fop.
My dragon self said: Against a warrior dragon, Thule would already have been killed.
I agreed. Then we better get in there and show Thule how it’s done.
We were up to their level now. Thule saw me approaching and took himself aside, clearing the way for me to act. I tasted copper, a rising charge of gold dragon lightning, rising from my belly, building in my mouth, held there to acquire potency. I wanted my first blast of lightning breath to be the last thing DeSilver remembered as he woke up in hell.
Just about there, I opened my jaws very wide.
And then storm smote me mightily, its lighting an agonizing wash of blinding fire. I screamed, tumbling mid-air, quivering from the massive electrical charge stuffing itself inside me. It felt like moments before I’d pop like a balloon.
THIRTY
“It’s not the size of the dragon in the fight,
it’s the size of the fight in the dragon.”
—Caine Deathwalker
The Old Man and the witches had fucked up. Any dragon but a gold would have died in that electrical barrage.
Maybe the witches had done this on purpose. Maybe Guin had put them up to it, believing a truckload of dead hookers demanded vengeance, not a cover-up to hide the reality of paranormals. All that flashed through my head as the lightning crackled, wreathing my supercharged body.
Choking on lightning, I did the only thing possible—I spit.
DeSilver had the same idea; his solar-breath roared at me, a club of light and seething plasma.
The ball lightning crowding my mouth became the base of dozens of golden jags that leaped into the solar attack, netting it, thinning it, pounding through.
There’s a reason golden dragons sit on the throne and silver dragons grovel before it.
I followed my lighting strikes through the disintegrating plasma stream. Weak wisps of incandescence flowed harmlessly across my golden scales. Then I was through the hell-zone created by our colliding breathes. DeSilver was a good deal bigger than me as a dragon, but from the shock on his scaly face, the flood of fear in his eyes, I knew he’d reconsidered vengeance in favoring of staying alive.
Not that I’d let him.
His wings beat furiously as he tried to evade, but he’d waited too long, trying to see the result of his attack.
Rookie mistake.
Lightning continued to pour out of me. I felt like I’d never be empty, the pain of hunger replaced, for now. Golden death jazzed all around the silver, blackening scales. Larger bolts stabbed into him, exploding chunks of dragon flesh off of his body. His wings ignited and burned. Devouring holes appeared with orange edges. Severed wing ribs shattered.
It’s nice having a target too big to miss.
He screamed as his wings crumpled and he fell.
I was able to bite off the energy and hold onto some of it while I renewed my breath. The air tasted burned, ozone.
Diving, I followed him halfway to the streets below and gave him a blast of lightning breath to fry his ass—literally. Six or seven main jags emerged from my jaws, each lightning stream spinning off a fine webbing of lesser charges. The golden electrical storm engulfed what was left of DeSilver, ripping a final scream from him. He trailed molten globs that were melted scales. One wing came off, along with a blackened arm, as a lightning strike carved into his bowels.
Dinner’s going to be a little extra-crispy, I thought.
My dragon self said: It’s fine. The heart will be bloody and raw.
The hunger was back. We both felt its scourge, but this was a little too close to cannibalism for comfort since I was half-dragon myself. I had to ask: We’re really going to eat it?
Yes. Dragons are magic-users as well as being of magic itself. His heart will feed our power. Our magic—eating his—will grow much stronger. Survival excuses everything. Able could be lurking about, getting ready to avenge his partner; we’ll need the boost.
As the ground rushed up, I thought over the logic. Well, it’s not like we have to tell anyone.
Exactly.
Gliding, pulling back a little, I swung my tail earthward. The wind in my wings killed some of my excessive velocity. Reaching terminal velocity, DeSilver pulled away, an angled drop that sent him headfirst into a closed Goodwill store, destroying part of a roof and wall.
That’s a donation they’re not going to like.
I spiraled down to the ruined building and at the last moment, folded wings and dropped inside. Powerful hind-legs caught the floor, crushing merchandise, scattering clutter, bricks, and smashing flat fallen water sprinkler pipes. My wagging tail swept clothing racks across the room.
Half under the debris, lying where he’d skidded after crash-landing, DeSilver’s scorched body smoked. His chest was still, no breathing. I didn’t even see a twitch of muscles. I shoved his bulk over so I could see the dragon’s face. His eyes were milky, like moonstone cabochons.
The summoned storm high overhead broke apart, allowing moonlight to shaft into the store. Their work done, the Old Man and Guin would be looking for me, but it might take them awhile since the battle had moved away from the Strip. I needed to act quickly.
Knives of hunger prodded my growling stomach, seconding the motion.
I pulled golden dragon magic out of my body, letting it well into my claw-tips. I slashed and tore, pealing back scaled skin and muscle. Dragon blood drenched my hands, splattered my body, and drained to the floor. The open wound welled, but ripped blood vessels didn’t spurt since DeSilver’s heart no longer beat. I gripped white rib bones and twisted them free, discarding the fragments. This opened the chest cavity so I could access the heart.
I gripped it with both paws, and braced a clawed foot on DeSilver’s stomach for leverage. A couple tugs and it tore loose. I took a bite. The meat had the elastic give of a giant eraser, but also crumbled, tasting like tough beef. I made quick work of it, swallowing it in chunks, feeling silver magic on my palette, a metallic steamy taste. A feeling of fullness and euphor
ia came in, along with a flush of energy, like I’d drained too many cans of Red Bull and chased them down with espresso ice cream. This was more than a sugar rush—a sugar avalanche. A warm blush chased itself over my skin, head to tail and back again.
My body ignited with a yellow-white, watercolor glow. Cool!
I kicked DeSilver’s corpse away from me and leaped upward, passing through the hole, landing on an intact section of roof that groaned under my weight. Before it could cave in, I unfolded wings and beat them to lift myself back into the air. My heart raced as I did. I didn’t care who saw me. My thoughts were bubbling fuzz that eluded clarity. Feeling newborn, invincible, I streaked back toward the Strip, daring Able to pop up and take a shot.
I will so kick your chalky ass.
I roared above the buildings, climbing higher and higher. Somewhere around two thousand feet, mellowing kicked in. The exuberance evaporated. I wobbled in flight as if drunk, blinking sleepy eyes.
What happened to my high?
My dragon self said: Too much power, too strong a spike. It’s overwhelming… Body is shutting down, self-defense… Have to land, before we pass out.
We’ll be…vulnerable.
Better than falling out of sky and breaking our neck.
True.
It was getting hard to know which thoughts were mine, and which were my dragon’s. The buildings were blurring, the edges softening.
There, parking garage.
Losing the rhythm of my wings made my landing awkward, my balance precarious. I hit, rolled, and skidded to a stop on concrete, bashing in the side of a blue Toyota Tundra. I didn’t care. They probably had insurance, though it might not cover dragons. If it had been a Mustang, I’d have wept.
Lying there, my eyes sagged shut. My thoughts drained into darkness, dragging my senses along as I passed out.
* * *
It was the screaming that woke me; incessant, passionate ranting actually. “My truck! What the hell happened to my truck? If I find out who did this there will be dad-burned hell to pay! Aaarrrrgh! How ‘m I gonna git home now? Hey! You, naked guy, did you see who hit my truck?”
I opened my eyes. The world was big again. I was in human form. And, yes, naked. Unlike other dragons, I don't magically acquire clothes after such a change. Pity. It would have been convenient.
The truck owner was late fifties, grizzled, gray-haired, and wearing worn jeans with a white-and-yellow plaid western shirt. The pearl-snaps looked nifty—not. His butter-yellow cowboy hat rode back, having been pushed up his forehead to improve his range of sight. It had silver buckles on the headband.
He clomped over to me as I picked myself up. He said, “Did you see ‘em, the ones that did that to my truck?”
“Yeah,” I said. “They drove through here in a black Tacoma, big black guy behind the wheel. He had a snap-on gold tooth in front, and wore dark sunglass, probably why he hit your truck. He might have been high on meth, too. He had a crazy look in his eyes.”
Cowboy paused. “If he had dark sunglasses on, how’d you see his eyes?”
“Glasses fell off when he knocked me down and stole my two-thousand-dollar Italian suit.”
“That bastard!” Cowboy shouted. “It’s the death of decency, I tell you.”
“I’d have resisted, but I thought he might pimp-slap me. Hey,” I said, “if I fix your truck, how about giving me lift so I don’t get arrested for wandering around naked?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re going to fix my truck? What, like in the next five minutes?”
“I don’t think I’ll need that long.” I walked over to his vehicle, ran my hands along the caved in side, and let shadow magic seep into the metal. The truck turned black as my heart. I reshaped the shadow magic. It pulled the truck back to its original shape, straightening the bent frame and side panels. Stepping back, I pulled the darkness into me, the truck returned to its usual blue color.
“There you go.” I turned to Cowboy.
His eyes bugged out. His jaw dropped open. “Land of Goshen! What are you? One of those street magicians? I didn’t even see the smoke and mirrors.”
“That’s because I’m good. Now about that ride…?”
He pressed up against his truck, running his hands over it, making sure the repair was real, not some illusion, then looked at me. “Sure thing, mister. I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Let’s just see if it will start off.” He went around to the driver’s door and climbed in. A moment later, the engine revved. He grinned at me and waved. “Git in.”
I did. After I buckled up, he handed me his cowboy hat. “Here, son, better cover up. There are some things another man don’t want to see, unless he’s queer as a two-headed calf.”
I took the cowboy hat and settled it in my lap, covering my slack but still sizable cock.
“And don’t bother givin’ back the hat. I’d only hafta burn it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll burn it for you.”
We rounded level after level, heading to the ground. Eventually, we pulled out into the street. Cowboy asked, “So, where am I takin’ you, naked fella?”
I gave him directions, hearing sirens wailing in the distance. I wondered if someone had found and reported a dead dragon in the Goodwill store.
Cowboy grunted in surprise. “It’s been raining.”
“Hell of a storm earlier,” I said. It rained fire and dragons. “Lightning was something to see.”
“My name’s Jake Hanson,” Cowboy said. “You got a handle?”
I thought about what lay under the hat. “Yeah, I’m Dick Everhard.”
“Pleased to meet ya, Dick. You from around these parts?”
“Passin’ through. Visiting from Los Angeles.”
“Land of fruits, flakes, and nuts.”
“Granola capital of the world,” I agreed.
Watching the streets change, I made small talk, lying as much as possible on general principle. It wasn’t long before we got to the nightclub, cruising past my Mustang. It was still there, the trunk open, but no dead hookers in sight. Someone had thoughtfully dusted off the chalky coating. Probably the Preternatural Unit’s cleaning crew. Their magical influence probably accounted for the lack of interested bystanders despite the exploded van and other damage caused by the dragon’s attack.
Hell if only they’d fixed my Mustang while they were at it… I just hoped the emergency bag I’d already had in the trunk was still there. It had spare clothes, a spare phone, and cash concealed in a false bottom.
“Let me out here,” I said.
“That’s your Mustang? Hell of a paint job.”
“What can I say? I’m partial to lightning.”
“Well, good luck to you, naked fella.’
“Same to you, Jake.” I climbed out and slammed the door behind me. Cowboy hat in hand, I waved as the truck pulled off, rounded a corner, and vanished. “Salt of the earth that man. If only he knew how to dress. Speaking of which…” I went to my Mustang and peeked in the trunk. My black gym bag was in a back corner, looking unmolested. The late hour probably explained that. I grabbed and opened it, finding jeans and a black tee. There were socks and sneakers as well as my spare phone. I dressed quickly and checked the false bottom. The cash was there, ten thousand dollars, a little pocket money. I left the money in the bag for easier carrying, and slammed the trunk shut. I left the cowboy hat there. Maybe another grizzled cowboy would come along and steal it.
“Caine!” It was the Old Man, with Guin at his side. She glared at me, her gun in hand.
“Going to shoot me,” I asked.
“Thinking about it.”
I smiled. “I have that effect on a lot of people.”
THIRTY-ONE
“I love volunteers; they are so expendable.”
—Caine Deathwalker
My command team straggled into the hotel’s conference room. Imari and the Old Man had one end of the long table. I occupied the other en
d. Colt sat next to me, his model Mustang in hand. He pushed it back and forth on the tabletop, softly going, “Vroom, vroom.”
Zero-T dragged into the room, dejection on his magically animated ceramic mask. Even his afro looked wilted. His wrinkled suit needed attention. I wondered if he’d slept in it. He came to the massive table, pulled out a chair, and dropped into it.
I smiled. “So, I hear you were eliminated last night from the poker tournament. What happened?”
“My three eights should have carried the hand. I don’t know what happened.”
Having caught the details of the loss by going on line, I answered his question for him. “A full house happened. That and the fact you thought you could bluff everyone while sweating bullets.”
He sighed. “There’s always next year.”
“Only if you survive the mission. You may want to focus on the battle plan handout in front of you. Imari—your one true love—spent a lot of time on it.”
He perked up, reaching for the handout. “Really? It must be a masterful composition of pure genius then.”
Colt made a kissy face and smacking noises. “Kiss ass much?”
A shadow hand appeared behind his head, giving him a soft slap. His head rocked forward and came back. “Hey!”
“Wasn’t me.” I pointed down the table. “Talk to your grandfather.”
He simply smiled at his grandson and said, “Language. Just because you will one day inherit the demon clan, doesn’t mean you need to be crude, like your father.”
I flipped the Old Man off.
“My point exactly,” he said.
My demon captains were here, the ones that would command the lower-level minions during the actual invasion of the Villager dimension. They sat at the Old Man’s end of the table.
Angie came in, closely escorted by Det. Winter. The werewolf pheromones were strong. Give them a few minutes, and they’d probably be ripping each other’s clothes off.
Gloria came in next, enduring the daylight as only true-blood vampires could. She wore pink leather pants and bodice, a pair of short swords on a belt, and had a sheathed broadsword on her back. Only a hundred and fifteen pounds, five-foot-five, the broad sword looked bigger than she was. Despite looking only seventeen, thin, almost frail, she was centuries old, and capable of incredible carnage. That’s what I was hoping for.
07- Black Blood Brother Page 23