“We leave soon. I no longer need to patrol. We will prepare the van.”
The music of her seers played over his mind, first her sweet oboe of her past-seer, then her present-seer flute, then her future-seer piccolo, all still drunk. Still random.
But she must have pulled at least some information out of the noise. “Go out and get more fresh air before the rain comes.”
And let her out of his sight? What if she passed out again?
“I’m fine! I’ll eat.” She waved at him again. “Go on.”
Rysa walked toward the building’s center. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, probably to call Derek.
She wasn’t fine. Fine did not mean fine. He saw it in how she walked. Her legs hurt.
Billy glanced at Ladon, then up at Dragon, before following her down the aisle.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rain moved in, as rain often did in Portland, and they would leave this miserable place for the Burner-free security of home once it passed. That, at least, they agreed upon, including Derek.
Derek slapped a thick layer of roast beef between two pieces of bread and dropped the sandwich onto a wide, disposable platter. He had found no end of supplies in the break room’s kitchenette, including towels made out of recycled paper, plates formed out of reclaimed God-knows-what, and unusual, biodegradable utensils and cups. They were, most definitely, in Portland.
With Burners. And a crusty emperor.
Hadrian claimed Rysa’s lack of healing was caused by Fates as good at stitching the present as her mother. Fates who had, in effect, dropped the knowledge of how to heal her into a gaping hole in the center of what-was-is-will-be and the only way to get it out of them was to engage in the good, old-fashioned destruction of one’s enemies.
Or so Hadrian said.
Earlier, after Brother-Dragon took Ladon outside and before Rysa woke up, Derek and Anna took turns watching over Ladon’s van. Derek had gone off to sleep. Turned out that Rysa woke during the moment Anna left and only Sister-Dragon hung from the ceiling.
The beast had not made her presence immediately known to Rysa. She had called in her brother instead. The dragons still grumbled at each other.
His wife, at least, placed the talon inside the blade locker in Ladon’s van. The Burners could not get to it. Nor Hadrian, for that matter.
“So you leave for your hideaway in the mountains after the storm passes?” Hadrian leaned against the sink. “You know as well as I do the true answer to this problem is somewhere inside the Praesagio Labs.”
Derek glanced at Hadrian, wondering what he wanted out of all this, and set two apples next to the sandwich. Hadrian’s one-track mind was beginning to smack of fanaticism. “Anna thinks—and I agree—that through all of her trials, what Rysa has needed the most is a healer. The strongest one available.”
Dunn, if they could find her. But bringing in the Shifter Progenitor would make the situation worse. And she would likely try to take Derek again.
A new snatch attempt would be a nice test of the limits of his enthraller immunity. Derek picked up the tray as he shoved the thoughts away. His body was not the issue at the moment. “Rysa needs her father.”
Hadrian stood up. He tapped the countertop as if he wanted to sidestep the way Rysa did when she was agitated. “Her father?”
“Alessandro de la Turris.”
Hadrian slapped the counter. “A de la Turris impregnated a Jani Fate?”
Derek set down the tray again and tried very hard not to roll his eyes. “Your point is?” Why were the long immortal always shocked when Fates and Shifters got along, much less made babies? Rysa was not the only hybrid. Not by a long shot.
Hadrian snorted. “You won’t find him.”
“What?” Did the bastard know something?
Hadrian looked away. “We tried, when my Philip grew sick. We looked for the strongest healer. One who could tackle the cancer. Alessandro de la Turris is a man who does not wish to be found.”
Derek remembered Hadrian’s companion from the party in Chicago, in ‘45, when he first met Anna. But the memory was fleeting. He had been otherwise occupied.
“I’m sorry.” Some illnesses were beyond even the strongest healers: Parcae sickness, reversing old age, some cancers. As Hadrian knew.
The Emperor slapped the counter again. “Do not allow the Dracos to fall victim to that bastard Trajan. He may have returned her talisman, but I can assure you, he knew it would do no good. He always knows.”
Derek heard the dragons when Rysa woke up. Hell, he heard her when she woke up. He had been asleep, unlike his brother-in-law.
The anger bubbling off Ladon had made them all stand back. His beast held the worst of it in check, but it washed off the man in waves, no matter the depth of his denial. “I am not angry,” he had told Anna in a quiet, flat tone.
No, he was determined. Determined to protect Rysa. Determined to not allow Shifters to steal from them again. Determined to make it stop.
Derek tapped the platter. He would take Rysa the apples and a spinach salad, as well. And the multivitamin supplements he’d purchased at their last stop.
Hadrian watched. “Her illness makes her eat like a bodybuilder.” The Emperor leaned against the counter again, his shoulders now slumped. Thinking of illnesses did not help his mood. Or his attitude.
“She eats what she needs to eat.” Derek added a couple of bottles of water to the tray. She had lost more weight. Ten hours without eating and the dropping of pounds was obvious. She looked more gaunt with each passing moment.
“Are you going to speak with Ladon-Human?” Hadrian nodded toward the roof.
Derek picked up the tray. “About what?” He’d already instructed Dmitri to widen his search for a healer. At this point, talking to Ladon about it would only serve to unsettle him more.
Hadrian frowned, stood, and rubbed his face. “We need to prepare.”
“Let her eat, Emperor.”
Hadrian had slept earlier, now that he had others watching the Burners, but his fatigue showed. He might be immortal, but he was still a normal.
His admission about Philip showed on his face, and showed just how normal he was.
The Emperor plucked an apple off the tray and bit into it. “I have heard rumors of ‘the End Times.’” Hadrian took a bite of his stolen apple. “Such beliefs lead people into stupid behaviors.” He shook his head. “One would think the long immortal would know better.”
Humanity moved from one End Time to the next in fits and spurts. Over the course of Derek’s life alone, there had been several “end of days” already. The normals of this era did not realize the safety of their modern lives.
For a brief flash, the fresh scent of fruit in the air made Derek think of a coming harvest time and gathering the bounty of the cave’s garden. Of his wife laughing, and perhaps Rysa as well. Of happy women and good food in a place where the many endings of time held no impact.
The place where they would at least be safe from the obvious threats.
The what-will-be held several possibilities, not all of them ending the world. He had to remember that. And he would have to remind his brother-in-law of it as well.
“The Parcae and their prophecies are a self-sustaining system.” Derek turned toward the door with the tray. Time to make sure the one Fate who could sustain his family did not die of starvation.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Derek set the bottle of bad American vodka on the warehouse shelf next to the Burner’s foot. He’d found several fifths of liquor in the bottom drawer of the warehouse foreman’s desk, the vodka being the most palatable.
Though “palatable” was more a comparison than an absolute, in this case.
The sound of thunder rolled through the warehouse and echoed from the far walls to the stacks where Billy sat on a shelf six feet off the ground, swinging his legs and watching the loading dock. Rysa ate her meal, framed by the gray of the storm.
Outside, out of sight
, Ladon watched her from the other side.
Derek also set down two tumblers. The stench of the ghoul made his nose itch, but his recent upgrade seemed to minimize the gagging. He clinked the glasses together. “Do you still drink, fiend?”
The ex-rock star who swung his legs over the side of the shelf frowned. “Fuck you, you pretty Russian tosser. Some friend you are.”
Derek laughed and tapped his temple. “Manchester, am I correct? I hear it in your voice.”
“What do you care?” Billy glanced up at the ceiling, then down at Derek, his eyes flashing red. “Where’s Scary Girlfriend’s dino-dog?” His hands cupped his neck.
Anything that stopped a Burner’s blood flowing would set off the crystallization process that caused them to implode. And explode. Snapping necks, direct damage to the heart, the correct head shot.
The Burners, for the most part, seemed to understand just as well as those who hunted them what it took to cause their deaths—and often, considerable destruction. But like everything Burner, their explosive capacity was as random as their behavior.
Which was why Derek decided a nice talk with the leader of this gang might be in order. Organizing was not typical of the ghouls.
“She is nearby. Do not fret.” Derek pulled himself up onto the shelf and sat next to Billy, also dangling his legs. If the Burner got any ideas, he could jump off without issue.
Billy looked him up and down. The Burner’s nylon jacket crinkled as he leaned back and cocked his head in the strange way all Burners seemed to do. “I’d rather have a sandwich like you gave the princess.” He pointed at the loading dock.
The Burner’s cheeks tightened and his eyes grew wide, like a hungry child. But when he glanced at the vodka, his face took on the pinched determination of an addict trying to resist temptation. Derek glanced back at the drink. Could a Burner be an alcoholic?
“You eat food?” Derek flipped over the tumblers and pushed both the liquor and the glasses behind a box.
Billy’s face changed. For a moment, he once again looked like a hungry child. A very dangerous, very brutal hungry child. “I’m still a person, you prissy wanker.” He looked over his shoulder at the break room. “Got any biscuits in there?”
Billy wanted cookies? “I will need to look.”
“Then go look. And take your Russian sewage with you.” He pointed at the vodka.
Derek tapped the edge of the shelf with his finger. They sat in front of a pallet of electric griddles, each in a gaudy box covered with the faces of happy middle-American families eating cheeseburgers.
No wonder the Burner was hungry. “What do you normally eat?”
Billy frowned. “Why?”
“Because I am asking. Ladon will not allow you near Rysa if he thinks you are a true threat.”
Billy sighed. His teeth clicked and his eyes drooped in very much the same way Derek had seen the locals in Rock Springs react to ignorant tourist questions. Though with Billy, the teeth-clicking carried a much more unsettling connotation than simple annoyance.
“What I steal. No one wants us in their restaurants.” He shrugged.
“What about—”
Billy snarled. His teeth flashed and he flicked his hand in the air, sending up a puff of acrid smoke.
Derek almost jumped off the shelf. Almost shrank back in disgust. But showing fear to the Burner would not earn either of them respect. Not from Billy for Derek, and not from Billy for himself.
The most obvious need showing across the Burner’s body wasn’t hunger for food. It was hunger for trust.
The ghoul blinked when Derek did not flinch. “I do not kill people anymore. I stopped. I owe the princess.” His eyes flashed and he turned back to watching the loading dock. “And Boyfriend.” He snapped his fingers, sending up another puff. “I do not like your wife. Though she is a fine fit bird.” He sniffed.
Derek’s “fine fit bird” and her completely black wardrobe brought up images of bats flitting around the warehouse ceiling, complete with squeaking and flapping noises.
Derek chuckled and shook his head.
“We need living food. It keeps the popping to a minimum.” Now Billy looked dreamy. “I’ve been eating rats and stray dogs, mostly. But it’s not the same.”
“What do the pops feel like?” Derek never thought about it. Burners suffered from little explosions all the time, some they could control, like the smoke off Billy’s fingers, and some they couldn’t. When it happened in their brains, it caused damage. And he, like his wife, had always thought the Burner’s inability to remember made them unconscious monsters.
Billy sighed again. “Sometimes it feels. Sometimes it’s in a muscle and it hurts. Sometimes it’s a memory and it just bursts, mate. It’s there and the next thing it’s gone and if I’m lucky I remember I had a memory I just forgot. But not always.”
He swung his legs again, and knocked his shoes against the stack frame. “I don’t think I remember how to play the guitar anymore. Or sing my songs. And…” Billy trailed off and his face crinkled up. “The Professor seems familiar but I don’t know why.”
He leaned toward Derek. “He was steaming about his fingers, mate. When I tossed him in the ditch.”
The other Burner, the one in plaid Billy chased off earlier, exuded a maliciousness the rock star did not. The other four seemed pathetic more than anything else, as if they had been homeless kids suckered into being turned.
Which Derek suspected they were. And Billy’s little bit of help, his little bit of organizing, gave them something to focus on. A reason to fight against the Burner chaos and the need to feed that made every Burner Derek had ever encountered a sociopathic crazy.
Another wave of thunder pushed through the warehouse, this time rattling the stack they sat on as well as Derek’s teeth. The rain started, dropping on the roof first as patters, then as cracks like stones hitting.
Billy pointed at the dock. “The princess just ran out into the storm.” He crossed his arms. “I’m supposed to watch but the wet’s something else.”
Derek squinted, watching Brother-Dragon move down the wall toward her. The rainwater must be working better than the pool did. “I suggest you give them privacy.”
Billy snorted. “Might be a good show, though, huh?” He winked.
“I suggest you refrain from—” Derek’s phone chirped. He pulled it from his pocket, fully expecting a text from Ladon saying they had all better stay inside.
The text was not from Ladon.
Tell the missus to meet me at the airport. Now. Derek scowled as another text from Andreas came in. Do not text back. Do not call. I will text her which door soon.
“Bad news, mate?” Billy leaned forward and squinted, watching Rysa out in the rain.
Derek’s fist tightened around his phone. Something just hit the fan. Something big. Why else would Andreas be sending him cryptic messages?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Branson, Missouri, fourteen hours ago…
Some local band played The Land of Milk and Honey tonight. Cars filled the parking lot, spread evenly between the bar and the hotel. An old pickup sat diagonally in two spaces at the far end of the lot, next to the entrance. One of Dmitri’s company cars waited next to the entrance to the bar.
Andreas walked across the lot, cursing the threads by which his commanders’ traumas hung, ignoring the cars and the shadows and the music pounding from the low monolith framed by the giant neon honey drop behind him. Ignoring everything as he wondered what new hell would jump out of the dark places of their lives and whip a curveball at his head.
Something moved.
Andreas’s attention snapped to the other side of Dmitri’s garish sign of flashing propaganda, past the service road leading to the complex, to the trees.
“Shit,” Andreas muttered as he unhooked his gun from its holster.
Was this the reason Rysa told him he had to stay? He sensed no Fates, though the other side of the road was far enough away he might not be a
ble to catch the spine-crawling tingle of another paranormal.
Andreas scanned the lot, looking for other movement. In front of the hotel, a group of patrons argued briefly before crossing through the sliding glass doors. A rhythmic booming rolled from the band playing inside, but tonight, the bar was mostly quiet.
Again, the shadows in the trees moved. Andreas raised his weapon.
A man appeared. Dirty, unwashed, his clothes faded and ripped, he stood on the side of the service road for a long moment, staring at Andreas. Dark haired with warm skin, he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a decade. He carried a large camping pack on his back, and a bulge under his ratty jean jacket suggested he carried a holstered weapon.
Andreas sniffed. Not a Burner.
A tingle tickled the back of Andreas’s neck. A Shifter, he thought. The man was, for most Shifters, outside the range where they could sense each other.
Andreas concentrated. To him, the man looked like another backwoods hermit. But he was large, like most Shifter men, and looked to be only slightly shorter than Andreas. “Who are you?” he yelled. Either the man would identify himself, or he’d run away.
The man raised his hands. He looked both directions and slowly crossed the road, his eyes not leaving Andreas. He stopped in the shadows under the sign and pointed at the big neon honey drop over the bar’s black exterior. “This is The Land of Milk and Honey.”
The wave of power rolling off the man made Andreas blink. This unknown person in front of him was a class-one Shifter, whatever his abilities might be.
When facing a Shifter with this much obvious power, diplomacy was always the best course of action. Andreas stepped forward. “What is your name?”
The man inhaled. His back straightened and his jaw tensed, but Andreas could not make out his features. “I was told to come here.”
The Fates Rysa feared had sent a messenger. A crazy Shifter who usually stayed away from people. “Who told you to come here?” Andreas loosened his shoulder muscles, preparing to aim, if need be.
Fifth of Blood (Fate Fire Shifter Dragon Book 3) Page 20