Vampire Dragon

by Annette Blair

  “About that,” Zachary said. “After breakfast, care to ride the coffin wheel with me?”

  “We have another problem for after breakfast,” Bronte said, devouring her meal. “Or have you forgotten?”

  “Right,” Zachary said. “Memory’s going. I’m getting old.”

  Darkwyn raised a brow but said nothing. “Bronte, you don’t have to face the news crews. I will. Just tell me if I should wear jeans or my Master Vampire disguise. And do tell me what I can and cannot say.”

  Bronte nodded as she sipped her coffee. “I’ll write you a script.”

  “Even better.” Darkwyn tucked into his breakfast, and went back for seconds.

  Zachary rubbed his chin in that having-a-beard way of his. “I think Darkwyn should wear the Master Vampire outfit, mask and all, get Drak’s some free publicity. We might as well profit from his ridiculously tall tales.”

  “My only tall tail belonged to the black ice dragon on the Island of Stars. And it was long not tall, and lethal.”

  “Black ice? You had ice on a tropical island?”

  Scumduggers, that boy can be flip. “No, but Andra knew about it. I was a huge, black dragon. She named me Black Ice, because she said I was less playful than most dragons, and deceptively dangerous. Evidently, one cannot see the potential danger in black ice or know it is there until one is on top of it and out of control.”

  Bronte raised her orange juice his way. “I can attest to that.”

  “Stick around a couple of months,” Zachary said, not looking up from his eggs. “We’ll find some black ice and I’ll throw you at it.”

  A sensation lightened Darkwyn’s chest and erupted without notice. Laughter from deep down, a release of sorts, heralding his optimism at finding these two people who mattered so much to him. “If you saw me in dragon form, you, too, would see the humor in your statement.”

  “Satire,” Puck said from the open window, “an obsolete kind of literary composition in which the vices and follies of the author’s enemies are expounded with imperfect tenderness.”

  Darkwyn ignored the bird he’d released after Drak’s closed and worried about Bronte’s fear. “What will happen if the people who are looking for you find you?”

  Zachary slammed a fist on the table. “Bronte, you told him?”

  She ignored the boy’s outburst. “They’ll start by taking us back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Canada.”

  “As I understand it, Canada has a border. Wouldn’t kidnappers be stopped there?”

  “At the border, they’d force us through. We’re Canadian citizens, not American. We don’t have green cards. Being legal would help protect us from going back, but we’re illegal.”

  Darkwyn sat forward. “Vivica can make you legal.”

  “Not fast enough. The quickest and easiest way to get legal is to marry somebody who is.”

  “I’m legal.”

  Zachary stopped clearing the table. “A legal dragon?”

  Darkwyn ignored him. “Marry me and you’re legal. But wait,” Darkwyn added, fork halfway to his mouth. “What about Zachary? Would they take him back?”

  “As my ward, wouldn’t he have to stay with me?”

  “Bronte,” Zachary said. “If Sanguedolce couldn’t take us back, he’d have his goons kill us here. Or kill me, I should say. But then you, too, ’cause you’d know who killed me. And I’m not sure you’ve got a handle on that green card business. I should have stopped building coffin wheels and carousels long enough to do the research.”

  “That settles it,” Darkwyn said, leaving the table. “First I’ll read our statement to the news crews; then, Bronte, you and I will get married; then Zachary, you are going to tell me why you have this non-age-appropriate wisdom, and are nearly as weird as I am.”

  Bronte stood. “You want me to marry a dragon?”

  Darkwyn tilted his head. “You would rather die?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Inside Bite Me, before it opened, Bronte stood beside Zachary in the pub’s dark recesses to watch Darkwyn approach Roger Rudder and the psycho sidekick who’d goaded Darkwyn into talking last night.

  Lila and Scorch followed Darkwyn down the Phoenix porch steps to the sidewalk. They were her cats, yes, but they adored Darkwyn. She could relate, though if he screwed this up . . .

  She spelled a silent plea to Darkwyn and the universe for positive results:“Stand strong, back straight.

  Questions are to bait;

  Count to ten and wait.

  Ruffle not a hair.

  Show not a care.

  Truth bends; be aware.

  Twist Rudder’s tongue,

  So mote it be done.

  This, I will, harm it none.”

  The press held mikes out to Darkwyn as he arrived, but the minute she finished her spell, fizzle and hiss! Cartoon-like fireworks popped at Roger Rudder’s feet, sounding like cereal on steroids. Or microphone interference. Good, he looked like an idiot, jumping around like he needed a men’s room.

  Darkwyn raised his chin and waited while the journalist danced to her tune, an idiot doing a fast tiptoe through the tulips. Could only Rudder see her wonky spell? If so, it half worked.

  “Well,” Zachary said. “Whatever spell you cast, you put a little fear of magick into the loser. Rudder, I mean, not Darkwyn.”

  She squeezed the boy’s shoulders. “Shush.”

  After Darkwyn read the statement and put her script in his pocket, he picked up the cats and continued to shake his head as if refusing to answer questions. “Good man,” Bronte said. “Now get out of there.”

  “Did you ever hear of a cat that glowed in the dark?” Zachary asked as he opened a bottle of whiskey and held it beneath his nose, his sigh filled with regret.

  Bronte took the bottle and put a stopper in it. “There is no breed of cat that glows in the dark.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Why hasn’t Darkwyn walked away yet?” Bronte asked no one in particular.

  “You really like him don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you going to marry him?”

  “Probably.”

  “He’s that good?”

  “Will you at least try and act like a twelve-year-old? We’re not alone anymore. You’re not very good at hiding that old soul around the house, in case I never mentioned it.”

  “Why start now?”

  “Darkwyn’s not as simple as Ogden. And if I marry him, it’s because he can protect us.”

  “I’m glad Ogden’s recovering. I especially like that he kept to himself. I wish Darkwyn would. Can he be trusted?”

  “Not if he just answered a question, which is what it looks like.”

  “Are you evading my question?”

  “No. No, I’m not. Yes, Darkwyn can be trusted. He came highly recommended by Vivica, trouble free, healthy as a . . . dragon . . . and he’s got a story as astonishing as yours, and, well, I have good instincts. I’d stake my life on the fact that he can be trusted.”

  “You are staking your life on it.”

  “Darkwyn Dragonelli may be the best break we’ve ever had.”

  “That’s not hard. He would be our first break. My mother was the lucky one, dying young.”

  Bronte’s eyes filled. “She was my sister. Do you mind?” Bronte said. “I’m selfish enough to wish she had survived your birth.”

  “Look,” Zachary said, “your dragon’s coming back and the press vans are leaving.”

  “Goddess, he’s gorgeous,” she said. “He takes my breath away.”

  “You love him.”

  “Of course not. In lust with, maybe. It’s only been a few days. But seriously, when’s the last time I ever stumbled across a gentle man?”

  “A dragon nicknamed Black Ice? Does he breathe fire? And if he does, wouldn’t that melt his ice?”

  “You know, he does have the hottest breath.” Bronte tapped the bar. “You’re right. I’m such a
loser.”

  Darkwyn stepped into the dark pub and locked the door behind him. “Paperboy just came.” He placed the newspaper on the bar beside them. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Bronte picked it up. “What are you sorry for?”

  Zachary ignored them, took the rolled paper from her hand, and unfolded it. “Front damned page. Nice headline: ‘Drak’s features Vampire Dragon.’ ”

  “Oh no,” Bronte said. “That’s a picture of me last night on my balcony.”

  Darkwyn slipped an arm around her. “I like you in that pink nightgown.”

  She squeaked. “You can practically see through it.”

  “That’s what I like best.”

  She leaned into him. “So what are you sorry for? Can I just say, on the plus side, that at least they didn’t get a picture of us leaping.”

  Darkwyn flipped the page over. The bottom half featured two pictures of him, one in midleap, between his balcony and hers, one between the ground and her balcony, the caption: “Vampire Dragon flies, but does he breath fire?”

  “They did get a picture of you leap—oh, never mind,” Zachary added. “Euphemism. Got it. Can you breathe fire? Seriously.”

  “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  “Cut it out, both of you,” Bronte snapped. “This is a disaster, or it will be, if these pictures go viral.”

  Zachary scoffed. “You don’t for one minute think they won’t?”

  “Bronte,” Darkwyn said. “Don’t cry. Do you think they will come from Canada, if they see this?”

  Zachary groaned. “Exactly how much have you told him?”

  “He doesn’t know who or why or anything. He knows exactly what you heard during the green card talk at breakfast.”

  “I am not invisible,” Darkwyn muttered. “Now I know how Jagidy must feel.”

  Jagidy raised a clenched fist in thanks.

  “Who the heck is Jagidy?” Zachary asked.

  “He’s my guardian dragon. Small, green, invisible, and in love with your aunt.”

  Zachary hit his ear with the heel of his hand like he had water in it and couldn’t have heard correctly. “Nothing much magickal matters at this point, I suppose,” the boy said. “Darkwyn, would you breath fire for Bronte if she needed saving?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Bronte rounded on her nephew. “Honestly, Zach!”

  “Please call me Zachary. My dignity is at stake. Listen, if dragon man here breathes fire, I’m all for you marrying him. I’d like to see him to turn Sanguedolce and his henchmen into crispy critters.”

  Bronte gasped. “I’ve never known you to be so bloodthirsty.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’ve had enough of running. Truth is, they might as well have taken a gun to my mother’s head, and to both of us, as well.”

  “Don’t put it past them. But that’s the jaded old man in you talking.”

  “So it is.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tired of being the one with all the answers, Bronte turned to Darkwyn. “What’s our next step?”

  “First we watch the news,” Darkwyn said, “I am on in fifteen minutes. Then we plan our wedding. Then, Zachary, you and I are going to have a talk.”

  “About the birds and bees?”

  “No, old man—which I’ve heard one time too many to be a mistake.”

  Zachary got his guard up. “You can’t believe—”

  “I was a Roman warrior turned into a dragon. I can believe. I do believe.”

  They sat on the sofa and turned on the TV to wait for the news.

  “Darkwyn, what did you say to them?” Bronte asked. “They wouldn’t be saying ‘stay tuned for a word with Salem’s own Vampire Dragon’ if all you did was read the statement.”

  “I might have attempted to discredit myself.”

  “That’s bad.” She punched him in the arm. “Bad dragon!”

  “Shh,” Zachary said. “Here’s the segment.”

  “You look good on camera,” Bronte said, and Zachary rolled his eyes.

  “So,” the reporter asked him. “Are you a Vampire Dragon?”

  “Yes, I am. And my cats have wings and glow in the dark with a sort of prehistoric phosphorescence.”

  Zachary sat forward. “I knew it!”

  “The wings are invisible to you, but they’re here,” Darkwyn told the reporter. “This one is Lila, because of her lilac points. And this little kitty just might be Killian the evil Sorceress of Chaos. Hers are black leather wings. Since lightning is Killian’s specialty, and this little kitty looks a bit charred, we call her Scorch.” He waved their paws. “Wave hello to all the witches out there.”

  “So, ladies and gentlemen,” the reporter said, once again dancing to her silly fake fireworks like a puppet on an invisible string. “Decide for yourself.” He wiped his brow. “This is Salem, after all, and I’ve been reporting on supernaturals coming through the veil for months. The evidence is overwhelming. Is this man one of them? Is he a man at all? Ask yourself this: Is Salem’s Vampire Dragon, Darkwyn Dragonelli, telling us the mystical truth while making it sound unbelievable to throw us off the scent? This is Roger Rudder, your eye on the veil.”

  “Good going, Bronte,” Zachary said. “Your backfiring spells worked, more or less.”

  “So did my brilliance. I’ll take a kiss, Bronte,” Darkwyn said. “For doing so well. Then I’ll kiss you for your spells.”

  Bronte crossed the room to evade him. “Mind your manners.”

  “I can’t take it,” Zachary said, jumping off the sofa. “If you two get married, I’m moving to the fourth floor. I’ll eat here, maybe, if I’m invited, but I’ll call ahead.”

  Darkwyn gave her a look. “He really doesn’t sound like a twelve-year-old.”

  “Look at him,” she said. “He’s a cranky kid.”

  “Maybe, but as for watching what I say, heck, last week I was a dragon. How do I know what manners to watch?”

  “Or how to keep your mouth shut,” Bronte mumbled.

  “Or that. Nevertheless, I know a lot about protecting the people I love, so we are getting married.”

  “You sound happy about that.” Bronte felt a little glow inside. “I’m scared.” She wasn’t kidding. “And I want a proposal.”

  “I am happy, but I have to look up ‘proposal.’ I’m not even sure I can afford one?”

  “Ask her, you freakadelic dragosapien. Propose marriage.”

  Darkwyn shrugged, Zachary’s insults rolling off his back, charming the hex out of her.

  “There’s a three-day waiting period in Salem,” Darkwyn said. “But the county clerk can waive that without a court order, with the proper paperwork, so it’s possible we could get the license and get married today. Vivica’s taking care of the paperwork for us. So will you . . . marry me?”

  “I’m underwhelmed. How does Vivica know?”

  “I called her between breakfast and meeting the press. She already has a Wiccan priestess, licensed to perform the ceremony, on standby.”

  “Scorch!” Bronte said of the cat taking a tightrope walk across the top of the flat screen, wings balanced upward. “Darkwyn . . . she does have black leather wings. Lila, where are you?” Bronte called. “Come to mommy.”

  Here came Lila, lilac lace wings bouncing as she ran. Bronte felt like she’d entered another dimension. “Why didn’t I see their wings before?”

  “For the same reason you didn’t see Jagidy. You didn’t have any dragon magick.”

  “Now I do?”

  “I made a tactical error when I let you into my bath this morning.”

  Bronte gave him a pout sure to make him horny. “Now, you’re hurting my feelings.”

  “No, I liked having you there, but dragon magick passes through water. The smaller the body of water, the more intact the magick.”

  “You know,” Zachary said, “I didn’t need to know that you two shared a bath this morning, especially not how much you enjoyed it, perv.”

  Bronte raised a hand to her
hip. “Zachary, you know my bathroom connects to his; you know I was in there. You’re hardly innocent. Spare me the dramatics.”

  “Fine. Now tell me these cats do not have wings.”

  “They do. And there’s a tiny green guardian dragon flying around you who blows colored smoke.”

  Darkwyn nodded. “That’s how he tests people to see if they’re safe.”

  “What color is unsafe?” Bronte asked. “Now that I can see him, I’ll be able to tell if any of our guests are Sanguedolce’s men.”

  “Black smoke means evil intent.”

  “Jagidy’s smoke isn’t black around Scorch right now. It’s green. So Scorch isn’t Killian?”

  “I’m not quite sure. But Scorch is scary. Watch what you say around her. And green smoke means neither good nor bad, like for people who don’t give a bustard’s ear about us, or in this case, I’m guessing it means that Killian is, at this minute, doing her evil deeds elsewhere.”

  Zachary waved his hands back and forth over the cats’ backs. “So Roger Rudder is right about supernaturals coming through the veil?”

  “He is, but he sounds like a jerk when he says it, doesn’t he? He’s been stalking Vivica, but my brother Jaydun is protecting her. She helps all of us who come through. She’s like the gatekeeper and the best judge of character I know.”

  “What other color smoke should I look for?” Bronte asked.

  “Red smoke is celebratory. Purple is for love, which is why Jagidy blows purple your way. Yellow means good intentions or good people.”

  “What was with the rainbow after he fell in the tub?”

  “The water he swallowed probably screwed up his ‘fire to smoke’ proportions for a bit.”

  “I know I’m out of my twelve-year-old mind for asking, but is Jagidy a real dragon?”

  “Are you a real boy?” Darkwyn raised a questioning brow. “Yes, Jagidy’s real. He’s an elder, a lech of a dragon, the way he chases Bronte, but he’s real.”

  “He’s not the only chaser where Bronte’s concerned,” Zachary mumbled as Jagidy flew invisibly around him blowing yellow smoke.

  “Andra, our sorceress,” Darkwyn told Zachary, “shrinks the elders to get them here, one with each of us. It’s like repurposing them. Preserves their strength and ability to travel, and extends their lives. Otherwise they wouldn’t survive the trip or they’d die on the island. We learned about the possibility when Whyzind got caught up in the spell with Bastian.”