Dragon Spawn

by Eileen Wilks

  As Toby left with the remaining cookies to wrestle with homework, Cullen was saying, “. . . what you have in mind. You decide whether we’re going big and rich, or small and hungry?”

  “Big,” Rule said unhesitatingly. “If we wanted small and hungry, we’d set up our own manufacturing firm. Have you made progress with the matrices?”

  Cullen looked smug. “That was just a matter of finding the right cleansing parameters for the crystals. I tried several, but the full-moon cleanse will work best. A couple other techniques are just as good, but they require casters with specialized knowledge. Any halfway competent coven can do a full-moon cleanse, so keeping a good supply flow should be simple and cost-effective. We’ve run some tests and confirmed that heavy silk offers sufficient insulation when shipping the cleansed crystals to the main production facility. Overnight shipping, that is. Given the constant fluctuation in magic levels—”

  “Cullen,” Lily broke in, “are you saying it’s a done deal? The Triple M works?”

  A voice spoke darkly from the second floor. “He better not be.” Cynna started down the stairs. “Dammit, Cullen, you promised—”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? I said I wouldn’t tell them without you—”

  “I was upstairs!”

  “And I didn’t. Ryder’s asleep?”

  “At last.” Cynna sighed. “Weaning is hell.”

  The question of how long to breast-feed had obsessed Cynna until Ryder began teething in earnest and she decided “to hell with the so-called experts. I like my nipples. I want to keep them.” Ryder was nine months old and eating solid food. Also occasional nonfood items, but so far she hadn’t poisoned herself. According to any number of experienced moms, Cynna said, that was the best you could hope for once they started crawling.

  “She’s still cranky about it?” Arjenie asked sympathetically.

  “Pissed as hell every nap time. Not so much at night, for some reason, but at nap time . . .” Cynna sighed and joined Cullen on the couch. “I’ve probably warped her for life. She seemed so ready to be weaned right up until I did it.”

  Cullen put an arm around her shoulders. “Teeth,” he said firmly.

  “Too true. And I guess babies all survive weaning, but I wonder if anyone has done a study of the mom survival rate.”

  “Not that weaning isn’t important,” Lily said, “but . . . the Triple M? Have you two figured out how to mass-produce it or not?”

  A smile spread over Cullen’s face. “Yeah. We have.”

  Triple M stood for Magical Mystery Machine, which was what they’d started calling the device Cullen had been working on that was intended to soak up free-floating magic. They called it that because—to Cullen’s deep and abiding frustration—he had no idea why it worked. The black dragon had agreed to teach him how to fix the array in exchange for a favor. He had not agreed to explain anything.

  Still, learning how to make the device work without the unfortunate side effects had done a lot to help Cullen get over his anger at the black dragon. Two months ago, Sam had put him in sleep and carried him off to keep him from getting involved in dragon affairs. In Sam’s mind, that had been a kindness. Dragons were secretive by nature, but some secrets they would kill to protect.

  The demand for something like the Triple M was huge. Ambient magic levels had been increasing ever since the Turning, and tech did not coexist well with magic. The dragons did a great job of soaking up excess magic, but it was a big world and there were only twenty-four dragons. Then there were magic surges. Those were a concern even in areas that had a dragon. Once in a while nodes didn’t just leak, they discharged—and those magical discharges packed a wallop.

  Cullen had made a single device that worked. The next step had been figuring out how to produce it in commercial quantities. Cullen and Cynna had worked on that together while Lily and Rule were in North Carolina. Mass production on the scale of phones or computers wasn’t possible; the device was too labor-intensive, and much of that labor required trained spellcasters. But they now believed they’d worked out how to produce the Triple M in sufficient numbers to bring in a corporate partner.

  That’s what they talked about now. Rule had definite ideas about how to handle it, thank God. None of the rest of them had a clue, but Rule would make sure they got a good deal. Nokolai held the rights to the Triple M, but for now, much of the profit would go into the joint war chest, which all the clans could draw from for war expenses.

  Maybe Leidolf would be able to house all its children and pay an adequate number of teachers soon.

  “Speaking of celebrations,” Benedict said, looping an arm around Arjenie, who’d settled beside him on the couch, “we have some news, too.”

  Rule went as suddenly still as he did on a hunt. “We? As in, both of you?”

  Benedict nodded, his stoic face softening into a smile so vulnerable it made Lily’s breath catch and her heart hitch. Her eyes flew to Rule and caught him looking at her, his eyes bright with something that looked very like how the sudden prickle in her chest felt.

  Arjenie—the opposite of stoic—wiggled in delight. “A week ago! It happened a week ago, but we wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone.”

  “Hot damn!” Cynna cried.

  TWO

  THEIR congratulations woke Ryder, who set up a noncongratulatory wail. Cynna winced. “My turn,” Cullen said, standing. Before he reached the stairs, though, Toby appeared at the top of them, carrying the baby, who was chewing madly on Toby’s knuckles. “She woke up,” he said unnecessarily. “Can I—”

  Rule was grinning. “This one time, yes, if it’s okay with Cynna and Cullen.”

  “Bring her on down,” Cullen said. “We’re celebrating.”

  “We need champagne,” Rule announced. “I’ll get it. Cullen, you can get the glasses.” The two men started for the kitchen.

  “Fruit juice for me,” Arjenie called after them as Toby came down the stairs, cradling Ryder.

  Most of the things that would mark Toby as other than human wouldn’t show up until he hit puberty and First Change initiated him into the two-natured world, but a few were innate. Ten-year-old boys typically didn’t consider taking care of a baby a treat, even if it did let them postpone homework. Toby did.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked as he held a chocolate chip cookie up to Ryder.

  “Half it,” Cynna said quickly. “She doesn’t need the whole thing.”

  The boy did that and repeated his question.

  Arjenie beamed. “In about thirty-seven weeks, you’re going to have a new baby cousin.”

  Toby whooped. Ryder looked up from her cookie, startled, then decided to make happy noises like everyone else.

  And she was happy for her friends, Lily assured herself. How could she not be? Their joy was contagious and took nothing away from her. She’d accustomed herself to the idea of not having children herself. She had Toby, didn’t she? And this would be a terrible time to turn up pregnant, in the middle of the war . . . Arjenie could stay safe at Clanhome. Lily couldn’t.

  “Thirty-seven weeks,” Lily said. “That’s a hair over nine months, so . . . next April?”

  “March thirtieth,” Arjenie said as proudly as if she’d planned it for that day on purpose. “We haven’t told my family yet. I want to tell them in person, but Benedict worries about traveling with things so unsettled, so we’re still discussing that. Can you see anything yet?”

  “See—oh, you mean, is the baby’s mind, uh, present?” Interesting question. “It doesn’t seem like there’d be anything yet for me to sense, but who knows? I’ll check.” Lily gave the coiled sense in her middle a nudge. It unfurled easily, reaching out . . . she shook her head. “Sorry, but no. Your mind is a nice, fuzzy yellow, though. Kind of like a round, fuzzy banana.” The texture meant that Lily could mindspeak Arjenie if she wanted, which wa
s cool. She couldn’t reach slick minds. Curious, she checked out Benedict with her new sense. “And Benedict’s mind is green and furry. Most lupi minds feel like that. Like short-haired avocados.”

  Arjenie burst out laughing.

  “How about me?” Cynna said. “What does my mind look like?”

  “It’s not exactly seeing.” Her mindsense was more like a weird combination of vision and the tactile way she’d always responded to magic. “But you’re kind of like a kiwi, only mossy.” The color was a surprise. Most minds looked/felt like glowing fruit to her—many with texture, some without it. Human minds were usually a yellow fruit, however, not green. Green was the lupi color. Maybe that had something to do with Cynna being a Rhej? But the presence of texture pleased Lily. She could mindspeak her friend. “Mossy and glowing. You’re a glowing, mossy kiwi.”

  Cynna’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m radioactive?”

  “Minds always glow.”

  “I thought I’d be able to feel you sensing my mind,” Cynna said. “I’ve got shields, too. Not like Cullen’s, but still—shouldn’t I feel something?”

  “Probably not unless I actually mindspeak you.” Carefully Lily touched that glowing, mossy mind and sent a pulse along her mindsense. Her lips moved as she did. She couldn’t mindspeak clearly without that physical cue, but she didn’t have to speak out loud anymore. So how does it feel?

  Cynna’s eyes widened. “Weird. Like when Sam does it, only not. Your mind voice is . . . it sounds like you.”

  Lily heard Cynna’s response both ways—with her ears and her mindsense. She was getting used to that.

  “Can you do two of us at once?” Arjenie asked.

  She shook her head. “I can barely do one person most of the time.”

  “Do it some more,” Cynna said, leaning forward. “Tell me when you’re going to try my bike. You’ll love it, Lily.”

  Off-roading was Cynna and Cullen’s new couple thing—something they did together, without Ryder. Cynna had ridden a motorcycle before, back in her wild child days, but dirt bikes were new to her. She was a passionate convert. I think my time as a traffic cop ruined me for appreciating motorcycles, she sent.

  “But dirt bikes are different. No roads, so no road burn. No cars to smash into you.”

  That conjured one of those memories Lily tried to keep packed away. At least you wear a helmet.

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  Rule returned carrying two bottles of champagne. “Only one of you seems to be talking. I hope that means Lily’s doing her talking differently.”

  “I’m showing off,” Lily admitted.

  Cullen followed Rule, carrying the champagne flutes—the empties in one hand, one with orange juice in the other. He handed the juice to Arjenie. “The Mother’s blessings on you.”

  Arjenie flushed with pleasure. “And on you.”

  “Is that a Wiccan saying?” Lily asked. Curious, she released her touch on Cynna’s mind to reach for Cullen’s. “Huh. Cullen’s mind is not what I expected.”

  Cullen raised his brows. “I would have thought my shields would make me invisible to your mindsense.”

  “No, but you’re really faint. The glow is faint, but you’re there. Only you’re slick as black ice.”

  Cullen smirked and held out a flute for Rule to fill. “I already knew that. How about now?”

  The slickness suddenly sprouted fuzz. She slid her mindsense over it . . . fuzzy on top, icy underneath. She sent a pulse along her mindsense and laid words into the fuzzy-ice mind. What did you do?

  “Opened the shield that blocks mindspeech. Cynna’s right. You do sound like yourself when you mindspeak. I wonder if that means my brain processes what I receive through my auditory cortex?”

  “Seems like it would be routed through the language center. Or are they the same thing?”

  “Not at all. The language centers—there are two, Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area—are in—”

  “Never mind,” she said hastily before he could go into detail. Rule was holding out a champagne flute. She accepted it. “We’ll talk about all that later. Right now we need to celebrate.” No doubt they’d talk about it whether she wanted to or not. Cullen was extremely interested in her new ability. They’d discussed it twice while Lily was on the other side of the country, but with recently renewed paranoia, neither wanted to say too much on the phone. “Congratulations!” She lifted her glass in salute.

  Cullen handed a brimming flute to Cynna. “You seemed surprised by what you sensed.”

  “I thought your shields would make you invisible to my mindsense the way Tom Weng is.”

  “You mean the way he was,” Cynna said. “Dead people get the past tense.” She closed her eyes and took a sip. “My first grown-up drink in well over a year. First I was pregnant, then nursing . . . it’s only right it should be champagne.”

  “I’m not sure Weng is dead,” Lily said.

  “What?” Cynna stared. “If the fireball didn’t get him when the helicopter blew up, the fall would have.”

  “His body was never found. All the others were.”

  A silence fell. It was the children, she knew. The bodies of three children had been found in the wreckage along with those of two adults. They’d been identified through dental records, as the bodies were too badly burned for any other sort of recognition: Sharon Plummer, forty-two. One of the conspirators. Frederick South, thirty-one. The pilot. Adrian Farquhar, fifteen. A farseer or clairvoyant. Susan Thompson, thirteen. A Finder. Amanda Craig, twelve. Telepath.

  To turn their minds from that ugliness, Lily returned to her original topic. “Plus we know he can levitate.”

  Cullen cocked his head. “That was only for a few feet, though. Big difference between levitating fifteen feet and levitating a couple hundred feet up—and doing it fast enough to stay ahead of a fireball.”

  Exactly what Rule kept pointing out. “I didn’t say I knew he was alive. Just that it’s possible. Given the way all records about him vanished after—”

  “Which could have been done at any time,” Rule said, entering the room. “Perhaps we could postpone that argument, Lily. This time is for Benedict and Arjenie.” He’d filled flutes for himself and Cullen, but there was still one empty flute.

  “Is that for me?” Toby asked. The baby he held had gnawed her way through most of the half cookie she gripped in one determined fist, in the process smearing drooly cookie-stuff on Toby’s shirt.

  “Of course,” Rule said. “Though you’ll need to set Ryder down.”

  Of course? Lily looked at him, startled.

  Rule poured an inch of fizzing golden liquid into the last flute. He glanced at Lily, his eyes smiling. Amused. “It’s not as if he can develop alcoholism.”

  True, but giving even a little alcohol to a ten-year-old boy was wrong. She knew people did that in Europe, at least with wine, but this was America and . . . and what difference did that make? But just because Toby couldn’t develop alcoholism . . . and he couldn’t. Soon after he entered puberty, First Change would hit. After that, his body wouldn’t let him get so much as a buzz. But didn’t alcohol affect the developing brain? The younger someone started drinking, the greater the chances of him or her becoming an alcoholic.

  Which Toby could not do. And she was arguing with Rule in her head and he was winning. How annoying.

  Rule’s phone beeped. He pulled it out, checked the screen, and frowned. “Mike tells me company is coming.”

  “Who?”

  “Mateo Ortez. He wishes to speak with his Rho.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “Oddly enough, neither do I.”

  “Leidolf’s a big clan. You can’t expect to remember every name yet.” The Leidolf mantle had come to Rule only a year ago, and unexpectedly. Before that, Leidolf and Nokolai had be
en enemies—not quite at war, but perpetually close to it.

  Rule frowned and raised his voice slightly. “Sean.”

  The French doors at the back of the house opened and the guard stationed there looked in. Sean looked a bit like a grown-up Opie—red hair and a round, freckled face. “Yes?”

  “Who is Mateo Ortiz?”

  “He’s Leo’s son. Leo Freeman.”

  “I’ve met Leo. I don’t recall meeting Mateo.”

  “He’s been out of the country, I think. Mike could tell you more.”

  Mike was acting as Rule’s second because José hadn’t finished regrowing his leg. Mike’s own leg was back to normal now that he’d had the bone surgically straightened. “Mike isn’t here. You are. I’m asking you.”

  Sean sighed and darted a glance at Cullen, then at Benedict. “Mateo is high dominant.”

  THREE

  HELL, Rule thought. High dominants were rare—extremely rare in most clans, slightly less so in Leidolf. Few of them lived very far into adulthood. Usually they became lone wolves, and most lone wolves led short, miserable lives. A high dominant literally could not submit, even to his Rho. The mantle did not command him.

  After a long pause, Rule turned to Benedict. “It seems I’ll be dealing with a private Leidolf matter in a few minutes. I’m afraid I have to ask—”

  But Benedict was already on his feet. “Come on, Seabourne. We’re taking a walk.”

  “Me, too, I suppose?” Arjenie said, and stood.

  Cullen bent and scooped up his cookie-smeared daughter. “How far? And shall we take Toby?”

  “Dad?” Toby’s face was tense. Worried.

  He smiled reassurance. “Go with the others, please. Perhaps you could show them the kestrel nest you found.” It was in the abandoned orchard north of the house, far enough to make it clear Nokolai ears wouldn’t overhear whatever Mateo had come here to say.