Oh. Oh.
God damn it, this is why I hate shifting. If only it were as simple as occasionally rolling some dice to keep from losing myself.
I run through the usual litanies in my mind, mostly all the memories I have, to assert my identity and convince myself that I’m a human sorcerer in a draconic form, not a Snow Dragon who occasionally disguises himself as a human sorcerer. And apparently has a little crush on Parry.
Once I’m in firm control, my flight wavers, the instincts not as strong. But this is practice, and I’m sticking to the open air around a nearby cathedral where I’ll be high enough to not hit anything and I’ll be able to hear the church tower chime that my lunch break is over. After that, it’s back to work with some lunch and studying my translated notes on enchantment.
Nice, easy day.
“DRAGON!”
That can’t be good.
I look down, my eyes focusing on a figure standing on the library’s roof, my sight zooming in, disorienting me as I see he’s wearing a tabard and holding a crossbow, his voice thundering as he fires. “Meet thine destiny!”
The bolt punctures my shoulder, and I roar in agony, frozen breath streaking through the skies to flow into the clouds overhead, snow beginning to fall. The pain shears through my focus, my identity getting muddled as I dive toward the roof, wanting to bathe my attacker in frigid anger. He drops the crossbow as I land, drawing a sword from inside his tabard.
A crusader’s tabard, signifying a Knight of St. George.
A dragonslayer.
Chapter Seven
James
December 19, 12:25 pm
I shouldn’t be up here. A rooftop isn’t a good place for someone my size to fight. The knight will have the advantage, and with my shoulder hit, I can’t take to the air again. I could climb down the building, but there are too many people and cars, and despite what this dragonslayer thinks, I don’t want to kill or eat anyone. I’m not on that side of the alignment table.
Whatever that means.
I take a swipe at the knight, my claws pulled in to keep the damage blunt, just knock him back. But he rolls expertly out of the way and swings his sword as he comes up, the blade cutting cleanly through the scales on my foreleg and spraying the pavement with crimson. The sight of the blood gives the knight pause as I screech in pain, pulling away from the blade.
I breathe hard at him, and he again rolls away from the blast, the exit door taking the brunt, now barricaded with ice. He’s too damned fast, and I’ve never fought anyone before, especially not someone who’s trained for expressly this. A Red could probably bathe the roof in fire and burn him out. A Blue could take advantage of the fact that a human standing on a roof, holding a five-foot piece of metal, makes an excellent conductor for electricity. But I’m just a Snow Dragon. All I have is ice and…
Ice. There’s something about ice.
I don’t have time to complete the thought as the knight charges at me and I scramble over the side of the building, my claws digging into the stonework to keep me aloft. I scrabble along the side of the library to an opposing corner, my claws surprisingly agile in my panic, causing very little damage to the building proper as I move around to the opposite side and poke my head over the ledge, and duck just in time to avoid another crossbow bolt that whistles through the air, shattering a window in the building across the street.
With a burst of ingenuity, and probably stupidity, I rear my head back as I climb back to the ledge of the roof and find the knight waiting for me. While I do expend probably the last of my ice for now, I don’t aim it at the knight, who I know will simply dive out of the way. Instead, I bathe the loose gravel on the roof, ice spreading over the surface, and while he does avoid his legs getting frozen in place, he’s unable to regain his footing. The sight is almost comical, but I don’t have time to enjoy it, my body exhausted.
I climb back over the ledge onto the roof and slap the exit door lightly with my tail, loosing it from the ice without breaking it. Probably a good idea to take a human form and escape through the library, or at least hide for a while. I focus through the steady pain in my arm and shoulder and exert my will, taking the name of my human form and after a flash of light—
“Motherfuck! God damn it, ow…”
Pain is a great way to remember you’re actually human, not a dragon. I’ll bitch about failing intelligence checks later. Right now I need medical attention or at least a Dumpster full of garbage to convert into energy to heal my own wounds. My right shoulder luckily doesn’t have a bolt stuck in it, but it’s still bleeding, as is my left forearm, not to mention I have one hell of a headache.
I stagger through the entryway to the stairs as the knight makes his way toward the door. As I head down to the third floor, I mutter a simple spell that I learned from a source I’d rather not think about. “I am a Child of Man.”
Sorcerers can be pointed out by their Mark, and as centuries went by and worlds ended and began anew, sorcerers also found that, evil or not, belonging to a group of people responsible for killing gods, creating creatures both awe-inspiring and terror-inducing, and generally oppressing their fellow man into servitude meant that discretion was often the better part of valor. Over time, sorcerers learned that with the right spells, they could cloak themselves. So instead of being noticeable to anyone with a pair of functioning eyes, I’m the least interesting and most easily ignored person within a five-block radius, which is handy both if you don’t want a Knight of St. George finding you or anyone freaking out about you leaking blood on the carpet.
Also, no one notices if you pull the fire alarm to better conceal your escape.
With the crowd exiting the building in an orderly fashion, it’s easy enough to slip out with them and vanish into the huddled masses rubbernecking outside, to go find an alley with a Dumpster that the Department of Sanitation hasn’t gotten to yet. I’m not sure if the knight made it out, but other than tripping and falling on his ass on an icy roof, I don’t imagine he got out of the fight worse than I did.
I’m also a little happy that Slartibartfast didn’t kill him, because the urge was there, and I don’t know if I personally would’ve been able to resist. Or if he would’ve been or…
Damn it, I really need to quit polymorphing until I get my head on straight.
It’s better to focus on finding a source of energy, considering that my diamond is at the diner, bolstering Dave’s hoard as the diner doesn’t make that much in the way of profit.
I stagger into an alley, not caring whether it’s occupied or not, to check the first Dumpster I see.
No Dumpster, but there are a couple huddled people in the shadows of the buildings, tucked in next to large garbage heaps. I can only hope they’re asleep as I extend my hand toward the mounds of bags and push my will at the trash.
Garbage is a nice, if small, source of energy. It lacks emotional resonance, so the energy is relatively clean and neutral, and it’s meant to be used within a few hours, as garbage doesn’t really imply permanence. Plus, this stuff would end up in a landfill anyway, so at least it’s a green way of powering my magic. The garbage evaporates, revealing the people sleeping underneath it, and I funnel the incoming energy into one simple word in Sigil.
“Heal.”
I immediately scream, because extending the middle finger of magic at reality has its price. Forcing your shoulder to knit itself back together, your wounds to close and your marrow to pump out replacement blood in record time… Well, the human body isn’t designed to do all of that in several seconds. That mass overload of signals to my brain? It’s interpreted as pain.
A lot of pain.
The sleeping homeless are awoken by my shrieks, and they rise, groaning as they do so, their faces pale, rotting…
Fuck.
Zombies.
Thank God Spence isn’t here, what with his irrational f
ear of a “zombie apocalypse”, but it appears I’ve already set them off, and considering that it’s during the day, I can’t let them out of the alley and into the crowd. There only appear to be a couple of them, and thankfully no vanilla humans are in the mix, so no worries about innocents being caught in the crossfire.
Then again, zombies aren’t brain-chomping monsters. They’re actually pitiful if you know their story. Imagine losing something you know that you need and having no idea where you left it. That’s the state that zombies exist in all the time, with no one to give them any assistance. I have to guess that the zombies will calm back down, and since it’s December, there’s at least one kind of magic that should be easy and won’t draw too much attention.
“Ice!”
The snow and slush on the pavement solidify, the temperature already below freezing. I focus on drawing what little heat I can out of the advancing zombies as I chant “ice” again and again, which slows their progress and bolsters my own body temperature, even works up a bit of a sweat. The snow freezes around their feet, keeping them in place, their movements sluggish while I feel like I’m standing in the desert in the middle of July.
I’m a bit drained, all the energy from the transmuted garbage expended now, the working starting to nibble on the rich energy that remains, which would be my soul. I cut the spell soon afterward, the zombies slumping against the brick buildings and returning to their day’s slumber, and I’ll admit I lean against the wall, exhausted, as well.
“Impressive.” Coda appears from around the corner, holding a brown paper bag with grease stains. “For a Keth, at least. I would expect something grander from the Ra’keth, but you possess a reputation for preferring subtlety in your magic.”
I catch my breath, still sweating, though the December air is nipping at my exposed skin. “Now you show up? That knight could’ve killed me, you know. You didn’t notice him coming in?”
She shrugs plainly. “Knights of St. George are only threats to dragonkind, not sorcerers. You did not announce you would be practicing your flight while I was gone. If you had, I would have been able to offer my services.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “So this is my fault? I thought you were supposed to be my protector.”
She smiles, an edge to it. “But, my liege, you made it quite clear that you do not want a protector. You gave me an order to…” the dragon sets her jaw, “…fetch your lunch. I was only obeying your command. You would prefer insubordination?”
I glance at the frozen zombies, thankful that my cloaking spell is still intact, despite all that happened. “I would think that if your senses are as acute as dragons claim, you’d have heard me doing battle with a knight and come to help me out.”
“So you do wish for me to occasionally…circumvent your orders?”
“If my life is in obvious danger, yeah, if you want to sell me on my requiring a protector.” I’m starting to shiver now, the frigid temperature evident. “How about we carry on this conversation somewhere warmer?”
She bows. “Of course, my liege. You have been weakened, after all. And you are in danger.” Her gaze shifts behind me, and she reaches into her coat. This gets my attention, and I turn around to check on the frozen zombies. They’ve returned to their previously huddled state, and shouldn’t be any threat so long as no one makes any loud—
I’m paralyzed, pain seizing my muscles as an electric current races through my body. Just because I’m the Lightning Rod, doesn’t mean I can just shrug off…
I can’t move.
“So I will take you somewhere warm.”
Everything’s fading to black.
“And safe.”
I slump to the pavement, the cloak still up, preventing any of the passing crowd from seeing what’s going on. I’m picked up, slung over Coda’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Since you seem intent on endangering yourself, I have no choice but to exercise the insubordination you have allowed me and take you into formal protection until it is determined by the Ra’saar that you are capable of limited autonomy.”
I hear the pop of a car trunk, and I’m placed inside with care. Luckily, I feel my strength returning, at least enough to mount a resistance. Coda stands over me, one hand on the trunk. I raise a finger at her, concentrating my flagging will. I’ll have to draw on my soul for this, but I don’t have much choice, as the trunk is empty, aside from me, and I’ve never converted something as big as a car. “Ligh—”
I’m socked hard in the face, the blow enough to speed my consciousness away.
“Apologies, my liege. But this is for your own good.”
My eyes slowly close as I strain to focus on her face, which is set, determined.
“The council will stand. May the Ra’saar forever retain his throne.”
Chapter Eight
Spencer
December 19, 3:15 pm
Most people hate to see their ex for a lot of different reasons. Maybe they cheated, or just up and left one morning for a pack of smokes and never came back. Or maybe someone got a little too in to a song on the radio and tripped over the coffee table, then slammed into the air conditioner which dropped onto the roof of the super’s Benz (purely by accident—the thing really should’ve been secured to the window better). Me, I have a different reason for hating to see my ex-roommate (with benefits).
“Is this ever going to wear off?”
I’m on my back, my pants around one of my ankles, my shirt hanging from a lamp, plenty of sweat on my body, chest heaving with exhaustion.
Screwing for a couple hours will do that.
To my left is a man who looks to be in his early thirties (though he’s much, much older than that); he has black hair with an expertly groomed rogue’s beard, firm and taut musculature, dark eyes, plenty of hair on his currently naked body. He leans over to kiss along my neck. “You’re the king’s chosen consort, so no.”
That means exactly what it sounds like. Rourke, the King of the Phouka, took me (accent on took) as one of the people with whom the king has sex. As a result, whenever he’s around my brain suddenly has to deal with having less blood. I can resist it if I try hard enough, so can he, but all too often we just give in, considering it tends to be rather good sex.
“Seriously? Never? You realize that ruins my shot at a relationship with anyone other than you, and we both settled that matter six months ago. Remember? Being around you will get me killed.” I see the vintage furniture, the packed bookcases that line the walls, the large TV I’d convinced him to buy while I was staying here. “Jesus, we didn’t even make it past the living room this time.” I look left. “At least we had the sense to close the door.”
“You’re a royal consort, Spencer.” He pulls me to him, his body slightly warmer than most humans, but considering he’s not actually human, I’ll figure it as a feature of being Fae. “I could always give you to the Queen of the Fae if you’ve tired of me.”
He smirks while my fingers run through his chest hair. I’m bi, yes, but I like my guys masculine, okay?
“How long did we last this time?” He glances at the clock, then at me. “Not how long we coupled, how long we went without…”
“Coupling?” I roll my eyes, start to disengage so I can pull my pants up. “It’s been…” I run through my mental calendar, “…three weeks, one day. New personal best.” I retrieve my shirt from the lamp, set to finding my shoes. “I actually needed to talk to you about a few things, and I think I deserve a little credit for not using the sex to get information.” I grin at him. “Not that what we were doing was conducive to conversation.” Conducive, worth seventeen points. Uh…could build it off con since it’s more than seven letters and…
Damn it, I’m already hard again. Scrabble works for me the way baseball does for most guys, but it’s just not doing it now. I glance at him again. Hirsute. Worth ten, sixty if I u
se all the tiles and score the bingo.
No, no. I turn away and start thinking of word placements that could net over two hundred points. That always calms me down. James refuses to take me on in Scrabble, despite having been challenged every time he alludes to the fact that he went to college (for one year) while I “only” have a GED. (I have a diploma, damn it! I did graduate. It was a late graduation, but still.)
Unfortunately, while thinking about how frustrating that sorcerer can be does get my mind off Rourke, I’m not in the right frame of mind to be thinking about him, considering that now I’m wondering what sex with him would be like. Well, not sex, really. I don’t see James and me screwing on a hardwood floor because we couldn’t make it to the bedroom. He’d deserve something better, something sweet and tender, with candles and music and…
God damn it, I thought I was past this.
“Did I at least have the good sense to tell you why I came here?”
Rourke seems to compose himself, rolling away to get a pair of jeans, though I don’t see a shirt anywhere. “I opened the door, you mumbled something, and then you were running your fingers through my chest hair and moaning.” Right. No shirt. My major weakness with him.
“Could you put a shirt on, please?” Luckily, being half-Coyote means I don’t have an ultraheightened sense of smell. I don’t know if full Coyotes have that, but I figure it’s a given, considering they have snouts. “I’ve got a couple things, one of which you probably won’t tell me, and the other I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
“I’m intrigued.” His voice is muffled, but still sends electric tingles through my body. “Go on. Tell me the latter first?”
“I want the former, first. Quid pro quo, Rourke.” I’m impressed with myself that I managed to say that.
“Depends on what you’re asking about. You can turn around now.”
I do, and he’s wearing a black wife-beater that shows the hair on his arms and a peek at his chest. Bastard. “The Cobalt Order. They hit Under the Bridge the other night, and I want to know more about them.”
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