Sera's Dragon

by Lexxie Couper

  Unless someone killed him, unless someone did the impossible and took him from her…

  No!

  Her Fire Mate’s eyes shimmered white-yellow as he trained his gaze on the Extraho Venator and let out a deafening screech, wings spreading, teeth baring. Sera’s stomach rolled. The strong ocean breezes ripped through her hair like brutal fingers and she screamed at Tyson to get away, to fly, even as she heard another taut thwack from behind her.

  NO!

  A second bolt—silver and black and sharp—sliced through the air barely an inch from her head. Sera’s hair tore at her scalp as the bolt’s speed sucked it into its wake and even that was slow. Impossibly slow. Hideously slow. So slow she could see it piercing the night. Heading for her dragon. Her lover. Tyson.

  She opened her mouth and screamed again, lunging forward. Throwing herself through the impossibly thick sludge of air between her and Tyson. Fighting physics to stop the second crossbow bolt from spearing into his body…

  And he lurched aside, one massive wing swiping forward to deflect the bow, a spray of blood spurting from the stretched membrane where the bolt’s tip had sliced him before falling to the ground.

  Behind her, the old lady let out a vicious hiss stream of curses.

  Cold, furious grief consumed Sera.

  Controlled her.

  She spun away from Ty, fists balled, jaw clenched, and ran at the Extraho Venator.

  Ready to kill the old bitch.

  She crashed into the woman just as the hunter was bringing up the cocked silver crossbow once again.

  It was like slamming into a sponge-covered skeleton. Sera drove her shoulder straight into the dragon hunter’s bony chest, driving her backward. The woman let out a furious shout, glasses falling from her face, but before she could right herself, Sera smashed her to the ground.

  Cold pain detonated in Sera’s knees, switching to an agonizing burn as the gritty concrete tore open her jeans, then her flesh. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The old woman was writhing and thrashing and bucking beneath her with such force, Sera could barely pin her to the ground.

  God, how can she fight like this? She’s too old…

  She scrambled for the hunter’s wrists, desperate to stop the swinging punches the old duck flung at her.

  One smashed into Sera’s jaw, hard enough to fill her head with black smudges of dizziness. Behind her, Tyson screeched, and even as Sera struggled with the Extraho Venator she could hear his cries were nowhere near as strong as before.

  Another fist cracked against her jaw and this time she toppled sideways.

  It was enough for the old woman to worm out from under her, wiggle a few feet away. Sera saw a flash of pink running shoe before the woman’s foot connected with her shoulder. Her jaw. Her cheek.

  Another screech tore through the night sky, weaker still. Sera’s stomach rolled. If she didn’t do something soon…if she didn’t stop the old bat…if she didn’t help Ty…

  She clawed at the hunter’s legs as the old bitch attempted to crawl away, part of her brain noting the saggy, flesh-colored nylon stockings stretched over boney knees and stringy calves. And then Sera’s mind blanked and she let out a shout.

  The woman reached for the crossbow, her hand just inches away—

  White-blue fire blasted the weapon, engulfing it in flames.

  The old woman screamed—part fury, part pain. She recoiled, rolled to her back, fingers black and nails on fire. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh, the sound of bacon sizzling in a frying pan.

  Sera watched, struck dumb, as the hunter shook her smoldering hand. Gaped when the woman rammed already-blistering fingers into her mouth.

  Then came back to her senses and threw herself at the dragon hunter again.

  But not before the bitch rolled over and reached for the crossbow once more, still glowing white-hot, its last bolt cocked.

  NO!

  She scrambled to grab her legs, the Extraho Venator’s boney limbs writhing, thrashing.

  “Get off me, you hussy!” the old woman spat, trying to dislodge her.

  Sera was having none of it. She was going to get the damn crossbow, ram it down the old cow’s throat and pull the—

  A heel struck her in the throat. Hard.

  She collapsed sideward, her lungs instantly screaming for a breath she couldn’t pull. Christ, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t—

  The woman staggered to her feet. Another kick smashed into Sera, and if she wasn’t freaking out so much about not being able to breathe, she would have cried out with frantic pain.

  “Going to teach you a lesson later, missy!”

  The old woman’s voice came at Sera from a long way away. Or was it Tyson’s wail that seemed so distant? So faint?

  “But first I have a dragon to kill.”

  The words sank into Sera like a blade. Cold. Cutting.

  Hideous.

  And Sera screamed. Her throat opened and air stripped it raw as she drew a ragged breath then screamed out her agony.

  She scrambled to her feet. Rage took hold. Propelled her forward. She’d be fucked if she was going to let a senior citizen kill her Fire Mate.

  The old woman stumbled backward, wide stare darting from Sera to Tyson. Sera couldn’t look at him. Not until she’d torn the bitch apart. Not until she’d destroyed the very thing trying to destroy him. She ran at the Extraho Venator again, cold satisfaction racing through her veins as the geriatric turned and fell to her knees.

  YES!

  She leaped at the now-cowering woman—at the very second Tyson let out another screech.

  At the very second the old duck snared her fingers around the crossbow and swung it up in a savage arc. Smashing the solid silver stock into her jaw.

  Fireworks burst in Sera’s vision. Time slowed. She felt herself float through the air for what seemed like a lifetime—and then crash to the ground.

  Her head hit the concrete. The taste of copper filled her mouth, coated her tongue. She groaned, pain tearing at her body.

  Pain and terror and grief.

  Ty. Oh God, you have to stop her. You have to save—

  Something hard stomped on her chest. Sera’s eyes flung open and she stared at the Extraho Venator grinning down at her through pain-fogged vision.

  “Such an annoying little cunt,” the old woman commented, her voice snippy. Oddly disappointed. “Still, you’ve made this fun.”

  Somewhere far, far away, something roared.

  “Hear that?” the hunter smiled, pink lipstick smeared over her wrinkled face. “The dragon’s dying. It’s the magic of the bolts. Made with pure silver and an ancient enchantment. Not only poisons the blood, but inhibits the dragon’s ability to emit fire or fly away.” The old woman snorted. “Which makes it easier for me to cut its heart out while it’s still beating, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Get the fuck off me!” Sera raked her blunt nails down the woman’s shin, her calf.

  The old bitch hissed, contemptuous fury etching her seamed face as she drilled her heel into Sera’s chest. She bent a little, staring hard at Sera. “Going to wash that filthy mouth of yours out with soap, missy. After I kill the—”

  Sera smashed her fist into the side of the woman’s knee.

  The hunter squealed, staggering sideways, her face contorted in pain. “Bitch!” she spat through clenched teeth. Teeth, Sera noted with surreal clarity, smudged with bright pink lipstick.

  Eyes wild, the woman jerked the crossbow up to her chest. Aimed it squarely at Sera’s heart. “If I didn’t need this last bolt to immobilize the dragon, I’d put it right between your—”

  A burst of blue-white fire streamed over Sera like a spear of incinerating heat.

  Engulfing the Extraho Venator in fire so hot, so bright and blinding white, it was all Sera could do not to look away.

  And there was no way in hell she was looking away.

  Five seconds later—surely it wasn’t more?—the flame was gone and the
dragon hunter stood motionless before her. Or rather, a body of incinerated ash did.

  For a breathless second the ashes of the Extraho Venator’s form held their integrity, maintained the shape of her body. And then they dissolved. One second there, like a charcoal-covered statue, and in the blink of an eye, nothing but a pile of gray soot on the ground.

  Chapter 7

  Sera’s heart slammed into her throat. She stared at the ash scattering across the gritty concrete car park.

  And spun around when she felt the nerve endings in her body thrum and heard Tyson groan.

  “Ah, fuck that hurts.”

  He stood naked and hunched, one bleeding arm hanging limply by his side, his other hand tentatively reaching for the bolt buried in his chest just above his heart. His fingers brushed its thick length gingerly—and he staggered sideward, eyes closing.

  “Ty!”

  She ran, catching him just in time to stop him collapsing entirely to the ground. Blood oozed from the ragged flesh around the bolt. His skin was slick with cold sweat and her fingers slid on his arms, his back. She went down to the ground, holding him to her body, supporting him. Cradling his upper body in her lap.

  “Oh God, Ty!” She jerked her stare from his face to the bolt sticking up so rudely from his flesh and muscle, and back to his face again. His eyes were closed, his skin white, so white. “Don’t you fucking die on me!”

  He chuckled, a weak hiccup of a laugh that made her stomach roll. “Didn’t…see that…coming.”

  Sera shook her head, lifting her fingers to the blood-drenched bolt. “Yeah,” she let out a dry chuckle, her heart racing, “you’ll need to up your game next time.”

  He laughed again, weaker this time. “I’ll…do…my best.”

  Off in the distance a siren wailed, so faint she could barely hear it. Loud enough to tell her someone had called the authorities. With all the screeching and screaming that had gone on, she was surprised they weren’t here already.

  She swallowed, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder. Lights filled the windows of the houses, more than one dark silhouette visible. She was running out of time. God, what should she do?

  Turning back to Tyson, she let out a strained breath. “How did she find us?”

  Tyson shook his head, a wobbly movement that made him hiss. “No…idea. A GPS…tracker…my bike…I guess.” He hissed again, his face scrunching up, fresh beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  Sera studied his face, her gut churning. If she could resurrect the fucking dragon hunter, she would, just so she could kill the old bitch. “We have two options, babe,” she stated. “I call an ambulance and answer a gazillion questions I’m sure neither of us can truly answer, or I put my zoologist hat on and…” She stopped, dropping her gaze once more to the bolt piercing Tyson’s chest. It was so close to his heart. Even with her limited knowledge of human anatomy, she knew that—and something told her Komodo-dragon anatomy and dragon-shifter anatomy weren’t really in the same ballpark. If she pulled it out, what would she be risking? If she left it there, how much longer would he survive?

  He’s going to die, Sera. No matter what you do, he’s going to die.

  She bit back a sob. Fuck, what should she do? What could she do?

  The approaching sirens grew louder.

  “Sera.”

  Tyson’s soft voice jerked her attention to his face and she found him gazing at her through heavy eyelids.

  His tongue scraped over his bottom lip in a slow swipe, his breath coming from him in short, raspy pants. “I…didn’t mean…this…”

  Scorching heat ribboned through her. Twisting through her belly, her chest, deep into her heart. Part stubborn denial, part furious determination, part unfathomable understanding, part something beyond her comprehension.

  No. She wasn’t going to let this happen. She wasn’t. He was her Fire Mate, her lizard boy. And she was the queen of caring for lizards. It’s what she had done her entire life. She’d found wounded reptiles and cared for them as a child, had been caring for a special reptile her entire career. She was Sera Hayes, the country’s best Komodo-dragon expert. Her job was looking after a scaly, rare, exotic creature.

  Tyson was no bloody different. He was just as rare, just as exotic and sometimes just as scaly, and if he thought she was going to let one pissy little crossbow bolt ruin everything that now mattered in her life, he had a lot to learn about this particular human.

  She ground her teeth, fixing him with a hard, unwavering stare. “You owe me a Puff the Komodo dragon T-shirt, buddy,” she muttered before, taking care not to bump Tyson too much, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and yanked it over her head.

  The warm night air flowed over her body, pebbled her nipples. She ignored the sensation, instead bunching the soft cotton into a wad and resting it lightly on Tyson’s chest, right beside the bolt. Ready to stuff the wound with the shirt the second she pulled the bolt free of his flesh.

  Free of his flesh? Are you insane? You can’t do that. You can’t!

  But instinct told her she had to. Instinct that felt so right. She had no choice. Something was telling her it was the only way to save him. Something she didn’t understand but trusted beyond question. It made no sense, but she knew she had to pull the bolt from his chest. She knew it was going to be okay.

  She knew.

  She gazed into Tyson’s eyes. “This is going to hurt, babe.”

  He smiled, the action slow. “I…kn—”

  Before he finished the word, Sera pulled the bolt from his chest.

  Blood erupted from the wound, thick and brilliant red.

  “Fuck!” Sera cried, shoving the wadded shirt against the wound.

  And still his life force flowed from him like a river, soaking the shirt until his blood oozed over her fingers and dripped to the ground.

  Stop it now!

  A scalding tingle whipped over her flesh. Her fingertips burned.

  Save him! Save your Fire Mate!

  Gaze locked on Tyson’s gray face, Sera threw the drenched T-shirt aside, lifted her hands and pressed them, one atop the other, over the ragged hole above his heart.

  Another white-hot tingle tore over her flesh, down her arms, into her hands. She jerked, teeth clenched, heart hammering.

  The stench of burning flesh filled her nose. The sound of hissing meat filled her ears. Tyson groaned, his teeth clenched, his eyes squeezed shut. He stiffened on her lap, one hand flailing on the ground, the other finding her shoulder. Grabbing her. Holding her.

  Molten heat blazed in her hands and, unable not to look, Sera dropped her gaze.

  They looked no different. They just looked like her hands. Hands she’d had her whole life. Nails blunt and a little dirty, fingers long and a little crooked, more than a few freckles marking skin overdue for moisturizer. A faint scar from a run-in with an irritated monitor lizard three years ago crossed the back of the right one. Her hands, just her hands, nothing special about them and yet they felt on fire.

  “This can’t be sanitary,” she muttered—a heartbeat before she realized there was no blood oozing from between her fingers or under her palms.

  She blinked. Tyson’s wound no longer bled and his skin was no longer gray. In fact, he seemed to almost glow. As if he was…

  On fire.

  Excruciating heat engulfed her hands, as if she’d plunged them into lava. And still she pressed her palms to Tyson’s chest, held them to the hole left by the bolt. She pressed her hands harder to his flesh until certain knowledge filled her—now is the time—and she jerked her hands away to stare at his chest.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Holy fuck, what the hell?

  The wound was gone.

  No, that was wrong. It was still there but healed. Like it had been cauterized.

  She swallowed, staring at her palms. “How the—”

  “I suspect…” Tyson’s low murmur jerked her gaze from her hands and she found him looking up at her, his eyes clear and d
irect and alert. So very alert. And knowing. “That Celtic father of yours had Druid blood in his veins.”

  Sera stared at her palms, her normal, slightly grimy palms.

  “As well as dragon shifter,” Tyson finished.

  “What does that mean?”

  He laughed, touching his fingertips to her jaw. “It means, my sweet Fire Mate, once upon a time, one of your ancestors must have been a Druid…mysterious religious men who, as the legend goes, were all about a harmonious relationship with the dragons of lore.” He traced his thumb over her bottom lip. “And it means your Celtic Druid great-great-great-great-great grandfather or whoever most likely got it on with a dragon shifter and all sorts of magic happened.”

  “Y’know, I keep thinking I’ve reached the end of this surreal, insane education and then you just go and teach me some more.” She frowned, her pulse pounding. Because she’d just healed a dragon with her bare hands. Or maybe because said dragon had just told her she’s a Druid. Who the fuck knew? She didn’t. “Does this mean I’m some kind of Druidy witch or something?”

  He chuckled. “Hon, this means if I cut myself shaving, I’m not really going to need to go looking for a Band-Aid.”

  Before Sera knew it, she was laughing. And crying. At once. She swiped at her cheeks, her head spinning. “Holy shit, I don’t even know what to say at this point. And to think the highlight of my days used to be guessing what color Puff’s scat would be each morning.”

  Tyson grinned. “Hon, I have no clue what that even means.”

  She laughed. “It means I had a bloody boring life until you came along.”

  His dark eyes twinkled. “Aren’t you glad I did?”

  She nodded. “I think the answer to that is a resounding yes.”

  His eyes twinkled more, damn near close to flickering with mischief. “Now, there’s a set of clothes in my bike’s saddlebag. How ’bout I get dressed and we go home? There are wickedly hot things I want to do to you right now and I have to say, the locals have had enough excitement for one night. And those sirens are getting a tad too close for my liking.”

  She stared at him. This was all so…so… Fuck, she didn’t know what it was, but it was so something.