The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne)

by Lori Devoti

  The last few humans remaining in the club screamed and ran for the exits. Five dwarves fell as Joarr changed, as his body grew and brushed against the boards on which they stood. Amma didn’t move. The Collector did, though; he leaped for her.

  The witch held him off with fire…Joarr’s fire and hers. Her own—she didn’t realize that yet.

  The Collector pulled some device from his frock coat’s pocket and held it in front of him; air surged out of it, blowing Amma’s flames back at her. They flickered over her…of course…leaving her untouched. They couldn’t hurt her, just like Joarr’s own fire and ice could never hurt him.

  He concentrated on what the Collector was thinking. A jumble of curses and names flooded Joarr’s mind, angry words, mutterings, the Collector wondering where his sons were, especially Fafnir. He thought Fafnir’s name again, then cursed over and over.

  Fafnir. Joarr had forgotten him…the blood-drinking dwarf. He had much to answer for.

  He yelled Fafnir’s name into Amma’s and the Collector’s minds. “Where is he?”

  The Collector cursed again, thought how his son had brought this down on him, was risking his treasure. Joarr could feel the dwarf’s anger. The Collector glanced past Amma to a metal-bound wooden door, closed and, Joarr guessed, hiding Fafnir.

  The Collector spat, then turned and ran, leaped off the ledge. From nowhere a board dropped and the dwarf landed on it. The board twisted and jumped, but the dwarf held on with one hand, the other still holding his saber.

  Joarr ignored him. Let him escape. He didn’t want the Collector, not now that he had the chalice. He wanted Fafnir, the dwarf who somehow he knew was responsible for the death of the other dragons. And Amma, he wanted Amma, but he wasn’t sure for what…

  Then clear and determined, the Collector’s voice rang out, “Fire!”

  The dwarves had regathered, and now instead of axes and swords, they held machine guns.

  Bullets flew toward Joarr from all directions. He roared and straightened his wings, held them up to shield the area where Amma stood. The bullets pinged against Joarr’s skin, bounced like hail off a sidewalk. The noise was deafening. He added to it, roaring again.

  His hold on his dragon half was slipping. Treasure was near—his treasure—and Fafnir, the dwarf who thought he could take on the dragons and destroy them one by one.

  Joarr opened his throat and dug deep in his reserves. He shot back at them—sheet after sheet of icy water that solidified to its solid form as it struck any surface. The dwarves were coated. Icicles hung from their guns, the boards, the rafters. Four fell forward, the ice too heavy for them to hold themselves up. They tumbled like statues onto the floor below.

  Joarr stepped forward, searching for the Collector. He found him still on his board, a new toy, some kind of box, in his hand.

  “You lied to her, didn’t you?” Joarr projected in his head. “Her father wasn’t an elf. Why? Were you afraid she wouldn’t give you the chalice if you told the truth?”

  The Collector shook his head and mumbled, but Joarr could read his thoughts, knew his guess had been true. But at the moment, clearing up Amma’s misperception wasn’t a priority—finding Fafnir was.

  He searched inside the Collector’s mind again, looked for his greatest fear. It wasn’t hard to find; perhaps the Collector had some dragon in him, too.

  Treasure. The Collector was worried about losing his treasure, and now Joarr knew exactly where it was all hidden.

  He let his eyes narrow to slits. “You know I can read your mind. I know everything you don’t want me to know now. Such treasure you have. Such lovely piles. Your son has been killing dragons. Did you know that? Do you know how?”

  The Collector’s gaze went wide. His mind scrambled to cover his thoughts and shift their direction, but it was no good.

  Joarr roared, fire licking out from his throat. “The chalice! You knew he had it, knew what it could do, and you didn’t stop him. That makes you a murderer, too.”

  “Joarr—” Amma stood on the edge of the overhang, her body swaying “—our deal… It’s sealed.” Just minutes before she had been strong and fighting, but now she was pale and growing paler.

  Panic lanced through Joarr. He turned back to the Collector. “What did you do to her?”

  Nothing. The Collector’s thoughts were clear. He had no idea what was happening to the witch.

  “Amma,” he spoke into her head. “Whose blood did you give Fafnir?”

  Her knees bent beneath her and she crumpled to the ground. “Not yours,” she murmured. “I didn’t trust him. I thought I could trick him.”

  “Whose blood?” Joarr screamed.

  She reached for her sleeve, shoved it up above the elbow. A cloth stained with red was tied there.

  “No! The chalice, he’s using it to drain dragons. He drinks their blood from it and leeches their powers.”

  “But…” She ran the back of her hand over her face, looked confused and lost. “I’m not a dragon, and I have the cup. I gave it to you.”

  Joarr turned back to the Collector. “The bag on my back, take it. Tell me what is inside.” He moved closer to the dwarf.

  The Collector licked his lips, but reached for the bag and pulled out a cloth-wrapped package.

  “Is it the chalice?” Joarr asked.

  Joarr could hear the Collector humming in his mind, trying not to answer. “Tell me, or I will tell every dragon who exists where you store your treasure.”

  The Collector gritted his teeth. “No. It isn’t the chalice…not the one you’re looking for, anyway.” He held up a dented gray metal cup.

  “Tricked,” Joarr muttered. “Amma, you were tricked.” She sat crumpled on the floor, barely looked up as he said the words.

  Behind Amma the iron-bound door opened, and Fafnir, his hands wrapped around a gold-stemmed cup, wobbled out. His eyes were fevered, his skin flushed. He took a gulp from the cup. A red stain ringed his lips. His ran his tongue around his mouth, swiping every bit of the scarlet liquid back into his mouth. Then he took another swig and careened closer.

  Joarr wasn’t sure the dwarf could see them or even knew they were there. He stared at the cup in the dwarf’s hand.

  “Thief!” the Collector yelled. His saber shot up and the bag he’d been holding tumbled to the ground below. “I knew you’d been snooping around my treasures, but never thought you’d be stupid enough to steal from me.”

  Fafnir stared at him with only one eye open. “Only supposed to take a sip a day, but I could tell soon as I tasted what the witch brought me, she was trying to trick me. This wasn’t dragon blood. It was something else.” He tapped a finger against his nose, stumbling to the right as he did. “Couldn’t place it, but figured long as I had it, why not enjoy it? And you know, it’s good. I might have some more.” He leered at Amma.

  She raised a hand, or tried to; it fluttered back down to her lap.

  “Positions,” the Collector yelled.

  Fafnir stared into his cup. “I’ve drank most of it. Time for a refill.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and stalked toward Amma.

  Joarr stood tense, gathering fire. As the dwarf took another step, he opened his mouth and a narrow line of fire blasted from inside him—pure fire enough to leave the dwarf nothing but a pile of ash. It hit Fafnir in the gut. Quick, easy and pain-free, at least for Joarr.

  He closed his lips and shifted his body, so he could nudge Amma with his nose.

  Fafnir, cup and dagger both still in his hands, stumbled back into view. His shirt and pants were burned. Only the cuffs of his sleeves hanging over his hands and the bottoms of his pants covering his feet still remained. The rest of his stout and blackened body was completely naked.

  But it wasn’t burned. He wasn’t burned.

  Joarr’s eyes widened. His fire had been strong enough to down any being…except another dragon.

  Fafnir seemed surprised, too, and pleased. He dropped his dagger, placed the chalice on the floor and then st
ood with his hands pressed to his bare stomach. “Didn’t burn. You shot an inferno at me and I didn’t burn.” He lifted his chin and laughed. Victory, scorn, pride—his howls contained them all. He lowered his head and stared at his father. “Who’s weak now, Dad? Who you going to trust now? Not Regin. Compared to me he’s weak! I’m the powerful son now. I’m the dragon!” He ran forward to the end of the ledge and leaped.

  At the same time, the Collector gave some signal and bullets spewed toward the dwarf.

  Joarr lifted his wing, shielding Amma.

  The bullets dug into the wall and ledge where Fafnir had stood. Joarr glanced down, expecting to see the dwarf lying dead and broken on the floor. Instead what he saw chilled him to the marrow of his bones.

  One second Fafnir stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his arms held overhead. The next, there was a flash and where the dwarf had stood was a dragon…but not any dragon—a wyrm.

  The wingless beast used his short arms to maneuver his black body across the floor. His tongue flicked out like a snake’s. He glanced at his father and grinned. “You’re right. I did steal from you. And I don’t regret it. Look at me! Dragon fire can’t stop me. Bullets can’t stop me. Nothing can stop me.” It was strange hearing a voice coming from a dragon’s body, and disturbing, but no more disturbing than seeing the dwarf lapping blood from a corpse.

  Everything about Fafnir was disturbing.

  The Collector pulled yet another gadget from his frock coat—a miniature crossbow. He slid an arrow onto it and fired. Fafnir opened his jaws and swallowed it whole. Then he waddled toward his father, opened his lips and dropped his mouth down over the colorfully dressed Collector. He lifted his head. The Collector’s peacock feather stuck out from between his lips. Then with a gulp, it was gone.

  The Collector was gone.

  Fafnir opened his mouth and laughed. Bits of fiery rock spewed from his throat and skittered across the ground. The dwarves who were left dropped off their boards, stumbling and tripping over each other as they raced from the room. Fafnir watched them go. Slapped a forgotten machine gun out of his path.

  “Don’t mess with my treasure,” he screamed. “I know what is there, down to the last fleck of dust. If so much as a coin is missing, I’ll find you. And I’ll eat you.” His short arms resting on his belly, he laughed again.

  “Joarr.” Amma teetered next to the edge. In her hands was the chalice Fafnir had left behind. “Here,” she said. Then she fell. Blood, her blood, flew from the chalice and sprayed over both her and Joarr. With a curse, he lunged toward her. His teeth clamped onto her shirt. Her body jerked and her arms sprang up as if pulled by strings. The sound of tearing cloth ripped through him. He adjusted his grip, nibbling more of the material into his mouth, and prayed her shirt would hold. Her arms dropped, limp and lifeless, but her fingers white with the strength of her grip, she didn’t drop the chalice.

  He moved his wings in a rapid but shallow way, keeping his body hovering less than a story off the ground. He twisted or tried to. With Fafnir in the space, too, there was little room to maneuver.

  Still, he searched for a place to sit her down. He couldn’t leave the building like this—not without exploding out of the roof. And this building was older, much sturdier and had been remodeled by dwarves. There was no telling the strength of the beams. He could probably blast his way out, but not with Amma hanging from his mouth, blocking his fire and ice.

  Fafnir stood watching, leering.

  There was little of the dwarf left now…nothing if he had had any good in him. The wyrm before Joarr was nothing but a pit of malevolent greed. He had devoured his own father without a blink of remorse, seemed amused by it actually.

  And with Amma in Joarr’s jaws, he couldn’t fight the beast. He glanced to the side, considering whether to put her back on the outcropping.

  His movement seemed to attract Fafnir. His eyes glittered and his gaze locked onto the chalice. With no other warning, he lurched forward. “Mine!”

  His tongue flickered out of his mouth, sparks instead of spittle falling from it and dropping to the floor. Joarr twisted his neck, jerking Amma out of the wyrm’s reach. His tongue hit Joarr instead, burned a trail down the side of his neck. Joarr froze, hissed through his closed teeth.

  Dragons seldom fought each other. It took special fire, special energy to build a fire so hot or ice so solid that it could damage another dragon. But Fafnir was doing it. His tongue had blazed its way down Joarr’s neck; he could still feel the burn.

  Fire flared to life inside Joarr. He wanted to blast the wyrm, incinerate him like Joarr had incinerated the dead dragon’s corpse. But that kind of fire was even harder to attain, impossible with only one dragon—it took cooperation. Amma had acted as that cooperating dragon before, but she was in no condition to help Joarr now.

  And she still hung from his jaws, still blocked any fire or ice he could produce from reaching its target.

  Fafnir attacked again; his tongue reached for Amma and the cup she held. Joarr swung her to the side and with no other choice set her back on the ledge. She lay as he had laid her, her arm stretched out under her head, her fingers still wrapped around the chalice’s stem.

  “Amma,” he urged in her mind. “Amma. Don’t let yourself fade. Don’t let the dwarf win. Think of our son.” He blew heat over her, willed her to pull it in, to share his fire. She didn’t move.

  But Fafnir did. “The cup is mine!” he yelled. And he fumbled his body forward. His snakelike lower body made a thumping noise as he used his massive arms to move himself forward.

  His tongue reached out, fire flickering from it.

  His jaws free, Joarr dug into his reserves, thought of Amma, thought of his child. They were dying. He knew that, and he had to save them. Rike had tried to save his son and failed.

  But Joarr wouldn’t fail—he couldn’t.

  Ice filled Joarr’s stomach. He prayed the dagger-sharp shards would pierce the wyrm’s heart.

  A sword to the heart. That was how a hero killed a dragon, and while Joarr had never claimed to be a hero, he was the closest thing here—the only thing here.

  He pulled air in through his nostrils and started shooting.

  Fafnir fought back, using his tongue to slap the missiles to the side, catching a few and letting them sizzle to steam. He laughed as he moved, seemed to see Joarr’s attempts to destroy him as a game—a game he couldn’t lose.

  But he could. Somehow Joarr had to beat him.

  Joarr panted for breath, the constant creating of ice hard enough to pierce a dragon’s scales wearing on him, tiring him until he was fighting to stay upright.

  Fafnir laughed and patted his stomach—a jolly evil dwarf in a dragon’s body. Joarr shook himself and dug deeper, prepared to launch another volley of missiles, but as he stood there rebuilding his stores, Fafnir’s tongue lashed out past him and wrapped around Amma’s body. Like a frog catching a bug he jerked her back toward his open mouth.

  Chapter 24

  Something hot and sticky wrapped around Amma. She was tired, so tired. She couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. Joarr’s voice had been in her head a few moments earlier. Her first thought was that he was responsible for whatever had wrapped around her. Then her body jerked; she was pulled off the ledge with such force she knew it wasn’t Joarr. Even knowing her secret and that she was working to steal his son from him, his voice hadn’t sounded angry. It had sounded as if he cared.