Dragon Spawn

by Eileen Wilks

  There had been three dragons in China. Now there were two.

  Lily kept thinking of what Grandmother had said about the bomb dropped on Sam’s lair: “Sun was in no real danger. They did not use nuclear weapons.”

  Someone in China had.

  The bomb had come from China’s own arsenal, not from the United States—a fact the remaining two dragons had made clear to the Chinese authorities before they could push their version of the big red button. Unofficial estimates put the size of the bomb at 100 kilotons. Not the biggest sonofabitch around, but big enough.

  The bomb hadn’t hit the capital itself. The dragon who’d called himself Fa Deng had laired in a relatively unpopulated portion of the mountains east of Beijing, so initial casualties were low—low for such a calamitous event, that is. The dead probably numbered in the hundreds, with thousands of injured. Fallout was another story. Beijing lay in the direct path experts expected the fallout to be carried. The city and its environs were in chaos as eleven and a half million people all tried to leave at once.

  Lily watched and listened, but the president didn’t really have much to say. She wanted everyone to stay calm.

  Lily snorted. That was going to happen. Maybe if . . . oh. Oh! She pushed to her feet, looking up.

  “What is it?” someone asked.

  “Don’t you hear it?” But when she looked around, blinking moisture from her eyes, it was clear they didn’t. How could they not? This wasn’t mindspeech. It was audible, and she knew what it was. No one who’d ever heard this could mistake it for anything else.

  It was, of all people, Ackleford who suddenly whispered, “My God.” And he, too, looked up, his face stricken.

  “Come out,” Lily said to the rest, hurrying toward the door. “Come outside. You don’t want to miss this.”

  She didn’t wait to see if they followed. They did, though. And that’s how the entire complement of the FBI’s San Diego Field Office came to be among those who heard it when every one of the world’s dragons rose into the sky . . . and sang. Sang for their lost comrade or brother, enemy or friend, parent or child—for he might have been any of these things to one or more of them. Sang for the dragon that humans had known as Fa Deng.

  Some of them later denied having wept.

  TEN

  RULE was explaining the purpose of the Shadow Unit to the man who wanted to kill him when he felt Lily drawing near. He cut the explanation short. “Our chief allies are the dragons, but the gnomes and brownies are with us as well. And that’s all I can say tonight. Lily is nearly home.”

  His guest nodded gravely and stood. “Thank you for your time. I—” He broke off, startled. “You have a cat?”

  Seventeen pounds of marmalade-furred ferocity had stalked into the room. The cat gave Rule an imperious look and yowled. Rule wasn’t sure what he was being ordered to do. Get rid of Mateo perhaps? “Dirty Harry had already claimed Lily when I met her. After some negotiation, he and I achieved détente. He’s since adopted my son.”

  “I see.” Mateo’s expression suggested he didn’t, not at all. “He doesn’t seem bothered by our scent. Cats usually run from me.”

  “Harry considers himself quite capable of keeping us in line.”

  Mateo shook his head, baffled. “I should go before Lily arrives. She’s upset about the Challenge.”

  “She’s my mate.” Rule wanted to point out that it was odd that the Lady would have Chosen a mate for him if she wanted him dead. He restrained himself. Mateo was bright enough to draw that conclusion himself, and like most people, he preferred his own conclusions to those handed him by others.

  The two of them exchanged a few more polite words, then Mateo left, escorted by Barnaby and Dirty Harry, who’d decided he preferred to be outside. Rule sighed with relief when the door closed. Being around Mateo was a strain. His wolf wanted—needed—the young man to either fight or submit.

  Submission wasn’t going to happen. The fight almost certainly would.

  Mateo had shown up around midnight, escorted by Barnaby. It was all very well to offer a clansman hospitality, but allowing the young man to wander around alone would be foolish. Rule didn’t think Mateo would suddenly decide to opt for assassination rather than honorable battle, but he didn’t care to bet his life on that.

  Mateo had asked with formal courtesy if Rule would speak with him. He had some questions. Rule had, of course, agreed. It’s always good to know your opponent, and it seemed that’s what they were to be to each other.

  Mateo’s questions had mainly been about her—the Great Bitch, the enemy their people had been created to fight and did not name. Her, and the war currently under way. It seemed that his clansmen had been trying to persuade him to drop his Challenge. They hadn’t succeeded, but they had raised questions in his mind. Maybe the dragonsong had as well. No one could listen to that unmoved. Or maybe he’d simply added things up and come to a disturbing total. Mateo was stubborn, not stupid, and the middle of a war with their greatest enemy was a decidedly awkward time for Rule to be killed.

  Rule had allowed Mateo to ask whatever he wished, but he’d directed the conversation subtly so he could have some of his questions answered, too. He’d confirmed that the young Leidolf was thoughtful rather than impulsive, but like a lot of people, he confused impulsivity with recklessness. And he was reckless, innately so, not just with the insouciance of youth. Not that he realized this.

  Rule did. How could he not, given who his father was? Isen was capable of truly appalling gambles—they uplifted him in a way no amount of sanity ever would—but he knew himself well and penned in his risk-taking with logic. Mateo created pens for himself, too, but they were built more from ethical timber than reason. He was driven by the need to behave with the highest ethical and moral standards. He and Rule had talked about that, about the difference between ethics and morals. Mateo had an unusually good grasp of it for one only a few years into adulthood.

  He did not exceed his age in every respect, however. He assumed that having a deeply moral reason for an action would result in a good outcome. In other words, once he was sure his own motives were good, he freed his recklessness to do whatever damn fool thing had gripped his imagination.

  The Santo Desafío nonsense had a strong grip on him. And yet Mateo had so much promise. If only Rule had more time . . .

  He felt Lily pull up in front of the house, heard her car door shut, followed by Dirty Harry’s loud greeting. And grimaced.

  He wanted, needed, to see her, hold her, draw her scent in. He didn’t much want to talk with her, knowing what they’d be talking about. Death. War. War and death, and didn’t the two go together? A small, limp body, still warm, the big brown eyes open and staring . . .

  “Goddammit,” he muttered. He was sick of his bloody, unsubtle unconscious.

  Two months ago, Rule had led the brownies in defending their home. One of them had ridden his back, acting as his communications officer. Dilly. At first Rule hadn’t even realized the little brownie was shot. They’d come under fire and Rule had been creased by a bullet, but it hadn’t knocked him out. He’d been able to run, to get away. He hadn’t known Dilly was hurt until he stopped. He’d run again then, raced as fast as he could to the brownie healer . . . but Dilly had died in his arms before they reached her, his passing unnoted.

  Brownies look like children. They took advantage of that, too, sneaky little buggers that they were, but Dilly hadn’t been a child, dammit. He’d had a wife, a husband, and two children with a third on the way. Rule knew that, but his stupid bloody unconscious couldn’t seem to grasp the fact. No doubt that was why this death, out of all of them, haunted him.

  Knowing where the nightmare came from didn’t do any good. It came anyway. He was damned if he was going to let it start visiting when he was awake, though. It wasn’t as if—

  The door opened. His beloved’s sweet voice sna
pped, “What are you doing still up?” She stood just inside the door holding seventeen pounds of purring, battle-scarred tomcat—an intimacy Harry permitted only her and Toby. Anyone else who tried to pick the cat up was going to bleed. “Dammit, Rule, I told you to go on to bed.”

  “Ah, yes, and naturally you’ve every right to expect that I’ll do as you bid me.”

  They glared at each other from across the room. After a moment Rule made a spinning gesture with one hand. “Stop. Rewind. Let’s try that again, without the sniping. Neither of us is really mad at the other.”

  “Actually,” she said, coming into the room so she could deposit Harry, her laptop, and her purse on the couch, “I am mad. At least I want to be. Mad is easier than scared, and in way too few hours an idiot is going to try to kill you.”

  Harry gave her an indignant look and leaped off the couch. Cats considered it a matter of honor never to stay where they’ve been put. He yowled.

  Lily frowned at him. “You’ve been fed.”

  Harry yowled again.

  “Not by you,” Rule translated.

  She shook her head, but headed for the kitchen. “Why aren’t you guarding Toby?”

  Rule assumed that was directed at the cat, not him; Harry usually spent the first part of the night with his boy. He followed Lily into the kitchen. “Harry’s been restless tonight. Not surprising, given how tense everyone has been.”

  She bent and shook kibble into Harry’s bowl. The cat sauntered over and took a desultory bite. He wasn’t hungry; he simply wanted the proprieties to be observed. She straightened. “I wish you’d gone to bed, gotten some rest.”

  “I don’t need as much sleep as you do.” Which she knew very well. “And I don’t sleep as well when you aren’t with me.”

  Her mouth quirked into a line that hit somewhere between wry and unhappy. “You just aren’t going to let me stay mad for no good reason, are you?”

  “You’ve reason to rage.” He went to her, took the kibble container from her and set it on the counter, and touched her cheek. “Around three hundred reasons, last I heard, though they didn’t have a full tally of the dead and injured when I turned off the news. I’m not the cause of your anger, nadia, but if you really need a target for it, I can say something obnoxious. How’s this? Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, darling. What’s for supper?”

  She snorted and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Want some kibble?”

  “Not just now, thank you.” And at last, as he wrapped his arms around her and her warmth and scent began to sink into him, some of his tension began to unknot. He felt her body relaxing, too. He no longer knew how much of that easing was the mate bond and how much was simply love. Both were real. For a few moments they just held each other, letting two kinds of magic soothe them. “I should have been with you,” he murmured.

  “Nope,” she said muzzily, her voice muffled by his shirt. “You should have been right where you were, with Toby. How is he?”

  “Asleep. He’s more worried about the dragons than me, I think.” Toby was still young enough to think his father invincible. On one level the boy knew that wasn’t true, but deep down he didn’t think his father could die. Rule understood that. Deep down, he didn’t believe Isen could, either. “Thankfully, he was already asleep when the news about the Chinese bomb came on. He missed the whole will-they-bomb-us hysteria.”

  “Thank God. Have you heard anything from Sam about the bombing?”

  “Nothing factual. I heard him sing.”

  “That was . . .” Clearly at a loss for words, she didn’t speak for a moment. “Dragonsong. It’s so large.”

  He nodded, knowing what she meant. “I heard the other dragons rose and sang, too.”

  “They were singing for him. For Fa Deng.” She sighed and straightened, one hand moving to rest on his at her hip. Absently she ran her finger over the gold band he now wore. “The Chinese bombing has to be connected to the missiles shot at Sam’s lair. I’m trying not to jump to conclusions, but how could they not be connected? But the bombing at Headquarters . . . is that a bona fide coincidence, or is it connected, too?”

  “Sam didn’t leave. Perhaps we’ll be able to get some answers from him tomorrow.”

  “You mean today.” Her expression darkened. “I haven’t had room in my head for a spare thought, much less enough of them to come up with a way to stop that idiotic Challenge. Unless you managed to talk Mateo out of—”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She scowled.

  “Any word on Martin?”

  “I’m sorry—I should’ve texted you. I heard from Ida just as I was leaving. Croft made it through the initial surgery and is critical but stable. The ‘stable’ part is probably thanks to Sherry’s coven. Their healer is skilled but not powerful, so Sherry’s got her entire coven there, feeding him juice.”

  That was probably as good as they could expect right now. Rule had spoken with Ruben; he knew how badly Martin was hurt. “Anything else I should know sooner rather than later?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, probably. I can’t remember who you know and who you don’t.”

  He ran a hand down her back, where every muscle was tight again. “Just tell me.”

  “Jen, that little freckled clerk—I think you met her. She’s confirmed dead. So is Bennet. Rob Bennet. He had photos of his wife and kids all over his office. And Po from Research . . . Research is in the sub-basement, but when the Unit evacuated, they did, too, even without an official order. But Po was on break. He’d gone to see a girl in HR he was sweet on. HR usually goes home at five, but for some reason she was working late. She’s dead, too. So are at least two others in HR. They’ve got the bodies, but haven’t officially ID’d them yet.”

  “Human Resources is on the third floor?”

  “Yes. That’s where one of the explosions went off, which seems weird. Why target Human Resources? Then there’s Arianne Rice—you know her, right? Dark, chubby, a laugh like a jackhammer. Sixteen years on the job. She was still alive when they pulled her out, but she died on the way to the hospital. Rutger—damn, I can’t remember his first name. Round little guy . . .”

  They spilled out of her—name after name, many with a quick biographical note attached. Death after death. He held her, marveling at her memory, at how she stood up beneath the weight of naming her dead. Because they were all hers, even if she’d only nodded at some in passing and had actively disliked others. They were of her other clan, the one he wasn’t part of.

  Finally she wound down. “I’ve missed some. I know I have. Seventy-nine have been confirmed dead, meaning they’ve officially ID’d the bodies, but . . . anyway, there were three hundred and two people in the building at seven o’clock. They’re pretty firm on that. Everyone from Unit Twelve except Croft got out, plus four out of five from Research, which left two hundred ninety-two present at the time of the explosions. Another fifty-two managed to evac afterwards, most with only minor injuries. The cleaning crew, Rule. Every one of them got out, which seems like some kind of miracle. And fifteen—no, sixteen—are still alive after being pulled out of the rubble injured. So that’s a hundred forty-nine unaccounted for.”

  Most, if not all, of those hundred and forty-nine were dead. They both knew that. It would take time to find all the bodies. What remained of the building wasn’t stable; those hoping to rescue or recover remains would have to work slowly and cautiously. “You refer to explosions, not bombs. The newscasters keep talking about bombs.”

  She shrugged. “It might have been traditional explosives, but I don’t see how the perp or perps got them into the building. I’m leaning towards magic of some kind. We don’t know of a spell, Gift, or magical construct that does this kind of damage, but there’s a lot we don’t know. Cullen’s on his way . . .” She paused, glanced at her watch. “God, it’s two A.M. I didn�
�t realize . . . Cullen should be at the site by now. The director found him an Air Force jet for transport. I told you about that, didn’t I?”

  “Cullen did.” He had called Rule shortly after speaking with Lily.

  “He didn’t even bitch about interrupting his work when I asked him to go.”

  Because Cullen loved Lily, too. Not the way Rule did, nor the way he loved Cynna . . . who was also grieving. Cynna had been with the FBI for years before motherhood and becoming Rhej forced her to quit. “He told me that Ruben would meet him at the base where his jet landed. He was glad of that. He felt he’d get better information from Ruben than from, ah, some of the others.”

  She snorted. “Like that ass-wipe they’ve got in charge of the Bureau now.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Franklin Parks is an ass-wipe?”

  “He didn’t listen to Ruben’s warning. And okay, there’s some excuse for that. Most precogs aren’t all that accurate. Ruben is, but Parks never worked with him, so I guess I can see why he didn’t take Ruben’s word about evacuating. But he was wrong, and you know how he’s handling that? By trying to shift blame onto Ruben!”

  Rule’s eyebrows shot up. “What? How?”

  “He called Ruben ‘compromised.’ Said he couldn’t put Ruben back in charge of the Unit because he’d known about the bombing ahead of time. As if that made him part of some conspiracy.”

  “When did he say this?”

  “I told you. Texted you anyway. It was when the director called and told me about Croft being found. I texted you as soon as I could.”

  “You said you’d had word from on high that Martin was alive but badly injured. You didn’t say you’d spoken with the director.”

  “Oh.” She rubbed her forehead. “Sorry. He called me on Ackleford’s line. Supposedly he wanted to tell me about Croft and ask my advice for who to put in charge of the Unit, but since he didn’t listen to my advice, I’m thinking Ackleford was right. He’s trying to cover his ass.” She grimaced. “Here’s something else I didn’t tell you. He suggested he might put me in charge of the Unit.”